One Winter Knight Page 11

  He sketched a faint bow of esteem to the elder Scotsman. “Laird Seacrest, ’tis good to see you remain in good health. Word reached Glendower of the attack and that many in your party died. I give words of heartfelt apology. I was forced to return to my father’s holding. The scum English—” he flashed a glare in Fletcher’s direction, “are trying to seize the whole countryside. ’Tis likely the same bunch that attacked your band. I am sorry I and my men were at Glendower instead of here. We would have dispatched the vile English mongrels and not allowed them to escape.”

  Angus Seacrest sat leaning to the side of the tall back chair, observing Leslie in a dispassionate fashion. The man might be over three score years in age, but those dark brown eyes were sharp and missed nothing. Over the past two days, Fletcher had been the object of that piercing stare, and knew it took fortitude to withstand the probings into his own mind. Mayhap the Kenning did not extend to Clan Seacrest, as Geljon said, but the question crossed Fletcher’s mind if Angus’s mother—an Ogilvie—had not passed on some of the fae trait to her son. The old man had a canny ability to peel back the layers of flesh and bone, and reach into a person’s thoughts. Thus, he wondered if Leslie felt the power of this man’s incisive mind.

  Leslie broke the stare by going to the fire and holding out his hands to the heat. “The snow finally shows signs of letting up. Hopefully, come morn, we can depart for Glendower.”

  “We shall see,” the laird uttered, neither implying assent nor contradiction. “The wind has blown to where drifts are dangerous. I am surprised you made it all the way to Glendower and back through this blizzard.”

  Geljon and Aithinne entered the Great Hall, with several maid servants trailing behind. Her eyes went to Fletcher and a smile lit her face. When his countenance remained unchanged, she quickly glanced around the room, spotting her father first, and then her vision traveled to the fire to see David Leslie standing there.

  “Come, daughter.” Angus motioned her nearer. “Stand to my left, if you please.”

  She swallowed, but gave a nod and then did as bade. Geljon paused to lean down and press a kiss to his leathered cheek. “How fare you this eve?”

  “Better, lass. The Lady Aithinne made me a tansy, which chased away the head pains caused by this scratch.” He gave a wave with his hand toward the stitched graze on his head. “In a few days it will be naught more than a memory.”

  His eyes suddenly darkened and fixed on Leslie, and his thoughts were clear. Men—his kinsmen—died on the field of battle the day of the attack, and that would never be forgotten.

  Leslie escaped the focus of the old man’s attention by speaking to Geljon. “I told your áthair the weather seems to be lifting. We should depart at first light so we can reach Glendower before another storm comes in. Please, gather your things and make ready—”

  “Not so fast, Leslie. I still decide where my daughter goes—and with whom.” Angus shifted in the chair to where he sat up straighter, assuming an air, which said though he was aging, he still demanded respect. “My sire was a Seacrest, but blood of Clan Ogilvie flows through my body. My mother raised me to respect the old ways, the traditions of the Picts. One of those customs is the women of rank are permitted to select a husband of their choosing. Keeping with that, I have always promised my daughter that she would marry under the ancient law.

  “After Berwick, I was fearful. This English king will go to vile, unimaginable extremes to see his will enforced upon this land. I am old, and our people suffer because I am no longer a strong leader. Sadly, our clan shows the Ogilvie blood by breeding more females than males. We cannot properly defend ourselves if hard pressed. That reality drove me to seek a pact, to see my daughter and my kin secure should my time on this earth come sooner than expected. I did not expect that event to receive a helping hand. Though I ken not why, someone tried to kill me—”

  “Filthy swine English. Likely the same group that is pressing Glendower,” Leslie snarled. “Mark words, laird, we shall hunt down these tailed-dogs—”

  Angus held up his hand to stay the tirade. “These were no dogs, but they were pack animals. Ones without honor. They hid who they served. They carried no pennon, wore no plaide. The English may be a crude bunch, and will do whatever Longshanks commands, but by damn, they carry the mark of their king upon them. The men who attacked me and my men were hiding who they were. They have no honor. Mercenaries, paid coin to slaughter us. Someone wanted murder done.”

  Geljon moved to her father and put a hand in comfort upon his shoulder. He reached up and took her other hand and gave it a squeeze. “Fortunately, someone saved you instead,” she said.

  “Aye, someone did.” Angus gifted Fletcher a fleeting smile, before continuing. “As I said, I sought to seal the future for my daughter because of the stomach-turning display I witnessed at Berwick. Those horrors made me go back on my promise to Geljon. I could not sleep, knowing she was at risk. Like Berwick, the attack on my knights and soldiery shocked my thoughts. Now, I see I would not wish to pass, knowing the broken promise remained between my daughter and me.”

  “You made a betrothal. What’s done be done,” Leslie barked, a flicker of anxiety filling his eyes. Looking around, he went to sit on the bench to the other side of the fire, facing the man who would be his father by marriage.

  Fletcher burned inside. Resentment of what this man represented to Geljon’s life—but there was more. That same sense of something being off with Leslie clamored inside his brain. Mayhap discordance was tainted by his hatred of the man, but he could not quell the warning that buzzed in his blood.

  “We spake a pact, but betrothal contracts we ne’er signed. We were to do that here at Coinnleir Wood with Lord Ravenhawke’s approval and witness. I beg forgiveness, my lord. I was remiss in not seeking your council and consent from the very start. I am an old man, used to my old man’s ways. I never had to ask by your leave of my liege before. Your grandsire mostly left Clan Seacrest to get along as it willed.” He sighed. “Times change. I now must swear allegiance to an English king. Though St. Giles serves Edward Longshanks, blood of the old baron flows through his grandson. He is a man I trust to deal with honor for my people.”

  “Enough!” Leslie thundered. “Spit out the words instead of pussy footing about the crux of it, old man. You speak as though you seek to break the betrothal?”

  Careful shifting toward the back of the room saw Damian’s men at arms slipping slowly into position behind Leslie’s followers and with no notice. Fletcher took a step closer to the gathering, to put himself in position to be between Leslie and the laird. When he did not draw the Tanist’s attention, he took another.

  Ignoring Leslie, Angus went on, “I seek to ken my child’s mind. I ask, daughter, what is your wish? Do you still give agreement to this joining of Clan Seacrest to Clan Leslie?” He looked up to Geljon.

  “I honor you above all, but I listened to the words my heart spake.” She smiled down at her father, love clear in her hazel grey eyes. “My heart, my body, and my bond have been given. But no words have been spoken, so I dunna ken if he will have me as wife.”

  Heat of relief flooded through Fletcher’s blood, as Geljon’s eyes lifted and met his. A faint raise of her brow gave challenge for him to say he would have her. Oh, but he would! Only, would the laird accept him as a fit husband for a daughter he clearly loved so much? He had naught, in truth, to offer Geljon—just his love.

  Before he could speak, Leslie sang out. “Women’s fickle matters! Bah! These things matter naught. What is the concern—the English threat is still a clear danger. The attack upon you and your men bears witness to your fears. We are all at risk from the English king and his rabid tailed-dogs. You still need that alliance. Your clan is small, your glen protected by old men and boys. I gave you my promise your people would prosper by this union. I stand ready to keep that bargain. In this world, our honor is all we have to stand for who we are. I gave my word. I honor that. We both need this alliance, Angus.”
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  Damian spoke from behind Leslie. “Clan Seacrest is part of Clan Ogilvie, so they are now my kinsman. I pledge the might of Ravenhawke and Coinnleir Wood to see your clan is protected. There is no need for Geljon to be traded for such.”

  Leslie almost jumped, unaware Damian had stood just behind his shoulder. “’Tis fine you offer your might. But Geljon still needs a husband. In these dark times, any unwed Scotswoman with a name and property is fodder for Longshanks to barter off to one of his hungry wolves, payment for their service.”

  “’Tis true. I sought to block the king from marrying off Geljon to an English noble of his choosing. And yet, I fear she has gone behind my back and found one on her own.” His white brows lifted in challenge, defying her to refute his claim.

  Leslie’s eyes darted from Geljon to Fletcher and then back to Angus. “He is nobody! He is no’ even a knight! A bastard!” Leslie spat on the floor.

  Damian said clearly, “You speak about the new governor of Coinnleir Wood, a man of Challon. No man casts aspersions on a Challon and lives to brag about it. All ken this.”

  Heads turned, eyes wide in shock. Fletcher blinked thrice, stunned as anyone else, but he long ago had learnt the art of keeping emotions from his face. Even Geljon stared at him, questions in her haunted eyes.

  When Leslie’s man stepped to his side and leaned over to speak words to his ear, his body blocked the firelight from reaching the Tanist. Leslie was thrown into shadow. There was movement, on all sides, people shifting, coming and going, but Fletcher could not take his eyes from David Leslie. There was…something shimmering…precisely what, he could not put his finger on. Like his vague aversion to the man, this elusive wisp remained almost within reach of his thoughts, yet just out of grasp. Suddenly, his sight narrowed and around him all receded to dark shadows. For an instant, he stood back on a snowy crest, his bow was in his hands and he was targeting a wraith on horseback.

  Before he could form the question, he felt a push against his mind. An intrusion. Fletcher batted his eyes to break the spell, but the brush came against his thoughts again. He turned his head to the left to see Aithinne staring at him. Her vivid amber eyes seemed to glow, reflecting the firelight.

  Coming to Fletcher, she placed a hand on his upper arm, as if seeking to strengthen their connection. The power of the Kenning singed his blood, as he saw the image of the battle, and yet she saw it through his eyes as well.

  “’Tis him, is it no’?” Her words were spoken so lowly they were nearly whispered, yet it served to silence the chatter in the hall. All eyes looked to the lady of Coinnleir Wood, standing next to Fletcher, her left hand slowly raising to point at the Tanist. “You,” she accused, “you led the attack on Laird Angus.”

  Leslie’s men placed their hands on the hilts of their swords and started to draw them, only to find Damian’s soldiers had knives to their throats. When they realized it was no use, they allowed Coinnleir’s men to disarm them.

  David Leslie started to jump to his feet, only Damian clamped his hand on the man’s right shoulder and forced him to sit down. Clearly, Damian met little resistance. The Tanist flinched in pain. Seeing this, Damian bore down harder.

  “Methinks here is the proof you seek, Angus. Hold him,” Damian told two of his knights. “When you remove his jack and arming shirt, you will find the wound from Fletcher’s arrow.”

  With a feral cry, Leslie knocked loose from the two knights, and came up with the sgain dubh hidden inside his cross-laced boot. Raising the knife high, he lunged forward. At first, Fletcher assumed he was coming at him. Panic flooded him as he realized the man’s target was not him but Geljon! What better way to strike at him and her father than by taking away the thing they both loved most? Fletcher jumped to push her away, as the knife arched downward. The blade caught Fletcher high on the left shoulder, but the mail under his surcoat blocked the knife’s penetration, the honed edge ripping the dark blue material, as Leslie dragged it across his chest.

  Fletcher took hold of Leslie’s lower arm, and manacled him from doing any farther harm. The man snarled as it became a contest of wills, one he was doomed to lose. He was right-handed, and that was the side that had taken the arrow. Without a drop of remorse, Fletcher drew back his fist and hit the Tanist with all his might, straight to the wound. Intense agony was reflected in the grimace upon his countenance. The knife dropped and clattered to the stone floor. Suddenly, Leslie’s face went slack, as he seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  Damian stood behind him holding his sword, hilt up. “A good cosh to the head can make the most unreasonable man see reason. Get this vermin out of here,” he spoke to his knights. “Place them in the donjon. Once the weather is good for travel, we shall send him and his mercenaries south to Edward. I am sure the king will have great amusement in dealing with Leslie and his men.”

  Geljon righted herself from landing across the arms of the chair where her father sat. She rushed to Fletcher, her worried eyes searching to determine if Leslie’s knife had found purchase. Her trembling fingers moved over the mail where the surcoat had been slashed, and a weak smile crossed her lips as she grew assured he had not been wounded.

  She turned back to her father, shaking, and with tears in her eyes. “Why? Why did Leslie try to kill you? Kill me?”

  The old man seemed older, wearied by his mistake. “Word reached him that I was asking about him. Because you could not trust him, I felt the pressing need to make sure what sort of man I was giving you to. I found out he was seeking a betrothal to a MacGregor heiress at the same time he wooed you. The woman was angry enough to tell me Leslie bragged how rich he would soon be. A wide streak of silver has been found on our land, likely the biggest silver find ever in Scotland. He told her the marriage to you would be short-lived, and then he would be free to wed her. I think he planned to kill me, wed with you, and then put you aside. Leaving him sitting on a mountain of silver and with a MacGregor bride.”

  “May his soul rot in Hell.” Her fingers tightened around Fletcher’s arm.

  “Fletcher St. Giles,” Angus called. “Come here.”

  Fletcher did as bade, with Geljon clinging to his arm. “Yes, sir.”

  “Can I assume by the way my daughter has attached herself to your arm, that you are the man she spake of giving her heart to?”

  “He is, father,” Geljon spoke up.

  The wise dark eyes studied Fletcher, trying to use that strength of his mind to see if Fletcher would look away. He met the laird’s stare openly and without blinking. “Very well, will you have my daughter to take to wife?”

  Geljon’s chin tilted upward, a playful rebellious flash filled her amber-grey eyes. “He did have me father.” Then, she gave them both a wide, impish grin.

  Her father’s mouth compressed into a frown, but then he sighed. “This is what happens when you have daughters and love them too much. So, this is the crux, then? You have taken my daughter?”

  Fletcher nodded, “I fear, my lord, that is the circumstance.”

  “You fear? That does not sound like you are entirely sure. When a man lies with a woman they generally have no doubt.”

  Aithinne reached out and pinched the arm of Damian, and then almost danced in place. “On the rare magical occasion it does happen, Laird Seacrest.”

  “Och, my brain is growing muddled. Did you sleep with my Geljon or not?” The old man was growing perplexed.

  “He did, father. Or rather, I think I took advantage of him. You see—Hugh, Lewis and Deward put a tansy in his drink. I got the notion from Lady Aithinne—’twas how she found Lord Damian for her husband. I figured it turned out so well for her, that I should take matters into my care—”

  The laird threw up his hands. “If those three nodcocks be involved in your scheming, lass, I dunna want to hear about it.”

  Hugh and his two brothers were laughing and nudging each other with their elbows. “I do think we have discovered another thing we are
proficient at—pòsadh-ceàrd—marriage-smiths,” said Deward.

  The laird rolled his eyes and said to Damian. “Mayhap you should send them to Longshanks. I dunna ken what they would do to him, but they scare the bloody hell out of me.”

  Aithinne chimed in. “You should be thanking my brothers and their—ah…uh…willingness—to set things to right. They helped Geljon achieve her heart’s desires. Gave you a man you will be proud to have as your son by marriage. And that marriage sees that you have the alliance to one of the mightiest warriors in England or Scotland—the Black Dragon.”

  Angus nodded. “Very well. They are miracle workers, then. We can call for the Culdee to come. Let’s see this done, with the whole bloody hall bearing witness. Geljon, lass, so you actually want this English warrior as your lord and husband?”

  “Most truly I do!” She lifted the hand on the arm she had been holding, and placed a kiss to the back of it.

  “All attest that my daughter says she takes this man as hers.” Angus intoned. Allowing space for murmured agreement from those watching, the old man turned his attention to Fletcher. “Now, young man. Seeing as you have fallen to my daughter’s scheme, shall you do right by her and take her as your wife?”

  “Nay.” At Fletcher’s dissent, the room broke into a ruckus, everyone speaking at once. He waited until the questions and expressions of surprise circling the room died down.

  Geljon stared up at him, hurt reflected in her glowing eyes. “Why?”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Because I am not worthy—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Here we go again!” Damian strode forward, still holding the sword he had bashed Leslie with. “Enough of this nonsense. Kneel, Fletcher St. Giles.” When Fletcher did not submit, Damian thundered, “Kneel, by damn. As your liege, I command you to obey me.”