The Angel Knight, page 18
Christian smiled. “And if I were an ant, I would summon my armies to swarm and bite the invader who tramples our hill.”
“Just so,” Dominy said. “God gives no man, even the king, the rights that King Edward takes for himself.”
“Do not let the English hear you speak so,” Christian murmured. “They regard such talk as traitorous. And they are cruel to traitors.”
“If I were a man I would fight against such unfairness, no matter where I had signed my oath years before,” Dominy said firmly.
Christian was silent for a moment, sidestepping a pile of stone rubble as she and Dominy walked toward the great tower. “Did you know that I signed an oath of fealty to King Edward years ago, in order to keep Kilglassie?”
Dominy stared. “Did ye?”
“Aye, and I broke that oath when I helped Robert Bruce, and the English punished me for it. But I would break it again in a moment.” She lifted her chin defiantly.
Dominy nodded. “A man’s oath—and a woman’s—belongs where their heart is, my lady. Their fealty is best placed where they love the land, and respect the king that leads them.”
Christian smiled at her friend. “You sound like a rebel, Dominy,” she teased. But her glance was serious as she looked up at the soaring stone walls of Kilglassie, shining in the cold light of the morning sun. She knew without a doubt where the loyalty of her own heart resided.
She was silent as they crossed the yard toward the tower, listening to the hammering and shouting as the workers readied Kilglassie to house more English troops. She wondered when Gavin would bring those men here. Thinking of the Sasunnach knight who was now her husband, she recalled, with a flush of heat to her cheeks, his compelling touches, his tender kisses, his deep kindness toward her. She had told him, not long ago, that she wished he was other than who he was.
If he had indeed been the brave Scots knight she had once thought him to be, then the loyalty of his heart might lay closer to her own. As it was—she sighed and pulled open the narrow door in the base of the tower—she doubted that true happiness could exist between them.
That thought brought with it a deep swirl of regret.
The noise was even louder in the tower, a clamor of a different sort. A steady, heavy hammering like bursts of thunder came from overhead, and a deep, uneven clanging seemed to resound beneath their feet, as if they were caught inside a great bell.
Christian and Dominy entered the ground floor bakery chamber. Inside, the room was littered with ladders, loose stones, tools and buckets, and crowded with workmen who clambered up and down the high ladders that leaned against the walls, providing access to the ceiling. Stacks of freshly cut pine and oak gave off a pleasant, pungent odor. A small window had been enlarged to let in more light, and a chilly blast of outside air cut through the opening.
The loudest hammering came from overhead, where workmen repaired the floors of the great hall and the uppermost level of the tower. The clanging underfoot emanated from the open well hole situated in the floor, to one side of the chamber.
Near the fireplace, Michaelmas and the two young sons of Fergus Macnab sat watching a mason restore the cracked stones in one wall of the hearth. Michaelmas’s blond head gleamed beside Patrick’s glossy red head, and Robbie’s tangled brown curls. They glanced up as Christian and Dominy entered.
“Where’s Will? We want to hunt the treasure!” Robbie said.
“We hae something fine to show him!” Patrick said. “There’s a wee door beside the hearthplace!”
“He knows about that,” Dominy said. “It is a storage place.”
“But the gold might be there, hidden from the greedy Sasunnach king!” Patrick said. He and Robbie ran out of the kitchen, shouting for Will.
“Moira! Good morning!” Christian called over the din.
Bending to stir the contents of a kettle suspended over a small fire, Moira turned around and straightened. A tall woman, with a handsome, gaunt face and a fat dark braid, she grinned widely. “Tch, Christian,” she said. “God’s greetings to you. Look! The ceiling is nearly done here, and above that, the carpenters are finishing the upper floors. And below us, your husband and mine have decided to clear the well.”
Christian and Dominy hurried over toward the well hole to peer together into its depths. Inside the well, lit by a torch stuck in a crevice in the stone wall, Christian saw the gleam of tawny golden hair and strongly muscled shoulders above the water. Gavin glanced up, his face darkened with soot and grime, his eyes bright blue in the torchlight.
Beside him, she saw the pale shape of Fergus’s tonsure and his round shoulders. The priest wielded a heavy iron hammer, which he was using to knock against the side of the well, trying to dislodge something.
“Throw down the bucket!” Gavin called when he saw her, his voice echoing. Christian looked around, puzzled, until Michaelmas came forward to answer.
“I will!” she called eagerly, and grabbed up a thick rope that was attached to a bucket. One end of the rope was tied to a stone block, obviously in use until the well winch could be rebuilt. The girl lowered the bucket carefully and waited, holding the rope taut until Fergus grabbed it.
“Thank you, lassie,” Fergus called up. “Robbie near broke my head when he tossed it down last time.”
Robbie, who had just returned with Patrick and Will, peered over the edge of the well, bending so far that Moira grabbed at the back of his tunic. “D’you want me to throw down another bucket, da?” he yelled. “There’s twa or three here.”
“One is all we need, lad,” Gavin called back, laughing.
“Can I come down?” Robbie asked, his thin voice echoing.
“Nay, lad,” Fergus answered. “We’re nearly done.”
Christian saw Gavin draw a deep breath and suddenly sink under the level of the water. “What are they doing?” she asked.
Moira looked down. “They’ve been gathering up the debris that has fallen and blocked the flow of water, and sending the loads back up in the buckets.”
“How did they get down there?” Dominy asked.
“Climbed down along those iron rungs in the side of the wall there, see,” Moira answered. “They’ve spent near the whole o’ the mornin’ down there, trying to open up the place where the water flows into the well.”
“The water level has risen quite a bit,” Christian said.
“Aye,” Dominy said, looking down. “Freezing, they must be.”
Moira nodded. “Fergus takes a chill too easy, and he’s been down there a long time. Gavin Faulkener must be muckle chilled as well. Fergus has been up one or twa times to warm up, but Gavin has not come out yet.”
“Pull up the rope, my love!” Fergus called to Moira. She tugged at the fat rope, and with Christian’s help, pulled the loaded bucket out of the well. Blackened, soggy pieces of wood filled the bucket, which Michaelmas and Patrick carried away between them, in order to dump its contents outside.
A few more loads of similar material, slimed from months of submergence in water, were caught and dumped. Fergus announced, finally, that they were done, and he climbed upward, clinging to the iron rungs embedded in the side of the well.
Grunting as he heaved himself out of the well, Fergus stood, shivering, his pale torso and half-shaven head slick and plump as a seal. Moira threw a blanket around him and handed one to Christian to give Gavin when he came up. Then she and Fergus walked away toward the heat of the little cooking fire.
Christian, watching, noticed the tender way that Moira, who was several inches taller than her sturdy husband, bent to kiss his bald brow. He murmured a remark, and they laughed, exchanging a quick, casual kiss on the lips, their eyes intent on each other. Feeling a twinge of envy, Christian glanced away.
The children ran over to talk to Fergus, interrogating him eagerly on the contents of the well, and Dominy joined them to stir the kettle and listen. Christian, standing alone by the well, looked down to see the crown of Gavin’s head emerging from the hole as he climbed steadily up the rungs.
Placing his hands on the ground near her, he quickly hoisted himself up and out. Water slicked off his torso and cascaded from his black breeches to pool on the floor around his bare feet. She noticed the solid musculature of his chest and abdomen, and the water-darkened mat of brown hair that covered his chest, narrowing to a wedge that disappeared below his soggy waistband, with its leather drawstring.
He looked at her and smiled briefly, reaching up to shove back his wet hair. Christian stared at him, holding the blanket, forgetting its weight in her arms. The sight of his half-nude body startled her somehow, stirring her heart to a fast, hard beat, fascinating her so that she could not look away. She was hardly aware of how intently she watched him.
He was not the least like Henry, she thought, who had been a tall man too, but wide and soft. Gavin was tautly muscled and perfectly proportioned, long and lean and strong, his belly flat, the soft brown hair over his chest and abdomen contrasting the hard, rippled muscles that moved beneath his skin. A subtle tingling rushed through her body, from her blushing throat down into her abdomen, as she stared at him.
A deep breath swelled his chest; Christian saw that his small, flat nipples were pinched with cold. Drawing a quick, deep breath of her own, she raised her eyes to his face. He was watching her, a smile tilting one side of his mouth.
“My lady,” he said, reaching toward her, “is that for me?”
“Oh!” she said, and shoved the blanket toward him. He wrapped the soft multicolored plaid around his shoulders and dried his face with a corner of it. He glanced at her again, a smile still teasing at his lips. She blushed and lowered her eyes, then looked up at him.
“Is the well cleared now?” she asked.
“Aye, I think so,” he answered, ruffling his hair as he dried it with a corner of the plaid. “The debris had blocked off the opening through which the water runs. We pulled out quite a bit of wood before the water began to run clear through there again, and the level began to rise.”
“The water was dark when I looked at it the other day,” she said. “Is it safe, then, and not fouled?”
“It will be fine, I think. Ash and soot had collected in the well with the fallen beams, but that will settle in the bottom now that the well is filling again. The water seems much clearer even now.” He settled the plaid around his shoulders and looked down at her. A lock of hair, dark with moisture, fell into his eyes and he shook it back.
Christian was watching the long, strong column of his throat, dusted with a brown beard. She wanted, quite suddenly, to feel the texture of his beard, to trace the angles of his jaw. She wanted to comb her fingers through his tousled hair. Her blush deepened and spread, as hot as if she stood by a fire.
Gavin bent down to grab up his discarded black tunic, pulling its thick folds over his head. As she watched the elegant play of muscle along his smooth back, something elemental seemed to shift within her, a startling, heated, pleasant sensation. Her breath came quickly, and she touched her teeth to her lower lip.
“I will have to change out of these wet hosen,” he said, as he bent over to pull on his leather boots.
“Else you will have a lung ailment,” she said, half laughing, glad of some release of the strange tension she was feeling. Gavin chuckled. “I meant to fetch some things for you from the storage chamber,” Christian said. “There is some clothing stored there that belonged to Henry, tunics and breeches and a fine fur-lined cloak. He was a large man like you, though much wider. But his tunics should fit you, if you want them.”
He nodded as he fastened his boots. “If you go into the storage chamber, I want you to sort through the bed frames and feather beds there. Find whatever is needed for the bedchambers.”
“Bedchambers?” she asked.
“Aye. Choose enough bed furniture for four rooms. I will have some men carry it up for you.” He stood and faced her. “I asked the masons and carpenters to ready those chambers as quickly as possible. The foreman told me, just this morn, that they are complete but for some small details. We can use the rooms as soon as they are furnished. Tonight, I think.”
“Sleep there tonight?” she asked, and closed her mouth, for she realized that she stared at him as if she were a dimwit. By tonight she might be alone in a bedchamber—in a bed—with her husband. Her heart beat picked up an even faster pace, and the curious warmth that had already blossomed inside her now began to swirl in earnest. Her mouth went dry.
“Aye, Christian,” he said softly. His eyes were steady on hers. “Tonight.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“And here the king of the Picts holds his court,” Patrick announced, standing on top of a wooden chest and gripping the shaft of a long iron-tipped lance. His voice echoed in the cavernous underground chamber. “And here are his warriors”—he waved toward his brother and Will, who stood together, narrow shoulders back, chests out.
“And I am the queen who teaches all the warriors to fight,” Michaelmas said. She grabbed another long lance and stood up alongside Patrick.
“What!” Will cried out in dismay.
“Ancient warrior queens always taught the lads to fight,” Michaelmas said. “Ask my mother. She’s a harper, and knows all the old stories and songs.”
Christian, kneeling in front of an opened chest that contained Henry’s old garments, glanced up. “It is said that was an old Celtic practice,” she replied. The boys groaned.
“I already know how to fight,” William said.
Robbie lay down on the ground and began to snore loudly.
“Wha’ are you doing?” Patrick asked.
“I’m a knight,” Robbie said, eyes squeezed shut, “and you’re King Arthur wha’ sleeps under the hill with all his men, and will rise again and fight a battle when the enchantment ends.”
“Aye!” the others cried, and lay down with Robbie, until at a signal from Patrick they leaped up and began a mock fight.
“Hold, there!” shouted Moira from across the chamber. “Do not destroy Lady Christian’s fine storage place. And put down those lances, you’ll kill each other for sure.”
“If you can sit quietly,” Christian told the children, “I will tell you a story while I fold these things. Do you want to hear of King Arthur, who sleeps with his knights under an enchanted hill?”
“We want to hear another Arthur tale—the one about Kilglassie!” Robbie said. Christian nodded at this, and the children came over, scrambling to sit near her.
“Long ago,” she began, “hundreds of years past, when the priests had just come to Scotland and the daoine sìth, the wee people of peace, lived side by side with the Scottish people, there lived a great king called Arthur—”
“And Merlin, his wizard!” Robbie yelled.
“Aye, now hush, Robert Macnab,” she said, folding a pair of brown woolen hosen. “And Merlin, his wise adviser. King Arthur had many brave knights, who had pledged to serve him to their deaths. There came a time when Arthur called for his knights to ride north with him into the land of the Scots to do battle with the Pictish warriors. They stayed one night with the laird of Kilglassie, a friend to Arthur, in the ancient fortress that was first built upon this very rock.”
“And did they sleep here, in this hidden room?” Robbie asked. The children looked around the torchlit, shadowed chamber in wonder, their mouths open and eyes wide.
“They slept in the best rooms in the stronghold. But first, the laird of Kilglassie gave them a wonderful feast, with the finest beef to eat, and heather ale to drink, and with harp music played by the fair folk who lived in peace with the people of Kilglassie.” Christian lifted out a blue tunic embroidered in gold, thought fleetingly that it would look wonderful on Gavin, then folded it and laid it aside before looking up at the waiting children. Robbie, squirming where he sat, quieted when she cast an even look at him.
“The next day, in reward for such hospitality, Merlin gave a wondrous treasure to the laird, a gift that he had created with his own magic. Merlin told the laird that this treasure had great significance for all of Scotland. But one ban-sìtheach, a wee lady of the fair folk, had fallen in love with Arthur. She was very angry that he was leaving Kilglassie, and so she used her own magic to make another spell.”
“What did she do?” Will asked.
“She hid Merlin’s gift away, deep in the heart of the castle, and said it could not be found until Scotland found its bravest king.”
“She wanted King Arthur to return and beg her to tell him where it was, but he was too busy fightin’ the Picts,” Patrick added knowingly.
“What did the laird do?” Will demanded; he had not heard the story before. “Did he take his broadsword and cut off the wee lady’s head?”
Michaelmas glanced at him in disgust. “The daoine sìth cannot be treated in such a way, else bad luck will follow.”
“The laird looked and looked, but could not find the treasure,” Christian continued patiently, closing the lid of the chest. “And King Arthur had troubles of his own and had no time to return to Kilglassie. So Merlin sent white doves to lead the way to the treasure. But because the bravest king of Scots had not yet come, the doves could not find the way either. And to this day, the wild doves fly near Kilglassie, looking for its heart.”
“They’re roosting in the very towers now,” Robbie added. “Still looking.”
“Only one piece of the gold has ever been seen, and that is the pendant that Merlin himself gave to the daughter of that first laird.” Christian pulled at the thong that lay inside the neck of her gown, and the golden pendant spilled into her hand, glittering in the torchlight. “It is all that is left of Merlin’s treasure,” she said softly. The children leaned forward to look.
“One of the Scottish kings appointed a keeper to hold the pendant and guard the legend,” she continued. “She was the daughter of another laird of Kilglassie, and since then, the castle has always passed along the female line whenever it could. But Merlin’s full gift to the laird and to Scotland has not been discovered.”
