Knight's Lady, page 3
part #1 of Tenebrae Series
Alex’s nose wrinkled. Fertilizer. He knew farmers used human waste to fertilize their fields, but it had never occurred to him they might fight over it, or consider it stealing to take it. “I’ll have to arrange with Donnchadh for equitable distribution of the stuff on cleaning days.”
“And charge them for it.”
“No. No charge.”
“They’ll nae respect you for that. Nor themselves, and you should know that your people are too prideful to take alms.”
Alex considered that for a moment, but shook his head. He disliked the idea of charging people to cart away the shit from his toilets, no matter how valuable it seemed to them. “No. It’ll be a boon. A favor for my beloved vassals who have proven their loyalty to me this past year, against the MacDonalds of Cruachan and the traitorous Bretons before that.”
Patrick nodded, seeing his point and agreeing with him. “A wise laird you are, and a kind one for your concern over the spiritual lives of your inferiors, for though you’ve made it plain you don’t value the dung, they nevertheless understand their actions as stealing and suffer their souls to the sin.”
“Castle crap too tempting for them?”
“Would you tether a sheep in the meadow outside the castle curtain, leave it to the elements, and not expect someone to come along and take it home? Or gold? Would you drop a bag of gold in the track that runs through the village and not expect someone to pick it up?”
“Most would leave it, or bring it here, knowing it was mine.” And also knowing that anyone who saw a person with such a large amount of cash would blab it around in a heartbeat. Privacy couldn’t exist on an island inhabited by only a few hundred people.
“But there would be some to take it. And fight over it.”
“Is that my responsibility?”
“Aye, it is, for you are their leader. Their example. They put their trust in you.”
Alex grunted. He’d once known that, and wondered why he’d forgotten it. “Point taken, Father.”
After a strung-out silence underscored by the chink and clink of the workmen carving rock, the priest said, “Would there be news of progress in Ireland?”
For a moment Alex was puzzled as to what progress he meant, but then he remembered. “Robert, you mean,”
“Aye. Has he won the hearts and minds of those Irish chiefs whose allegiances are to Edward II?”
“I’ve not heard since July.” Neither had Alex been paying much attention even then. His mind had been on Lindsay at the time, and he’d been in the Borderlands, away from Robert’s campaign in Ireland, in any case. It occurred to Alex that he knew very little about what was going on with Robert in Ireland. Lindsay, whose grasp of history was stronger than his, had told him Robert’s brother would die there soon, and the campaign would ultimately fail, but she remembered none of the details of that failure.
“Do you think he’ll succeed?”
Alex looked over at the young priest who lounged in his chair and who seemed uncaring. The demeanor was a lie. Patrick was one of the most caring men Alex knew.
In reply, Alex only shrugged and said, ‘I’ll find out if and when His Majesty gives me a summons to join the fight.” He didn’t look forward to being part of the failure in Ireland, but knew he needed to join Robert or his brother Edward Bruce in order to protect his standing as a royal vassal. His yearly duty to his liege was forty days of military service — a pretty good deal in return for the lordship of two islands, the wealth that came with them, and the privilege of membership in parliament. By comparison, it made the pay he used to draw from the U.S. Navy for signing over his life look like slavery.
There was also that too much time away from the king might cause Alex to be forgotten. Or worse, undermined by a rival. He needed to keep his toe in the door.
***
Lindsay stood atop the roof of the Great Hall, staring out to sea. It was a calm day, though a bit chilly, and visibility was good. The spring sunshine warmed her face though she huddled into her cloak against the breeze, and she considered her future. Each month brought a new question of whether or not she would have another child, and each month she wondered what she hoped for. Never mind choosing between career and family; there would be no real career for her, only the privilege of fighting beside her husband if the occasion arose.
Was it worth the medical risk? She’d talked Alex into making Nemed return them to the future for the safety of their baby, but it had been a brief stay in the twenty-first century. Trefor had been stolen from her only days after his birth.
Then there was the emotional risk. She’d given herself over to him, only to have that part of her ripped away by those evil faeries. He’d been raised in America, taught by hired help, and named by strangers. She hadn’t even been able to name her own son. Now he was an adult and beyond her reach. She doubted the value of trying again, for the vulnerability was too much to bear.
A dot appeared on the horizon, and her gaze went to it. A boat. At first it was too distant to see much, but as it drew closer she saw a hint of gold in the sail. Red and gold, the colors of the king’s arms. Her pulse skipped and picked up pace. A king’s boat. Only one, so it wouldn’t be the king himself. Just a messenger. She turned to alert the watch, but he’d already seen the sail and raised the trumpet to his mouth to sound the approach. Lindsay went back to watching the ship sail in.
Momentarily there was a footfall behind her, and Alex passed her on his way to the crenellated battlement to look out across the water. She watched him there, standing nearly at attention, intent on the king’s messenger. The breeze picked up locks of his hair and blew them around his forehead. He sighed. “I wanted to finish the work on the bathhouse before they summoned me.”
“We won’t need it until we return.”
He turned and threw her a look. “We?”
“You know I’m going with you.”
Alex grunted and returned his attention to the boat out at sea. Not that he needed to watch the slow progress of the vessel, but she guessed he simply didn’t want to have to stare her down. He could protest all he wanted, but he couldn’t keep her from going with him.
“Look at it this way. You’ll be more likely to get an heir if we’re not separated. For instance, we both know Robert won’t have a son until just before his death, because his queen has been locked away in England.”
“I should lock you away.”
“Fat lot of good that would do.”
“If I thought I could keep you here—”
“You can’t. There are some things I feel vulnerable over, and being cut down by a sword is just not one of them.” He was ignoring her, so she added, “Having another child is.” He turned to look at her, listening now, and she elaborated. “You would have me give you children, but you don’t realize how truly frightening that is to me. It’s like opening a wound that will never, ever close. Having met Trefor at his age, I know that no matter how old he gets there will always be that terror. I can’t imagine what it might be like for a child I actually raised myself.”
“I’d like to imagine it. I want to experience it.”
“You want an heir.”
He shrugged and nodded. “That, too. Is there a reason I shouldn’t? We have a legacy to pass—”
“You have a legacy. What I have is a uterus.”
“Stop that!”
She pressed her lips together, then said, “I know you can’t help it. It’s not your fault the system is what it is. It is, nevertheless, true.”
“Yeah. Nothing we can do about it.” He turned his attention back to the approaching messenger. “You are coming with me. I know I can’t talk you out of that.”
“And we’ll try to have another child. I can’t talk you out of that.”
He sighed and shook his head.
She went to him and took his hand. It was a strong, large hand, callused by sword, reins, and pen. A knight’s hand. A nobleman’s. The palm was hard and dry, the fingers thick and knuckles wide. She wrapped it around her own hand, and his squeezed hers.
Alex leaned down to kiss Lindsay lightly on the mouth as reconciliation. They disagreed often, but he loved her anyway and only wished she could be happy. That he could make her happy. Riding around killing people wasn’t going to do it. He knew, because it wasn’t all that fulfilling for him, either. He gazed at the oncoming ship and wondered whether it might carry the king. It was a thrilling thought.
The thrill passed, however, when he saw for a certainty there was only one ship, and that a small one. Even if Robert were inclined to come to this backwater unannounced, he would certainly not have come with so small an entourage. There was a twinge of disappointment as Alex realized it must only be a messenger. It seemed Robert was eager to have Alex’s forty days’ service for the year, accompanied by fifty men. Alex drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Rats.
***
Alex went to clean up and change his clothes before the ship would land. This visitor might be only a messenger, but he was the king’s messenger and would be a man of rank. Probably better rank than Alex, and he needed to be presentable. Unfortunately there was nothing to be done about the Great Hall; it was a mess and would stay that way for a while. He could receive in the smaller meeting room downstairs.
With his half-grown puppies at his heel by the hearth in the meeting room some called a “presence chamber,” he greeted his visitor with proper protocol. John Rothbury of Morpeth, an earl from the Lowlands Alex knew only by reputation. After formalities, they sat casually at a corner of the large table downstairs to talk, two of Morpeth’s squires hovering behind him, alert for a hint of whatever he might need. Alex had only his page, eight-year-old Gregor, who stood ready near the stairs.
Lindsay strode into the room from the laird’s quarters, dressed as the lady of the household and looking like a million bucks. Literally. She wore one of her best gowns and sported the necklace Alex had given her when they’d married. Rubies set in gold, it was a treasure he’d saved out from booty awarded to him after one of his first raids, though he could ill afford it. In modern times it might be worth several million dollars, and in the current economy it would have supported his household for more than a year. Lindsay wore it to impress Morpeth, and Alex could see it was having the desired effect. Morpeth watched her cross the room with a basket of sewing tucked in the crook of one arm.
She sat near the hearth in a small but comfortable chair. Near enough to the table to hear everything, but far enough not to be obtrusive, and angled away from the table. It was an overstuffed upholstered chair made especially for her, with a fluffy, down-stuffed seat cushion that had the entire island in awe of luxury, and it was where she sat whenever there was something she needed to overhear without intruding. “Don’t mind me,” she said softly, “I have some embroidery I’d like to finish, and I enjoy the sound of men’s voices.” Then she began picking at the work in her hands and made as if she weren’t listening, but Alex knew better. He’d heard her joke once that she enjoyed the sound of men’s voices because it lulled her to sleep, but he knew she was hanging on every word. He gave her a warning glance. Morpeth returned his attention to Alex and ignored her entirely.
Over a light repast of green cheese, fresh bread, and smoked fish, Alex received his formal orders from Robert, in writing on parchment folded into a leather wallet. No surprises there; the obligation was ongoing and Alex was well aware of the strings attached to his title. Then conversation continued in a social vein as the king’s representative felt out the newest member of the peerage. Alex knew he was being examined. Though his visitor put on a casual and friendly air meant to disarm, there was no mistaking the pointed questions that attempted to shine light into areas of Alex’s life he usually didn’t care to discuss. Especially his past, a subject that put him at a disadvantage because even his cover story had him a foreigner. Everyone knew he wasn’t native to Scotland, but the more he talked the more he risked tangling himself in a web of lies. But to avoid answering questions might invite distrust, so he spoke casually of his past as if it had happened in Hungary and he’d been raised by his mother’s cousin in lieu of his ostensible Scottish father, the recently deceased MacNeil of Barra. All lies. But none of it was Alex’s invention. The story was made up of conclusions assumed by Robert, and who was Alex to gainsay the king? He invented as little as possible and stuck to what had already been said.
Morpeth seemed well pleased with the new peer, but one could never tell for certain what went on in the mind of a courtier. Hooded eyes and a constant gentleman’s smile hid well a man’s true feelings, and Alex was certain he wasn’t the only accomplished liar in the room. He did his best to bring the subject around to his reputation as a Scot, made at the battle of Bannockburn since his arrival in this century, where what he told was mostly truthful. He emphasized his relationships with James Douglas, Earl of Douglas. and Hector MacNeil, Laird of Barra. He made an especially big deal over the story of how he’d been knighted and given his nickname of “An Dubhar” by Robert himself. That the name was Gaelic and meant “Shadow of Death” seemed to impress the visitor, who said Alex seemed more Scottish than foreign, which Alex knew was a hard-won compliment.
Once the grilling was done, Alex invited his guest to spend the night in his own quarters. The earl accepted it as due, which it was, for the lord’s chambers were the only accommodations in the keep that came even close to being adequate for the visitor and his servants. After as elaborate a supper as the castle could produce this early in the year, Alex and Lindsay would spend the night in the windowless room off the meeting room below the Great Hall.
***
Immediately, word of the summons to Ireland was sent by crier to the village near the castle, and to the farms across the island, and from there by fishing boat it would go to Cruachan the next day. Vassals or their sons would be needed to fill in the ranks of men required of their laird by the king. Alex knew it would take no effort to convince the men to fight; there were plenty of young men among the MacNeils, MacConnells, and few MacDonalds under his authority who had missed the Breton uprising and the Cruachan fracas, and would leap at the chance to sail off to Ireland and throw themselves upon a worthy enemy, to test themselves in battle.
But, eager as the men were to fight, the chance came sooner than anyone thought. Or even wished for.
That very evening at dusk, while the island elite sat at table in the Great Hall and servants gathered here and there about the castle for their dinner, a trumpet sounded at the inland curtain wall. Alex and Lindsay, seated at the high table with their wealthy, highborn, and well-connected guest, looked up, but paid little attention otherwise. Nobody thought it amiss, for it was probably just someone from the village wanting an audience with their laird. Everyone in the Great Hall continued eating and anticipated the approach of a MacConnell or MacNeil. More than likely it was Donnchadh MacConnell with yet another complaint from the villagers, and Alex braced himself for an argument with his most contentious vassal. Donnchadh was a good, loyal man, but he could sometimes be a pain in the ass if he wanted something Alex couldn’t give.
All heads came up at a second trumpet, this time of warning and accompanied by a mass war cry that sounded close enough to be inside the bailey. Alex’s next thought was another rising, possibly of the Cruachan MacDonalds, but this cry was unfamiliar. The voices weren’t MacDonalds of any stripe. Trefor? The horror of that sent a shiver through Alex as he leapt to his feet and shouted to Gregor for his sword. The hollering came nearer, definitely inside the bailey below, and alarm turned to outrage.
Not enough time to don his armor; he received his weapons and shield and ran from the Hall into the bailey. His guest was forgotten as he looked down the hill toward the inland curtain.
There, off down the wending slope of the bailey, he found a mass of knights swarming through the entry, beneath a fully raised gate. Mounted and armed, they rode up the winding path between the castle outbuildings as if in slow motion, hacking and slashing all who came to meet them.
“Who are those guys?” They didn’t appear to be anyone he’d seen before, nor even heard of. Their armor was odd, even more strange than the full suits that would come from the Continent later in the century. Their chain mail gleamed with a brightness that suggested it was not only made of silver but had been polished moments before the attack, both of which were impossible for ordinary knights. Their horses also shone with health and hard polishing, with fresh, brightly colored silken bards flapping and flowing with each stride and leap up the stone path.
At the top of the bailey slope, Alex’s gathered men-at-arms filed at a run from the Great Hall with their swords raised. Rothbury as well, he and his entourage ready to fight in self-defense. Lindsay ran past Alex and into the bailey, her sword also in hand, her other fist grappling with her skirts, and death in her eye. Alex quit wondering who these guys were, gave a great roar, raised his weapon, and joined the fray.
On foot Alex and his men were at a disadvantage, except when they could use obstacles to protect themselves. The close quarters made it difficult to dodge the attackers, and so the horses became targets. As quickly as he could make his sword move, Alex hamstrung two mounts. Then he fell upon one of the riders, who defended with a brightly flashing blade. Rage surged in Alex, the more because he was fighting inside his home. This breach was unthinkable. He battered with his shield, and his opponent fell backward down the slope. Alex finished him off with a kick to the head and his sword point through the throat. Then he turned in search of another invader while the dying man choked on his own blood.
He found another opponent, hauled back his sword to strike, and caught a glimpse of pointed ear. Trefor? Alex held his attack to know, and found himself facing a faerie, but not Trefor. Stunned and vulnerable, Alex dodged and parried, knocked to the side by his opponent. One quick glance around, and he saw all the enemy knights were faeries. What the hell? Danann. They were all Tuatha Dé Danann.
