One Winter Knight Page 8

  “’Tis different for a man. Women have few rights in this world, and one man or another is always telling what you must do,” she said softly.

  Fletcher knew this to be true, yet it did naught to quell the jumble of burning emotions inside him. “I thought your people, the Picts, permitted women the right to choose their own husbands.”

  “They did. Once. Their imprint upon the Highlands fades as the ways of the south push into our lands. I think this world is a sadder place for it. My sire always swore he would honor our ancient ways—only, he came back from Berwick changed. He looked as if he aged a score years. He did not think the same. My wishes no longer concern him.”

  Fletcher’s mind was hurled back to the horrible cesspit of Berwick. The English sacked the town in three days of fire and blood. Instantly, the sounds of screams, the foul smell of burning bodies were fresh in his head, the nightmare images of men on horseback, hacking down men, women, and children who could not flee down the narrow wynds and vennels of the old Scottish city. That was April, and he thought it could not get any worse.

  It had. Oh, it had! Half the town was cleared of thousands of bodies to make way for the nobility of England to gather for Edward’s Parliament. The other side saw the putrid corpses remaining still, and through this part the Scots were marched—a warning of what Edward’s might could wrought. He wanted them sickened, the miasma to linger in their minds. Small wonder her father returned looking grey of soul, and worried that his unwed daughter would be a pawn in an English king’s game of power and control.

  He could understand her father wanting to secure a protector for his clan, for his daughter…but it did little to ameliorate his dark mood, his anguish that he was falling for this woman. Of all the beauties at court, all the earthy Scotswomen he had met since coming northward, why did this one touch him as no other?

  She reached out, placing her left hand on his upper arm. “Can we not be friends, Fletcher?” Her soft words were a dagger to his heart.

  “Friends? I doubt your betrothed would wish you to be friends with a common bastard.”

  She looked up, meeting his stare. “I spare little worry over David Leslie’s wishes. That is a time in the future I shall face. Until then, I still keep to my own needs and wants. I shall belong to me.”

  “And, ’tis your wish that we be friends?” he asked, looking down to where her hand still made contact with his arm. Her fingers curled around the fabric, yet it felt as if she could reach past that to the flesh beneath. He wanted to fling it away, wanted to pull her to him and kiss her with all the deepest longing residing in his heart.

  She finally spoke in hope, “I would wish it so.”

  There were many thoughts that came to mind when he looked at Geljon. Friendship was not one of them. “Nay, lass, friends we can never be.”

  She opened her mouth to say more, but suddenly the barn door was jerked open and two people pushed in, unaware others were already in the barn. Fletcher reached out and tugged the hood of her mantle up to cover Geljon’s head, flinching when he considered there would be little hiding her identity because of the cloak’s brilliant red color. Leaning over to push under the rope gate, he took hold of her upper arms and hurriedly moved her back into the shadows.

  A man and a woman, laughing and grappling with each other, stumbled toward the pile of hay in the corner. Clearly, it was one of Damian’s men and a serving wench trysting where they thought none would see. He pulled Geljon toward the far egress, eased the side door open, and helped her step over the plank threshold and into the dark night. The snow seemed to cause everything to be brighter, and he was conscious of people still coming and going in the bailey.

  The twilight was beautiful, though he little noticed. The ground was blanketed by the falling snow, and the fluffy flakes fell so heavily they covered Geljon’s red cloak, giving her a measure of protection as he walked her back to the castle. They kept their heads down, and walked past others coming toward them, moving too fast and dodging the falling snow to pay them notice. He was worried about how to get Geljon inside, without drawing too much attention, when his name was called.

  Aithinne laughed and came running up. She smashed a ball of snow into Fletcher’s face, then danced back to her husband, who let loose with another handful of snow, but missed her.

  “We sent the Lady Geljon with Eiry’s nightly apple,” Damian said loudly, enough so the passing people heard. They were covering for Geljon’s being in the stable with him. “Come, my friends, join our battle before we go in to enjoy some warm mead and listen to the bard. Surely, Fletcher and I can pelt you ladies into surrender.”

  Aithinne did not give her husband a chance, but attacked, hitting both Damian and Fletcher before they could gather up a ball of snow. Laughing, Geljon joined into the fun. For a heartbeat, Fletcher watched the antics, as the two women hammered Damian with the slushy snow.

  Geljon’s mantle fell back, and she looked over her shoulder at Fletcher. Her face was alight with happiness. An expression he wished with all his heart would forever flood her countenance. She deserved the feeling of joy.

  Damian growled, “Fletcher, lend some aid, for God’s sake.”

  Feeling life had taken a strange turn that he little understood, Fletcher scooped up a handful of snow and went to join the amusement.

  ****

  Fletcher stood watching the moody weather. Off and on all day it had rained, alternating with soggy big snowflakes in the mix. As the gloaming embraced the hills ringing Coinnleir Wood, Mother Earth had summoned up a storm to match his pensive emotions. A torrent of rain so hard you could not see out into the bailey, now shifted to freezing rain and snow, to where it appeared a waterfall of white ran off the edge of the castle.

  He stood, enjoying being alone, away from the noise and ribaldry of the Great Hall. As he had his whole life, he felt the outsider. The castle workers and soldiery, whilst polite and welcoming since his coming to Coinnleir Wood, made it known they considered him part of Damian’s world, and not one of them.

  Oddly, they little seemed to care he was English, nor that he was a bastard. Few missed the meaning of the bar sinister upon his shield. They treated him with respect and deference, but not in friendship. On the other hand, he felt ill-at-ease with his position above the salt. Damian made it clear to the serfs and his men they were to view Fletcher as his brother, and reinforced that impression at each opportunity. It was clear Damian worked to keep the men’s minds to accept Fletcher’s command, and discourage a bond of friendship.

  Thus, after a meal, when the people broke into groups for evening talk, to jest or listen to the bard, the comradery, which he was not a part of, left him restless. ’Twas fine, he had little need of such closeness of fellowship. He preferred the quietude of his own company, or now that Eiry was his, the time alone with the horse. Even so, it was hard to find such moments whilst living in a fortress. Someone was always coming or going.

  Now, Geljon trailed after him and refused to stop. The corner of his mouth tugged up reluctantly, summoning her image in his mind.

  “I would give a coin for your thoughts, but I dunna think I have even a silver penny.”

  Fletcher turned to find Geljon, standing just paces away. For a heartbeat he thought her a vision, conjured from his yearnings. He had not heard the door open or close. She wore a brown mantle, the hood edged with grey wolf’s fur, covered her head. Surely, she was naught more than a figment of his deep and growing love for her? He blinked thrice before believing she was truly there.

  It alarmed him that he had allowed anyone to approach without his awareness. Such laxness could see a knife shoved into his back. Mayhap, at ten and a score years, he had grown weary of war and fighting.

  “I will not remind you ’tis unwise for you to be out here with me. Methinks you a simpleton…or hard of hearing.” In spite of coming out here to find that peace of silence that made him at one with himself, he was oddly pleased she had come.

  “Truly? Y
ou believe such of me?” She came to stand beside him. “I hear you, Fletcher. I just dunna obey you. You are not my lord husband.”

  His lower jaw set against his upper teeth, nearly grinding. “Nor ever will be, eh? Your betrothed arrives on the morrow, I hear.”

  “I hear the same.” She spoke of the messenger that arrived with the noontide meal, bringing word that David Leslie and his party would reach Coinnleir Wood by the gloaming on the following day. Geljon’s hand took hold of the edge of the mantle, and began rocking from side-to-side. “Or perchance the Lady of Winter sends this strengthening storm to block the passes into Glen Shane.”

  Fletcher turned to look at her, trying to judge her mood. She seemed calm, mayhap touched with a bit of mischief. “You do not seem upset that possibility might come to pass.”

  Her rocking continued. “I have told you I accept my lot. That does no’ mean I am the simpleton you might think me, nor does accepting mean embracing.” Her hazel eyes stared out into the storm, though there was little to see. “I met the Leslie Tanist this October past.”

  Something dark and hot unfurled in the pit of his stomach. “And?”

  “Aye. We traveled to the Leslie stronghold of Glendower for the Samhaine festival.” She gave a playful grin. “Are you no’ going to ask me what he is like?”

  Her playful spirit both intrigued and irritated him in the same breath. “’Tis not a driving concern.” Yet, in a perverse way, it was. He did not want to put a face to the man who would spend his life with Geljon. Jealousy was a burning, breathing demon within his mind. He did not want to see them together, building a future. Most especial—he wanted no clear images of them. When he closed his eyes at night and sought to find sleep, he didn’t want sharp visions of Leslie kissing her, holding her…touching her. It would be much easier to see in his mind’s eye a faceless being. Somehow, it would make it less real, see it easier to live with the fact he could never be that man.

  “You will see him—if he comes on the morrow.” A faint frown bracketed her small mouth. “He is not as tall as you. Scots seldom have the long legs you Sasunnach do. And typically, he has the red hair that comes from blood of old Dálriada. Women would say he was handsome. His men seem to like him. But…” Her words faltered.

  Some thread in her voice caused him concern. He reached out and took hold of her upper arms and turned her to face him. “What is it, lass?”

  Geljon gave him a faint smile. Her lower lip quivered betraying the effort. “I wish I knew. I think if I could have told my áthair why I did no’ wish to marry Leslie he might have listened to my fears. Instead, when I could offer nothing, he said it was only my maidenly fears, and ’tis what happens when a woman waits too late to marry.”

  Fletcher was hurting inside, yet he put those jumbled feelings aside, because he sensed how troubled she was. “Mayhap your sire is right.”

  She shook her head, lowering her vision and leaned into him. His hands tried to keep her a step away, concern for her, but more frightened if he permitted her to take that last step he would be lost, no control over his deep need for this woman. She glanced up to meet his eyes. “I ken this to be a lie. I would not hesitate to lie with you, Fletcher St. Giles. I would give myself willingly, asking aught in return.”

  ****

  The Yule log burned brightly in the massive fireplace, throwing a festive amber glow to the celebration in the Great Hall. Retreating to a far corner, Fletcher sat sipping a tankard of heather mead. One of the trins had kindly fetched it for him—Lewis he thought, but in the room lit by fat woad candles and firelight, ’twas hard to espy differences between the three lads. Having grown accustomed to their antics, at first he had been suspicious. When around them, one learnt to mistrust on sight, then later adjust thoughts once their intentions became clearer. Lewis had offered a genuine grin, with eyes that said he understood Fletcher’s misery—David Leslie had come to Coinnleir Wood, and now, all was changed. Fletcher sighed. He supposed the whole bloody fortress knew of what had grown between Geljon and him these past weeks, and aware Leslie was here to take her away.

  All eyes were full of sympathy when they looked at him. And the pity made Fletcher want to puke.

  So, when Lewis—or whichever one he was—brought the tankard of the special heather mead, Fletcher assumed it was in sympathy. So be it. He downed the damn thing, thinking it would be bitter, weedy to the taste. Instead, the honey-brew drink was pleasing on the tongue. When Aithinne’s brother brought him another, he accepted it, as well.

  Looking up from the drink, he watched as a blindfolded Aithinne was spun around and around by the other two—Deward and Hugh—with help from a couple of small children, belonging to the servants. The whole hall laughed as the group stepped back from the lady of Coinnleir Wood. The children scampered to a shadowy corner, giggling. Fletcher little paid attention to the antics, as Aithinne carefully moved around the large room, using the tip of her boot to reach out before she blindly stepped forward. This game and the purpose held no interest for him.

  Unable to stop his gaze from straying, his eyes sought out Geljon. She sat stiffly on the bench beside Leslie, a forced smile upon her lovely face. Her eyes stayed straight ahead, barely taking part in the festivities. She pretended interest in the Yule game, yet she appeared on edge, like a fawn ready to take flight at the first snap of a twig.

  As though she could feel the ghostly caress of his stare, she turned her head faintly, their eyes locking. The whole room seemed to darken and recede; all people moving in front of him, beside him, were faceless. He could only see Geljon. She wore a hunter’s green gown, trimmed in gold, and a thin gold circlet adorned her brow. She had never looked more beautiful.

  Heat flooded his body as he recalled being alone with her on the portico three nights ago, and having her in his arms, hearing her words that she would give herself to him without hesitation. Unable to resist, he had lowered his head to brush his lips across her soft waiting mouth. Damian had opened the doors and broken the spell. Giving Fletcher a quelling glare, he escorted Geljon back inside the fortress.

  The snow had not been deep enough to keep David Leslie away, so he had arrived early the following day. Since then, there had been no time to speak with Geljon alone. Each time he had heard steps behind him, he had spun around with hope rising in his heart only to find it was just some castle worker scurrying about her duties. No Fletcher’s Shadow. He missed her presence, and that longing was a stark reminder of what would fill his days once she was gone to Glendower to be the bride of another man.

  His sight moved passed Geljon to the man sitting on her far side. Fletcher judged the man to be around his own age, mayhap a few years older. ’Twas hard to tell with the fair complexion. His dark auburn hair hung down to his shoulders in fine waves, with stubborn locks falling over his forehead. He was handsome enough, with the strong square jaw, but there was—as Geljon said—some indefinable air that was off-putting. He studied the man watching Aithinne stumbling toward the Scotsman, then chuckled as Deward and Hugh came up behind her and nearly pushed their sister into his lap. Everyone laughed and applauded, as she caught herself by putting her hands out to break her fall. She grasped his broad shoulders with both hands, but then used one to push the blindfold to the top of her head.

  “Oh, my lord. You are the Oak King this season,” she exclaimed. Righting herself, she gave a questioning glance to her two brothers.

  One of the girl children came rushing forward, holding a laurel made of dried oak leaves, the autumnal colors still bright. She bobbed a rocky curtsey and handed it to Aithinne. Damian’s wife turned back to Leslie and placed the ring of leaves upon his brow.

  “I must say, my lord, with your auburn hair you make a fine looking Oak King.” Aithinne then accepted the quarterstaff that Hugh handed her, and passed it to Leslie. “You, sir, shall do battle with the Holly King this eve, to stay the night and set the world heading back toward spring.”

  He gave her a broad smile and nodde
d. “’Twould be my honor to save the land from eternal darkness, Lady Aithinne.”

  “May I join you, Fletcher?” Damian materialized at Fletcher’s elbow and stood holding a tankard.

  Confused, Fletcher blinked to switch his focus. The mead had gone down smoothly, too smoothly he feared, for he was starting to feel the potent effects. The temperature of the room suddenly seemed hotter and his head felt full of clouds. “Why shouldst you require my consent to sit in your own holding?”

  “I thought mayhap you were sitting here brooding. Brooding generally requires a fair amount of solitude.” Damian sat down, straddling the bench. He took a mouthful from his tankard, regarding Fletcher over the rim. “You are brooding, are you no’?”

  “I am watching your brothers-by-marriage spin their sister around like a top. Be forewarned: she will probably empty her stomach on your bed later from being made so dizzy.” Fletcher avoided answering Damian’s question by directing his friend’s attention back to his lady wife. “You might wish to rescue her from their frolics.”

  Damian glanced back over his shoulder at the three lookalike brothers steering Aithinne about the room. “Oh, she is used to them and their ways. You know, Fletcher, there are always options in this world. You have shunned stepping into them for years because you believe you are not worthy. When it was just yourself to be concerned about, this rebellious bent was fine. Howbeit, if you truly love the girl, then mayhap we can figure something out. An alliance with the Dragons of Challon is a prize above all, eh? Well, Aithinne is the queen of lies and plans. How I ended up in her bed. We might get her opinion on what to scheme and plot.”

  Fletcher tried to drown hope with another swallow of the drink. “There be naught to do. She accepts the marriage.”

  “Never say never, they warn. The gods have a way of laughing when you do. And cipher on this: accepting is not embracing this coming alliance.” Damian’s brows lifted in challenge.