by Eli Easton
“I am at peace, Christian. It doesn’t matter,” Elaine always told him. But it did.
Slowly, slowly, though, they made inroads.
They’d lived in Scotland for over a year when one day Christian left the blacksmith, where he’d had another dozen arrows metal tipped for hunting, and realized his family was not where he’d left them. He found William standing to one side of a makeshift training arena behind the village shops. The girls, now five and seven, and fine-boned like Elaine herself, were playing on the grass with two local children. Elaine watched over them with a pleased smile.
Christian went to join William. There were two men in the ring, the older one training the younger with a sword. Christian could see even the teacher had a lot to learn. Before he could comment on it, William vaulted over the split log fence and into the arena.
“You’re too low on the Ochs stance. And you’re hurting your shoulder.” He drew his long sword and demonstrated, holding the sword up high, his left leg braced forward. “Drop your back shoulder and it’ll take the weight without strain.”
Both men stopped, their swords pointing at the ground. The younger looked at William with curiosity, but the older all but spat on the ground.
“What’s it to ye?” he sneered. “Ye’d train men to fight agin yer own king?”
“I’d train my neighbors to resist anyone who’d threaten us here, aye.”
The firmness in his voice made it clear he meant it. The older man blinked. William lowered his sword. “I’m William,” he said.
There was a pause that made Christian’s stomach clench tight. Then the older man spoke. “Gawter. And this be Dauid. If ye’re willing to shew us, I’m willing to see it.” His tone was disbelieving, as though William was being a fool by giving away his knowledge. But William ignored that and showed them the Ochs stance again.
After that, William and Christian spent a few afternoons each week building their strength in the training arena and sharing their skills with anyone who came by. It went a long way to softening the villagers toward them.
When they held a Christmas feast on their second year at Glen Braemar Castle, most of the village came.
Inside Glen Braemar Castle, Christian and Elaine had adjoining rooms. The door between them bolted from both sides. Neither bolt was ever opened. And most nights Elaine preferred to cuddle up with her girls in their room down the hall. The family had instructed the servants not to come upstairs in the mornings until they were summoned by a bell. It made for cold toes, since no fires were laid when the family got up, but it also made for privacy. The Scots assumed the whim was an English one.
William, despite having a room of his own, came to Christian’s bed every night. Not a night went by that they didn’t make love in some fashion or another, nor was there a time when they didn’t realize how fortunate they were to be able to do so. They held each other with passion, reverence—and relief.
And if there were moments, during the day, when Christian would have liked to have touched William’s hand or given him a brief kiss, well, being denied those small pleasantries was a slight enough price to pay for the life they led.
Not even the girls ever guessed the truth. People saw what they wanted to see.
The Year 1312
It was a beautiful day for the wedding of Merial Brandon, Lady Elaine’s eldest daughter, and Alan McGreghere, a handsome young Scottish warrior who’d served with Christian and William in the war for Scottish independence. After the wedding in the church, they’d provided wagons for those wanting to ride out to Glen Braemar Castle for food and dancing.
Merial was a perfect bride with her long straight blonde hair topped with a wreath of red roses and her matching rosy cheeks. Anyone who didn’t know better—and most didn’t—would swear her sire was Sir Christian. His cheeks still bore their apple blush at the ripe age of thirty-four years.
Elaine was playing lady of the house with her usual quiet grace. She sat at the head table, half listening to the gossiping prattle of the village shopkeeper’s wife. She wore a soft smile on her face as she watched Merial dance with her new husband.
Alan gazed at Merial as if he’d won a boon from God himself. And well he might. No man had ever been as harshly vetted by a prospective mother-in-law as poor Alan McGreghere. Elaine looked meek, but she was as fierce as a she-bear in the protection of her own person and that of her girls. Fortunately for Alan, he’d passed the trial with his stones intact.
None of the Brandons had come to the wedding. None of them had ever come to Scotland. For a while Christian had received a letter once a year from his father—a dutiful missive giving news of the family, raging on about his own petty feuds, and offering advice on land management. But in 1304, William and Christian had joined up with the Scottish forces to repel English raiding parties. William was content to think fondly of his English home—until the king dared threaten Scotland. And then, by God’s blood, he was all sword and swearing.
Christian listened to William’s tirades amiably and joined in any battle William cared to fight. Word of their fighting “on the wrong side” apparently drifted slowly south. Christian’s father stopped writing.
“You should dance with your lady,” William said, nudging Christian in the ribs. “You two are the parents of the bride, after all.”
Christian looked melancholy. “I can’t believe Merial is grown and going off to a home of her own. And Juliana’s not far behind. What will we do without them?”
“Carry on,” William said wisely.
Christian sighed. “We’re getting old, Lion.”
William snorted. “Aye, Crow. But you can still shoot a deer by moonlight at fifty paces. You’re not getting out of this dance. Go on.”
“Don’t break any hearts while I’m gone,” Christian muttered with a wink before he went to hold out his hand to Lady Elaine and take her onto the green to dance.
William had broken his share. There were maids in the village who’d done their damnedest to win the handsome English knight, brother to Lady Elaine. But they’d all failed. A rumor began, possibly started by a certain dark-haired archer, that William had tragically lost his true love and had vowed to live with a broken heart. That was one of the Crow’s stratagems that magnificently backfired, because it only made the wenches more eager.
And if there was a rumor that surfaced now and again, like a piece of flotsam on the wild seas, fed perhaps by a few less than subtle glances, that Sir William had never wed because he was hopelessly in love with his sister’s husband—a tragic, romantic, and shocking tale of the sort young maidens love to whisper—well, no one of consequence ever took it seriously.
The Year 1320
The day was cold and the rain heavy the day they buried Lady Elaine. She’d succumbed to a growth in her stomach, weakening day by day over the winter, her suffering relieved only by milk of the poppy. She was fifty years old.
A week before she passed, Christian was sitting by her bedside in her room, holding her hand. William was finally taking a rest on the bed in Christian’s room. For the first time in their marriage, the door between their two chambers stood open.
“I’m content to go. I’ve seen my girls grown and happy and held my grandbabes.”
“We need you,” Christian said, his voice thick.
But she’d been ill for a long time, and by now even he could see it would be a mercy to set her free.
She smiled. “You’ll make do, husband. Take care of Will. He’s getting more stubborn by the year, and he loves you so much.”
“You know I will. ’Til the day I die.”
“I know.” Elaine’s smile grew sad. “It was my salvation, being your wife. I’ll miss you all. Thank you for what you’ve done for me and the girls.”
Christian wanted to say how much they’d added to his life, that he never would have had the experience of being a father if it weren’t for Merial and Juliana. But he found he couldn’t speak. Elaine already knew all of that anyway.
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“This thing,” she said, rubbing the tumor that made her stomach round and hard. “I sometimes think it grew from something evil and wrong that he put in me. Some poison that monster planted all those years ago.”
“Don’t speak so,” Christian urged, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “He’s long dead.”
“But it’s true. It took a long time to grow, thanks to the life I found here. He would have killed me years ago, were it not for you. You saved my life, dear friend.”
Christian kissed her hand. “And you mine.”
Merial, her husband, and their three young children were there for the funeral, and Juliana and her husband and babe. William stood by the graveside, still strong and handsome at forty-nine years of age. Christian threw flowers on Elaine’s coffin as it was lowered into the ground, and William did the same. He showed little emotion during the service, not even when he held each of the girls and let them weep on his chest.
That night, in their bed, Christian did the same for him.
The Year 1333
It was a snowy day. The heavens and the earth were at odds with the meaning of this moment in time. The heavens were a soft, plush gray, and snowflakes fell thick and silently as if to blanket the earth in peace. But on the ground was the imminent threat of blood, the cries of the wounded, and the clash of steel.
William and Christian stood on the front line for Sir Archibald Douglas. The Scots were trying to take Halidon Hill, northwest of Berwick, but the English had the high ground. The Scottish cavalry had already made a rather disastrous charge, getting mired down in the half-frozen, half-boggy ground, and making themselves an easy target for the English archers on the hill.
Christian was itching to shoot back, but they were not close enough yet. The ground troops were still in a line, waiting for the signal.
“’Tis a bonny day for a battle,” William muttered with relish to Christian.
“You always did favor the snow. And bad odds.”
“Boring otherwise.”
Douglas gave the signal, and Christian dropped to his knees with the other archers and let fly a high round of cover. William, and a hundred other swordsmen, charged past.
Christian slung his short bow over his back and drew his sword, following after.
They dodged arrows till they encountered the enemy and then fought near each other. Christian felt good. He felt strong and invincible. These days his joints ached and his knee gave him trouble when jumping too hard off a horse. But today all of that was forgotten in the rush of battle fever. He thrust and dodged, all the while watching for glimpses of William. The Lion could still outfight most men, even though his blond hair was now gray and his beard grizzled. And Christian loved to see him thus, still powerful, still a warrior.
Christian was distracted for several minutes by the sight of Douglas, on his horse, under heavy attack. Christian sheathed his sword and whipped off his bow. He let loose three arrows, killing two of Douglas’s attackers and allowing him to charge on.
He turned in time to see the deed, but too late to stop it.
William was engaged in heavy swordplay with a large English soldier. A second man, coming from behind William, thrust a blade through the space in the armor at his side.
It was over in a second. Strange how the most important things in life were the briefest. Yet the witness of Christian’s eyes wouldn’t let him deceive himself. The blade had gone almost hilt deep and slanted upward.
A breath and a cry later, Christian’s arrows pieced the chest of the man who had stabbed William, the sharp tip going right through his mail. The man William was fighting took an arrow in the face, through the small opening for his eyes.
William staggered and went down on one knee.
By the time Christian reached his side, William was on his back, his breath wheezing and blood on his lips. Christian took one look at his face and choked back tears.
God, no.
William smiled at him, a small smile that was sincere and heartbreakingly beautiful. “We had a good life, Crow.”
“Aye.” Christian’s voice was thick and choked.
“’Tis a good death. You know I would have h-hated to die in our bed.” His voice was rough with pain.
Christian pushed William’s long hair back. Large, soft snowflakes still fell, anointing William’s face. “I know. I never could talk you out of these damned battles, old man.”
“Now where would be the fun in th-that?”
William shuddered and clenched Christian’s hand hard.
“Oh, Will,” Christian murmured, tears running down his face. “Don’t.”
William reached up to stroke Christian’s cheek tenderly, all the promises they’d ever made to each other in his eyes. Then his hand dropped and his gaze went blank.
Christian kissed William’s forehead and closed his eyes. He put his arms around William’s chest, pulling up his heavy, armor-clad body to hold him one last time. The sounds of the battle went on around them, but they meant nothing. When he finally understood that William was gone, he laid the body gently on the ground and stood up.
Christian lay down his bow, quiver, and sword. He unbuckled his breastplate and took it off, let it fall to the ground. His backplate fell behind him. He began to walk through the raging melee like a thoughtful man taking a Sunday stroll.
He felt no fear. As he walked up the hill, ignoring the men locked in combat around him, he held images in his mind—William as he’d looked the first time Christian had laid eyes on him at the tournament, riding by on his way to the archery round. William sitting at the campfire, telling bawdy jokes. William striding toward him in that river, desire in his eyes. William playing with the girls in the snow. William moving on top of him, their eyes locked on each other’s soul.
Christian felt no fear as he walked farther up the hill. Past the main mass of the fighting there were only corpses, already being fed upon by birds. He looked up into the eyes of an English archer at the top of the hill—and smiled.
He took three arrows in the chest. He was still smiling.
As Christian fell a dozen black crows took flight around him. They soared up with loud cries into the falling snow.
THE END
Bonus: Original Epilogue
This is the original, “gentler” epilogue that was included in the first edition of the story published in the Love Has No Boundaries event in the m/m romance group on Goodreads.
The Scottish do not love the English, that is a fact. And while it is not uncommon for the British monarch to give away bits of their sacred homeland to his favorites, a thing that is not in any way illegal, since the king does own quite a lot of Scottish acreage, the Englishmen who move onto such land generally find that they are not welcome with open arms. By half.
And yet. There have been, in the course of time, exceptions. Scots are honest and hard-working, fierce and loyal. And it is in their nature to respect a man, once he has proven that he is the same and not a foppish puppet of King Edward II.
Take, for example, the English who lived at Glen Braemar Castle. Its acres of heavily wooded lands were rich with game. But other than the area right next to the castle itself, no man had ever been persecuted for poaching that land. In fact, Sir Christian Brandon, the lord of the place, was an excellent hunter himself. He took game to the widows in the neighboring village at least once a week, even in the deepest, most snow-covered winter. And he always donated several deer to church festivals.
They say Sir Christian could shoot a deer with his arrows even when they were in full run, even in half light. Come to think on it, perhaps that is why poachers were not a huge problem for Glen Braemar Castle.
Sir Christian’s wife, Lady Elaine, tended to the sick and unfortunate. Her compassion was legendary. Once, when she saw a woman in the village with a battered face, she attacked the woman’s husband so fiercely, it took both Lady Elaine’s husband and her brother, Sir William, to pull her off. It might have ended badly, except the
woman stammered that her husband had not touched her and, well, the husband was too cowardly to fight both Sir Christian and Sir William— which was not especially cowardly, given their reputations.
Not long after that, the woman left her husband and went into service at the castle. No one in the village complained. The brutish husband moved away and was never heard from again.
The family became accepted in the community over time, English or not. It was, after all, a boon to have two such fine knights in the area, and they were not selfish with their skills. Sir William taught the local youth at swordplay and Sir Christian taught archery.
When the English attacked in 1301, Sir Christian Brandon and Sir William Corbet fought alongside Sir William Wallace— and acquitted themselves admirably.
And if even that did not cement their acceptance as Scots, because Scots can be quite hard-headed, then the two bonny lasses who were the daughters of Lady Elaine, both with long golden hair and blue eyes, who were wooed and wed by local Scottish nobleman, certainly did.
The three of them now rest together in the small graveyard of Glen Braemar Castle. Lady Elaine was the first to go, succumbing to a fever in her fifty-sixth year. Her body had never been strong. Sir Christian and Sir William lived another twenty years, Sir William going first at the ripe age of seventy-three and Sir Christian following on only a month later.
And if there had, on occasion, been a rumor that surfaced now and again, like a piece of flotsam on the wild seas, that handsome Sir William had never wed because he was hopelessly in love with his sister’s husband— a tragic, romantic, and shocking tale of the sort young maidens love to whisper— well, no one of consequence had ever taken it very seriously.
May they rest in peace.
Dear Reader
Thank you so much for reading “The Lion and the Crow”. I loved putting myself into this time period and trying to write a story that felt as authentic to me as possible. I hope you enjoyed it too.