The entire patrol accompanied Domnall back to Carlisle, where they encamped on the city green surrounded by sheep and cows, preferring the company of grazing cattle to Norman soldiers. Domnall was glad of his compatriot’s support. To the Highland men, this was more than a fight for justice. A Highland born warrior facing a Norman knight made it a symbolic battle for Scotland itself.
“Do ye ken that ye played right into the king’s hand?” Duff later remarked as he squatted by the fire.
“How so?” Domnall asked.
“If Fitz Ranulf prevails, the king will have one less rebel from the clan that has been a thorn in his side since the verra beginning of his reign.”
Domnall considered his friend’s words. “Ye think he hopes for my death?”
“Suffice to say ’twould be a convenient happenstance,” Duff replied. “’Tis nae doubt why the king agreed to this.”
“I willna lose,” Domnall vowed.
“I pray ye dinna,” Duff said. “But it all raises the question of what will happen if ye prevail.”
“I will petition for Davina’s hand,” Domnall said.
Duff responded with a loud, rude snort. “Do ye truly believe the king will grant yer wishes if ye thwart his plans?”
Domnall refused to think of it. He already had enough on his shoulders.
*
The trial by wager involved a number of religious rituals, to include the purification of body and soul. After much fasting and prayer, Domnall appeared before the Bishop of Carlisle.
Kneeling before the cathedral altar, Domnall accepted the sacred chalice containing the blood of Christ. “Corpus hoc et sanguis Domini nostril Jhesu Christi sit tibi ad probationem hodie,” the priest murmured the Latin prayer in what might well be his final communion.
After crossing himself, Domnall rose, paid five pence to the church for the five wounds of Christ, and then departed the cathedral. He found Duff waiting for him just outside.
“The grounds are being prepared,” Duff said. “Ye should walk them well and memorize every square foot. So much as a stumble in the fight could be lethal.”
Leaving the cathedral together, they proceeded to the lists, a walled enclosure exactly sixty-foot square. At each end was constructed a raised dais covered by a heavy canopy of baudekin to shelter the king and the Bishop of Carlisle who would judge the outcome of the battle. Domnall spent the next hour studying the grounds whilst envisioning the fight to come.
Domnall had to force himself to take to his bed that night. Though he promised Davina otherwise, there was indeed a chance he would die on the morrow. Although his faith was stronger than his fear, Domnall was well aware that God’s justice was often contrary to human logic. Yet, even if Fitz Ranulf prevailed, Domnall could never regret dying as Davina’s champion.
His mind was still on edge when he finally laid his head down to rest. Knowing sleep would evade him, he willed his eyes to close. His thoughts, however, were filled with Davina—of the first day they met when he discovered her hiding place, and the mettle she’d shown in defending herself with a pitchfork. He remembered their prayer vigil in the chapel, their first kiss, and other stolen moments in which they had shared their secrets and their dreams. Lastly, he thought of her courage in confronting her greatest enemy.
He dreamed of her when he finally drifted off to sleep. He could almost feel her soft lips as he breathed in her sweet scent. Davina. He loved her beyond reason and his body burned for her.
“Domnall?” her soft voice whispered his name.
His lids fluttered open to discover it was no dream but Davina’s warm, soft body pressed against his. “Davina? How do ye come to be here?”
“I borrowed my maid’s cloak and sneaked out of my chamber,” she replied. “I needed to see ye.” Her voice was breathless and her eyes were wide with urgency. “There is something of great import I must give to ye… before the morrow.”
“Aye? And what is that?” he asked.
She licked her lips. “I would give myself to ye.”
Domnall swallowed hard. He could hardly think for the sight of her…feel of her… the scent of her. Three years ago, they had made a solemn vow to wait until marriage. He would give her the chance to change her mind, but if she didn’t, he could not refuse her. His desire for her was overwhelming and the temptation far too great. “I promised ye I would wait until our wedding night.”
“Nae.” She shook her head and continued solemnly, “Ye said ye would ne’er take anything from me that wasna freely given. I offer myself to ye now… freely and without reservation.”
He caressed her face. “Are ye verra certain of this, mo chridhe? My body burns to ken ye, Davina, but my honor tells me I must safeguard yer virtue until we are wed.”
“Please,” she softly entreated. “And though I ken it a sin, I dinna care anymore. I would rather throw myself in the inferno of the damned than give my maidenhood to that fiend, Fitz Ranulf! I love ye, and only ye, Domnall Mac William. I willna have any other but ye. Please, let us lie together this night as if we were husband and wife.”
“How can I deny ye?” he asked. Though his friends dozed nearby, he had no will to refuse her the thing that he, too, most wanted.
His body trembled with eagerness as he peeled back his plaid, and drew her into its sheltering warmth. Their lips sealed in a passionate kiss that spoke of both the yearning of his heart and the desire of his body. Their kiss deepened with soft sighs and tangling tongues. Groping and grasping, their hungry hands explored the planes and curves of each other’s bodies.
His desire quickly spiraled into blinding need to know the secrets of her body. He was clumsy and inexperienced, but she was eager and pliant beneath him. Her breathing came in ragged rasps matched by his own moans as she opened her body to him. He froze as a gasp suddenly escaped her lips.
“Davina?” Had he done something wrong? His body shook as he snatched at the swiftly unraveling threads of his self-control. “Did I hurt ye?”
“A little.” She winced. “But I wouldna have ye stop. Please kiss me again. I feel naught but pleasure in yer kisses.”
Willing her to feel their joining as he felt it, he poured his very soul into the kiss.
“Is it better now, mo chridhe?” he asked.
“Aye.” She smiled up at him. “The discomfort has lessened… and there is also a strange pleasure in the pain.”
He knew the first time was hard on a woman, but her smile eased his fears. As her body relaxed, he slowly began to move inside her. She responded this time with soft sounds of pleasure that drove him on.
Although he had never lain with a woman, he understood his own body, and knew how this would end, but the moment of release was like nothing he had known before. It jolted him to the very core. Her gift of love left him senseless and stunned, body and soul.
*
For several hours, Davina lay in Domnall’s arms, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of his heart beneath her head, but time was growing short. Daylight would soon break. Nevertheless, she couldn’t bring herself to stir for fear of waking him. She wished they could lie like this forever, but even if it turned out that they only had this one time, this one wondrous night, she would never regret it. She was forever changed. His love had given her new strength.
Davina forced herself to rise as the first shards of light broke through the remaining shadows of night, yet Domnall slept soundly. She was thankful for that. Parting would have been too difficult otherwise. Pressing a final kiss to his lips, Davina pulled her cloak tightly about her and slipped away.
*
When Domnall awoke, Davina was gone. Had it all been just a dream? He might have believed that, had no evidence remained. But the signs and scents of their lovemaking lingered. He shut his eyes with a sigh, wishing to relive every moment, every heartbeat, but it was gone. As lost and irretrievable as the breath that left his body.
“I trust ye are well-rested this morn?” Duff asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.
>
“I ne’er slept more soundly,” Domnall replied.
Duff glowered. “Coupling before battle weakens a man. I would have advised against it, but it likely wouldna done any good.”
“Nae,” Domnall said. “I would have told ye to stick yer head up yer—”
He was interrupted by the arrival of two knights bearing the official summons to appear before the king and his chief justiciar. There was but one last requirement to fulfill—the charges against Fitz Ranulf and his denunciation must publicly be sworn before the king, bishop and justiciar.
Duff, Niall, and the others accompanied Domnall to the lists, where the morning mist still covered the grounds in a swirling river of translucent white. Shadowy forms of people akin to ghosts lined the periphery of the field. They’d come to watch the coming spectacle. Soon their bloodlust would be satisfied.
Fitz Ranulf and his men were already waiting when Domnall presented himself before the king and justiciar. The king, the Bishop of Carlisle, and the Earl of Fife were seated in the front of the dais overlooking the field. As the accuser, Davina was seated behind the king, flanked by the prince and princess. She appeared wan and worried. And as Fitz Ranulf’s accuser, all eyes were upon her. Domnall wished he could reassure her.
“Dinna look at the lass,” Duff cautioned. “Yer emotions canna be part of this, lest ye perish.”
Heeding Duff’s advice, Domnall willed himself not to glance again in her direction. He could ill afford the distraction. He looked instead to his adversary who greeted the party of Highlanders with a look of haughty disdain.
When the Earl of Fife, Chief Justiciar, stood, silence descended upon the field.
“You will grasp hands,” he commanded the two combatants, and laid his own upon theirs. He then placed their three joined hands atop a bound copy of the Holy Scriptures. “Do you, Domnall Fitz William swear before God and the Holy Evangels to the truth of your charges of murder against this man, Ioan Fitz Ranulf?”
“I, Domnall Mac William,” he corrected using the Gaelic form of his name, “swear before God and the Holy Evangels that ’tis the truth as I ken it.”
“And you, Sir Ioan Fitz Ranulf,” the justiciar continued, “do ye swear your innocence of these same charges before God and the Holy Evangels?”
“I swear I am innocent,” Fitz Ranulf replied.
“And do you both also swear that you have this day neither eat, drank, nor have upon you, bone, stone, nor grass; nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft, whereby the law of God may be abased, or the law of the devil exalted?” the justiciar asked.
“I swear I have nae, so help me God and his saints,” Domnall replied.
Fitz Ranulf followed with a similar oath. The earl released their joined hands.
“The vows have been satisfied. Let the trial commence!”
Chapter Fourteen
Acting as his squire, Duff carried Domnall’s shield and battle ax onto the field where the two combatants would face off. Word of the battle had spread far beyond Dunfermline. Spectators had come from far and wide to witness the event, the crowd of thousands filling every space surrounding the lists. All had come in the hope of seeing blood.
As Duff handed Domnall his ax and shield, he offered some final counsel. “Fitz Ranulf is bigger and more experienced than ye, and will be expected to win, but yer youth and hardiness will prove yer advantage. This battle will nae be won by sheer strength, but by strategy and stamina. If ye can manage to stay out of his reach, he will wear himself out in time.”
While the strength of his armor and size of his shield would make Fitz Ranulf impervious to many of Domnall’s strikes, Domnall was confident the combined weight of it all would quickly wear him down under the extreme exertions of single combat. Though he made himself much more vulnerable by eschewing mail, speed and agility were as valuable to Domnall as his weapons in this fight.
“His heavy armor will make him slow,” Domnall declared. “I’ll be able to stay out of his reach.”
“And when he shows fatigue, ye can then move in with the ax,” Duff said. “Ye dinna have to kill him. Ye dinna even have to wound him. Ye only need to wear him down to exhaustion. There is one more thing, lad,” Duff advised. “Ye must hold as tightly to yer temper as to yer shield. Many a man in such a trial has lost his head,” he made a slicing gesture along his neck, “by losing his head.”
Duff was right, but holding his emotions in check would take a supreme effort. Too much depended on the outcome. Domnall was fighting not only to avenge the death of Davina’s family, but also to save Davina herself from what would surely be, for her, a fate worse than death.
Once the combatants were fully armed and in their respective positions, the justiciar stood to address all those who had come to witness the spectacle. “Let it be hereby kent that no man shall disrupt this trial in any manner; any man who does so, shall be seized and sent to the king’s prison, there to remain for a year and a day. There are no rules to this fight. The combatants are free to use any method at their disposal. The last man standing will be the victor. This trial will now proceed until the one or the other of these men declares himself vanquished. Faites vos devoirs and let God’s justice prevail!”
Armed with swords, axes, and daggers, the two men came together, slowly circling and sizing each other up. Fitz Ranulf eyed Domnall’s weapons with contempt. “I will defeat you swiftly this day, and have the slut in my bed this same night.”
“If that is yer plan, ye must needs kill me,” Domnall said. “For I will ne’er let ye touch her.”
His opponent’s mouth stretched into an evil leer as he re-sheathed his sword and took up his ax. “So be it. I will now kill you by pieces and take the greatest pleasure in inflicting the maximum pain.”
“Bien,” Domnall replied in his Highland-accented French. He added with a taunting smirk, “Faites vos devoirs.”
*
As Fitz Ranulf’s accuser, Davina was compelled to witness the swearing of oaths prior to the trial, but she was strictly prohibited from speaking. It was all she could do to listen in silence as Fitz Ranulf compounded his crime of murder with perjury as he swore his innocence. However this day ended, she consoled herself that he would eventually be judged and punished with the flames of hell.
Yet, her confidence in the final disposition of his immortal soul did nothing to lessen her fears for Domnall. The prince had informed her that the laws of chivalry were irrelevant in such a contest as this. Domnall was honorable and Fitz Ranulf was evil to his marrow. With no rules of engagement, the battle would surely favor Fitz Ranulf.
As she watched the combatants enter the field, she was vividly reminded of the tales of ancient Roman gladiators who waged battle to the bitter and bloody end purely for Caesar’s entertainment. But unlike the Romans of old, theses spectators were almost eerily silent for fear of the dire punishment of distracting the combatants.
Fitz Ranulf wore full Norman armor—a hooded mail hauberk crowned with a nasal helm of burnished steel and chausses over his legs. He was girded with sword, daggers and battle ax, and bore a full Norman-style shield bearing his father’s coat of arms.
Domnall, however, wore boiled leather armor and proudly displayed his Highland plaid. He was girded with a sword and dirk, but the weapon he wielded was a battle ax with his Highland targe.
He’d come to fight with almost no protection. What was he thinking? Davina’s spine was rigid and her hands clenched tightly in her lap as the two men began to circle one another. She already wanted to scream for this to cease, but there was no ending what had begun. The die was cast. She had no choice but to watch, or shut her eyes and pray.
Choosing the latter, she squeezed her eyes closed and whispered desperate supplications to the Blessed Virgin, only to peer through her fingers moments later. The bright summer sun glinted against the shining steel as they traded blows, but the combatants themselves were nearly obscured by a cloud of dust.
*
Axes at t
he ready, Domnall and Fitz Ranulf slowly danced around one another, in an ever-tightening circle as each man sized the other up. Tense with anticipation, Domnall followed every movement, every twitch of his opponent’s face. He was also powerfully aware of every muscle and nerve in his own body. He was glad Fitz Ranulf had opted for the ax. The weapon required far more force than a sword. If he could keep his opponent on the offensive he would quickly tire.
Fitz Ranulf’s attack came swiftly in a sudden flash of steel as his ax blade sliced the air. Domnall was swift to deflect the blow that was meant for his head. Instead of sundering his skull, the ax glanced off his targe.
The next strike, however, came perilously closer, the blade whistling downward beside Domnall’s left ear. Although he dodged in time, the strike was nearer than he would have liked. He hoped he hadn’t underestimated Fitz Ranulf’s skill with the ax.
When Fitz Ranulf attempted a third strike, Domnall parried with his own weapon, rather than with his shield. Their hooked blades twisted, tangled, and locked above their heads. Nearly chest-to-chest, they pushed and pulled, grunting and heaving in an effort to unbalance each other. Bashing their locked weapons with his shield, Domnall managed to break free and wheel away. Panting from the close encounter, both men retreated and reassessed. But soon, the deadly dance began anew.
There was no stealth or calculation to the next engagement. This time, they came together with feral ferocity, with grunts and growls, and axes raised as if to cleave each other in twain. Trading blow for blow, their shields took the brunt of each impact, resounding with the dull thud of steel against wood.
Sweat pooled on Domnall’s brow as the intensity heightened. The air echoed with the ring of steel to steel and the thud of stave against stave, with neither man gaining any advantage. Fitz Ranulf guarded himself well with the larger Norman shield, leaving no vulnerability for Domnall to exploit. The weight, however, was becoming a burden. His breathing had grown louder and his movements were less coordinated, sure signs of fatigue. He moved well, considering his old injury, but he’d also begun to favor his right leg. The two men came together again in a rush of crashing shields. The momentum of the hit knocked Domnall off balance, but he managed to dodge the slashing ax blade and retreat.
Reckless Scotland Page 35
