One Winter Knight Page 9

  Fletcher frowned. “She used those very words.”

  Damian’s bright green eyes fixed on David Leslie behind Aithinne. “So, what opinion hold you about the Tanist of Clan Leslie?”

  “I have no trust for the man,” Fletcher spoke what was at the front of his thoughts.

  Damian chuckled. “Oh? Dare I ask why?”

  Fletcher recalled Geljon telling him that she could never place a finger on the fault that set her feelings off kilter. He was determined to be specific. “He does not have eyebrows.”

  Damian nearly choked and spluttered on his mead. “Eyebrows? I never kenned they were a measure of a man before. Besides, he has brows.”

  “But they are that ginger type that is so fair they blend into the skin. I never trust anyone without eyebrows. If they do not have brows, what else are they lacking that they hide?”

  Damian shook his head at the silly notion. “Either you have drunk too much of the mead, or jealousy rots your mind.” This time, Damian’s eyes landed on Geljon, who was still looking toward them. “She still watches you.”

  David Leslie’s pale hazel eyes looked to the side at Geljon and observed her staring at the man across the room. Then, Leslie’s gaze lifted to meet Fletcher’s, dawning recognition rising in them. Fletcher did not turn away, but met the man’s cool appraisal with one of his own. What Fletcher saw there was passing odd: no jealousy, just a calculating assessment that the woman he was betrothed to marry preferred to gaze at another man. A riddle in the making, if only Fletcher could wield his muddled thoughts.

  The small girls were pushing at the thighs of Aithinne’s brothers, and they, in turn, were driving the once-more blindfolded lady, this time in their direction. Suddenly, Hugh seemed to trip on his feet and fall hard into the back of Aithinne, who, in turn, toppled into Damian and Fletcher. They caught her before any harm was done. Everyone howled and clapped with glee at the madcap amusement. Damian righted his wife to where she was sitting upon his lap.

  She pushed the tied cloth up to smile at Fletcher. “Well, well…the machinations of Lady Fate decrees—with a wee push from a brother mine—that you are to be the King of Holly. Very fitting, I must say.”

  “Nay, look elsewhere, my lady,” Fletcher laughed, uneasy. What sort of tricks were the trins playing now? He glanced to Damian to assess his reaction to this turn.

  A tow-headed little girl danced to Aithinne and handed her a crown made of holly and red berries and branches fashioned to appear like antlers. “You have no choice. The battle between the Oak King and the King of Holly is an ancient one, going back to the dawn of time. The Oak Lord battles to keep the night at bay—”

  Fletcher was growing annoyed. “Aye, I know the lore. The Oak Lord banishes the coming night to make sure the sun returns at Springtide. All children have heard these ancient tales.” He’d be damned if he’d go through with this farce. Ancient customs could go to the devil. ’Twas bad enough he was forced to stand aside and watch Geljon with the man she would soon wed, but to be compelled to play out that loss before all in this mock contest was too much to expect of him. “Find someone else to mime your mummery.”

  Aithinne gave him a patient smile. “To you, they are tales. To my people, they are tradition. If we do not banish the night this eve, the long night of the Winter Solstice, then we shall face a dark winter season that will be long and harsh. Please?”

  Lewis held out the staff to him. “I always thought it odd, that the Holly Lord was the one to be banished. His leaves never die; they are forevermore green, showing life that hope never dies. The Oak fights long, holding onto their leaves, but come time, they wither and die. Also, holly is a plant so treasured this time of year. But the Auld Ones never asked me what I thought of this battle. Come, Fletcher, you be one of the best at the quarterstaff. Do the Holly King justice. Damian mimed him last year, and his heart was not in it. We had a bad winter because of it. Our people would appreciate a hero to help drive the gloom and cold away.”

  Fletcher wanted to push the staff aside, but everyone in the room began chanting words of encouragement. All eyes were upon him, and for more reason than some bit of ancient lore. David Leslie and he were to fight, even if a mock battle. His eyes sought out Geljon once more. She was looking at him, like she always did, though concern flickered in the grey depths.

  Leslie was already standing, an arrogant grin on his face. “Come, Sasunnach, dunna disappoint all here.” He spread his grip on the staff and held it out at chest level. “Unless…you be affeared to fight a braw Scot?”

  Fletcher wanted to wipe that condescending smile off the man’s face. He snatched the quarterstaff from Lewis’s grip. Rolling the long pole in his hands, he followed Aithinne to the center of the Great Hall.

  Everyone gathered around the edges of the great room, children sitting on the floor, whilst their elders pulled the long benches into a better position, or stood at the back, hoping for a better view of the coming display. Excitement gleamed upon their faces.

  Aithinne began, “The Auld Ones witnessed a great rivalry since the light first kissed the earth. The battle of two great kings. One dark and one light. Twice a year, they would come to do battle for the lands. They would fight heroically. The Holly King, the dark one, would rule the Wintertide and set the sun to dimming. As the nights grew longer, so did his strength, his control of this world. The Oak King held reign over summer, and was blessed with the power of the waxing light. Their biggest battle would come at Yule, and a mighty struggle it was. The Oak King’s powers were at their weakest, whilst the Holly King’s strength and wield were at pinnacle. If the Oak King failed to banish the Holly King, then he would rule the country in a swirl of snow storms, preventing Springtide’s return. Through his valiant effort, the Oak King must find the power to drive the Holly King away, so he may woo the Maid of Spring.”

  As Fletcher stood on one side of Aithinne, staring unblinkingly at David Leslie on the other, he felt a queer itch between his shoulder blades. He was to play the Holly King—the dark lord. And perfectly cast, Leslie was the fair lord. And naturally, his thoughts returned to the maid he would win—Geljon. An ancient tradition, yet it felt as if it was being played out for real in this game of mime. Was this design by man or the whims of ancient gods?

  By the Saints, the mead’s influence was hitting him, causing his vision to swim. Everything was too hot, and he was having a hard time drawing breath. There were too many people, and all staring at the two men in their circle. Aithinne was talking, going on about the meaning of the rite. Her words fell upon his ears like a waterfall.

  He could only see Geljon. She had moved to the center of one bench, and sat clutching her hands together. Between them was a small sprig of holly. Did that hold significance?

  “What ho, Sasunnach? Say that we seem to fit these kings of the land who must wage battle?” Leslie rocked the long pole back and forth between his hands.

  Aithinne gave a nervous laugh. “’Tis only a mock battle, my lords. We know the outcome. The Oak Lord must win to bring the sun back to the lands.”

  Leslie flashed a grin of innocence. “Naturally, my lady. ’Tis evident to all the Scottish oak must prevail over the English holly.”

  Fletcher took a breath, striving to regain control. Lewis moved past him, going to take a seat next to Geljon. He blocked the lad’s path. “Knave, did you put something in the mead?” Catching him by the arm, he spoke lowly so only the two of them could hear.”

  “Me? Nay. ’Twas Lewis who took you the drink. I am Deward. ’Tis the Picts’ heather mead. ’Tis spake it makes a warrior stronger, invincible. The properties are fabled. ’Tis only given to those who are special.”

  Fletcher opened his mouth to ask more, but suddenly, Leslie’s staff came slashing from out of nowhere, cracking against Fletcher’s with a noise so loud that everyone in the room jumped. Since his grip was loose about the long rod, the vibration nearly caused him to drop the heavy wooden quarterstaff and lose his balance. Leslie
lost no time in delivering yet another blow that pushed Fletcher backward, nearly knocking Deward over as well.

  “So, this is the best man with a quarterstaff? The English must like to spend their time in bed making love, rather than on the training field,” Leslie taunted. “It does seem the Oak King is stronger this Turn of the Wheel. The battle mayhap shall be a short one, eh, and we can forward look to an early spring.”

  Fletcher kept backing up, but he now had a better hold on the heavy pole, so the vibrations were not traveling up his arms and rattling his muscles to the point of numbness. The fifth swing saw him blocking Leslie firmly, which brought surprise to the pale hazel eyes. Only, the man countered and then spun in a full circle, his plaide flying about him, to catch Fletcher with a swat to the seat of his pants.

  When the crowd laughed, the arrogant Scotsman actually turned and took a bow. Smug and full of élan, Leslie hopped upon the end of the table and swung around on his hips to where he could sit just above Geljon. His tartan rose to where his lower thigh was fleetingly exposed. “Ah, fair Maid of Spring, shall you be the bride of the Oak King and rid this land of English holly?”

  The crowd roared with more laughter, the scores of faces taking on a distorted bent in Fletcher’s eyes. He kept blinking, trying to hold onto his focus. This whole affair was quickly becoming a nightmare. He could not seem to find the concentration to attack. He watched Leslie pick up Geljon’s hand and place a kiss to the back of it. She snatched it away. Fletcher’s vision filled with red. A boiling anger reared its head as he watched the strutting peacock, stand up on the bench, and then step higher onto the table, walking its length.

  “Come, Sasunnach, you are supposed to put on a show for all.” Leslie spread his arms to encompass the room and flashed a smile at a comely wench, standing off to the side. Giving a yell, he jumped over the heads of the seated children to land before Fletcher.

  Only this time, Fletcher met the Scotsman’s swing with a full force of his own. Clearly, the move surprised the haughty Tanist.

  “What, ho?” he jested, yet the light shifted in those pale eyes, nearly the same shade as his auburn hair. “The Sasunnach tailed-dog has teeth.”

  “Aye, I do and I plan on keeping them. The same might not be said about you at the end of this mock battle.” Fletcher, still lightheaded, felt his warrior’s instincts taking over. He quickly fell into the rhythm of attacks, recoil to block a counterattack, and before Leslie could reposition, attack again, harder, quicker. Overconfidence was getting the better of the man, replaced by anger as his moves, now less assured, were done in haste and in a determination to get in harder blows.

  The spark of cocksureness faded as it became clearer that Fletcher was the stronger of the two men. He was also faster and more agile. He had a feeling Leslie had not come up against such a skilled fighter before. The man was strong enough. Perhaps as the Tanist, the heir to the chiefship of the clan, people gave him an easier path in life, and the young men did not press or challenge him.

  “I admit you can handle the quarterstaff well— especial for a bloody Sasunnach—but it shall be a good wedding gift for Geljon to see you defeated. I am the golden king. You are the dark one. I shall banish you and take the Spring Maid this night. A wedding is made in the Highlands when two people speak they are husband and wife. Why not turn this festive night into a wedding celebration?”

  Leslie was goading him. Fletcher knew this, but it was damn hard not to shove the metal tipped pole down his arrogant throat. There simply was no stopping images of Geljon beneath this naked Scotsman, and the visions were a hell. Geljon should be taken in gentleness and love, not by this pompous swine. She deserved awe, respect, and a passion born of the fire of devotion. Fletcher knew he may be bastard born, but he was an honorable man. He had family connections, though he had never called upon that bond before. Mayhap the time was now. Leslie might offer her many material advantages, but there was one thing he could give Geljon that the Tanist could not—he loved her.

  As these vague notions rose in his mind, possibilities he had not considered before, his swings with the quarterstaff grew more assured. Aye, mayhap Clan Leslie had a lot to offer the smaller sept of Seacrests. But they were a branch of Clan Ogilvie, why Geljon’s father had sent her to stay with Aithinne. Well, if the man was terrified of the English controlling the lands, why not an alliance with the mighty Dragons of Challon, already wed to Ogilvie heiresses? What better way to see the old man assured his daughter would be protected, and see his clan lands stay secure?

  If you truly love the girl, then mayhap we can figure something out. Fletcher knew Geljon wanted him; it was the matter of convincing her father. Not a simple trick, but one he could master. He would do anything to win her hand. With the invincible spirt of the heather mead coursing through him, and the renewed acceptance he might be able to stop this coming marriage, he brought the staff down with such might that it shattered Leslie’s weapon and sent him sprawling backward, and into the group of people near the fire. Everyone gasped and scrambled.

  The Tanist was shocked, but that emotion quickly morphed into rage, a deep glowing resentment that saw from this day forward they would be mortal enemies. So be it. Fletcher tossed the quarterstaff down at the feet of Leslie and gave him a crooked smile.

  A gasped silence lingered in the Great Hall as his words rang out. “It seems the Oak King was not strong enough to defeat the Holly King this season. Pity, that.”

  Fletcher turned, seeking to find Geljon. He wanted to go to her and tell her of his plans. Just as he spotted her standing with Aithinne, there were shouts behind him. He spun around in time to see Leslie had picked up the other staff and had made a wide swing toward the back of his head. A killing blow, had he not been alerted of the attack. Without a weapon to block the strike, all he could do was duck to the side. Even that maneuver was not good enough, for the staff caught him a glancing jolt on the back of his shoulder. The pain lanced through his body, causing him to stagger. People jumped to their feet and several men rushed to stop Leslie.

  Damian stepped before Fletcher and Leslie. “You are in my home, a guest, and yet you struck a coward’s blow to Fletcher. That is a blow to my brother and shall be addressed as such. I do not think your sire shall appreciate the affront to kinsmen of the Black Dragon. Think hard on that before your heated head causes you to make enemy of one of the mightiest warriors on either side of the border.”

  Leslie’s men, gathering behind him, shared expressions of worry as they looked to their leader. One reached out and touched the man’s back in gesture of caution.

  Fletcher blinked thrice to push back against the pain. He could just barely raise his right hand to his belt, for the numbing was spreading down his arm. Tugging out the leather gauntlets tucked up under it, he allowed one to fall to the floor whilst he took hold of its mate. Walking past Damian, he stopped before Leslie and just stared at him. In a move that he had witnessed Julian Challon do a hundred times, he just flicked his eyelashes in a condescending manner that said the man was beneath him.

  Leslie dare not move. His pride would not let him. Still, as Fletcher simply looked at him, he read cowardice in the man’s hazel eyes. “I never trusted a man with no brows. Now, I know why.” So fast, before the Tanist saw the blow coming, he slapped him with the leather glove. Hard. The crack echoed around the room. “On the Field of Honor, and on a date of your choosing. The sooner the better.”

  Leslie’s hand went to his mouth, and dabbed at the trickle bleeding from the corner of his lower lip. He drew it back and glanced at the blood on his fingers. “To the death, then. On the—”

  “My Lord Ravenhawke!” Lady Aithinne’s personal guard, Einar, a tall Viking, called loudly from the doorway. “A messenger has come. Under a pennon of blue and gold, bearing a demi griffin Proper—crest of Clan Leslie.”

  All eyes turned, waiting for the Norseman to enter. Boots followed behind him, sounding on the stone floor. Soggy from riding through the snow, th
e messenger entered, his eyes immediately searching for David Leslie. He rushed forward, as Fletcher and Damian took two steps back to let him through.

  He bent knee before the Tanist. “Beg pardon, my lord, I come with tides from the laird. There be trouble in the glen. Longshanks has sent soldiery and knights into the vale. They are demanding entrance to the stronghold and to be garrisoned there. Ye needs must come with haste.”

  Leslie nodded and then signaled his men. “Sadly, for I was looking at showing this arrogant Sasunnach who is the better man, it seems I must depart without rest. You, Lady Aithinne, see Geljon be made ready to depart within the hour—”

  “Nay—” Fletcher growled dissent

  Damian placed his right arm outstretched across Fletcher’s chest. “Lady Geljon was brought to us by her lord father. He is now on his way here. She remains until he comes to fetch her. That was the arrangement.”

  Fletcher was surprised when the man sketched a nod of acquiescence. A vexed expression crossed his face, but he clearly knew this was not the time to argue. “Very well. And you—the bastard of St. Giles—we shall keep that appointment on my return. I have pressing business that needs my presence.” With that, he shot Geljon a dark look, and then spun on his heels, leaving the Great Hall.

  ****

  Lewis and Deward were lowly singing a bawdy song, their voices echoing softly against stone walls. At least they told him it was bawdy. Since they did so in the Scots tongue, Fletcher could only pick out the few words with which he was familiar. Hugh ran ahead, opening doors and checking the passageways to make sure all was clear. The free of what seemed to escape Fletcher’s mind at the moment. Little made sense at this point. He was supported by the two lads, his arms around their necks, and he was not entirely sure his legs were supporting his weight, or they were half-dragging him. Nor did he have any idea why they were helping him to his room.