Suzanne Barclay - Lion's Lady

“Lawd, that must be Blantyre Castle,” Clem Gunn said from the pack of clansmen who rode behind her. “Is it not the grandest place ye’ve ever seen?”

Rowena looked ahead, her eyes widening. Blantyre rose out of the fog, spires pricking the sullen sky from behind tall, stout walls. The lights shining from the square towers beckoned, offering warmth and comport Like a stalwart gray sentinel, the edifice seemed to offer sanctuary. Or was it only her need for a haven that made her fancy she’d find one here?

The gatehouse bristled with armed men, but Lion was instantly recognized and the drawbridge lowered. Over the narrow causeway they rode, and into the spacious outer bailey. The grassy field was crammed with tents of all description, from fine canvas ones to drab bits of oiled cloth. ’Twas like a miniature city, really, with stables, a blacksmith and even an ale tent set up by an enterprising merchant.

“Who are these men?” Clem asked.

“Likely the men come to help the earl subdue the outlaws,” Eneas replied. “Large as it is, there would not be room for so many inside Blantyre. The most important of the clan leaders would have chambers inside the castle. And those of lesser rank might steep six and eight to a room in pallets on the floor.”

“Where will we sleep?” Rowena asked faintly.

“I’d wager that Lord Lion will find a cozy spot for you...in his room,” Eneas said nastily.

He would not dare. Would he? “I will seek out the steward and ask if I may have a pallet in the serving maids’ garret,” she said firmly. Yet her trepidation grew as they rode under the sharp teeth of the portcullis into the inner bailey.

The cobbled courtyard was bounded on all four sides by stark gray walls, the great tower of the castle rising five stories above them like a stone giant. The area teemed with activity like a disorderly hive. Some men practiced with dirk and sword, their curses and grunts ringing off the stone walls, their flailing weapons imperiling those who chanced to walk too close. Other men sat about drinking or dicing.

“See what Lion’s brought us,” shouted a coarse voice. “A fresh, winsome lassie.”

All activity stopped. Men lowered their swords and stared. Others left off their gaming and watched goggle-eyed as Lion led his band to the foot of the main stairway. Then they surged forward, an unkempt tide of shouting males.

Rowena gasped and recoiled in the saddle.

“Back!” Lion roared. “All of you.” His command was reinforced by a solid wall of Sutherland targes and swords. “These people are my guests.” Lion’s hard, censorious gaze wandered over the crowd. One after another, the men shrugged and turned back to what they’d been doing.

Lion appeared beside her. “Rowena, I apologize for these men. They are not under my command and—”

“They seemed to obey you.” Evading the hands he extended to lift her down, she slid to the ground on her own.

“Listen to me.” He placed his hands on the saddle, caging her between the horse and himself. “Blantyre is not a safe place. Be on your guard,” he added, thrusting his face close to hers, “lest you find yourself cornered by one of these lechers.”

“You are the only lecher who impugns me.” She drew in a sharp breath and with it the scent that was uniquely Lion’s. It taunted her, brought her senses vividly alive. The small space between them seemed charged with a life of its own. He felt it, too, his long-lashed eyes going wide, his nostrils flaring. Nay. She did not want this. What had been between them was dead, killed by his desertion. “Let me pass,” she said, wishing she sounded firmer, less desperate.

“Lion! Lord Lion!” shouted a high, panicked voice.

Lion turned his head. “Here is Donald Shaw, the steward. Blantyre is crowded, but I will see if I can get him to—”

“We will make our own arrangements,” Rowena said regally, ducking under Lion’s arm.

“There’s no room,” Donald exclaimed as he waddled down the main stairway. His round belly heaved before him like a bag full of fighting cats. “No room at all. Neither in the castle nor the outer bailey.” He stopped beside Eneas Gunn, apparently having picked him out as the leader of these newcomers. “Ye’ll have to pitch a tent outside the walls.”

“The hell you say.” Eneas leaped from the saddle and glowered down at Donald from his considerable height advantage. “I’m Eneas Gunn, and I’ve important business with the earl.”

Donald crossed his arms over his fine woolen tunic. “Lady Glenda, chatelaine of Blantyre, has graciously allowed the earl to use the castle as his headquarters, but my lady has the running of the castle.” He glared up at Eneas. “I say it would not matter if ye were the king’s own brother. There are no beds to be had. Not even a pallet on the—”

Eneas grabbed hold of Donald’s tunic and shook him so the poor man’s chins quivered. “Now listen here, you little—”

“Release him,” Lion said, seizing Eneas’s upper arm.

Swearing loudly, Eneas let go of Donald and tried to shake off the offending hand. “How dare you presume to touch—”

“Be glad I don’t break your arm for leaving your brother’s wife to the MacPhersons.” Lion’s voice was low, yet dangerously tight, his eyes nearly black with anger. “Or beat you bloody for abusing Donald, who is only doing his duty.”

Rowena, who had witnessed a few of Lion’s more passionate outbursts of temper years ago, marveled at this newfound control. Combined with his size and strength, it would make him a formidable opponent.

Eneas, however, was either too blind or too enraged to sense the danger. Curling his lip, he jerked free to address the nearest man. “Where is the earl?”

“Out riding.”

“We will wait, then, to pay our respects and hear what the earl has to say about our accommodations.” Eneas whirled on his own men. “Dismount and stay here.” With a last malevolent glance at Lion, he stomped up the stairs and into the castle.

The name Donald called Eneas under his breath made Lion chuckle. “I know you’re a mite pressed for space, but we’ve an injured man.” He gestured toward the litter his men had set on the ground.

“I’d gladly give up my tiny chamber to show my thanks,” Donald said heartily. “But Felis, the herb woman, has a small chamber where she treats the sick.”

Lion nodded and gave the order to bring Harry. He frowned when Rowena stepped along beside the litter. “There’s no need for you to go. Felis is very skilled.”

Rowena froze him with a glare. “Harry is one of mine. Even had he not been wounded protecting me, I’d still see to him.” Head high, she marched behind in the wake of the litter. Donald led them through a maze of well-lit corridors to a narrow wall chamber.

The herb woman answered the door and ordered the bearers to place Harry on a pallet by the small fire. “’Tis a mortal wound he’s taken, my lady,” she said ominously.

Rowena looked at the blood-soaked pad and grimaced. “Aye, it is severe, but mayhap if it’s stitched shut and a tight compress applied, the bleeding will stop.”

The old woman nodded. “I think ’tis a waste of time, but feel free to use whatever you need.” She gestured to the chest of medicines in the corner. “I’ve been summoned to the village to help with a birthing. The mother lost her last one, poor thing, so I cannot tarry.”

“That is all right. I’ve some skill in such things. Thank you again for the use of this room and your supplies.”

“Aye.” Felis drew on her cloak. “Any friend of Lion’s is deserving of my help,” she said before she left.

Rowena scowled at him.

“Is there anything I can do?” Lion asked hopefully.