The Lion and the Crow (3rd Edition 2019 Reissue)

by Eli Easton

  “Lift!” Malcolm ordered angrily.

  Christian didn’t move.

  “I shall cut them from you,” Malcolm warned. “And my hands feel very clumsy today. Your skin will suffer for it.”

  “Cut, then,” Christian said flatly. “Cut deep.”

  Malcolm spat some savory curses. He moved off Christian, no doubt to get his dagger.

  That’s when Christian heard it, the slow, deliberate song of a long blade as it was pulled from its scabbard.

  Time seemed to stop. For a moment Christian heard only Malcolm’s alarmed breathing against utter silence. Then there was a scrabble of feet on rock, and the second, quicker song of sword leaving sheath, the heavy clank as blades met in the air. A sword fight.

  Christian managed to roll over even as he tried to push himself back against the wall with his feet, to escape the melee and to rise up to sitting. He finally got his head raised enough to see the courtyard of the ruins clearly—and saw William, in full armor, visor down, locked in battle with Malcolm.

  Malcolm was not wearing his armor or mail, and he’d been taken by surprise. He was an excellent swordsman, strong and agile, but already William had the advantage. William was furious, Christian could see it in the line of his body and the aggression in his attack. He was forcing Malcolm back, his blows coming fast, hard, and relentless. Malcolm countered each crushing blow, but he was barely keeping up with them. Both his hands gripped the hilt of his sword, and he stumbled backward away from William’s onslaught, his eyes wide. And then—

  A mighty swinging blow from William’s sword pushed Malcolm’s blade strongly to the right. Before he could recover, William’s sword fell again like the hand of God from Malcolm’s left—and severed his head completely from his neck.

  Christian was transfixed in disbelief as Malcolm’s face—that hateful, angry face that had tormented him since childhood—spun up into the air once, twice, the hair flying behind like a horse’s tail, before it landed with a sickening thud on the stone floor of the ruins. A second later, Malcolm’s body collapsed in a heap.

  Christian stared at it in shock. He felt rather than saw William fall to his knees at his side.

  “Christian! Are you all right?” William demanded, ripping off his helmet.

  Christian nodded blankly.

  William drew a knife and began to work at Christian’s bonds, slicing them angrily as if they were deeply offensive, first the ropes at his calves, then his arms. The moment Christian was able to tug his arms free, he pushed himself off the ground and threw himself against William, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

  “You came for me.”

  William gripped him tightly, so tightly his armor bruised Christian’s skin, but Christian didn’t care.

  “Were you in Hell itself, Christian, I would always come for you.” William’s voice was choked with emotion. “When I saw the tracks in the woods, that he’d dragged you to his horse, I thought…. Thanks be to God that you’re alive.”

  Christian held him closer, feeling overwhelmed by his passion for this man, for William’s soul, his being, his body, and his heart. After tasting the bitterness of near death, it was a sweet, heady brew. “I love you, William. I know I cannot ask you to be something you detest, no matter how much I want to be with you. But I love you.”

  William pulled away so he could cup Christian’s face and kiss his lips sweetly. “No, you were right. If I left you—if I could even make myself do such a thing—the rest of my life would be a lie. So I guess my honor must be to you and Elaine, and to my own heart. As for the rest, we shall have to put our trust in your cunning, Crow.”

  Christian barked a laugh as something hot moistened his eyes. “I would dream up a million plots and ploys to stay with you.”

  William smiled. “Just one good one will do.”

  Chapter 21

  When Sir Christian Brandon arrived home at Brandon Castle with his small retinue, Lord Brandon called him to an audience in the great hall at once. Christian only had time to eat a quick meal in his chambers and wash off the dust of the road. The speedy summons told Christian his father had been awaiting his return and had some pressing issues to discuss. Christian had been afraid of his father all his life, but he’d faced worse things now and was determined not to let that fear rule him any longer. This audience was nothing but another battle—only with different weapons this time.

  “I’ll go with you,” William said. He and Elaine and the girls had all come up to Christian’s room until a guest quarter could be arranged.

  “And I,” said Elaine. “He’ll want to inspect me.” The last was tinged with bitterness.

  “Hold off. Give me some time alone with him. I’ll send for you.” Christian smiled, faking a calm he didn’t feel, and went out to meet his father.

  When Christian entered the great hall, his father, fully in the mode of the imposing Lord Brandon, was waiting in his massive chair. Lord Brandon dismissed the servants and the two men he’d been conversing with, leaving them entirely alone. Christian’s nerves ratcheted up a few notches. He stood serenely, though, his hands folded behind his back. “Father.”

  “Your brother, Malcolm. He is not with you?”

  Christian was more than a little annoyed that his father’s first thought was for Malcolm. Not even a greeting had passed his lips. But Christian feigned surprise. “No, Father. Isn’t he here?”

  “He left shortly after you did. You did not see him on your travels?”

  Christian shook his head slowly. “No. I didn’t see any sign of him on our trip to Somerfield’s castle.”

  Which was true enough. It was only afterward he’d seen Malcolm.

  Lord Brandon frowned worriedly. “I’ll send another search party south. With luck, he’ll turn up soon.” He stood up from his huge chair, walked to Christian, and looked him over keenly. “There’s something I must know. We received news yesterday that Lord Somerfield was murdered, stabbed by a kitchen wench who’d only been working at the castle a week or so. The timing of the event does not escape me, Christian.”

  Christian swallowed but said nothing.

  Lord Brandon, looking larger than life, the way he loomed gigantically in Christian’s dreams, stepped closer. He was close enough that Christian could have counted the fine gray hairs over his lip. He spoke low, even though they were alone. “I’ll ask you this once. Did you or Sir William have something to do with Somerfield’s death?”

  Christian could not read his father’s expression. What should he answer? If he admitted to killing Somerfield, perhaps his father would be proud of him. After all, Somerfield was his sworn enemy. And perhaps he would finally see that Christian was a warrior worthy of his respect. Then again, his father had told him not to go into the castle. Would he be angry that Christian had disobeyed orders or pleased that Somerfield was dead? And then there was the whole “kitchen wench” issue to lie about.

  He waited too long, and the decision was made for him.

  Lord Brandon sighed as if proved right. “It was you, wasn’t it? How did you do it?”

  His tone bore the warmth of approval, and it encouraged Christian to speak more or less candidly. “I took on work at the castle in order to assess the state of things. No one knew who I was. It was pure chance that I was called to take a draught up to Somerfield in his room. He was alone. I saw the chance and… I took it. Then I escaped the castle. I guess they say it was a wench because it’s a juicier tale. But the important thing is this: the identity of the assassin is unknown. No blame will fall on the Brandons.”

  Lord Brandon’s eyes narrowed with a look of incredulity. He stroked his beard again with a thoughtful “Hmm” and paced a short distance away. Christian waited, his stomach burning, for his father’s judgment.

  His father picked up a mug of wine from the table and sipped it. “You were a fool to go in there. You disobeyed my express wishes.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I wanted to be able to give you a full account of his
strength.” It was a lie. Christian hadn’t thought once about his father’s interests in Somerfield. It was almost embarrassing to realize that now. So much for loyalty.

  I keep faith with those who have kept faith with me.

  “You stabbed him when he was in his own chambers, surrounded by his men.” Lord Brandon looked at him—and then smiled. “Never thought you had it in you, Christian.”

  Christian swallowed, feeling relief. He said nothing. His father strode closer again.

  “Tell me the tale. Be exact.”

  “I… I went to give him a draught. His room was in a tower and the guards were down at the door. I had my dagger with me. He drank down the cup and rubbed his eyes. I was no one to him. He wasn’t on his guard. I took my dagger out and plunged it into his breast. I held my hand over his mouth to keep him silent. It was quick.”

  His father shivered, clearly imagining it. “Remind me never to allow a servant into my presence without a guard. God’s blood!”

  He clapped a manly hand on Christian’s shoulder and strode away, his fast speech showing he’d already accepted the deed and moved on. “I should punish you for disobeying me, but your service has far outweighed that. You’ve done what Sir Robert’s army could not. The new Lord Somerfield is a weakling and a coward. I’ve already sent him my demands that he concede that property on the coastline. He won’t fight for it. His other holdings are more than he ever expected to have, and he has no stomach for war, so they say. We are richer thanks to your blade. Ten thousand acres to be precise, half of them on the sea. ’Tis a rich holding.” He turned and gave Christian a predatory smile. “I reward those who serve me well. Once the land is in our hands, I’ll grant you a share, say five hundred acres. What say you?”

  “I say thank you, Father.” Christian gave a slight bow. “But perhaps you would grant me that holding in Scotland in its stead?”

  His father glowered. “Why must you harp on that Scottish dirt? No Englishman in his right mind wants to live among those heathens.”

  Because it is far from you and other prying eyes. “I like the challenge of it, taking a rough property like that and making something of it. And ’tis said it’s good hunting grounds. You know I love to hunt.”

  Lord Brandon huffed and rang the bell for a servant. “Wine for my son and I,” he ordered. The servant bowed and poured them each a full mug from the pitcher on the table. Lord Brandon waved a hand of dismissal, and the man vanished again.

  Christian was still mildly in shock. My son and I. That was a first.

  “I shall think on it,” Lord Brandon conceded at last. “First we must secure that property on the coast. I doubt it will be much of a fight with the new Lord Somerfield, as I’ve said, but there might be a skirmish or two. I’ll need your bow. The land’s not ours yet,” he lectured.

  “Yes, Father.” It seemed as good a time as any to trade on his father’s goodwill, so Christian steeled himself to speak again. “There’s something else.”

  “Speak.”

  “You said I must marry upon my return. I have chosen a bride.”

  His father turned to look at him, suspicion in his eyes. “What do you mean? What bride?”

  Christian tilted up his chin stubbornly and put his hands behind his back once more. He’d given this much thought on their trip home, devising a way to steer his father along a desired course. It had gone better than he could have hoped so far, but they were not out of the woods yet. They could always ignore Lord Brandon’s wishes and run away, of course. But they would have no land and no property to speak of. Their way would be much easier if they could get his father’s blessing. And Christian was determined that the vision he had in his mind of their future would come true.

  “Lady Elaine Corbet, Sir William’s sister. She was sorely mistreated by Lord Somerfield. On our journey home we… grew very fond of one another. Once a proper time of mourning has passed, I would give her my name and raise her babes.”

  Lord Brandon blinked in surprise. He licked his lips and said nothing for a long moment. “You could get more than another man’s leavings, Christian,” he said. But his voice was neutral, testing Christian’s resolve.

  “Wait until you meet her. She is lovely and still young. She is proven fertile, and she’s of noble blood. You saw how strong her brother Sir William is. She’ll have sons like him.”

  Lord Brandon grunted. “You said she has babes already.”

  “Two girls. She’ll likely produce a son next time.” Or never, Christian thought.

  Now Lord Brandon snorted loudly. “It doesn’t work like that. If she’s a mare who’s likely to throw females….”

  “Females run in the Somerfield line,” Christian said, making it up as he went along. “Obviously males run in ours. And you did say I could choose a bride myself when I returned.”

  Lord Brandon frowned. “What about a dowry? I would get a rich settlement from Lady Margaret’s father.”

  Christian stiffened his back. He felt a curl of anger that his father was still trying to sell him. He didn’t show it. “Sir William has offered a purse. It’s not much but… think on it, Father. If your son marries Somerfield’s widow, there will be rumors that you were behind his death. Nothing can be proven, nothing that would lead to retaliation, but it will make your other enemies think twice about your cunning. And Lady Elaine knows things about Somerfield—his cruelty, his perversions—that his family would sooner have forgotten now he is dead. You can use that as leverage to get that holding without a struggle. That land is worth far more than any dowry.”

  Lord Brandon suddenly stepped closer to Christian and stared him in the eyes. His expression was stern, yet Christian detected a number of things in those familiar eyes—surprise, respect and, yes, even a little fear.

  “You’ve always been the clever one, haven’t you? I have my own mind, Christian. I don’t need you to weave my ideas for me.”

  “No, Father.”

  His father studied him a moment longer. “I underestimated you. Stabbing Somerfield in his rooms, stealing his wife, fixing all this to your own end somehow. Don’t think I don’t see it. When did you get to be such a serpent in the grass, Christian?”

  Christian smiled coldly. “I’m not a serpent, Father. I’m a crow.”

  His father huffed and took a step back. “Bring in Lady Elaine and her babes, then. I want to see what I’m supposedly getting in this bargain.”

  He was back to playing the all-commanding lord, but Christian had seen two things. First, that his arguments had convinced his father of the benefits of this marriage, even if he’d never admit it. And secondly… secondly, he’d seen the crack in his father’s facade. He had a feeling his father would not long object to sending him to Scotland. He had a feeling his father would be relieved to see the snake in the grass move very far away.

  Christian had never felt so proud of himself in his life.

  Epilogue

  The Year 1301

  The Scottish holding was just as the deed had described it. There was an old stone castle, Glen Braemar Castle, which was small enough to be quaint, and much in need of repairs. It sat on a rocky promontory that overlooked a moss green lake. Surrounding it on all sides was virgin forest. A rock-strewn road was the only real access into the castle. The nearest village, Braemar Nairn, was a two-mile ride on horseback.

  It was perfect.

  Lord Brandon’s letter had preceded them, and the overseer had already left. There were two servants in the place—an old couple who did the cooking and general upkeep. They weren’t exactly welcoming, but nothing could dampen Christian’s near manic excitement.

  Here was a little corner of the world that belonged to him and him alone—his father had signed over the deed. He would build his life here—he and his wife, Elaine, her daughters, and William. No man would be able to take it from them.

  They arrived in the spring, and Elaine set to work at once putting in a small kitchen garden. William told her they could hire a m
an to do it, but she insisted on doing it herself. She spent long hours in the sun with her hands in the dirt, her two blonde daughters playing nearby, and it seemed to heal something inside her. Slowly her eyes grew less haunted, and her shoulders released their clench of fear.

  William and Christian did repairs and rode the property to map out their plans. There were dozens of game trails through the woods and clear signs of wholesale poaching. Christian, being Christian, plotted the best ways to deal with what was clearly a long-standing infringement. The village was a poor one, and his land seemed to be home to some of the richest game around.

  He tacked up notices along the perimeters of his land and in the village. The Glen Braemar Castle lands would be open for two days in the spring and two in the autumn for anyone who wished to hunt. Anyone who hunted there outside those days would be dealt with as a trespasser. He also delivered a deer carcass once a month to the local church “for the poor.” They made a right show of it, he and William, dressed in bright gambesons and half-mail, riding slowly through the village leading a packhorse draped with a large buck. They’d knock on the church door and lay it before the priest. Everyone came out of their shops and homes to watch them come and go, staring after them as if they were rare and potentially dangerous beasts.

  Their willingness to share went a small way toward stopping the poaching. A week spent stalking trespassers and sending arrows thwunking into trees near their heads or the ground near their feet did the rest.

  The locals were cold and unfriendly. The Scottish did not like the English. They particularly didn’t like the English king giving away bits of their sacred homeland to his favorites, even if he did own said land quite legally. William and Christian accompanied Elaine when she went into the village to shop, and they were always well armed. Christian didn’t care about being an outcast himself, but it made him angry when the villagers gave Elaine the cold shoulder.