Knight's Lady, page 18
part #1 of Tenebrae Series
“But it manifests more in you. You have the mark, and the sense. You have a power I don’t.”
He was a throwback, in other words. She didn’t say that, but this was more openness from her than he’d ever had, and he eagerly pursued the subject. “I didn’t ask for it.” The words came in a gush he couldn’t control. “I never wanted it, and the Bhrochan held me prisoner to teach it to me.” He skated right up next to the one subject he wanted to broach with her but never had the opportunity to before. “In fact, my whole life has been one big Bhrochan joke.”
Her tone sharpened with irritation. “Which, of course, is why you’ve attached yourself to that Bhrochan witch, Morag.”
“She’s not the issue.”
“She is if you’re serious about her.”
He laughed, a dry, angry chuckle. “What are you, my mother?”
Lindsay’s face fell with shock. It was a cruel thing for him to have said, but he couldn’t feel too sorry for it. She’d abrogated all parental responsibility by her rejection of him when they’d met, and had no business telling him how to run his life. Morag, however he felt about her, was not a subject for Lindsay, or anyone else, to discuss with him.
Lindsay fell silent, and her face flushed all the way down her neck and chest. Her lips pressed together, and her eyes glistened with tears. It crossed his mind he might have taken it a little easier, but there was nothing for it now. He returned his attention to the sharpening of his sword and ran the whetting stone along it in hard, quick strokes. When his mother rose to leave the room, he didn’t look up, and simply let her go.
***
Lindsay left Trefor’s chamber and immediately outside the door burst into silent sobs. Her hand over her mouth, she hurried to the stairwell and went up one flight to find an empty room where she could tuck herself into a dark corner next to its hearth and recover herself.
Her baby was gone forever, and Trefor wasn’t her son. Not in the ways that were important. She couldn’t think of him as the child she’d given birth to a year ago. In no way but genetically did she have anything to do with him, and apparently he hated her for it. As hard as she struggled to not let that make a difference to her, it somehow did. And as long and hard as she puzzled over how it mattered, she couldn’t understand why, or even in what way, it did.
Furthermore, she now had to let him think she’d betrayed Alex. She couldn’t leave without her husband, but neither could she give him away to someone she couldn’t trust. Trefor hated his parents for letting the Bhrochan take him, and Alex would die for that hate if Trefor found him. Now she’d given Trefor reason to think there was something funny going on between herself and Reubair. She dug her fingernails into her palms and cursed herself for an idiot. She never should have gone to Trefor’s room.
There was a footfall on the stairwell, and she looked up to find Reubair in the doorway. Once more she pulled herself together, to face him, but there was no hiding she’d been crying.
“What is the matter? Why do you weep?” He sounded shocked to find her in tears.
She straightened and wiped her eyes on the too-long sleeve of her borrowed tunic. “I’m being held prisoner. Surely that’s enough to justify a bad mood.”
He thought about that a moment, and she wondered how it was he had to think about it. It occurred to her that he was as clueless about feelings as many boyfriends she’d had in the past. Men, apparently, were men whether they had pointed ears or round. He said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
That made her blink. How else did he think she would feel? But his voice was soft. He seemed to mean it, sorry to have saddened her. He stepped toward her, and the red firelight threw stark shadows on his face. The light in his eyes suggested concern for her, and she wanted to believe in it. Her heart softened and grasped at the comfort of it. He surely meant what he said, and didn’t want her to feel bad. A glimmer of hope kindled in her heart.
“Then let me go.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you would leave, and I couldn’t bear it.”
“You don’t love me; don’t bother trying to make me think you do.”
“Never presume to know what I might be thinking or feeling. I’m not the man you seem to believe me.” His face leaned toward hers, and she was torn between retreat and standing her ground.
She kept perfectly still. “Not a man at all, I’d say.”
“That is only an insult because I care what you think.”
She couldn’t help but smile at that.
He continued, his voice a whisper, “I would that you could accept me as your husband. Divorce Cruachan and marry me freely.”
“That would be far more convenient for you than having to chase him down and kill him, yes?”
A shadow crossed his eyes, but it disappeared as quickly. “True enough. But not much to the point. I would have a happy wife if at all possible.”
“Easier to keep under control.”
“More gentle on my spirit. I am a Christian, after all, and have a care for my immortal soul.”
“Not to mention your immortal body.”
“Long-lived, not immortal. I know what it is to look down the corridor of centuries. That’s a glimpse of eternity, and I fear spending my unending afterlife in hell. I have no desire to transgress against you. It’s desperation only that makes me take extreme measures to have you and keep you. Desperation born of strong feeling.”
The idea that An Reubair could love anyone, or fear anything that didn’t have a sword to his throat, was a stretch for Lindsay to accept. It didn’t seem possible. But looking at him now, he seemed sincere. He gazed straight into her eyes. She held them there for a moment, then realized what she was doing and looked away. Her pulse thudded in her ears and she wanted to flee. But she didn’t. She stood there, staring into the fire without seeing it, and wishing he would either leave or...
God help her, she wished he might kiss her.
Breath left her, and she turned away to struggle to regain it. Her back to him, facing into the dark corner, she gathered her wits. Deep breaths. Several deep, cleansing breaths helped clear her head, and she was able to see this for what it was: a weak moment of identifying with her captor. Stockholm syndrome. She needed to rise above this urge for peace between herself and Reubair, to fight him and his seduction. A surge of strength buttressed her heart. Surely it would be simpler now that she knew what was happening to her, and that thought brought courage.
She turned toward him again, but when she looked up at his face her heart warmed once more. No matter what she told herself, the sight of him brought a pleasure she couldn’t reject, and she hated it. Hated herself for her weakness. A trembling set up in her, and she couldn’t even look away from him.
His voice went soft. “Don’t fight it.”
Alarm struck. He knew. He could see the struggle in her. But she denied and fought as hard as she could. “Fight what?”
“You know what. I can see it in your eyes.”
“You know nothing about me. You think I’m weak. You think all it takes is food, clothing, and a winning smile to make me betray the man I vowed to love forever.”
Reubair chuckled. “No, I don’t think that at all. Above all things, that is one thing I am certain is not true. Your strength of will is all the more reason to have you for my wife and the mother of my heir.”
“My strength of will is the one thing that will keep me from being your wife.”
“Not if I find your husband and deal with him.”
“More likely he’ll deal with you.”
“And such is life if that happens. I deem the prize worth the risk.”
“Take care you don’t underestimate the risk.”
“Indeed, that would be as foolish as to overvalue the prize.” She could see he was becoming irritated by this conversation, for an edge had come into his voice. But he touched his fingers to her chin, and she resisted the urge to lean into them. His skin against hers was electrifying and sent a thrill to her toes. Her eyes shut against it, and her lips pressed together. Something was terribly wrong with her. Thoughts of Alex rose to mind, but burst like huge, splattering soap bubbles made by a child’s toy. Other thoughts of Reubair rose in their place. The only thing she could think of to do was flee the room, and she did so.
But there was nowhere to go. The Great Hall would be thronged with knights at their midday meal, and the streets of the town would be busy with gawking faeries. The only place to go was the bedchamber at the top of the tower, and that was where her unthinking feet took her. She found herself in the middle of the room, turning, looking for a place to be. To hide from him, though she knew there was no place in the entire castle safe from him. She pulled off the boots she wore and tucked herself into the small cabinet bed. The door thudded shut behind her, and she sat in the darkness with her legs curled beneath her, in hopes he would think she’d suddenly decided to take a nap.
The door to the bedchamber squeaked open, then shut with a boom of heavy wood. Then silence. He’d followed her. Her eyes shut, as if he would know it and think she was asleep. There was no sound of movement in the room outside the bed, but only a sigh.
“Sir Lindsay, am I to think this an invitation?”
Her eyes flew open in alarm. “Stay away from me.”
There was a protracted silence as he thought that over, then he said. “You would find me a most satisfying lover, I promise.”
Her imagination betrayed her and brought an image of just how satisfying he might be. It was at once appalling and exciting, like watching a train wreck, and made her gasp. But she said, “I’d rather be violated by a broomstick.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I expect you’d be happy to arrange it.”
The silence then was very long, and was ended by the creak and thud of the chamber door. Alone finally, Lindsay breathed easily again. Tears rose to her eyes, and she sobbed quietly in the dark refuge of her bed.
Thirteen
Trefor stretched out on the bed for a nap once he’d finished eating and had cleaned his weapons and armor. He mulled the idea of kidnapping Lindsay and hauling her back to Eilean Aonarach to present her to Alex like a prize, but in the end he deemed it not worth the effort of keeping her under control by himself during the trip. Even if she wanted to return to Alex, which Trefor wasn’t certain she did, something was keeping her here, and until he knew what it was there would be no handling her. He would have to heed her wishes and bide his time until she might tell him what was up.
In midafternoon a trump sounded from the castle gate that roused him from a slight doze. Sounding distant from the windowless room, it tickled his consciousness and he sat up, ears perked. Someone else had just arrived at Castle Finias. Someone important, by the sound of the trumpet and the scurrying of feet outside his door. Trefor pulled himself together, rose from the bed to restore his weapons to his belts, then went to see who it might be.
Downstairs in the bailey, a crowd was gathering. Faeries and a few humans milled about, excited by this development, and they all seemed to know what was going on. Trefor stood near a cluster of Reubair’s knights, one of whom carried the laird’s banner. Except for his time with the Bhrochan, he’d never seen so many faeries in one place, and these were not the little guys. Full-blooded Bhrochan were fairly disgusting creatures: psychotic, stunted of height and limb, and they dressed in rags. Alex called them leprechauns, and Trefor thought it fitting, though the Bhrochan themselves had no idea what that meant.
These faeries here were not leprechauns, nor were they delicate, twinkling Tinkerbells flitting about with wings. They were Danann, and of the same stature as humans. Nearly indistinguishable from humans if they chose to be. Trefor couldn’t help staring. Though he had a Danann ancestor several generations back, he’d never seen a living, full-blooded one up close until entering this castle today, where there seemed to be thousands.
He could hear the commotion of approaching horses coming from the gate, and the people around him strained to see. A little apprentice boy, barefoot and dusted with flour from the kitchen, jumped up and down to see over the adults. But, unable to catch a glimpse over the heads of his elders, he scrambled atop a rain barrel and clung like a monkey to the pipe emptying into it. His eyes went wide at what he saw, and Trefor’s curiosity sharpened. Particularly when he heard the murmur run through the crowd that it was the faerie king on his way. The Dagda. It was too late to avoid him now, and a sudden pique of interest made Trefor wonder whether he’d truly wanted to avoid him at all.
The procession came around a corner into sight. Dagda had arrived. Trefor’s heart leapt to his throat, and he couldn’t help straining to see. He rose onto his toes until he realized what he was doing and made himself stand flat-footed.
The mounted vanguard was quite colorful. They filled the street four across and eight deep, their mounts all black, shiny, and perfectly matched. They bore banners that flapped in the breeze. These were faerie knights, agleam with highly polished armor and weapons glinting with silver and gold. The riders surveyed the crowd as they rode, and appeared somewhat smug, though Trefor thought they may have been right to be a bit full of themselves. They were magnificent. The sumptuous dress and equipment showed them as high-ranking knights, which brought Trefor to wondering how the Danann hierarchy was structured. While the Bhrochan were pretty much a disorganized zoo, with one king and everyone else a scramble of undistinguished creatures sleeping together or fighting each other willy-nilly, he suspected the Danann were a wee bit more civilized. More civilized, perhaps, than humans.
A great cheering arose, and necks craned to see. Trefor as well, for he couldn’t resist having a look at the guy who was supposed to be his destiny.
The Dagda turned the corner with a small cluster of companions, and a great cheer rose from the gathered townsfolk. Hats flew into the air. Everyone jockeyed for a good look. Astride an enormous white charger, the stallion prancing and barely held by his rider, Dagda nevertheless held the steed without visible effort. Straight and proud in the saddle, the faerie king acknowledged the support with nods and a wide, white smile. A circlet of gold on his head, in the form of leaves that were so finely crafted and naturally shaped as to look real, shone unnaturally. A halo seemed to surround him, around his flowing white and gold surcoat and belts, a hauberk of bright silver mail, and boots and gloves of leather dyed white. Pristine white, untouched by even a thought of worldly dirt. Magical white, aglow with the power the king boasted to the world. And it was, indeed, impressive.
As the king approached, Trefor spotted the faerie ears beneath the intricate, impossible crown. They curved as elaborately, and gracefully, as the golden leaves, their points delicate and refined. Aristocratic. Trefor touched his own ears, the ones he’d been so ashamed of as a boy, and something shifted in his gut. Like a knot of pain coming loose. The sight of the Dagda on that magnificent stallion, riding to the cheers of hundreds of people, made him want to cheer, too. Trefor watched the king pass and knew he’d been wrong his whole life. He wasn’t what humans had always called him. Freak. Faerie. Fey. Especially, he wasn’t “wee.” He was Danann.
The procession came to a halt in front of the keep, and Dagda dismounted. Then he turned with his hand out to those accompanying him, and it was then Trefor saw clearly the woman riding with the king. His mouth went agape with shock, opened as if to cry out in dismay.
It was Morag.
Resplendent in dove gray trimmed with ermine, her mass of curly red hair flowed and bounced around her face. Trefor’s heart dumped to his gut, and he could barely breathe. She was smiling into the face of the king, who took her hand as her escort and guided her toward the entrance to the keep. Trefor watched her go with him and felt as if he’d just been ripped in half. He’d never seen that sort of smile on her for himself. He wasn’t a king.
For all his telling himself he wasn’t in love with her and wasn’t committed, this cut to his core. For a minute or so he leaned against the post behind him, not trusting his legs to hold himself up. Morag and Dagda. What was up her sleeve that she had pushed him to his “destiny” with the king? This other guy she was involved with. Plainly she was with Dagda. For how long? More than the week since he’d last seen her? Longer, perhaps, than he’d even known her? Was that where she’d been during the six months he’d been kept occupied by the Bhrochan? Trefor’s mind turned and chewed on the questions that arose as he recovered his composure. Did Dagda know Morag was Bhrochan? Or was she passing as human? Did he know she was banging other men? The Bhrochan were far more casual about sex than humans, even humans of his own era, and now Trefor wondered how the Danann approached it. Did Dagda expect fidelity from Morag? Did he care what she did with other men?
Indeed, should Trefor himself care? He decided it was best he didn’t, but also knew he was a long way from feeling nothing. His stomach soured, and he longed for a good old twenty-first-century antacid to settle it.
He waited amid the well-wishers and the rest of the entourage as they dispersed. Thinking hard, and rage burning his gut, he could barely see to know which way to go. The street slowly cleared until the crowd was reduced to the normal flow of traffic passing back and forth and into and out of the keep. Finally the crowd and his mind had both cleared enough for him to see, and he made his way into the keep and to his room.
It was nearly time for supper. He stripped to his linens and went to the wash stand to clean up. The water in the ewer was cold, but it didn’t have anything floating in it, which was an improvement over most of the wash water he’d seen since coming to this century. One of the reasons Mary at Eilean Aonarach didn’t like him very well was that he complained when there were bits of leaves or moss in his washbowl. He wasn’t much pleased with that woman, either. She was happy enough to heat water for the earl’s bath; Trefor didn’t get why she couldn’t make sure his own water was at least clean.
