Adrienne Basso (5 page)

“Ye’ve a solid knowledge of the language if ye can read it,” he said. “A most unusual skill fer a female.”

“A woman alone has need of all sorts of skills, my lord.”

“Yer no longer alone.” His gaze grew possessive as it meandered over the length of her body. “
I remain unvanquished
is not just our motto, but the creed the McLendons live by. Ye’ll do well to remember that, milady.” He turned away. “Hamish!”

A stocky man with thinning gray hair arrived so quickly Fiona wondered where the servant had been waiting. Close enough to hear the entire exchange? Most likely.

Fiona closed her eyes in mortification, but then chastised herself for being so foolish. There were few secrets kept in a castle, especially concerning the lord of the manor. By the time the evening meal was served, news of the earl’s new English mistress would have spread far and wide.

“Hamish is steward here,” the earl explained. “He’ll see that ye are settled.”

“Hamish.” Fiona attempted a friendly smile. The steward cocked his head and stared at her curiously.

“Lady Fiona is to be our guest,” the earl announced.

“Have the chamber next to mine prepared at once.”

The corners of the servant’s mouth turned down. “Will the lady be with us long?”

Fiona’s pride bristled as her cheeks heated. She had hardly been a welcomed guest at her brother’s keep, but at least she had been spared any open scorn by his servants. It hurt to be so quickly judged, yet if she was going to live here, she’d have to find a way to endure.

The earl’s expression hardened. “I expect ye to see to her every comfort, Hamish. Is that understood?”

“Aye.”

The servant drew himself up. Understood perhaps, but obviously not agreed upon. While Fiona was glad the earl attempted to save her dignity by giving her a chamber of her own, he would not be able to force his people to show her respect.

“What will become of the men who accompanied me here?” she asked when Hamish departed.

“They will be told that ye and yer son are remaining here, as my honored guests.”

“Sir George will want to hear the news directly from my lips.”

To her surprise, the earl nodded approvingly. “Any soldier worth his salt would do the same.” The earl cast her a mischievous grin she found so out of character, she nearly missed hearing his next question. “Do ye wish to write Sir George a note? I can send fer parchment and a quill?”

Fiona smiled. “I would gladly compose a missive, but alas Sir George cannot read. In any event, I owe him the courtesy of releasing him from my service.” Fiona paused as a new thought struck. “Unless you would consider allowing him to stay? He is a landless knight with great skill and experience and a credit to any lord he serves.”

The earl grimaced. “My allies will tolerate a great deal, but I doubt they will understand the presence of an English knight in my garrison.”

“Better in your garrison than fighting outside your walls.”

“It will take more than a few of King Edward’s puny knights to breach my walls. He learned that well enough last year.”

Fiona’s blood chilled. “Edward laid siege to your castle?”

“He tried. But surrender took far longer than he anticipated. Thankfully, an early frost and a biting winter wind sent him back across the border.” The earl met her gaze unflinchingly. “He might try it again in a few weeks, as he marches north, though the Bruce is his true quest. Word has it that he plans to capture and punish him once and for all.”

Fiona blanched and alarm flared through her. This was one complication she had not considered. Having experienced the brutality of battle firsthand, she was not eager to once again be a part of the fray.

Almost as if reading her mind, the earl asked, “Are ye sure ye want to stay?”

A flash of indecision seized her. She had made her decision. And yet . . . “The castle appears to be well fortified, with strong outer walls that can withstand a significant attack.”

“They’ve never been breached,” the earl replied.

His words were not spoken boastfully, but rather with a reassuring confidence that offered Fiona some comfort. Still. “There are other ways to gain entry inside a castle,” she pointed out.

The earl’s eyes flashed with resentment at the implication. “My people are loyal. There’ll be no one opening the gates in the middle of the night.”

She forced her rapid heartbeat to slow. “I pray you are right, my lord. For I am entrusting you with the safety of myself and my son.”

Out of the corner of her eye Fiona caught a movement. A pair of serving women passed near them, their expressions openly curious. Fiona then noticed that quite a few others had drifted back to the hall and decided some silent signal must have been given. There were a few soldiers, though none she recognized. And a contingent of women that grew steadily in size. The whispering among them increased and they didn’t bother to hide their efforts to overhear her conversation with the earl.

“No harm will come to ye while ye’re under my roof,” the earl insisted.

The whispers from their growing audience grew louder, along with the resentful looks. In a way, Fiona could not fault the feelings—the McLendons were a proud people and she had cast aspersions on their leader.

“I understand that my escort must depart, but I was hoping you would allow my maid, Alice, to stay,” Fiona said. “We have been through much together these past years. It would be a comfort to have her by my side.”

And a relief to the female servants of the castle, Fiona silently added, knowing none of them would willingly serve in that capacity.

The earl shrugged his broad shoulders. “I see no harm in it.”

“Thank you.” Fiona cleared her throat delicately, hating to ask for more, but there was one other member of her household she wanted near. “Father Niall has also asked that he be allowed to remain with me. His mother was a Highlander who married an Englishman. Father Niall would relish the chance to live for a time in the land of his mother’s birth.”

The earl’s jaw locked in a formidable line. “A priest willnae approve of our arrangement and I’m in no mood to have a man of the cloth lecturing me on the evils of the flesh day and night.”

Fiona struggled to keep the color from rising to her cheeks—without success. “He will not interfere,” she replied.

“Priests cannae help themselves. ’Tis part of their training.”

Fiona blinked back the sudden rush of emotion. Her sense of loss at having to give up Father Niall cut deep. Her shoulders slumped and she hugged her arms to her chest, but she could not hold back one final plea. “I shall make certain that Father Niall keeps his opinions to himself.”

A short silence fell between them.

“See that he does,” the earl finally said.

Grateful for the unexpected boon, Fiona broke into a smile. Without thinking, she reached out and squeezed the earl’s hand. His warm fingers covered hers, his hand tightening fractionally in response.

A shiver tingled over Fiona’s skin. Strangely disoriented, she withdrew her hand and looked away. “Where will Spencer be housed?”

“He’ll spend his days training with the other squires and sleep in the hall with the rest of my retainers. ’Tis important that he not be given any special treatment, or else the others will come to resent him.”

She sent him a troubled look. “You won’t allow him to be teased or bullied by the other boys, will you?”

The earl barked out a short laugh. “Ye want me to make a man out of him, to train him to fight and lead. I willnae succeed if ye try to mollycoddle the lad.”

Fiona twisted her hands against her overskirt and leaned closer to avoid being overheard. “You must understand a mother’s fears.”

“Aye. That’s why training is done by men. They’ll be hard on him, make no mistake about it. But fair. I dinnae tolerate brutality of any kind among my retainers. We save that passion fer our enemies.”

“But we are your enemy,” Fiona whispered.

The earl squinted and tiny lines fanned out along the corners of his eyes. “If the lad can survive the Scots, he can manage anything. Isn’t that what ye wanted?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Fiona’s throat closed as she tried to look confident. This was why she had come, to ensure that Spencer was trained. She had known the Scots were a people engrossed in warfare, but she had not realized how threatening and predatory they could appear.

Even the earl, who was dressed as finely as any English lord she had ever seen, was formidable and unyielding. How would a physically deficient Spencer fare against these warriors? Was she unwittingly placing her child in mortal danger?

Fiona closed her eyes, awash in confusion. There were too many conflicting emotions coursing through her veins, making her feel off balance.

“Are ye feeling unwell?”

Fiona’s eyelids fluttered open. The earl had taken a few steps closer to her. At this distance he towered over her, his muscular physique clearly outlined beneath his clothes. But it was the strong angles of his face, the sharp line of his cheek and jaw that held her attention.

He was, without question, the most physically striking man she had ever met. And she had just agreed to become his mistress. Her face flooded with a mortified blush. “Forgive me. I’m a bit tired. It’s been a most eventful afternoon.”

He nodded. “I’ll have a servant see ye to yer chamber.”

The earl’s words drew the attention of the women gathered at the foot of the dais. Most looked away, a clear indication of their unwillingness to serve her. Undaunted, the earl chose one. “Margaret. Escort Lady Fiona to her chamber.”

A petite young woman with lovely reddish-blond hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose stepped forward. She nodded, apparently struck mute by the earl’s orders. And who could blame her? Fiona was also having difficulty believing this had come to pass.

“I’ll see ye at the evening meal, Lady Fiona.” A faint smile crossed his mouth, the gleam in his blue eyes setting her pulse to an unsteady beat.

Casting a final glance at the earl, Fiona turned to follow the servant, praying the fear in her breast didn’t show. She could feel him watching her, but she kept her eyes on Margaret’s back.

They climbed a winding flight of steep, stone stairs that led to a narrow hall. As they walked down it, Fiona counted six heavy oak doors, impressed that the castle boasted so many private chambers. She was even more impressed when Margaret revealed they were all for sleeping. Apparently, on the top level there was a large solar, a weaving room, and a chamber where the steward worked on the castle accounts.

Margaret opened a heavy oak door. Curious, Fiona stepped over the threshold. It was a small and simple chamber, with a narrow bed, a single chair, and a table. But a fine pelt of fur covered the bed, a plump cushion rested on the chair seat, and several beeswax candles were on the table.

There was a small window covered with a stiff leather shutter to keep out the chill, though on this summer afternoon it was fastened open to allow in the fresh air. Fiona was pleased to note there was room for a pallet for Alice to sleep on and a small wooden trunk in which to store her clothes.

“This will do very well, Margaret. Thank you.”

The servant flushed, clearly surprised by Fiona’s gracious reaction. “I’ll come and fetch ye when it’s time for the evening meal,” she said. Then, after a hasty curtsy, she departed.

Alone in the chamber, Fiona allowed herself to feel a measure of relief. Blowing out her breath, she walked across the room and gazed out the window. The sweeping vista was breathtaking, with a clear view from all sides, making it impossible for even a small contingent of men to approach the castle without being seen.

Fiona smiled. She had done it! Gained access to the earl’s castle without bloodshed, established a place for Spencer, secured the possibility of one day regaining their lands. Despite any lingering misgivings she had over her host, it was still a heady feeling.

She turned away from the window and her gaze landed on the bed. Her triumph quickly faded, and reality sliced through her like a blade.

How would the earl react when he discovered his new mistress had almost no experience as a lover?

“ ’Tis true, then? Yer going to keep her here as yer mistress?”

Duncan spoke quietly, yet Gavin could not miss the note of doubt in his voice. It was a feeling he shared, though he was not about to reveal that to anyone. He stepped down from the dais and strode across the great hall, Duncan following closely on his heels.

“Lady Fiona’s needs are few. I can easily accommodate them,” Gavin replied.

“I’m not sure the other lairds will see it quite the same way,” Duncan insisted, displaying a frown of disapproval.

“Well, since I willnae be asking their opinions, it willnae matter.”

Duncan shifted uncomfortably. “We need to rally as many good men as we can to fight fer our king. Ye know better than most that it hasn’t been easy convincing our kinsmen to support Robert. Having an English lady and her brat under yer protection willnae help the cause.”

Gavin halted. “Our kinsmen hesitate because they fear if we lose, King Edward will seize their lands, strip them of their titles, and then chop off their heads.”

Duncan rubbed the back of his neck vigorously. “Ye cannae blame a man fer being attached to his head.”

Gavin grinned. “Nay, ye cannae.”

“But will the others doubt yer loyalty to the cause with an English widow and her son under yer protection?” Duncan asked.

Gavin’s jaw hardened. He never expected his cousins, nor his most trusted and experienced men, to follow him blindly and thus encouraged them to speak their minds. At times it could be an annoyance, but more often than not Gavin felt it kept him honest.

“I owe Lady Fiona a debt of honor,” Gavin said. “When we sought sanctuary on her land, it was given.”

“The debt was owed to her husband,” Duncan countered.

Gavin tilted his head. “Have ye never wondered if Baron Arundel’s death was due in part to the aid he offered us?”

Duncan frowned as he weighed the notion in his mind. “’Tis possible.”

“’Tis more than possible.” Gavin looked Duncan straight in the eye. “We will aid her and her son. The McLendons pay their debts. Always.”

Duncan nodded, though he didn’t look completely convinced. Still, Gavin knew that would be the end of the discussion about Lady Fiona. He allowed those close to him whom he trusted to freely express their concerns, but he made the final decisions. And to a man, they abided by them. While they might disagree, they knew Gavin always put the welfare of the clan before his own.

Gavin exited the hall, Duncan at his side. They crossed the bailey and headed toward the practice field, but detoured first at the smithy.

The heat struck full force the moment they entered the stone building. The forge glowed a fiery red as two heavily muscled smithies pounded metal into weapons, the tandem clanking and clattering noise nearly deafening.

Upon spying Gavin, one of the smiths paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. “We’re working as fast as we can, milord.”

“Aye. I can see that ye’ve made progress.” Gavin ambled closer and lifted a chain mail coif off the workbench, pleased with how tightly the links were forged. Few of his men wore them into battle, but he knew if he could convince them to use it, the mail could offer some much-needed protection.

“I copied it as closely as I could,” the smith said.

“’Tis fine work,” Gavin assured him.

“I dinnae know why ye are wasting the time and metal to fashion these,” Duncan said, bending close to get a better look at the piece.

“It could protect yer thick skull,” Gavin said bluntly.

“A well-placed arrowhead can pierce any mail, no matter how fine the links.” Duncan picked up a two-handed long sword and swung it in a wide arc. “This is all that I need to fend off the enemy.”

The smith grinned, then shifted back on his heels and ducked to avoid the menacing path of Duncan’s sword.

“Nevertheless, I want the coifs made,” Gavin instructed. “Helmets, too.”

Duncan shrugged. “We need more battle-axes and arming swords. A sharp, double-edged blade is best fer cutting and thrusting.”

“I’ve a pile of those over here,” the smith said.

Gavin moved to inspect the swords, pleased with the result. There was a good number of them and they were each finely crafted and well balanced.

“Have one of the men take these into the armory, and then count all our weaponry,” Gavin ordered.

“Everything?” Duncan asked.

“Aye. Swords, pikes, war hammers, spiked targes, daggers, bows, arrows, all of it.”

“Expecting trouble, milord?” the smith asked.

“Always,” Gavin replied.

Duncan grinned, but the smith nodded solemnly. Gavin appreciated the man’s understanding of how serious a position they were in—being prepared for war was most assuredly the only way to win it.

“I’ll also need a smaller-sized sword made,” Gavin said. “Duncan will give you the details once we measure the lad.”

The smith leaned in, dropping his voice to a respectful whisper. “Fer the English lad?”

Gavin nearly smiled. ’Twas a good thing their survival didn’t depend on secrecy, for it seemed that no one within his castle walls could keep their mouth shut.

“Aye, the sword is fer the lad. He’ll start his training with a wooden one, but I expect him to progress quickly.”

The smith’s brow quirked with interest at the remark, as Gavin had hoped. He wanted his faith in the boy’s abilities to be part of the gossip about the lad. He just prayed that it wasn’t misplaced.

With his errand completed, Gavin progressed to the practice field. The shattering clash of metal reverberating through the air could be heard well before he arrived. Pairs of guardsmen and soldiers engaged in sword training were scattered through the castle yard, trampling down the few hearty blades of grass that refused to die under their stomping assault.

A sweaty Aidan trotted over. “Will ye be joining us?”

The question was meant for Duncan, but Gavin seized the opportunity. A spirited training session was as good a way as any to clear his mind. “Hand me a newly forged arming sword.”

“I’ll be yer sparring partner,” Duncan said, pulling his own sword free.

“’Tis my turn,” Aidan insisted.

“What about me? I outrank ye both.” Connor stepped forward to stand beside his brothers.

Gavin nearly grimaced. He didn’t want to dwell on the reason the trio was so eager to draw steel on him, remembering well how he had called these men to task earlier in the day.

“I’ll start with Connor,” Gavin said. “Duncan’s next and I’ll finish with Aidan.”

A ripple of murmurs went through those men close enough to witness the exchange. By the time Gavin had stripped off his tunic and stood bare-chested in the sunlight, a sizable crowd had formed.

Duncan tossed Gavin a sword. He tested the balance of the weapon, liking the feel of it in his hand. Lately, he had cut back on his training, concerning himself with political matters. Yet it was unwise to stay too long without practice and conditioning, especially with war looming.

Without warning, Connor suddenly charged.

The clash of swords could be heard throughout the courtyard. A shout went up and the men pressed forward to see the exchange. Wagers were placed, but Gavin ignored the chatter, knowing he would be vulnerable if he allowed himself to be distracted.

It took every ounce of Gavin’s concentration to fend off Connor’s blows. It hurt, the pain radiating up his arm, through his shoulder each time Connor’s sword struck his own.
Damn, just a few weeks of inactivity and I’m as weak as a lass.
Gritting his teeth, Gavin dug deep to find his strength. Pushing forward, he managed to pivot away from the next blow, but lost his balance and nearly fell on his arse.

Connor charged. Gavin thrust out his leg, curling his foot around the younger man’s ankle. He regained his footing just as Connor lost his. Seizing the advantage, Gavin flew toward him, the tip of his sword notched against the visibly beating pulse at Connor’s throat.

Connor slowly released the grip on his sword, then raised his empty hands in surrender.

“Yer turn, Duncan,” Gavin shouted harshly, pulling away.

The warm-up gave Gavin a clear advantage in the next match. Before Duncan had a chance to get his bearings, Gavin attacked. Wielding his sword with agility and power, he alternated his striking blows from left to right, forcing his opponent to move swiftly in every direction to fend off the attack.

As Gavin intended, there was no opportunity for the younger man to take the offensive. Knowing he was outmatched in brute strength, the only possible way to win against Duncan was to stay in control of the match. With cold purpose and precision, Gavin continued to advance. Tension and excitement surged among the men, followed by shouts of encouragement.

“Stay strong, Duncan,” Aidan cried. “He’ll tire soon.”

“Not soon enough,” another man shouted.

“I’ll grant he’s swift fer an old man,” Duncan taunted. “But I’ll have my fun before I lay him low.”

“Aye, I’m fast,” Gavin replied with a sneering grin. “And cunning.”

Ducking low, he launched himself forward, driving his shoulder into Duncan’s stomach. Unprepared for the attack, Duncan let out a loud grunt, then landed on his back in the dirt. Gavin immediately stepped on Duncan’s wrist and his sword fell from his hand, resting harmlessly beside him.

“Next!” Gavin cried out.

Aidan began to circle just as Gavin raised his sword. Needing a moment to catch his breath, Gavin stayed beyond striking distance. Of the three, Aidan was the most methodical fighter, his movements sharp and crisp. And predictable.

So Gavin waited. For the war cry and charge he knew would be coming. It didn’t take long. Aidan let out a chilling cry and swung his sword, nearly taking off Gavin’s head. Gavin turned at the final moment and thrust his blade to block the blow, pressing back with all his strength. Aidan groaned as the force knocked him down to one knee.

Sweat poured from Gavin’s brow as he pressed down with all his might, then with a sudden flick of the wrist he sent Aidan’s sword flying across the courtyard.

Releasing a war whoop of his own, Gavin plunged his sword deep in the ground near Aidan’s leg. “Anyone else?”

The men shuffled their feet and gazed at the dirt. None met his gaze or his challenge. Connor spat blood on the dirt, Duncan rubbed his midsection, Aidan struggled to his feet. Coins were exchanged as the wagers were settled, accompanied by wild gestures as the matches were reviewed and discussed.

It took two squires to pull Gavin’s sword from the dirt. The admiration in their eyes as they reverently handed it to him was impossible to miss. It made Gavin feel old. Was he ever that young and impressionable?

Seeing the lads brought to mind the young man he had just agreed to take into his household—the rightful heir to an English barony.
Dammit, what madness have I taken upon myself?

“Did ye see Lady Fiona’s lad when ye were at their camp?” Gavin asked Duncan.

“I caught a glimpse. There was nothing remarkable about him.” Duncan paused, then answered Gavin’s unasked question. “I dinnae see the weakness Lady Fiona alluded to when she spoke of the lad in the great hall.”

“If we’re lucky, it willnae be so bad.”

Duncan nodded. “Even if ’tis, we can prepare him mentally, teach him fighting skills and strategy, build his endurance, make him tough in mind, body, and spirit.”

For a moment Gavin kept silent, the doubts and discomfort crowding his thoughts. “Will it be enough?”

“Only God can provide miracles.”

“Aye,” Gavin agreed, yet a part of him longed for that miracle. Not for himself, or even the boy, but for his mother. Remembering the hope in her lovely green eyes as she pleaded for his help had touched a chord inside Gavin. He wanted to succeed beyond Lady Fiona’s expectations or at the very least, not disappoint her.

Duncan’s stance relaxed. “I’ve been thinking. If the infirmary is in the lad’s leg, it willnae hurt to train him to throw a dirk. A man who can throw a blade with skill and accuracy can be a real danger.”

“A dirk? ’Tis not a very knightly weapon.”

Duncan snickered. “I’d smack a man on the head with an iron cooking pot if that’s all I could get my hands on to fight fer my life.”

Gavin shook his head. “I always said ye lacked the proper respect to become a true knight, Duncan.”

“Thank God. We’ve enough nobility in the clan having an earl as our leader.”

“Well, now, this noble earl stinks. I’m off to the loch to wash away the grime before the evening meal. Are ye coming?”

“I’ll be along after I collect my winnings.”

Gavin halted, frowning in puzzlement. “Ye lost our fight, Duncan. Ye’ll need to be paying off yer debts, not putting coin in yer pocket.”

Duncan lowered his chin and for a moment Gavin thought the man was blushing. But that was impossible. Duncan was notoriously thick-skinned. Even the bawdiest tales brought little reaction from him.

“Ye heard me right,” Duncan replied, a twinkle in his eyes. “I am indeed
collecting
my winnings today. I wisely followed the creed of every loyal Scot, even when I gamble.”

“What creed?”

“Never bet against yer laird.”

 

 

It was much harder saying good-bye to Sir George than Fiona had expected. The knight had been allowed into the inner bailey, and the earl, dressed in fresh garments and sporting damp hair, escorted her through the defensive wooden palisade that surrounded it. Encircled by a contingent of Scots, many looking ready to strike at the mere hint of trouble, Sir George stood with quiet dignity and authority.

“Five minutes, Lady Fiona,” the earl said softly. “Sir George and his men need to ride fer the border while there is still some daylight.”