The Angel Knight, page 35
“Robert!” she screamed. “John!” She had seen both men climb toward the other tunnel. But her cries were lost in the whip of the wind. Though she called out again, no one looked up.
She heard a deafening crash, and whirled in fright. The well wall had collapsed inward. Two men, Hastings’s serjeants, tumbled into the corridor, gaining their feet quickly and drawing their swords.
“The Bruce! He and his men are invading the castle!” one of them shouted to Hastings. Until their arrival, he had been cornered by Gavin. Now, as the two guards began to fight Gavin, Hastings slid past all of them and ran toward the entrance.
He reached Christian before she could react to what had happened. Grabbing her arm, he yanked her toward him and trapped her against him, tipping the edge of a dagger to her throat. They stood so close to the outer ledge that Christian feared he would throw her into the air.
Gavin backed toward them, clashing his blade rapidly, blocking left, blocking right. Though he took a hard slicing blow to the left shoulder, he hardly faltered. Watching, Christian cried out, and arched desperately against Hastings’s grip, but he held her fast.
“Now you shall watch your husband wounded to the death,” Hastings growled into her ear. “And when he is unable to move, when he lays dying, I will use you however I please.” His breath was hot and fast on her cheek. The hand that held her around the ribs grabbed across her breasts, painfully. She wrenched, sobbing in outrage, feeling as if she were caught in a cruel cage formed by his long, sharp dagger and his steel-covered arms.
Blood soaked Gavin’s arm and dripped over his hand. He kicked out at one of the guards and tripped him. In the small space, the other guard tumbled backward and fell too. Gavin thrust quickly, wounding one, knocking the other in the head. Then he whirled to face Hastings, breathing heavily.
“Let her go,” Gavin said, low and ominously.
“But I’ve not had a Scottish widow for a while. I am looking forward to it,” Hastings rasped. He kept his hand on her breast, and his blade at her throat.
“Let her go,” Gavin hissed. His eyes were cold and hard as dark ice. Christian had rarely seen such stark hatred.
But she saw an element of fear pass through that hard gaze when Gavin glanced briefly toward her; he obviously realized that Hastings could easily cut her throat or throw her over the ledge. She cried out as the razored edge bit into the tender skin beneath her jaw.
Then Gavin’s eyes flashed to the tunnel entrance behind them, a flicker only, but it warned Christian. She braced her feet for what came next.
Rising up from the ledge like an avenging angel, John hit into Hastings’s feet and threw him off balance, slamming him forward. As she went down with him and hit the floor with her hands and knees, Christian felt a sharp sting in her leg, of rock, of chain mail, she could not tell. Hastings fell on top of her, and John shoved him aside, pinning him down with the tip of his swordblade.
“I saw you from below,” John said to Hastings, breathing heavily. “That red surcoat you wear is like a banner. Did you know that Bruce has taken the castle from your men?”
Gavin reached for Christian, lifting her to her feet and pulling her away. “Are you hurt?” he asked. She shook her head. He pushed her gently toward the door of the golden chamber. As she stepped back to stand inside the doorway, Gavin turned away.
One of the guards rose up then and caught Gavin around the legs, bringing him down hard to the floor. Christian screamed out, pressing her fist to her mouth, as she saw them wrestle desperately on the floor.
At the corner of her vision, she saw Hastings grab the end of John’s swordblade, grasping it with his thick leather gauntlets. Flipping John off balance, Hastings slammed the hilt end against his head. The Scotsman dropped to the floor of the tunnel like a sack of grain.
Hastings shifted the sword and leaped forward; Christian shouted out, trying to warn Gavin. Grappling with the guard, Gavin reacted when she shrieked, rolling to one side just as Hastings thrust toward him.
Thwarted, Hastings’s momentum caused him to stab his own serjeant in the back. He looked up, startled, confused, as Gavin slipped away and jumped to his feet.
“You are as persistent as the devil,” Hastings snarled, rebalancing his sword. “Your life has some charm over it.”
Gavin, breathing heavily, flashed a grin. “Then stop trying to kill me,” he said.
“Never,” Hastings said, and lunged.
And as he did, the wild doves came back to their dovecote.
Wings fluttering wildly, their frightened cries curdling in their throats, the doves panicked as they flooded into the tunnel and encountered Hastings standing in the entrance. In a flurry of snowy feathers, they tried to turn in the midst of their flight and go back outside. But in turning, the birds slammed into Hastings’s head and chest and shoulders.
He threw his arms up over his head and screamed, dropping his sword, backing away to knock into the wall. Flailing his arms wildly, he fought at the frenzied cloud of doves striving to get past him. But his balance was thrown off, and he stumbled sideways. As the birds soared out and up, away from the crevice, Hastings stepped out onto the ledge and fell.
Gavin had realized quickly that the panicked birds were not attacking. As he ran toward the entrance, Hastings shrieked and tumbled backward an instant before Gavin could reach him.
Halting at the edge of the rock platform, Gavin watched as Hastings plummeted, a slash of red and glinting steel, toward the loch. Weighted down by his chain mail, falling two hundred feet or more straight down, Hastings sank into the water without a struggle.
Waiting, breath heaving, Gavin pressed his hand over the stinging cut in his upper arm. As the ripples of Hastings’s plunge gradually disappeared, Gavin turned to go back in.
He noticed the cluster of empty boats moored at the base of the promontory. They had not been there earlier, and he quickly realized that Robert Bruce had invaded Kilglassie Castle from within. Gavin stood there, exhausted, grimly victorious after his own battle, and knew that the inner walls of Kilglassie rang with clashing steel.
Turning away, rubbing his hand wearily over his face, Gavin leaned his sword carefully against the wall. He put his hand to his shoulder for a moment, and was surprised to find that the wound had already clotted and his tunic sleeve was stuck to the wound; he would not need to tend to it for a while.
A few white doves flew in overhead and fluttered to rest in the wall niches. Quiet filled the little sanctum of the tunnel. The soft cooing of the birds was soothing and peaceful, oddly so, Gavin thought, after a struggle that had killed Hastings and left two guards dead on the floor.
Gavin saw Christian leaning against the stone doorframe, her face pale and drawn. He gave her a rueful, exhausted smile, and stepped toward her, hands out. She pointed toward John.
On the floor, his uncle was just sitting up, moaning. He placed his hand to his head in exploration, then looked up at Gavin and grinned. “I’m fine, lad,” he said hoarsely.
Gavin chuckled. “I’d expect naught less, you tough old Scot. You are indestructible.”
“If the Saracen devils in the Holy Land did not get me, then that cowardly king’s demon could not do the deed,” he said as he got to his feet. “Who trained those wee birdies?”
“Just luck,” Gavin said. “Though they surely came when we needed them most.”
“They were sent by the angels,” Christian said.
John laughed gruffly. “Aye, those doves looked like a flock o’ angels sweeping the king’s demon to his death. It is a sight I will not forget. And I will not eat dove pie again, I can tell you that.”
“I’ll show you a sight you’ve never seen before, John,” Gavin said. “Come through here.” He moved toward the huge door, stopping to put an arm around Christian’s shoulders as he waited for his uncle to enter the chamber. Christian leaned against him wearily, and he glanced at her in concern.
John passed them to walk down the shallow steps. The lamp light still flickered within, illuminating the glittering walls.
“The hidden gold of Kilglassie,” John said, turning slowly in astonishment. “It is beautiful.”
“In the very heart of the stone, just as the legend says,” Gavin said.
“This must be the treasure that is meant to support the throne of Scotland,” John said. “Robert Bruce will be interested in this. By now he will have won Kilglassie from Hastings’s men.”
Christian looked up at Gavin. “Will you try to gain it back for England?”
“Kilglassie is my home, and I will defend it if it is needed. But King Edward has named me a traitor to England,” Gavin answered quietly. “I have no king, now, who expects me to hold a castle for his purposes.”
“My cousin burns Scottish castles when he gains them back. He will scorch Kilglassie, as he had me do once before.”
Gavin gestured toward the gleaming walls. “Let him see this before he decides to scorch our home.”
She nodded silently. He noticed her pallor, and how heavily she leaned against him. Rubbing her arm, he kissed the crown of her head.
John went toward the door. “I’ll go up through the well and see wha’ has happened inside the castle. And Robert Bruce must come down here. I’ll see to it.”
“John, be careful,” Christian said. “Hastings’s men may be waiting.”
“I will be fine,” he said. “You do not need to come with me, Gavin. Stay here and see to your lady. She’s looking muckle pale. I will not be gone long.” He stepped out into the corridor and was soon wriggling through the opening in the well wall.
“Are you ill?” Gavin asked Christian. “You look like you cannot stand up any longer.”
“I’m fine,” Christian said. “Only let me sit.” She took a step forward, but her knees seemed to buckle under her. Gavin caught her up in his arms, ignoring the stiff pain in his shoulder. Walking further into the chamber, he set her gently on the floor, kneeling beside her.
Christian gasped and stared at a long tear in her skirt that was soaked with blood. She drew the cloth up over her knee and sucked in her breath.
Across her thigh, well above her knee, was a long gash. Blood had soaked through her hose and skirts. When she shoved down her woolen hose, exposing the wound, blood trickled freely down her leg.
She looked at Gavin, her face pale. He saw that her hands shook violently. “I felt some pain in my leg, and knew ‘twas cut. But I did not think ‘twas like this,” she said.
“It happens like that in battle sometimes. In the turmoil, you did not notice the pain, or how badly you were cut. How did it happen?” He took her garter and twisted it tightly around her leg, just above the gash. Then he tore a strip of clean cloth from her linen undertunic, folded it, and pressed it firmly over the wound.
“I felt something sting as I fell down with Hastings,” she said. “He must have tried to use his dagger on me.”
“We need to stop the bleeding. And the gash is open. This pressure will help, but the cut will need stitching.”
She bit her lower lip and nodded, calm and uncomplaining. He wished profoundly that he could take this pain away from her. He knew her so well now; he knew that her very essence was made of finely tempered strength. She could endure any hurt, any crisis, and triumph. But he did not want her to suffer anymore, in body or in heart.
“You will be fine,” he said, as he pressed on her leg.
“I know,” she whispered. “You are here.” She put her hand over his. “Gavin, touch me. Use your hands.”
He glanced at her quickly, and felt a lightning sensation slam through his gut as the meaning of her words took hold. “My hands,” he repeated.
“You can do it,” she said. “I know that you can. You healed me once before.”
He shook his head. “I only held you. You recovered, but I did not heal you.”
“I think you did, Gavin.”
He drew a deep breath, and another. Then he put the blood-soaked cloth on the ground and loosened the strip he had tied above the wound. “Lay back,” he whispered.
She stretched out on the floor, straightening her legs. Gavin laid his palm over the freely flowing gash above her knee. The blood was sticky and warm against his hand. Her blood, he thought; her life. Resting his other hand over her heart, he felt its sweet thunder beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes.
Unlike Christian, he was not certain that his touch could make a difference here. But she had asked him, and he was willing to do anything for her. Even this.
Christian touched his arm, and the gentle contact sent a shiver of warmth through him. He felt the perfect breath of her love through her fingers. And he wondered, then, if she knew how deeply he loved her. He did not know if he had truly expressed it to her. Words and courtly gestures of love were not easy for him. But he wanted her to know. He wanted to convey it to her.
His mother had possessed a true gift, and he had long doubted his ability to do the same. As a child, whenever he had been sick or injured, his mother had laid her hands on him. Her touch had been a soothing comfort that had always healed.
Now he wanted to give that same sustaining love to Christian. But he had not endeavored to use what his mother had taught him since the day that Jehanne had died in his arms.
He closed his eyes and drew a long breath. Long ago, his mother had described to him the simple method that she used in her healings: a hand on the head or over the heart, and a hand on the source of the pain. A prayer, any prayer, and breath. That was all, she had said: the gift itself, the touch itself, she had told him, was simply love, shining through the healer.
Gavin knew that the power his mother had possessed was truly rare. He had inherited her Celtic blood and her angelic features. But he had come to accept that he did not share the gift that permeated his Celtic lineage like the traces of gold in these walls.
But he was not entirely the same man as the one who had stood on a windy parapet, looking down at a sick waif trapped in a cage. He had been hardened then, from loneliness and anger and sadness. A true diplomat, neutral about all matters, he had been unwilling to involve himself wherever deep feelings were demanded from him.
And Christian had stirred very deep feelings in him. At first, she had reminded him of his lost wife, raising both sadness and sympathy in him. Then he had begun to admire her strength, her depth of feeling, even her willfulness. Loving her had opened him up to a heart and a cause outside of himself.
He knew himself better now. He knew that compassion and desire were more essential to his nature than anger and sadness. The truth of that stirred his blood, touching his very spirit.
When Christian had been near death in the abbey, Gavin had only held her. Jehanne’s death had taught him a lesson in humility that the Angel Knight, adored and favored and proud, had learned well. He had not actually tried to heal Christian in the abbey, though he remembered wishing that he could.
Now, in this golden, beautiful chamber, Gavin wanted to give Christian the fullest flow of his love. And that, he knew now, was the truest essence of healing.
He held his hands serenely still over her leg and her heart. At first the warmth that gathered in his hands was subtle. He waited, letting whatever stirred there flow unimpeded by thoughts or pride.
And he suddenly understood the damage that lay beneath his hand. As if he could see it, he knew how deep into the muscle the slash had gone, how close to the bone. He sensed that she had not lost a great deal of blood, but he knew that she could spare no more. There were other demands within her body.
Though his eyes were closed, he could see, in his mind, when the blood flow diminished, then trickled, then finally seeped beneath the cover of his hand. He waited, breathing slowly.
A cloud of stars seemed to swirl over his head then, spilling down to flow through his body like liquid fire. The heat became a pulsing flood of radiance. He was drenched in beads of sweat that dampened his hair and slid down his face.
His hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the extraordinary rush of heat and light that was like fire, and yet like flowing water. Swirling through his body, the sensation pooled in his palms like a sphere of light.
He took in the fire and the flow. Filled with it, he could not hold back its force. He let it go on a shuddering breath.
“Dhia,” Christian said, the merest breath. She lifted her head and stared.
Gavin’s hands hovered a little above her chest and her leg. Beneath his palms, she saw tiny blue sparks glimmer, then spread like a halo around his hands. The colors changed as she watched. Blue shimmered through green into gold, and gold spun into white; shining brighter than candleflame around his hands, the delicate bands of light were there, and yet were not there.
The glow of the lamp and the glitter of the golden ore were heavy and coarse compared to the exquisite luminescence that radiated from Gavin’s hands.
The heat from his touch spilled into her like sunlight, life-giving and sweet. She felt as if her body and her soul were brimming with peace and comfort. Breathing in rhythmic harmony with him, she floated on that deep, slow, cadence.
She had felt like this months ago in the abbey, wrapped in Gavin’s embrace. And she knew that he had healed her then, just as he was healing her now.
In the abbey chamber, she had seen an angel in a dream. His face had seemed so familiar, his strength what she had needed. His arms had surrounded her with love.
Watching Gavin now, she suddenly understood: in that healing angel, she had encountered the purest essence of Gavin’s spirit. When her own spirit had drifted out of her ailing body, her soul had touched the very soul of the man who had held her. And he had drawn her back.
