by Raina Wilde
“Eh...” Someone in the red-clad group made a low sound, almost an assessment, an approval. As if she were a dinner servant, not the Laird.
She had been going to walk past, ignoring their incursion. She had not wanted to disturb the easy atmosphere of the gathering with war. “Excuse me?” She whipped round, eyes blazing. “I do not recall inviting your comment, sirrah. In fact,” she paused, “I do not recall inviting you at all. This is no place for cowards.”
The hall was utterly silent. All eyes were on her.
The man who made the noise stepped back, recoiling. One of the others gave a low whistle. In the center of the group, the tall dark man started. He had been standing still, considering. His head lifted, sharply. His eyes met hers.
Pale green eyes stared into deep, storm-tossed black. Their gazes crossed, like swords. It was a long, hard look. Aigneis felt her rage blacken, harden; build into a storm.
“We are no cowards.” His voice was dangerously silent. The man beside him looked nervously away. The tone was enough to wither him, but Aigneis was no supplicant of his.
“I would need evidence for that, sir.”
He laughed, a harsh sound. “Evidence?” His voice was hollow. “You shall have it.” He turned to the nearest man, and held out a hand. The man passed him his gauntlets, which he had left on a low table. Brian laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword. He half-expected that she would yield to him. Be too frightened of his strength to follow through. She was a woman, and, his father had taught him over and again, women were weak. Of no matter. He looked at her, a thin smile on his lips. Aigneis' eyes met those of a young man across the room. He inclined his head, and fetched her a sword.
“If that was a challenge, I accept.” Her voice was hard. Her gaze pierced him, holding him entirely captive on the razor-edge of it. He could not back down.
He raised his arms, in mock-capitulation. He was trying to make a fool of her.
The rage worked to the surface then, as if a volcano was erupting. She took one step forward, balancing her weight on one foot, about to make a strike. With the sword in her hand, the quiet gesture was menacing. Brian paled.
The lithe ease of her motions made it quite clear she had been practicing sword-craft since her childhood, at least as long as he. Perhaps she was a match worth consternation. Something in him rose to the thrill of that. His height and bulk, with long hours of superior training, made him more than the match of all opponents. He had never before faced anyone who gave him cause for fear. The rest of him was boiling with hurt pride. How dare a woman make a fool of him? The petulant boy inside him won. The rage rose to his face, making him flush, an ugly dark color that stained his cheeks.
“Very well.” he said, ungracious. “I'll meet you on the field an hour after noon.”
“Very well.” Her voice was easy, confident. She stood tall before him, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet as if already fighting. Their eyes locked again. It was a long, hard gaze. They both looked away at the same time. She whipped ‘round, hair flicking back over her shoulder, and walked icily down the hall.
The meeting was utterly silent, all eyes trained on her.
“Good evening, Dougal,” she said sweetly, to Dougal MacLennan, who blinked nervously. Everyone in the hall was watching them, her voice the only sound in the silence. “It was good to see you.” She continued, blithely. “I would thank you, for your offer of cavalry troops.”
As she engaged him in conversation, the talk in the hall started up again, rising and falling, relieved. The noise swallowed the silence, and the movement of feet as the Leary delegation walked, hot-tempered, from the room.
Chapter 4
It was afternoon, in the field. The sun broke through the clouds, lending a silvered wash to the cloudy, gray-green scene. The field before the fortress of the McGowans was wide and green, bounded by a river, which wound across the space, bisecting it.
In front of the river, Aigneis was standing. Her hair was loose, not braided. She was straight-backed and unyielding, a pillar of white and gold. Opposite her, the Leary group was a disordered one, the tall man in the center stooped to adjust his belt before he walked onto the field. As he did so, there was a cheer from his men. There was a crowd around them and the guests all looked forward to the confrontation with indecent eagerness.
Aigneis had not moved. The sun glinted on her hair. She was balanced on the balls of her feet. Her lean muscles gave even her standing a compact, coiled grace. He walked around the field, a swaggering performance; collecting ironic cheers. He looked too confident. Aigneis stayed where she was. When he had finished inciting the crowd, he bent, and his gestures became truncated, businesslike. He drew his sword. He walked towards her, a lazy, slow walk. His eyes were half-shut, unreadable; his face in repose. Then, suddenly and without warning, he struck.
Aigneis was ready. She whirled round, drawing her sword fluidly from the sheath at her back. The two blades clashed, drawing sparks. They were close, their bodies almost touching. She could see his eyes. Her eyes were raw, feral rage. How dare he try to trick her like that? As their eyes met, she pulled the blade around and swung savagely for his head. Left off-balance, he stumbled, parried just in time. The shock of that made his eyes widen. How dare she? His blade swung back, in murderous earnest; all easy arrogance gone. She was rooted to her place, her rage an anchor.
Their blades met again, grating and jarring. He was strong, and taller than her. The shock of his strength in the heavy blade shuddered through the bones of her forearms. She looked up, with something like surprise. That cut! Not many warriors could make that. She whirled round, and tried her favorite swing. Few could anticipate it.
He did. His blade rose, as she whipped ‘round, and met hers. Steel sparked. Their eyes met. Her raw surprise met a deep respect as he looked at her, his eyes level. He had never faced such an opponent.
Her eyes widened. He blinked. Both of them felt it. A rawness, like need, that pulsed in the center of the body. Neither of them had met an equal before. The sweet shock of it ignited something long hidden in them both. She grated the blade across and down, breaking the lock. He staggered, recovered himself. Brought the blade up. Stopped. Their gaze still held each other. Neither moved.
Around them, the crowd was quiet. No one knew quite what had happened. In the center of the circle, the two antagonists were still. His breath heaved in his chest. She was white and standing rooted, breathing heavy. Their eyes were still locked on each other. He inclined his head, slightly. A gesture of respect. She blinked.
He lifted his arm. “Truce!”
She was about to protest, her arms rising, when he turned to her. His eyes met hers. They spoke a complex message, which held yearning and respect and apology. She nodded.
“I accept.” Her voice was clear.
His look was one of gratitude. He stumbled from the circle, joining his group of followers. She stepped back, into the crowd. Her legs were weak beneath her, and she stumbled, slightly, catching the arm of the man beside her, and steadying herself. Why was she so tired? She looked across the field to where the tall, muscled warrior was standing with his men, his breath heaving, as they clapped him on the back in congratulations. She blinked. Her chest ached as she watched him, a sudden longing and a sudden warmth.
I have never felt like this, before.
The thought was fleeting, and she hid it, her face smoothed over as she turned to Dougal, who declared the truce. Everyone on the field smiled and clapped. A small crowd formed around her, offering congratulations. She smiled politely and thanked them. Her eyes watched the group in blue as they left the field. She looked after the tall, dark warrior long after he had gone.
Chapter 5
Music spilled out of the hall, genial and warm; a lilting dance-reel. It was evening, and the sky outside was dove-blue, washed with yellow gold. It was a late summer evening, just chilled, but still holding the last of summer's warmth.
The serious matters of the gat
hering were completed. The musicians were there, the ale flowed and there was a celebration, to solidify the agreements and celebrate the truces made and bonds re-forged.
Aigneis was in her chamber, hovering at the door. Do I look right? Her thought was pensive, as she stepped into the corridor. She looked round, once; catching her image in the glass. It showed her a tall, slender woman, long gold-red hair unbound and shining, dressed in a gown of white lace. Aigneis looked, appraising. Her hair was brushed back from her face, her cheeks warm pink against the angular elegance of her face. Green eyes, gray-washed, the image of her father's, looked back out at her. She chided herself. This is silly. Even she could not choke the bubble of excitement that rose slowly in her chest. She walked, purposefully, back to the door and out to the stairs.
Downstairs, the hall was packed. The music lifted and pulsed, bodhran and pipes mixing to make a throbbing liveliness, which would compel anyone to dance. Aigneis felt it gather inside her, joining with the pulsing anticipation she also felt.
There was a table with oatcakes, and a barrel of mead. She smiled at Reese, the servant, and accepted a cup of mead. The sweetness of the drink rolled off her tongue. She felt alive, and warm; like she did as a girl. Before...before her father's death.
Her hair was curled, a request that surprised her maid. Aigneis had never cared much for such things. The low-cut white lace wrapped her body, flowing out into a narrow train. She greeted guests and shook hands and exchanged a few polite words about stock and farms and families. All the while, her eyes were elsewhere.
“Good evening.”
She smiled, looking up at the tall man in the blood-red kilt, standing opposite her. Her eyes were slanting green, warm and inviting. Her hair was golden floss, coiled round her shoulders.
“Good evening.” He cleared his throat.
They stood opposite each other. He swallowed. He could not think of anything to say, and yet he did not want her to leave. “At least there is good weather, for your ride home tomorrow.” Aigneis observed. Her voice was low with mead and evening, a rich, warm sound. Her smile was like clover honey.
“Uh...yes.” Brian felt himself stutter. He wanted to say something, but his voice had deserted him.
“You will be staying? Or do you have some business, at home?”
“I...yes. I must go home. Duties.” He shrugged. He lifted his weight to the other foot. “It...it's nice here, in the winter?” Why did I ask that? He thought.
“It's...pleasant.” She smiled, her eyes looking into his, archly. “A little cold, but nothing dancing won't cure.”
It was an invitation. Her eyes, green and mischievous, looked into his. He felt himself smile. A warmth and innocence he did not know he had, dawned, tentative, on his stormy features. It transformed him, making him truly handsome. They looked at each other, their eyes warm and showing, now, the first signs of a deep, shared regard.
“Brian?” One of Brian's household men came past, clapping him on the shoulder. “You ready for tomorrow morning?” Their party would leave the next day. Some of them were not even at the evening's event to celebrate.
“Yes.” Brian answered, noncommittally. The look of irritation that slid across his face was obvious, and his scowl at being disturbed amused her. She could feel the deep flush of arousal that rose into her cheeks.
“Good. We can't have the latest Laird of Leary tired out.”
What? Aigneis lifted her head. Her eyes were wide. Disbelieving. She waited until the man had gone. “What did he call you?”
“The...the Laird of Leary.” Brian said, helpless. He did not know what had happened, only that she was suddenly angry. Why?
“And why did he do that?” She asked it more reasonably. Perhaps it was some joke they had between them. He could not have been – he must not have been – all which that would have made him.
“Because...” He reached for an answer, “because I am?” He finished weakly. He looked down at her, a bewildered, crestfallen gaze.
“No.” She said it flatly, before she could stop herself. “No.” She backed away from him. Her face showed horror, and revulsion. “Leave me.” She sounded desperate. “Leave me, before I have to kill you.”
She spat the last words, a mix of urgency and vehemence.
He blinked. What had he done?
“I...”
“Go!”
He stepped back, stumbling.
“Aigneis...”
Hearing her name on His lips was too much for her. Her heart twisted in her chest, with hurt and anger and sorrow. “No! You and your kind are poison! Whatever we agreed, I now rescind. I will meet you on the field, come battle, and I will kill you.” Her voice hissed between her teeth, low and quiet and venomous; entirely sincere. She had also stepped back, and now stood, rooted to the spot. Her skin was pale, her eyes enormous. They watched him, pools of gray and green and hurt, as he walked, wounded and heavy, from the room.
No. Not him. He cannot be.
But he was. Her father's slayer. Her mortal enemy. And she had come so close to loving him. She sank into a wooden bench by the fire, head in her hands.
Chapter 6:
It was cold. The fire wove in the grate, the flames popping as they devoured the pine logs. The scent of them drifted upward, curling, making its own patterns on the air. Aigneis watched the flames, restless. She had not moved all day.
“Lady Aigneis?” Her maid, Jess, appeared at the door. “Luncheon?”
“No.” Aigneis shook her head. Her eyes did not leave the fire.
It was the week before battle. She had every reason to be withdrawn: plans, strategy, war-counsels. But it was not these things that held her there to watch the flames.
Brian. The wreathing gold-and-orange forms danced before her eyes, making patterns. They formed themselves into her memories. His form, lithe, dancing with the sword. His smile, sudden and surprising. The curve of his chin. His muscled grace. She blinks. This is foolishness, she chided herself. But was it?
All her life, as long as she remembered, she had nursed this hatred of the Learys. It had been her driving force, she thought, her entire adult life. And then...? Then, her world had turned upon its head and left her groping for direction.
How could she love him? She felt disgusted at that. She would...could have...wanted to...She blinked. How could she have? But, at the same time, how could she not? He was everything she was. He was her equal, her exact match. She had never even thought he might exist; never mind that she would have met him, engaged with him, matched sword to sword in the dance that was her life.
Brian… Her memory was full of thoughts of him, and would not be denied.
It was a week before the battle. She should have been excited, elated. Preparing. Instead, she felt only a hollow emptiness. She felt so alive, with him. She sighed, and sat closer to the fire. It would soon be over. She would have won. But what would she have lost?
Her mind wandered, restless, to that night. She saw afresh the pictures, heard the voices. Everyone in the hall had looked shocked, when she took that oath to kill him, even her own men. She thought back, then, to how no one would meet her eye. One man, lean and sandy, had even recoiled from her, as if she were a dangerous animal. Lucas McGuire; his name came back to her, unbidden. McGuire…
Somehow, that name awoke some memory.
She remembered then, another night, another time. McGuire? A voice asked in her head. She remembered the tone of it: incredulous.
Aye, McGuire, the remembered voice continued, they were the ones who...And she remembered then, how the man had turned, when he saw her coming. How he had suddenly gone silent, white-faced. He had greeted his companion and left, staring hastily over his shoulder. As if she were poisonous.
McGuire. I wonder. Perhaps there was more to Father's death than meets the eye.
Chapter 7
It was morning, the sunshine warm where it shone through the window. Aigneis was in her father's study, at his oak desk. She always wen
t to his office when she wanted to speak to him, his personal belongings untouched and holding, still, the pattern of him.
That day she was not there to talk to him. That day, she was there for evidence. She had not sleep that night, a sudden pattern that grew in her mind from the thoughts of her previous day. She had to see if she was right.
McGuire. Something about that name had stayed with her. She looked through her father's papers. There! A deed about land ownership. Their land backed onto some ancestral land of the McGuires. At least, they said it was their ancestral land. The McGowans, her clan, had claimed it for centuries, until...until her father's death.
Trembling with the force of her emotions, Aigneis opened the document. She scanned through the legalese. It was a declaration of recension. Her father had given the land-rights to them. He must have been persuaded into that, she thought grimly. Even the signature looked unlike his—hesitant and shaky.
They killed him! Suddenly, it seemed so clear to her. Somehow, they had either forced him to agree to this, or forged it. Then they killed him, to prevent his changing it. It sounded right. She remembered how her father had seemed strained, the days before his death. Jumpy, as if he had been doubting something, or expecting conflict.
She knew, then, with a growing, deep conviction, that she was right. They had killed him, and then they hid behind the name of Leary. She had, all these years, been devoted to their untruth. Their lie.
Brian! She sat back, suddenly. The elation in her chest mixed with horror. I am free to love you, she thought, rejoicing. But, I will face you on the field. For a crime you did not commit. And I am sworn to kill you.
Brian, my beloved. She thought. What can I do? She did not leave the office all that day.
Chapter 8
Swords rang out in the great hall. The whole force of the Leary clan was there it seemed, practicing for war. Brian stalked from the room, leaving the clash and swing of them behind him. Arthur followed, quickly.