Knight's Lady, page 15
part #1 of Tenebrae Series
“Come, let me,” he said in the softest voice imaginable.
She started to dodge, but the voice calmed her and she allowed his nimble fingers to loosen her dress. His hands at her clothing were maddening, as they tugged, pressed, held her at the waist to release ties. She was at once pleased and horrified. Part of her wanted him far away from her body, but part of her wished the hands to slip inside her dress. One rested on her hip, and she very nearly pressed her own palm over it to keep it there. When she didn’t, he moved it and tended to removing the dress. He lifted it over her head and set it aside on the drying rack. Quickly, then, she threw off her slippers and ducked into her bed.
The door thumped closed behind her, and she moved to the foot of the bed, farthest from the door, and leaned against the wooden wall in the darkness. In a welter of confusion, she pressed her face to it and once more began to sob. It was all too hopeless. She was at a loss to understand what was happening to her, and she hated herself for it being so unclear.
What had just happened? What had she been thinking? How could she think of Reubair in this way? Were her hormones betraying her so badly she could no longer tell right from wrong? Did she have some sort of weird chemical imbalance that caused her to lose all sense of who she was and what her place was in the world? She’d been pregnant before, and it had never been like this. This wasn’t pregnancy. This was... something different.
A sick feeling stole into her gut, like poison. In that moment of wanting to surrender, she’d been perfectly willing to betray Alex. In that instant she’d wanted Reubair to rip her dress from her, and the intensity of it terrified her. And, even more frightening, the more she thought about the idea, the less resistance she could muster. Until now there had never been any question but that Alex was the center of her life. But now it was different. She was different, and she didn’t know why. She wished she were home. It would all be so much simpler if she were home, If only Reubair would let her go home.
But, then, how would she get Alex out of the dungeon?
Eleven
Trefor sat at breakfast and studiously avoided Deirbhile’s eyes across the table, speaking only to his second in command, George, who sat to his left. Together they worked out some details of the trip, and Trefor found himself feeling out the knight, testing him to know whether he was steady enough and knowledgeable enough to take the men on to Robert once they’d landed in Ireland. Only then did Trefor realize he’d decided to go in search of his mother, and it was enough of a shock that he told himself he might still go to the wars with the Bruces. Dagda and the Bhrochan idea of his destiny awaited him in the faerie lands, and Trefor was loath to take a chance on proving them right. Even taking Deirbhile’s advice into consideration, it was a difficult decision.
A trumpet sounded from the quay side of the castle, and everyone at the table looked up. Trefor especially, for earlier he’d taken a good look at the harbor and seen the ice was not yet cleared enough for a boat to pass. If someone was coming from seaside, he was curious who it might be and how.
When he found out those things, he would become even more curious to learn the why.
Once the boat had landed, with great commotion and uproarious greeting, there entered the person and entourage of a man about Trefor’s age. A Lowlander, it seemed, with much Norman blood, and Trefor had a creepy feeling who this must be. He was right.
“Geoffrey!” Maclean greeted the visitor with enormous pleasure, open arms, and a hard, open-handed thump on the back. “Macfie, what a pleasure and a surprise!”
Geoffrey. The Geoffrey? Trefor looked to Deirbhile. She sat as still as a rock, staring hard at the visitor, pale and unblinking. Trefor guessed this must be her future husband, whom she’d never before met. Huh.
The newcomer blinked in puzzlement. “I sent word. Did my messenger not arrive?”
“Och, there’s been naught in or out of Tiree for days. The surprise is not so much that I had no word of your approach, but that you arrived at all. What business has brought you to us so early in the season?”
Still appearing a bit puzzled, Macfie replied, “No business, my friend. I simply had an urge to travel and found myself here. Quite by accident, I’ll say, but a happy one, I think.”
Maclean laughed with a joy that was sincere enough to reverberate from the walls. “Indeed! That your boat should toss up onto my shore is the best of luck!”
Luck. Trefor was certain he knew better than that and wondered where Morag was just then. Watching? Laughing, more than likely, wherever she was. He glanced around but didn’t see her. If she was observing his reaction to Geoffrey, it was from a position invisible to himself. His eyes narrowed and his attention returned to the visitor.
“Come!” said Maclean to his new guest. “‘Tis late in the morning, but surely you must be hungry. Come eat with us.” He herded Macfie and his companions to the table, made space for them near the head, and they all sat to await food. Those who had finished eating, including Trefor, settled back in their chairs as well, to hear whatever news of the outside world Macfie might have brought. Big entertainment, after so many days of isolation from the world.
Deirbhile, sitting not far from her father, was barely breathing and appeared cold-cocked. It struck Trefor as rather cruel of Maclean to not let his daughter formally meet her fiancé right away. The shock of his presence, after so many years of anticipation, must be terrible. She must be even more curious than the rest of the castle.
Including Trefor. Like everyone else he assessed Geoffrey at the head table, and unlike everyone else, hated him with an unreasoning gut reaction so violent even he was shocked by it. He tried to shake it off like an unwelcome spell, but it stuck. It was real, and there was no getting rid of it easily. He coughed and his eyes narrowed, and he wondered why he gave a damn about this guy.
Though Trefor wasn’t a connoisseur of handsome men, Macfie’s good looks were obvious. Undeniable, though Trefor found himself wishing he could. Deirbhile’s intended had the smooth grace of the privileged class, the wide shoulders and deep chest of a successful outdoorsman, and a deep, strong voice. Had Geoffrey been an American, he would have been one of those guys who in school had excelled at everything. He would have been the class president, the three-letter jock, the guy who made girls giggle when he walked past. He would have been the sort Trefor and his friends had sneered at, secure in the knowledge whatever they might say would never be heard by him, because they moved in entirely different circles and were quite invisible to such as him. Trefor felt that was true now, as well.
Geoffrey’s masterful, confident voice echoed from the windows of the Great Hall as he spoke to his host. The entire room was treated to their conversation, as if they were putting on a show for the gathered household. Which, it struck Trefor, might be so. A show for Deirbhile, in any case, and she was hanging on to each word. Then Maclean addressed the room at large, and Trefor found himself riveted to hear Maclean tell of his future son-in-law.
Deirbhile’s father said, “Oh, but Geoffrey has proven himself many a time on the hunt. Not nearly the prowess of myself, you understand, but he’s been known to take a boar single-handedly and with not so much as a scratch to himself.”
“A boar? By himself?” Trefor had hunted deer and never boar but had heard how wily and deadly the creatures were. Macfie, to his credit, said nothing himself but sat back in his chair with a polite smile on his face and let Maclean speak for him. Not that Trefor thought it was out of modesty. He knew these Scots well enough to understand that had Maclean not volunteered the story Macfie would have provided it himself. But so long as someone else was willing to sing his praises, Mache benefited from the credibility boost of having the tale told for him.
“Aye,’ said Maclean with more enthusiasm than Trefor had ever seen in a man speaking of a future in-law. “‘Twas on a hunt a number of years ago, on his father’s property on the mainland. Thick forest, it was, and far from any dwelling. He was after a hart, ye see, and ill equipped for an encounter with a vicious boar.” His voice lowered and became filled with the drama of his tale. The rapt attention of his audience seemed to encourage him to lay it on thick. “He came upon it quite accidentally, and it charged him. There he was, naught but a single sword between himself and the raging monster. To run would have been the end of him. Quick as a flash, he drew his weapon and attacked the beast. Charged him in return, and ran him through.” Maclean gestured with an imaginary sword to illustrate. “Caught him straight between shoulder and throat, and the blade found the heart as sure as if God had put it there. Dropped the beast in its tracks, he did. And good thing, for had it lived a second longer it would have gutted young Geoffrey with its enormous tusks.”
Trefor found himself wondering if he could have succeeded in taking a boar like that. He’d never even attempted such a hunt properly equipped, let alone faced the deadly animal with just a sword and his own wits. But he decided it couldn’t be any more difficult than the men he’d killed in battle. Surely people were even more wily than a stupid pig. But rather than compete with this obviously well-loved guest, he said, “That’s awfully impressive.”
Maclean continued, “He wears the tusks around his neck on a thong. I’m told he never takes them off.” He turned to Macfie with a questioning eye, and Geoffrey obliged. He reached into the neck of his tunic and pulled out a thong bearing the famed tusks. Yellowed, and streaked with brown they were mounted with gold caps and tied a few inches apart on the leather. A silver medallion embossed with a cross hung between them, and they framed it like parentheses. Trefor watched to see if Geoffrey would return it to his tunic, and noted that he didn’t. The trophy was left in full view of everyone, and Trefor guessed it would remain there for the duration of Geoffrey’s stay.
Deirbhile said. “We’ll see whether he ever takes them off, next year.”
Maclean let go a hearty laugh. “Aye, and you’re already thinking like a wife!” The room chuckled, even Trefor.
He eyed Deirbhile, whose eyes were bright with amusement. She didn’t seem like a girl being forced to marry. She seemed to look forward to wedding and bedding the Mighty Hunter who so impressed her father. It was in her entire posture, the sparkle in her eyes, the lilt of her voice. If she wasn’t in love, she certainly expected to be soon.
Trefor thought of his own prospects. He was a warrior, a knight, and would make his reputation in battle. In Ireland. No boar for him. His adversary was human. By the time the meal was concluded, he’d again convinced himself that staying with his men was the best way to go.
But then later in the day Deirbhile cornered him on his way to his chamber to oversee the packing of his personal things. Waylaid in the anteroom outside his door, he had no choice but to talk to her.
“You will return to visit on your way back to Eilean Aonarach?”
He shook his head and started to decline, but she continued, “My father likes you well. It would behoove you to show yourself often.” Disappointing as it was that she wasn’t the one who liked him well, he realized she was doing him the favor of alerting him to opportunity. It had nothing to do with her own feelings about him, or even lack of feelings. It was a little like being told, “Let’s just be friends.” A nice thought, but not what he would prefer. He would have liked for her to want him, and an ache came that she didn’t. At least, not enough to do anything about it. She smiled up at him with her sweet dimples, and eyes that seemed to touch him in places more private than he’d once thought, and suddenly he wanted to put a love spell on her. Gently, but enough of a push to make her wait for him. One to keep her from marrying that Geoffrey guy too soon, so Trefor could make his name, return for her, and talk her out of it. If only he’d met her on the return trip instead of headed toward the war, and then he would have been loaded with cash and imbued with the goodwill of the king. Probably then she’d have been all over him like ugly on an ape for all that money and influence. And he would have been glad for it.
“You were right; your father is a great man, and terribly perceptive. Tell him I’ll return as soon as I can.” He was telling her he would hurry back, and didn’t really give a damn what she told her father. If there was any chance of her having ideas about him, then maybe she would hesitate in her wedding. One could dream.
“I wish you excellent luck in finding your mother.”
He started to tell her he was going to join the Bruces but instead said, “I expect to find her very soon.” If she thought he was only going on a quick foray against a single landholder, she might dawdle for him. The war would take much longer, and she certainly would be inclined to forget him then. The urge to place that love spell was maddening. A gift of food or drink to be sent back from Ireland would do it. He could cast it in a small jug of mead or dried fruit. A personal gift from himself tied up with a bright bow to flatter her, and small enough she would eat or drink it all herself.
“Family is everything,” she told him. “You have a duty to your father and your clan to redress this wrong.”
Trefor still didn’t get what the importance was, but something in his gut agreed with her that his mother was more important than anything else. His conscience tugged at him to not follow his men to the war, though he was convinced blowing off his promise to fight for the king would be the worst form of cowardice. He figured his men would think so, too. Not a very good leadership choice.
A love spell, and she would wait for him. He liked the idea. Then he could join the Bruces.
But what of Lindsay? The thought of her even touched by that faerie knight choked him with rage. That the woman was so besotted with Alex was bad enough: the earl, at least, was his father, and Trefor had to acknowledge the necessity there, or he wouldn’t exist. But Reubair had taken her from Eilean Aonarach against her will. Surely it was against her will. The faerie should die for that, and if he forced himself on her, then there should be torture first. Trefor would be pleased to do those honors. Suddenly he wanted to send Robert his regrets and go in search of the Danann lands. He nearly whimpered in his frustration to decide, and simply nodded in reply.
Then Deirbhile stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “God be with you, Sir Trefor. I see a goodness in you uncommon in men. You strive to find the right path among difficult choices. I wish you all the best in what lies before you.” Then she turned, picked up her skirts, and left the room.
He watched her go, and knew he would never cast that spell. It would be wrong, and he couldn’t betray the thing this girl with such a big heart saw in him.
***
The voyage to Ireland took a couple of days, during which Trefor thought and rethought the issues before him. Slowly he came to the conclusion that, regardless of how others felt, regardless of what the current conventional wisdom demanded of him, his own convictions were what mattered, for he was the one who would need to live with them afterward. Deirbhile was right; family was everything. But not for the reasons she thought. Economic issues were less important than personal duty. Honor, of a sort. Trefor was only a year younger than Lindsay, and she had not raised him, but she was still his mother. He owed her his life, and owed it to her to defend hers with it.
In the final analysis, he had no choice but to send his men onward with George and venture into the mists after his mother. Alex’s wife — Alex’s responsibility — but for all Trefor knew old Alasdair an Dubhar might be dead by now. It was up to himself. He landed in Ireland with his mind made up. As the men unloaded horses and weapons from the ships. Trefor took George aside to give him orders.
“I want you to go ahead with the men. You’re to follow the track south and west, and ask in the towns to find Edward Bruce’s army. I’m told this territory here is held by Scotland, and take care you don’t wander into lands held by those loyal to the English king.”
A skeptical light, somewhat puzzled, came into George’s eyes. “Where will you be, sir?”
“I am charged with a duty elsewhere I can’t avoid.”
“More important than that duty you owe the king.”
Trefor raised his chin, for this bordered on impertinence. ‘‘I owe nothing to the king. The tribute is due from my cousin the earl.”
George dipped his head to acknowledge the truth of that but said, "Nevertheless, there was a promise. To the earl, at least.”
‘‘Not that you need an explanation, George, but the new duty is also an errand left to me by my cousin, who is indisposed to accomplish much of anything this summer, as you well know. I would much prefer to please the king, and would have you stress that point to Robert when you speak to him, but my greater obligation is to the countess. I will rejoin you and the Scottish forces as soon as I am able. Tell Robert that, as well,”
“Aye, sir.”
“Take good care of my cousin’s men, and you’ll be well rewarded.”
George nodded, for what Trefor said was a given. “God be with you, sir,”
“And also with you.” Trefor watched George return to the unloading, then went to gather his horse and pack mule. Robert would understand his absence. Especially since he would still have nearly all his fifty men.
There was no doubt Trefor would be able to find the faerie lands in spite of the various spells and whammies that would necessarily have been used to hide them. Powerful ones, to have been effective against human incursion for so long, but with vulnerabilities because the wee folk themselves needed to penetrate them. And he was one of those folk, not so wee but trained in the art. Piece of cake.
Trefor left the quay and the small town surrounding it, and rode to a nearby wood to seek a good thickness of trees. Not a geographical center, nor even a hiding place, but a spiritual gathering where the energy would be strong. He found it on a bit of high ground, away from running water and surrounded by thickets of gorse. Here among the closely growing oak and birch the underbrush was thin, and he found a space at the top of the low rise where there was only thin grass and a bed of decaying leaves. He dismounted, hobbled his horses, and found an elder tree. Good. Some deadfall sticks from beneath it would be just right for what he was about to do. He climbed the rise, then paused to listen.
