The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  He kissed the tip of her ear to whisper his reply. “As long as she thinks so.”

  “I knew it.”

  And then she smiled.

  Rumbling sounds filled the front entryway, heralding the arrival of Rory FitzHugh, the guardsmen, and a contingency of eight shuffling souls with downcast heads. They all wore chains, adding to their burden. Their appearance stopped all conversation. The crowd parted to let them through to the dais, stepping away as if a touch might taint. Their appearance sent an obvious message. Any time spent in the Ramhurst dungeons was an unpleasant matter.

  The semicircle of guardsmen opened to allow the prisoners through. Montvale stood to one side, clearly making a distinction between himself and the new arrivals. Rhoenne recognized most of them – if not by name, then by family representation. And he had no trouble picking out the stable hand Lachlan MacDuff - the first man Rhoenne had seen visiting Aileen’s bed. He looked even worse than normal. The fellow always smelled of horse manure. Today it looked like he’d rolled in it.

  The prisoners stopped. Rory walked among them, pulling them apart using their shackling. Then he stepped forward, lifted his head, and met Rhoenne’s gaze.

  “I have brought the prisoners, my laird,” he loudly announced.

  Two of them remained stiffly straight. A couple shifted back and forth, their movement rattling iron. One was extremely lean, or young. It wasn’t possible to tell since he didn’t look up. Rhoenne regarded the group for a few moments, absently wondering what quantifier linked them other than their gender.

  “Is there any among you wishing to speak for the whole?” Rhoenne asked finally.

  “I do na’ eve ken why I’m here!” The largest man spoke, shoved his head back, looked up, and then his mouth fell open. “Rhoenne? Rhoenne Ramhurst? It is truly you?”

  Some of the others looked up. Stared.

  “Aye. ’Tis me. Your laird. Newly returned from the seventh crusade. And I find na’ a welcoming castle...but one infested with vipers.”

  The speaker looked puzzled. “I do na’ ken your words. I did naught. My name is Camdyn MacHugh, my laird. I work at the smithy. I was asleep when I was seized three days past.”

  “Rory?” Rhoenne asked.

  “He was sent a missive, my laird. Same as these other two.” He motioned to the specified men.

  “A missive?” The man looked at the others in confusion then back up at Rhoenne. “This is over a...message? I got nae missive.”

  “Rory?”

  “He is correct, my laird. The messages were na’ received.”

  “But we have them?”

  “Of course. They were intercepted almost the moment they were written. Save for Lachlan, and...this...lad here.”

  Rory pulled the lean prisoner out of the line as he spoke. The fellow was young, resembling LeRoy FitzHugh in stature and age. Rhoenne heard Aileen’s choked reaction. She sounded angered. Frustrated. And exasperated.

  Rory continued. “Lachlan’s message was na’ written. He does na’ read. His message was sent via this lad - who also works in the stables.”

  “What is his name?” Rhoenne asked.

  “Arran.”

  The lad lifted his head and gave a head toss to shift hair off his face. His glance went toward the dais, then away. He didn’t appear cowed. Quite the opposite. He looked to be a hot-tempered type, quarrelsome. His upper lip was even lifted in a sneer.

  “Surname?” Rhoenne requested.

  “He does na’ have one. He’s an orphan.”

  Rhoenne grunted. “What is his crime?”

  “We caught him scaling the castle wall.”

  “Climbing walls is a crime?”

  “’Twas the east wall, my laird.”

  “Hmm. That is na’ an easy climb.”

  “Especially with how he managed it. The lad used skeans - two of them. He inserted blades into the smallest of cracks. We could na’ believe our eyes, even as we caught him. He was given a message to deliver to Lachlan MacDuff, along with a small signet ring for payment.”

  “One, you took!” Arran burst out aggressively.

  Rory yanked on his shackle. The lad stumbled but instantly corrected it. He gave Rory a belligerent-looking glare.

  “The lad is correct. We have the ring.”

  “You are an efficient captain, Rory FitzHugh,” Rhoenne told him. “But I am na’ certain Arran’s crimes warrant a stay in the dungeons.”

  “The lad is slippery, my laird. And the ring has...recognizable ownership.”

  Rhoenne grunted. “I see. Arran?”

  The lad blew a desultory sigh through his lips before glancing at the dais.

  “You like blades, do you?”

  Arran shrugged his shoulders and moved his gaze to Rhoenne. It held the same antagonistic look he’d just given Rory. Rhoenne was hard-put not to laugh. It was too close to how he’d once regarded his elders.

  “You appear to need a strong hand, young man. One, with an expertise in blades. Emin?”

  “Yes, Excellency?”

  The eunuch stepped forward, dipped his head in a bow before straightening back upright. If anything the lad looked even less impressed.

  “This is my wife’s personal guard. He’s from the east. He is an expert with blades. Emin? Show the lad.”

  Emin rapidly tossed knives at Arron, pulling them one-by-one from his belt, alternating hands. The blades smacked into the wood floor at the lad’s feet, advancing in a line that stopped where a toe stuck out the end of the lad’s boot. Arran jumped backward. Emin’s next toss was right in front of the same toe. The next knife landed right beside it, thrown so quickly, the two blades clacked together.

  Arran’s high-pitched cry didn’t just hold fear. The lad was clearly awed. The crowd shared his reaction. Shocked sounds were followed by an instantaneous burst of applause. Arran was open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and looking up at Emin with a completely different expression than his previous.

  “Emin?” Rhoenne called out when his words could again be heard.

  “Excellency?” Emin turned and gave him another bow.

  “How do you feel about gaining an apprentice?”

  “You speak of the boy? This...Arran?”

  Emin’s voice held a hint of repugnance. The lad’s shoulders went back. And his upper lip lifted in a sneer again.

  “I do,” Rhoenne answered.

  Emin jumped down from the platform. He was taller and a lot more muscled than most of the others. He crouched to pluck blades, stashing them in his belt as he advanced toward Arran. Emin stood after pulling the last two, looked down at Arran while twirling the blades in his fingers, and then he flung them right back into the floor where they’d been. Without once breaking eye contact.

  To his credit, Arran flinched but didn’t move. Applause rang out as the two stood regarding each other. Then Emin stepped back. Turned toward the dais.

  “Excellency?” he addressed Rhoenne.

  “Aye?”

  “I accept responsibility for this apprentice.”

  Arran gave a whoop. It was immediately stifled. It didn’t help. The lad had a rosy flush. And a smile that flashed across his face more than once as the audience hooted and clapped.

  “Rory? Unshackle the lad. His apprenticeship begins immediately.”

  The sound of irons being removed was loud. Arran rubbed at his wrists when he’d been freed, then stepped closer to Emin. The eunuch put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and directed him toward the dais. The platform was four steps above the main floor. It was a healthy jump. Emin made it look easy as he vaulted onto the platform. Arran backed up for a slight run, before accomplishing the same maneuver. Emin resumed his position at Cassandra’s far side. Arms folded. Resolute. Arran stood beside him, and assumed the same stance.

  Rhoenne’s gaze dropped to Cassandra. His wife was looking at him with tear-filled eyes and a heart-melting smile. Rhoenne’s heart stuttered before he caught it. He quickly moved his glance over her head, and rega
rded the chandeliers above them. The vaulted ceiling. The high windows. He had a somber demeanor back in place before looking back down at the prisoners.

  “Well,” he announced loudly. “I have sentenced one of you. The rest of you will na’ receive the same leniency. You are na’ here because you were a messenger. Your crime is that the sender chose you...and the why of it.”

  “Except the end three prisoners, my laird,” Rory spoke up.

  “They have a different transgress?”

  “Aye. They were caught at the well early this morn. Afore they could poison it. With monkshood.”

  The reaction was a moment of shocked silence, followed by a swell of sound. Loud. Vicious. More guardsmen filled the space around the prisoners, pushing the swarm back. Voices shouted for order. Rhoenne turned to look at Aileen. Her eyes resembled opaque green opals. There wasn’t one expression on her face.

  It seemed the more rot he carved away, the worse it got.

  He felt cold.

  Almost sick.

  And he’d thought her evil before.

  The room quieted, showing the three men huddled together at the center of a number of guardsmen.

  “Rory? March those three back to the dungeon,” Rhoenne commanded. “They will be tried at dawn. And then executed.”

  “Wait! My laird! ’Twas na’ our idea! We were na’ told it was monkshood!” One of the sentenced fellows screamed the words. He gestured toward Aileen. “Why must we pay when—?!”

  “Silence!” Rhoenne roared. He pulled the broadsword as he went to the edge of the platform. “Or face a beheading right now!”

  One swayed, taking the other two with him. Guards closed around them. Keys were produced. Locks opened. The three were separated, and then walked from the cleared area. One was mostly dragged. Sobbed sounds emanated from them. Rhoenne watched with a set jaw. His fingers tightened on the sword hilt. He sent one hard breath after the next as he regarded each of them in turn, including Calum. Every one of them stepped back. Rhoenne finally moved, to place the sword’s tip onto the wood at his feet and then he leaned forward, using the weapon for stability.

  “Listen closely. The four of you. I have determined a consequence for being a party to this. You may na’ even find it onerous.”

  They looked surprised, but no one spoke.

  “I have an offer to make. To one man, and one man only. The first who accepts will be freed. I will give you ten pieces of Scot silver. New-minted, so they’ll be nae loss with shaved edges. Along with a horse. And safe passage from my fief.” Rhoenne paused after each item. “In exchange you accept banishment...and the hand of Lady Aileen Ramhurst. You ken my offer? You will wed to her! Right here! And right now!”

  Stupefied expressions greeted his offer. Shocked silence. And Aileen screeched.

  “How dare—!”

  Rhoenne swiveled and flung the chieftain sword. It caught the top of Lady Aileen’s headdress, and slammed her backward into a chair. She had a definite expression on her face now. She stared at him dumbfounded while the sword swayed back and forth atop her head. And it wasn’t just swaying. Each swing sliced hair. Locks of it sifted onto her shoulders as he watched. The sword was planted through the chair nearly to the hilt, holding her stuck in place. Any move cut more of her hair off.

  Rhoenne knew he had instant reflexes. A perfect aim. But even he was stunned. So were the faces of everyone around him. Grant and the others moved back so the crowd could see. Rhoenne threw back his head and howled until he ran out of breath. Then he was laughing.

  But it wasn’t heard over roar of approval that commenced throughout the great hall. That was ear-splitting.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Grant!” Rhoenne hissed it to his cousin.

  “Aye?”

  “I need your sword. Mine is...in use.”

  Grant chuckled and handed Rhoenne his blade. Rhoenne watched his cousin tap the guardsman beside him. Speak to him. That man also snorted his amusement. He then tapped the man beside him. And so, it continued. All of them were snickering. Aileen’s response was a low grumble hurled through her closed teeth.

  It didn’t sound feminine.

  It didn’t even sound human.

  Her lips were pulled back, baring her teeth. Her eyes narrowed to slits. Her nose wrinkled up. Rhoenne regarded her for a long moment, his face emotionless and hard; the exact countenance a man known to be ‘The Dark One’ would exhibit.

  A rumbling happened at the front of the great hall. It snagged his attention. Immense oaken casks were rolled through the door and into the great hall, followed by small wheeled carts loaded with tankards. Angus waved at him from the foyer. Rhoenne lifted the borrowed sword in response before stepping again to the front of the dais. He looked over the remaining prisoners then began speaking again. His words were for them, but he projected his voice outward so it could be heard and repeated.

  “Forgive the interruption, gentlemen. It appears I failed to restrain the bride-to-be afore I made my offer. I have since...corrected that lapse.”

  The crowd tittered. Some of the guardsmen smirked. A few gave outright grins. Calum Montvale had his head back, chin up, his arms folded, and his feet shoulder-width apart, looking clearly angry. Probably offended. His attitude exactly what Rhoenne would expect from a man whose trustworthiness was being scrutinized. The three shackled men didn’t exhibit any response.

  Murmurs filtered through the great hall, caused by kegs being tapped, ale poured out. Amid bits of conversation. Rhoenne started talking again.

  “Well. You heard my offer, gentlemen. I need a groom for the widow Aileen’s hand. But...it has just occurred to me that I have been short-sighted here.”

  He looked over his shoulder toward Aileen. Her head turned in his direction, shaving more strands of hair from her scalp. Her snarl got more vicious, her choked screams louder, and vivid red spots mottled her throat and face in stark contrast to the pristine white color she’d chosen to wear.

  Rhoenne started pacing along the front of the platform, speaking as he went. “I do na’ think many ken how closely my family is connected to one of King David’s abbeys. As you know, he constructed four of them: Jedburth, Dryburgh, Melrose, and Kelso.”

  Rhoenne didn’t walk the full length of the dais. He turned at Emin.

  “The abbeys are all magnificent edifices to the faith. Truly awe-inspiring. But the one I specifically refer to is Jedburgh. A Ramhurst helped in its construction a century past. We’ve continued our support ever since,” he continued.

  Rhoenne used his cousin, Grant as the other end point to his pacing. Then it was back to Emin. A return to Grant. Each time Rhoenne’s glance would skim Cassandra’s face, her eyes lit with something beautiful and pure. The area around his heart warmed pleasantly.

  And then he’d catch sight of Aileen.

  The first time, her ugliness paused his step. He couldn’t believe his luck. So easily, he could have been one of Aileen’s victims, his world one of betrayal and jealousy. Rage. Disgust.

  ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’

  From nowhere he recalled the priest’s words from Batok. They were never more apt. He shook his head slightly before turning around at Emin.

  “About Jedburgh Abbey...I completely forgot that it possesses a large nunnery. The prioress hails from Ramhurst clan, or she did five years past. ’Tis little matter, actually. What prioress would turn down a novice that comes with a donation sum of ten Scot groats?”

  He’d reached Grant again. Rhoenne turned around. Started back.

  “This is more than I thought I could offer. I hope you are listening, Aileen?” He paused for a moment before continuing. He didn’t truly care if she answered. “You have three choices before you. Marriage and banishment – if I can find a willing man; a life of poverty as a nun; or you burn at a stake alongside the men I now have to hang...because of you.”

  He paused in front of Emin. Rhoenne’s face must have mirrored the loathing that stained h
is last words. The eunuch gave him a solemn nod. It looked and felt like approval. Rhoenne took a deep breath, and swiveled.

  “But first. Afore we continue this, I need a groom! I can na’ seem to get any takers. Perhaps I should sweeten the deal. And open it to a wider group.”

  Rhoenne stepped at the center of the dais to face the assemblage again. He shouted, but it wasn’t necessary. Everyone in the room was avidly listening. They weren’t even pouring or drinking ale.

  “Ramhurst clan!” he yelled. “I have an offer to make! To any unwed man here! I will give him ten—nae! I will make it twenty! You hear that? Twenty new silver groats! I now add two horses from my stable. Safe passage from the fief! All in exchange for accepting the hand of the widow, Aileen! Along with banishment, of course. So? Are there any takers?”

  “What was that?”

  Lachlan MacDuff stirred and lifted his head. The man lifted a hand and smoothed it over his hair and down his beard. The iron chain he wore rattled. He looked unkempt, disreputable. And absolutely perfect for what Rhoenne wanted.

  “Did I hear you offer...so much? Just for weddin’ with the wench?”

  “Do na’ even think it, brother!”

  The words burst from the bladier. Titters, guffaws, and outright jeers ensued. The man had used his large announcer voice. It was impossible not to have heard him.

  “’Tis a fortune!” Lachlan responded.

  “I’ll disown you!”

  “I’d be banished anyway, mon. What is your threat over that?”

  “Lachlan MacDuff?” Rhoenne inserted quickly. “Are you willing to wed the lady Aileen?”

  “Will you look at her, mon! Have you lost yer wits?” Gawain MacDuff yelled, and the words resounded though the chamber.

  Everyone did as requested. Rhoenne, included. Aileen’s headdress was still stuck to the chair, but she was no longer pinned to it. A handful of hair strands were all that connected her head to her headdress. The entire top of her head was shorn. She’d always taken great care with her hair. She’d had lush, thick, lengthy tresses. He hadn’t known how much it added to her attractiveness. Without it, she was colorless and plain. If he factored in her contorted features and how her skin was mottled and dark purple, she was absolutely abhorrent.