by Jackie Ivie
“What was their choice?”
“No one was forced to follow the sultan to the grave. They willingly take poison, or put their necks in the path of a blade.”
“I see. And...this somehow relates to my words this eve?” He had a smile hovering about his lip and his eyes sparkled as he asked it.
“You are sentencing three men in the morn.”
He went taut. His eyes narrowed. When he answered, his voice carried the anger. “They earned it. They tried to poison the well. Even if they did na’ ken it was monkshood, there is nae defense.”
“That is na’ what I speak of. You ken the likely source of the poison, and that she probably has more of it.”
“True.”
“And you have sentenced her to be alone. All night. To relive what has happened. She has lost quite a portion of her beauty and her actions have been exposed. To all.”
“You think she will take the monkshood?”
Cassandra shrugged. Then gasped, as the babes decided to be active again. She placed her free hand atop the mound beneath her bodice. Watched as Rhoenne’s eyes warmed to a cobalt blue shade. The man was beyond handsome. Truly. She barely kept a sigh from sounding. She had to glance away or her voice might not work.
“I cannot say what she will do. I simply think you have given her a fourth choice. One...she may take.”
He lifted her hand to his lips again. Spoke the words to the tops of her knuckles. “May I ask you a question now?”
Cassandra moved her gaze back to his, but it was difficult. Blushes warmed her, nervousness flit about her belly, and still her heart dropped when she reached his gaze again.
“Just how auld are you?” he asked.
She smiled. “Some months shy of a score.”
“You are nineteen?”
She nodded.
“Hmm. And she thinks I display wisdom beyond my years,” he remarked. And then he moved their entwined hands to his chest and stood, lifting her to her feet beside him. “Come. Our chamber awaits.”
“But—? The men? The table they’ve just gone for? Your fest? All...these people?”
“I’ve had a change of heart. I’ve just reunited with my wife. We have a chamber. A world of love afore us. And privacy,” he answered.
And then he lowered his chin and took her breath away.
Again.
Epilogue
Downpour stole vision and breath, quagmire slicked the path despite spikes driven through the bottom of boots for traction, and Calum Montvale ’s powerful hits continued to hammer Rhoenne’s shield, sending it against his shoulder more than once. The man had gained strength, bulk, and arrogance since winning the competition against Rory FitzHugh. Enough of each that he’d challenged the laird to this contest.
They fought on the castle list, surrounded by clan while more gathered by the moment. This was a spontaneous event. Unplanned. Unprepared. Totally unscripted. Rhoenne could have postponed, but fighting Calum had sounded like a good way to pass the hours he’d otherwise spend with waiting. And pacing.
The rules of the contest were simple. No steel. No skeans. Each man claimed only a wooden shield and a club with a knotted tip. They weren’t child’s toys. A hit from these clubs could split a man’s skull. Break bone. Split ribs.
Rhoenne peeked around his shield edge, saw an opening, and smacked his club end into Calum’s thigh just enough it would sting. Calum’s cry of rage heralded another barrage against the wooden shield. The man had great strength and power behind each blow, but he needed to work on emotion. That’s why Rory held a position in Rhoenne’s Honor Guard while Calum led the castle guards. Montvale man angered easily. Still. And anger could lose any contest.
Rhoenne timed Calum’s next bout of hits against the shield. Blows came rhythmic and quick. Five...six...seven. On the eighth one, Rhoenne smacked back into the blow with his shield. The move lifted the piece high, obstructing the downpour so he could watch Calum’s off-balance lurch backwards, before the man fell onto his buttocks. A spray of muck lifted into the mist about him. Hoots and hollers came from the crowd, barely penetrating the rain. Somebody started thumping on a kettle drum, sending a rhythmic throb through the scene. Rhoenne tauntingly hit his shield-front twice before resuming a defensive stance. He didn’t have time for more. Calum had rolled and regained his footing quickly. He knew the man would. ’Twas how he’d defeated Rory. Calum Montvale was quick, and he didn’t give up.
Both excellent traits.
The man appeared to have changed tactics. Moments passed as Rhoenne waited for another head-on attack , before he saw a blur of movement to his left. He deflected with his shield-covered arm and swiveled, missing the hit to his thigh by a hairsbreadth. Calum’s counter-move with his shield smacked Rhoenne’s right shoulder, knocking him sideways, and if his spikes had any grip, he’d have gone down. As it was, he made several awkward steps, keeping Calum at his front, his shield between them. Calum pressed his advantage, hitting with such jolts, the shield cracked, wavered against his arm, and then split. Rhoenne didn’t watch as the bottom section separated, smacking his lower leg before it fell to the mud.
He barely felt it.
Heartbeats filled his ears, rain plastered his hair to his skull, each heave of breath fogged the air around him. He began moving his left wrist, rotating the half-circle barrier to counter blows where needed. Calum’s advantage made him bolder. More intense. Speed of his movements flung raindrops. Grunts of effort fled his lips. Time and again he attacked only to find his blows blocked.
Rhoenne deflected and danced about, holding his club ready, waiting for an opening. He slid. Recovered. Slid again. This time his boots struck the half of his shield half-buried in muck.
“You are losing, Ramhurst!” Calum bellowed.
Rhoenne stepped onto the wood, his shoe spikes gripped giving him a fulcrum to pivot. He launched a blow around Calum’s shield, striking into the man’s unprotected mid-section. Calum launched backward, landing into a puddle with such force, mud-spray spouted upward before settling back.
The crowd reaction was raucous. Although muffled, hearty cheers blended with hoots and whistles while the drummer sent a rapid series of beats that matched Rhoenne’s pulse. He straddled the half-shield, teetering back and forth as he watched Calum roll to his knees, then lumber to his feet. It took longer this time. Rhoenne waited until the man was upright again.
“Why do you wait, my laird? You need an invitation?”
Calum yelled the taunt and finished by smacking his club against his shield. Rhoenne bent his knees. Started rotating his half-shield again. And then he heard his name being called.
“Rhoenne! My laird, Ramhurst!”
Rhoenne swiped a hand across his forehead and held it there so he could spot waving arms that belonged to Henry FitzHugh. The man was some way off, and at a run. The crowd parted at the back and he disappeared into their midst.
Rhoenne jogged to the list barrier, tossing his club to one side, the partial shield to the other. Calum Montvale was at his heels, similarly weaponless. The crowd went quiet, the drums silent. Rain continually peppered the world, making it difficult to see and hear and gain breath. It also lifted a skim of moisture on both men as it cooled. Calum caught Rhoenne’s glance, huffed out a fog-wrapped breath, then grinned.
“Is this...a forfeit, my laird?” he teased.
Rhoenne’s chin lowered. His lips twisted.
“Oh, verra well. Rematch?”
“Agreed,” Rhoenne replied.
Henry appeared finally, spat from the crowd. He bent forward and pulled in several panted breaths as everyone waited.
“Well?” Rhoenne prompted.
“You should na’ run so, mon. ’Tis bad at your age,” Calum offered.
Henry stood. “I’ll show...you auld, you young—.”
“Henry!” Rhoenne interrupted. “Do you bring word?”
“Oh. Aye. I’ve word.”
Several beards split with grins at Henry’s rep
ly. A lot of voices started up, hampering hearing. Rhoenne held up a hand for silence. The crowd quieted again.
“’Tis your countess! Her time...has started.”
Rhoenne sucked in a breath. Held it. Listened to the hammering of his heart. Felt emotion he recognized flash through his belly and stop there, where it would solidify and gain heft. He exhaled. “How much time do I have?” he asked.
“The wife said it will be a spell.”
“The countess said that?”
“Oh. Nae. I speak of my wife. Ida.”
Somebody chucked. It was quelled instantly.
“I’ve time for a swim, then,” Rhoenne announced. “Come! I’ll race you to the loch!”
Only the fittest men kept pace as Rhoenne ran for the loch shores, chucked his feile-breacan, and dove into storm-whipped water. Cold smacked him, waves alternately tossing and assisting. Every stroke he made was massive and strong. Rhoenne swam across the loch, took several chest-filling breaths on the far shore as he jogged in place, working his arms and shoulders. Then he dove back in and swam back. He crawled onto dark rain-soaked earth, flipped onto his back, and watched the tunnel of raindrops falling from above. He felt aware, awake, and alive.
And yet the worry he worked at conquering had solidified in his belly. He had no choice but to ignore it, and that meant he needed to stay active. He rose to his feet. Surveyed the scene.
No one could dry until they reached the shelter of a lengthy structure, constructed for just such a purpose. The solid wall of Castle Tyne loomed above the group massed about a fire. Someone tossed Rhoenne a warm, dry plaid. He rubbed his skin before donning it, knotting one end at his side before flipping the other over his shoulder. The enclosure was most welcome, providing shelter from the rain, drying warmth from the fire. Rhoenne settled onto his haunches near it. Someone had brought an ale keg and large mugs. The keg was tapped, tankards filled and passed out. Rhoenne snagged one and gulped thirstily. Once drained, he rose and addressed them.
“Men of my Honor Guard. Come with me. ‘Tis time to check on the proceedings,” he announced.
The chosen men stood, brushed sand and pebbles from their plaids, and accompanied Rhoenne up a flight of stone steps to the entry near the kitchens. Savory smells wafted through the halls as they walked in cadence, boots striking stone in a rhythmic fashion. Rhoenne entered the Great Hall just as shouts from above alerted him.
“Race you!”
“No! Wait! I get to go first!”
Two lads leaped atop the railing and started sliding. Rhoenne reached the base of the steps first, bumping into Emin who’d materialized at his side. Rhoenne snagged a black-haired lad with one arm. Grabbed the other’s belt with his free hand. The boys squirmed a moment before realizing who held them.
“Da!” They shouted in unison.
“Good catch, Excellency,” Emin offered.
Rhoenne started laughing as both boys climbed him, hugged his neck, then pulled away to look at him with matching blue eyes.
“You said you would show us how to fight with real swords!” one accused.
“I said that?” Rhoenne replied.
“Henry’s right, Da,” the other boy offered.
“Did na’ I also say we’d start on the morrow?” Rhoenne asked his firstborn and namesake.
The younger Rhoenne Guy de Ramhurst was the calmer, quieter twin. He studied Rhoenne for a moment before nodding. “Aye. You did say that.”
“But tomorrow is too far away!” Henry opined.
“’Twill be here afore you ken it, lads. We’ll start tomorrow. But, tell me...what have you done with Maysie?”
“Well, we—,” Henry began.
“Oh, there they are! Oh. My laird. The lads were just starting letters, and I turn my back for one moment, and they’re gone!” Maysie explained as she came rapidly down the stairs.
“Lads?” Rhoenne asked with a firm tone.
“Book learning.”
Henry opined it in disgust. His temperament wasn’t the exact opposite of his twin, but if there was mischief afoot, it was usually Henry’s doing. Rhoenne couldn’t prevent a smile.
“Well, lads. What can I tell you? Every man needs book learning,” he finally remarked.
“What about fighting? Euan told us you fought a whole ship full of pirates! All by yourself!” Guy said.
“Euan.”
Rhoenne turned to look over the men. Euan stifled a grin before ducking his head. Rhoenne looked back to his sons.
“Now lads. You ken that sometimes Euan tells tall tales.”
“But Emin said the same,” Henry argued.
“How can we fight like you if we do na’ train?” Guy added.
Rhoenne didn’t answer right away. Being a father sent a massive dose of emotion. It weakened his knees and his heart felt as swollen as his tongue.
“The lads have you there, Rhoenne,” Grant remarked from behind him.
Rhoenne cleared his throat. “Fair enough. We’ll start on the morrow. You’ve my word. Now. It’s back to letters for you both.” He set them down and swatted rears as they raced back up the steps, Maysie right behind them. Then he turned to regard Emin.
“They nearly escaped you this time, Emin.”
“Your sons are quick, Excellency. Strong-willed. But I do not slacken. They are safe as long as I breathe. I vow it.”
“I ken as much, my friend. You’d best hurry though. Maysie may need an assist, and you know she only wants yours.”
Rhoenne lifted his brows several times. Emin reddened, opened his mouth to reply. Thought better of it. Then followed the boys and Maysie.
“I guess that there is proof that where there’s a will, there’s a way—oof!”
“Leave gossip to women, man!” someone hissed.
Rhoenne turned to regard the group. Nobody spoke. He swallowed against the stone feeling in his gut. Despite how he ignored it, the sensation of worry grew. Got heavier somehow. He knew from experience that the lone thing that tempered it was physical motion.
And lots of it.
“Well, what are we waiting about for? I’ve got to check on the lady wife still. See how much more time I have.”
He didn’t wait for affirmation. He jogged across the Great Hall to the Chieftain steps, the sound of boots striking wood showed his men in tandem. They reached the alcove. Rhoenne stopped. Adjusted his attire. Took a couple of deep breaths.
“Do you ever think on the dark times?” Grant said at Rhoenne’s side.
“Dark times?”
“Afore Aileen poisoned herself.”
“Nae. Never.”
Grant grunted a reply. The Chieftain’s chamber door opened, Angus’s wife Margaret and another woman came out, empty water cans in their hands.
“Ladies!” Rhoenne greeted them.
The women dropped curtsies. “Greetings, my laird. And to your Honor Guard, as well.”
“Any word?” he asked abruptly.
The younger lass shook her head. Rhoenne’s shoulders dropped visibly. The weight in his belly shifted.
“’Tis getting closer, though,” the older woman offered.
“How much closer?”
She lifted her shoulders un-helpfully.
Rhoenne turned toward his men again. “Well. You all heard. I’ve time on my hands still. Come along, then. We’ll gird the nursery.”
“To the nursery!”
Someone called it and they set off down the hall.
Castle Tyneburgh nurseries were located on the third floor of the keep. To reach them required climbing a tower wheel-stair, taking a dogleg turn and traversing another hall. It wasn’t the only way to reach the set of rooms, but it was the quickest. Arrow slits constructed into the tower stone sent gray-cast spears of daylight onto the spiral series of steps, but the upper hall was gloom-filled, lit intermittently with torches in sconces. Before they reached the nursery, Emin loomed out of the shadows. Rhoenne was the lone man who didn’t come to a stunned stop.
; “Ho there, Emin!” Rhoenne said. “I take it Guy and Henry are hard at work with book learning?”
“With three guards to oversee the effort,” Emin replied.
“How did he get here afore us?” someone asked in a loud whisper.
Emin’s lips twitched. Rhoenne’s smile widened.
“Everything quiet within?” he asked.
The man nodded, reached to open the door. “The wee ones are asleep, both at the same time. ’Tis a rare event.”
Rhoenne beckoned his men with a finger to his lips before turning to peek at the scene. The nursery was a large room, the walls rendered in a cream shade. The color warmed the space as much as the large fire in the fireplace. Rhoenne’s heart swelled to a painful level with the rush of joy and pride. His life was so full now. So joyous. His existence centered in a love that just kept growing.
Five women were in the room, keeping a careful eye on his second set of twins. Their heads could just be seen above matching plaids. The younger lads were almost identical to their older brothers. Black-headed. Blue-eyed. Perfectly healthy. They’d just reached their second year. Finding a moment when they were both asleep was a rare event, indeed.
Ida smiled at him from a rocker, her arms full with Henry’s pride and joy, a red-haired lass named Sandra. She wouldn’t be able to hold the child on her lap much longer, as time approached for the birth of their second bairn. Rhoenne returned her smile and pulled back from the doorway. Emin softly closed the door behind him.
“I’ll visit later this eve. When they’re awake,” Rhoenne said in a low tone.
Emin nodded.
Rhoenne shoved aside the weighty sensation in his gut, but it didn’t cease. It was a throbbing issue he well remembered. He turned around, pulled in a couple of deep breaths. He’d heard this waiting and worrying got easier with each passing birth.
That was false.
“Well men,” he addressed his Honor Guard. “What say we take a visit to the chapel?”
“To the chapel!” Iain announced from the back of the crowd.
The castle chapel was encased within an inner courtyard tower, its walls rendered with white lime coating. The windows were leaded stained glass. The east-facing altar was draped with a cloth worked in minute stitches by his countess, Cassandra, using real gold thread. The entire area was imbued with a sanctified reverent aura. Rhoenne and his men filled the aisle, spilling into the rows of carved benches. Rhoenne went to a knee. Bent his head. Prayed. All about him he sensed his men doing the same.