Bride of Ice

by Glynnis Campbell

  Hallie gulped. Had wolves attacked Archie?

  It wasn’t like them to come out in the middle of the day. But Archie had been bleeding. And he’d smeared himself with that disgusting wool grease. The hungry winter wolves could have mistaken him for a wounded sheep. They might have killed him in a blind frenzy.

  She scanned the trees. No yellow eyes peered from the woods. The wolves had retreated. Yet there were no signs they had dragged the body away with them.

  Then her eye caught on something familiar by the side of the path. Her dagger. It was thrust into a patch of freshly dug earth that had been hastily disguised by leaves and covered by a great rock.

  Her breath caught. It was a fresh grave.

  Hunkering down, she reclaimed her dagger, wiping the soil from the blade with her sleeve.

  He’d done it. Colban had done it.

  The truth sent a shiver of relief and gratitude through her. Colban had kept his word. The champion had saved her little brother from a monster. He’d rescued her from an unbearable marriage.

  But at what cost?

  Now Colban was a murderer.

  He didn’t dare return.

  She choked back the hard lump in her throat and sheathed her dagger.

  This was why she never clung to hope. No sooner did it take root in one’s breast than savage fate showed up to pluck it out by those roots.

  She decided to break the news quietly to Ian first. There would be time later, after Colban had an ample few hours to flee to safety, to tell the rest of the clan.

  Upon her return to Rivenloch, she hunkered down beside him at the hearth, dismissing the maidservants to speak with him alone. Gently, while the fire softly crackled, she told him Archie was dead, that Colban had buried him in the forest.

  She expected Ian to burst into tears or explode with rage.

  He did neither. Instead, he nodded his head. “Where’s Colban?”

  “Gone.”

  “You have to find him.”

  “Listen, Ian.” She had to explain everything to him quickly. Curb his appetite for vengeance before it had the chance to grow out of control. “We need to let him go. Colban shouldn’t be punished for Archie’s death. ’Twasn’t his fault.”

  “I know.”

  “He was only trying to protect you.”

  “I know.”

  “If anyone is to blame, ’tis me,” she reasoned. “I was the one who wounded Archie. And I did it because I was concerned for your welfare.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you mean, you know?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “’Tis the only rational explanation. I don’t know what Archie did. But if Colban the champion and my sister the laird think he did something bad, then logic dictates he did something bad.”

  Hallie blinked. Ian might be young in age and innocent by nature, but he was wise beyond his years. “How can you be so sure?”

  Ian screwed up his forehead, searching for a way to explain it. “’Tis like metals. Archie is…was…like quicksilver. His honor was always soft and changeable, and he clung to whatever those around him believed. But you and Colban? You’re tempered steel. Your honor is strong and stable. You’d never hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.”

  His words were simple, but touching. Her eyes watered, and for a moment she couldn’t speak.

  “So you’ll go find him, aye?” Ian asked.

  She wished it were that simple. “I can’t. I have to let him go. We have to let him go. ’Tis for his own safety.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You and I may know that Archie deserved what he got. But to the rest of the world, Colban is a murderer.”

  Ian’s brow crumpled as he digested this information. Finally he asked, “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  She forced a smile of false hope to her lips. “Perhaps one day.”

  Ian nodded and returned to staring into the flames.

  Hallie sighed. Ian was young and resilient. When one day turned into one week, then one month, then one year, and Colban never returned, Ian would eventually forget him.

  She only wished she could forget him so easily.

  Being with Colban once again at the crannog, even under such dire circumstances and for so brief a time, she’d felt her heart swell with yearning.

  Instantly remembered the touch of his hands.

  The taste of his lips.

  The warmth of his love.

  Lowering her hand, she caressed the haft of her dagger, the last thing he’d touched of hers, and a glistening tear fell onto the worn leather.

  She would never know that kind of love again.

  Chapter 38

  Winter sent out one last snowstorm to blanket the Lowlands with white fleece that clung to the cold ground. Days turned into weeks as the earth slept. But the sun eventually returned, melting the frost and awakening the tender seedlings. The hills burst forth, first with snowdrop, then with cowslips and daffodils that dotted the green slopes with sunny yellow.

  With white puffs of cloud blowing across a pale blue sky and a crisp breeze fluttering the festive pennants on display atop the castle battlements, the weather couldn’t have been more perfect for Creagor’s first spring tournament.

  As he paused on the rise overlooking the castle, Colban couldn’t help fearing he was making a mistake.

  It was too soon to risk returning. Less than two months had passed since he’d buried Archibald Scott.

  But his new identity as a knight-errant required that he earn what coin he could with his blade. In Dumfries, he’d traded his claymore for a Lowland sword, practiced until his hands were blistered and his arms ached. The blade was lighter and more agile, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover he had considerable skill with it. Indeed, The Sable Knight was beginning to make a name for himself on the tournament field.

  So far, he’d been hired to challenge a brute who was terrorizing a local clan, defend a noblewoman whose honor was in question, and champion a merchant lass against her rivals. He’d spent most of his earnings on the trappings of nobility—a new shield, helm, and armor. Now he was down to his last shilling.

  Nothing was more lucrative than a tournament. Particularly the one at Creagor, which had been hailed as a tournament to dwarf all others. There was no entry fee for contestants, so matches were based, not on bloodlines, but on merit. Thus the competition would feature the finest warriors in all of Scotland and beyond.

  He couldn’t afford not to go.

  At least, that was his excuse.

  But he definitely had an ulterior motive. One with crystal blue eyes, bright blonde hair, and enticing long legs.

  For weeks, the beautiful Valkyrie had haunted him. Intruded upon his every waking thought. Danced through his dreams. Like a persistent angel, she followed him everywhere.

  Every battle he fought, he fought in her honor.

  Every challenge he accepted, he accepted in her name.

  He lived and breathed and stayed alive for Hallie.

  He ached to see her again. And he was certain Hallie wouldn’t miss her cousin’s tournament for the world.

  He was well aware that only a fool would hope that anything could come of it. Lingering here only tempted fate and prolonged his pain. And for what?

  He sighed. He truly must be a fool.

  But just the prospect of glimpsing her again—even if it had to be at a distance, on the tournament field, through the visor of his helm—made his heart race.

  For his own safety, he would fight anonymously as always—under a banner with no insignia, in a tabard with no crest.

  Concealing one’s identity was commonplace enough, especially for a knight-errant. In some parts of the country, it was the only way for a warrior who lacked the requisite nobility to compete.

  Colban reviewed his plans.

  The tournament would be two days long, with archery and entertainments on the first day, sword fighting and the melee on the second.

  By day, he would wear a hooded clo
ak when he wasn’t fighting in his helm. By night, he could sleep in one of the pavilions that had been erected for guests on the slopes of Creagor, far away from those flying the banner of Rivenloch.

  As long as he was careful, he could be there and gone like mist, with no one the wiser.

  Bracing himself with a deep breath that was half resignation and half anticipation, The Sable Knight descended the hill to refill his coffers and replenish his spirit.

  Jenefer eyed the target at the far end of the range, pulling back the string of her bow. The crowd hushed. She held her breath.

  Suddenly Isabel gasped beside her.

  Rattled, Jenefer lowered her weapon in disgust and glared at the lass.

  Hallie scowled at her as well.

  “Sorry,” Isabel said, blushing and hugging the quiver of Jenefer’s arrows to her breast.

  Jenefer would not normally be distracted by a gasp or a twitch or even a scream. But this was the first tournament she’d ever hosted. Archery was her event. And Hallie knew, more than anything, Jenefer wanted to win.

  Hallie had shot well several moments earlier. But she was currently in fifth place and nowhere near as talented as her cousin.

  There were, however, a few archers from France proving quite competitive. Jenefer was vying with one of them for first place. She needed every advantage. What she did not need was Isabel the Quiver-Holder gasping just as she drew her bow.

  Jenefer rolled her shoulders and took her stance again. The crowd silenced as she raised her bow once more, drew back the arrow, and took aim.

  In the instant before Jenefer fired, Hallie was distracted by a hooded figure watching the contest from the far side of the archery range. He was clad all in black. His arms were crossed over his chest. His face was hidden in shadow. But he looked almost like…

  She gasped.

  “Shite!” Jenefer hissed, lowering her bow and turning to scowl fiercely at Hallie.

  Hallie was mortified. “I am so sorry, cousin. I promise I’ll…” She exchanged a look with Isabel. “We’ll…be as silent as mice.”

  Jenefer grumbled, adjusted her stance, and resumed aiming her bow. When Hallie glanced across the range again, the hooded man had vanished.

  To her consternation, her heart was pounding. But surely it hadn’t been him. It was only a trick of the light. A figment of her imagination. Hundreds of knights and squires and merchants had gathered at Creagor for the grand tournament. There must be dozens of tall, broad-shouldered warriors she could have easily mistaken for Colban an Curaidh.

  She kept her vow of silence to her cousin. So did Isabel. And Jenefer shot her third bull’s-eye to win the competition.

  When the crowd stopped cheering and Isabel finished her quiver-carrying duties, she whispered to Hallie, “’Twas him, wasn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That man in the hood. ’Twas him.”

  Apparently, Isabel had noted the resemblance as well. That couldn’t be good. She feigned ignorance. “Who?”

  Isabel elbowed her. “You know who. Colban.”

  Hallie tensed her jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous. It only looked like him.” She said it more to convince herself than her sister.

  “I’m telling you, ’twas him, and I’m going to go find—”

  “Nay!” Hallie said sharply. “Jenefer needs you to help set up the stage for Ian.”

  Isabel let out a peeved sigh. “Fine.”

  Isabel knew she had an important responsibility. Ian had created dozens of birds out of parchment, and he planned to make them fly. His spectacle would start an afternoon of entertainments—minstrels, players, dancers, and jugglers. It was Isabel’s duty to usher the performers to and from the stage.

  Besides, Hallie knew her little sister. If Isabel thought The One had returned, she’d blather it all over the castle within the hour and put Colban in mortal danger.

  Then Hallie corrected herself. Colban couldn’t be put in danger, because he wasn’t actually at Creagor. It had only been someone who looked like Colban.

  Still, the last thing she needed on this already chaotic day was for Isabel to stir up trouble. Even a reminder that her husband’s murderer hadn’t been caught yet could ruin the merry mood.

  Colban cursed silently. Hallie had spotted him. He should have realized she might recognize him, even in a hooded cloak. He’d have to be more careful.

  Still, as he slipped away through the crowd, he thought it had been worth the risk.

  Hallie had been even more lovely than he remembered. Standing in the morning sunlight of the archery range like a goddess of the hunt, she’d fired off her three arrows with fierce concentration. Then she’d turned to her cousin Jenefer with a toss of her pale braid, a brilliant smile, and a friendly challenge in her bright eyes.

  Colban’s heart had flipped over at the sight. Until that moment, he hadn’t fully realized how much he missed the enchanting Valkyrie. His last glimpse of her had been at the crannog, pale and shivering with frost and fear and rage. That had been the memory lodged in his brain.

  Now it seemed the spring had thawed that memory. Like the snowdrops gracing the hills above Creagor, she took his breath away with her stunning beauty. Long blonde tresses as soft and sleek as silk. Rosy lips that he remembered tasted as sweet as they looked. A body that was strong and womanly at the same time.

  But he’d flown too close to the sun. His gaze had lingered a moment too long. She’d caught him.

  Perhaps he’d escaped soon enough. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized him and had only been intrigued by the sight of a hooded stranger in the crowd.

  He ducked into the shade of a curtain wall buttress. From this vantage point, he could safely survey most of the courtyard. Members of the mac Giric clan passed to and fro without spotting him. He recognized a few Rivenloch faces, as well as knights with whom he’d competed in recent tournaments.

  Along the curtain wall, merchants hawked their wares, patrons counted out silver, and children played hide-and-seek.

  Meanwhile, a wooden stage was being erected on the archery range. He wondered what sort of entertainments were planned. Certainly nothing to rival Isabel’s play with the fire-breathing dragon.

  Colban caught a passing youth and paid him to fetch an ale. Then he

  settled into the shadows, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed to watch.

  He smiled. From the middle of the field, Isabel directed a pair of burly lads in assembling the trestles, collected a few dozen colorfully dressed performers, and assigned her bevy of lasses to tend to their needs. She was in her element, calling out commands and herding people with the skill of a shepherd’s dog.

  When the spectators surrounded the stage, Colban saw Ian for the first time. As the lad mounted the steps, he seemed, impossibly, to look taller than Colban remembered. But then the last time he’d seen Ian, it was as a vulnerable victim in the hands of a monster.

  He hoped the lad would one day forgive him for what he’d done. But at least Colban could be confident in the knowledge that the brutish Archibald Scott had never laid a hand on Ian. Nor would he ever.

  Ian hefted a large basket onto the stage. Colban wasn’t close enough to hear Ian’s words, but the audience responded with cheers of enthusiasm.

  Pulling the hood closer about his face, Colban pushed off the wall. Melting into the crowd, he made his way forward to get a better look.

  The lad plucked a bright yellow object from the basket and held it high above his head. Then he gently pitched his arm forward, and the thing…flew.

  The crowd gasped. Colban furrowed his brows. Was it a bird? It sailed smoothly over the heads of the assembly as they dodged aside to let it pass. Finally it drifted down to earth.

  No sooner had it landed than Ian fired off another. This one was vivid red and smaller, and he threw it with more force.

  It shot out from his hand and made a loop in the air, then another, and another. Children shrieked as the mad bird swooped
at them and finally stuttered to a stop on the grass.

  The third craft, painted to match the sky, soared in a lazy circle before halting in mid-air and dropping straight down.

  The fourth, decorated with black and yellow stripes like a bee, darted forward at great speed to sting an old woman on her wimple, sending her into gales of laughter.

  Colban grinned. Clever Ian had made a whole flock of birds out of parchment. Birds that actually flew. He imagined the lad’s notebook was now littered with dozens of illustrations and calculations he’d used to predict their flight.

  Ian sent out a pair of white doves next, which sailed in wavering patterns, side by side. Then a brown owl that spiraled slowly to its demise. A black raven that shot like an arrow from the stage to the sward. Then a large, multicolored phoenix with a long tail that undulated through the air before the beast came crashing down at the feet of a squealing wee lass.

  For his final performance, he rapidly unleashed a flock of six birds of different colors, one right after the other. Each made a single vertical loop in the sky, then descended at a gradual angle to the ground in the crowd’s midst. But the last one stopped short when it struck Colban’s chest.

  Colban started to chuckle in delight. But the crowd around him had grown silent. He supposed, with his foreboding black garments and black hood, they expected him to have a black mood as well. And he supposed he should appease their expectations. After all, he needed to keep up his disguise. He should pick up the offending object and crumple it in his fist.

  But when he retrieved the bright blue parchment and saw the beady black eyes painstakingly painted on its face, the feathers delineated in careful detail, he didn’t have the heart to destroy Ian’s handiwork.

  Instead, he threw the thing back. It made half a loop, stalled in the air, and fluttered to the ground. He obviously didn’t have Ian’s flight skills.

  The crowd remained silent, and he gazed toward Ian.

  The lad had gone pale.

  Colban frowned and turned on his heel. Ian couldn’t possibly have recognized him. Not cloaked as he was. Yet he felt like the lad’s eyes had somehow pierced his hood and looked into his murdering soul.