Lyn Stone - The Knight's Bride

“My lord husband has been detained?” she asked, her soft speech as welcoming as her smile. He supposed the speaking of French most of her life had mellowed it so, though she spoke the more gutteral English with hardly any accent. He recalled her father was a Scot, a baron and a highly educated man. Living at the French court a goodly part of her life would have exposed her to many languages. Tavish had boasted of her accomplishments. A woman of vast charm and keen wits, he had said.

Alan cradled her soft palms, raising her fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, reluctant to release her. She smelled as heaven must, of rose water and absolute cleanliness. The woman radiated gentleness and contentment; a contentment he must now destroy. God’s own truth, how he hated this task.

Placing her palms together, he encased them in his own and shook his head sadly. “Because I stood his friend and comrade-at-arms, Tavish bade me bring ye all his love, Lady Honor. His last thoughts were of ye.”

“No!” she cried, snatching her hands from his. A fiery epithet scorched the air between them. A French word, if memory served him, and one that ought not be uttered in the presence of a priest. Surely he had misheard, but that and others like it were the only French he knew.

He watched her, in awe of the change. She paced frantically, kicking her heavy skirts forward. Her palms slammed against the needlework frame, scattering skeins of silk thread the length of the room. Then she marched smartly back to where he stood and cracked her palm against his newly shaved cheek.

Alan stood fast, hurting for her as he saw her fury dissolve into grief.

The young priest hovered uncertainly as Alan took the lady in his arms, cradling her lightly against him, muttering softly in Gaelic. He held her loosely as she repeatedly pounded one small fist against his silk-covered mail. By the rood, how he had dreaded doing this, and ’twas worse even than he had expected.

He shot the priest a look of helplessness over the top of her head. “Father Dennis, a posset to soothe?” he suggested, hoping to stir the befuddled young fool into action. Some priest, this one. Unmoving as a standing stone and about as much use. “Th’ lass is overset! Bestir yerself!”

“No! No posset!” she said, shoving away. “I’ll hear this now. All of it.” Savagely, she wiped her face with the edge of her linen undersleeve and sniffed loudly. Within seconds, she had composed herself and raised her brave wee chin. Large, luminous eyes brimmed with more tears, which she refused to let fall. Her braw courage near cracked his heart in twain.

“Come you,” she ordered briskly. She grasped Alan’s wrist with both hands, guided him to the padded window seat and pushed him onto it. She remained standing so they were near eye to eye. “Now you will tell me. Father Dennis, would you see to—” She paused to draw a deep breath. “See to my lord’s remains?”

Alan shook his head, looking from her to the priest. “I did that already. He bides little more than a league away, ’twixt the Tweed and a wee burn. That’s what he wished.”

The winged brows drew together in a scowl. “Not home to Byelough? Why?”

“He didna want ye seeing him as he was. I promised.”

She gulped, touching her chin to her chest. “How...how was he, then?”

“Met death as he met life, head up and leanin‘ forward. ’Tis all ye need know.”

“Devil curse you, sir! I would know it all. Everything. I must!” she demanded, biting her lips and wringing her hands together. A visible shudder ran through her, but then she braced up like a soldier.

Alan drew her to the wide seat and pulled her down beside him. Looking directly into her tear-brimmed eyes, he gave exactly what she asked for. “Toward the end of the fight, an English blade took Tav’s leg ‘twixt knee and hip. I tied it off and put fire to seal it soon as I could strike one up. Then I found an English baggage wain to cart him home. He died four days ago. I gave him what solace I could, my lady. Ye gave him more, I’m thinking, if ’tis any comfort at all. He loved ye well and worried for ye.”

She absorbed the words in silence, her fingernails biting his palms, her eyes searching his. Suddenly she nodded, released his hands, and stood, dismissing him. “Stay to sup and sleep in the hall. Tomorrow you may take me to him.”

“Aye, and glad to,” Alan agreed. Then he reached into the lining of the English surcoat and pulled out the folded message from Tavish. “He sent ye this.”

She thumbed the broken seal and frowned. “You have read it?”

“Nay, I swear not. The Bruce did so agin my wishes, but he strongly approved the words. Made them his own command and bade me tell ye to obey. Immediately, he said.”

The lady seemed not to hear as her gaze flew over the message. Disbelief dawned on her face, then contorted the fair features into something approaching horror.

The troubled gray eyes flew to his and narrowed with suspicion. “You wrote this! Oh, it bears Tavish’s name and is signed by his hand, but you made the rest. Foul! And you call yourself his friend? Shame on you to use a dying man for your own gain!”

“Lady, I did not...could not,” Alan protested, looking to the priest for help. “I swear!”

“You did! See how the lines waver, not his fine, steady letters at all!” Her forefinger punched viciously at the crinkled parchment.

“Pain and fever racked him as he made the marks,” Alan explained. “On my soul and all that’s holy, Lady, I canna write! I canna even read! God’s truth, I dinna lie. I never lie!”

Lady Honor turned away from him, dropping the letter as though it were filth. The priest picked it up and read. Alan heard him gasp. “You are to marry!” Father Dennis exclaimed.

So that was all. Ah well, Alan understood now. The poor lass hated being dished out like a treat to whomever Tavish wanted to hold his lands. He could not blame her in the least.

Marry, indeed! Why, she needed time to accept Tav’s death. He would see she got her time, and no mistake. All the time she wanted. The hell with Bruce.

He laid a hand on her back and patted gently. “I’ll bide and protect ye, my lady. I’m certain Tav only wanted to—”

She rounded on him with her hands on her hips, leaning forward with her chin up. “What about what I want? I have no wish to wed anyone. Especially not you!”

“Me?” Alan heard the word croak out of his mouth, leaving a bad taste behind. Then another followed, more in the nature of a groan. “Marry?” He backed up and dropped to the window seat, his knees too weak to hold him. “Oh, shite!”

“Just so!” Lady Honor snatched the letter from the priest’s hand and, crumpling it under Alan’s nose, assaulted him in rapid French. Still shocked by Tav’s orders and unable to grasp more than the occasional word, he simply stared at her until she switched to English.

“Saints! He has commanded us to wed this day! This very day! He swore that he loved me and now he demands that I marry a—”

. “A what?”

“A highland savage,” she retorted, shaking a finger under his nose. “Mais oui, I can tell by your speech that is what you are in spite of that fine mail you wear! And ignorant, as well, by your own admission!”

“Unlettered, Lady. ‘Tis not the same as ignorant. And de’il take ye wi’ all yer plaguey French airs! Ye’re still a Scot yersel’!”

“Praise God, only half!” she shouted.

“Then I wish to God ‘twas th’ upper half wi’ th’ mouth!”

She gaped. Her chest heaved up and down like a bellows. Alan wrestled with his anger until he had a firm grip on it. Surely ’twas only her grief speaking here. Shock had undone her, and him carrying on as if she were to blame for it all.