The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  That surprised him. She rarely mentioned his father, for various reasons, including that the memories pained her and mention of him drew her family’s ire. They all tried to pretend that the “traitorous bastard” never existed around Eachann, but if the eager look on the boy’s face was any indication, perhaps they had been wrong in that.

  “He did?” Eachann asked.

  She nodded. “It was he who taught me to play. Your grandfather never learned, which is why he . . .” She thought of how to put it. “Which is why he doesn’t understand how useful it can be to a warrior.”

  He looked at her as if she were crazed. “How?”

  She grinned. “Well, you could throw the board like a discus, or use the pieces in a slingshot.”

  He rolled his eyes. She couldn’t get anything past him, even though he was only five. He always knew when she was teasing. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mother. It wouldn’t make a good weapon.”

  His expression was so reminiscent of his father’s she had to laugh so she didn’t cry. If anyone needed proof that mannerisms were inherited, Eachann was it. “All right, you have me. I was teasing. Did you read the rest of the folio Father Christopher found for you?”

  They’d been reading it together, but he’d grown impatient waiting for her. Like with chess, her son had quickly outpaced her hard-wrought reading skills.

  He nodded.

  She continued. “King Leonidas was a great swordsman, but that’s not what made him a great leader, and what held off so many Persians at Thermopylae. It was his mind. He planned and strategized, using the terrain to his advantage.”

  A broad smile lit up Eachann’s small face. “Just like you plan and strategize in chess.”

  Margaret nodded. “That was what your father did so exceptionally. He was one of the smartest men I ever knew. In the same way that you can look at the chessboard and ‘see’ what to do, he could look at an army on the battleground and see what to do. He could defeat the enemy before he even picked up a sword.”

  Though Eachann’s father had favored a battle-axe like his illustrious grandfather for whom he’d been named: Gillean-na-Tuardhe, “Gill Eoin (the servant of Saint John) of the Battle-axe.” He’d been good with it, too. But she didn’t want to mention that. In spite of her son’s auspicious name, harkening to one of the greatest warriors of ancient times, Hector of Troy, Eachann was small and had yet to show any skill—or love—of weaponry. Her father had begun to notice, which was another reason she had to get her son away. She wouldn’t mind if Eachann never picked up a weapon and buried himself in books for the rest of his life. But Dugald MacDowell would not see his grandson as anything but a fierce warrior. Another MacDowell to devote his life to a war that would never end.

  But she wouldn’t let that happen. The constant conflict that had dominated her life—that had torn apart her life—would not be her son’s.

  She stood up. “Why don’t you put your game in the chest, while I go to tell Grandfather we are ready.”

  He gave her a nod and hopped off the bed. She was almost to the door before she felt a pair of tiny arms wrap around her legs. “I love you, Mother.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she returned the hug with a hard squeeze. “And I love you, sweetheart.”

  Certainty filled her heart. She was doing the right thing.

  Three hours later, Margaret had to remind herself of it. As she stood outside the church door, her father, son, and six of her eight brothers gathered on her left, and Sir John on her right, flanked by what seemed like the entire garrison of Barnard Castle, it didn’t feel right at all. Indeed, it felt very, very wrong.

  Were it not for the firm arm under her hand holding her up, she might have collapsed; her legs had the strength of jelly.

  Sir John must have sensed something. He covered her hand resting in the crook of his elbow with his. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

  She had to tilt her head back to look at him. He was tall—although not as tall as her first husband had been—and the top of her head barely reached his chin. He was just as handsome though. Maybe even more so, if you preferred smooth perfection to sharp and chiseled. And Sir John liked to smile. He did so often. Unlike her first husband. Wresting a smile from him had been her constant challenge. But when she’d succeeded, it had felt like she’d been rewarded a king’s ransom. Sir John’s life also didn’t revolve around battle—thinking about battle, planning about battle, talking about battle. Sir John had many other interests, including—novelly—her. He talked to her, shared his thoughts with her, and didn’t treat her like a mistake.

  Then why did this feel like one? Why did the very proper wedding, with the seemingly perfect man, feel so different from the improper one, with the wrong man that had come before it?

  Because you don’t love him.

  But she would. By all that was good and holy in heaven, she would! This time it would grow, rather than wither on the bone of neglect to die. She was being given a second chance at happiness, and she would take it, blast it!

  She drew a deep breath and smiled—this time for real. “I was too excited to eat anything this morning. I’m afraid it’s catching up with me. But I’m fine. Or will be, as soon as we get to the feast.”

  Sir John returned her smile, she thought with a tinge of relief. “Then we must not delay another moment.” He leaned down and whispered closer to her ear. “I don’t want my bride fainting before the wedding night.”

  Her eyes shot to his. She caught the mischievous twinkle and laughed. “So I’m expected to faint afterward?”

  “I would consider it the highest compliment if you would. It is every groom’s hope to so overcome his bride on the wedding night that she swoons.” He nodded to indicate the soldiers behind him. “How else am I to impress the men over a tankard of ale?”

  “You are horrible.” But she said it with a smile. This was why she was marrying him. This is why they would be happy. He made her laugh in a way she hadn’t laughed in a long time. His humor was just as wicked as hers had been. Once.

  Following the direction of his gaze, she scanned the large group of mail-clad soldiers. “Is that what you talk about when you are all together? Aren’t you breaking some secret male code by telling me this?”

  He grinned. “Probably. But I trust you not to betray me.”

  Not to betray me . . .

  A chill ran down her spine. Her gaze snagged on something in the crowd. Her skin prickled, and the hair at the back of her neck stood up for a long heartbeat before the sensation passed.

  It must have been Sir John’s words, unknowingly stirring memories. Unknowingly stirring guilt.

  Tell no one of my presence . . .

  Pain that not even six years could dull stabbed her heart. God, how could she have been so foolish? The only good thing about her husband dying was that she didn’t have to live with the knowledge of how much he would have despised her for betraying him.

  “Margaret?” Sir John’s voice shook her from the memories. “They are waiting for us.”

  The priest and her father, who had been talking, were both now staring at her, the priest questioningly, her father with a dark frown. Ignoring them both, she turned to Sir John. “Then let us begin.”

  Side by side, they stood before the church door and publicly repeated the vows that would bind them together.

  If memories of another exchange of vows tried to intrude, she refused to let them. Of course it was different this time. This time she was doing it right. The banns. The public exchange of vows outside the church door. The only thing they wouldn’t have was the mass afterward. As she was a widow, it was not permitted.

  If she secretly didn’t mind missing a long mass, she was wise enough not to admit it. Now. She wasn’t the wild, irreverent “heathen” from “the God Forsaken” corner of Galloway anymore. She would never give Sir John a reason to be ashamed of or embarrassed by her.

  When the priest asked if there was anyone who objected or knew o
f a reason why these two could not be joined, her heart stopped. The silence seemed to stretch intolerably. Surely that was long enough to wait—

  “I do.”

  The voice rang out loud and clear, yet for one confused moment, she thought she’d imagined it. The uncomfortable murmuring of the crowd, and the heads turned in the direction of the voice, however, told her she hadn’t.

  Sir John swore. “If this is some kind of joke, someone is going to regret it.”

  “You there,” the priest said loudly. “Step forward if you have something to say.”

  The crowd parted, revealing a soldier—an exceptionally tall and powerfully built soldier. Strangely, the visor of his helm was flipped down.

  He took a few steps forward, and Margaret froze. Stricken, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the powerful stride that seemed so familiar. Only one man walked with that kind of impatience—as if he was waiting for the world to catch up to him.

  No . . . no . . . it can’t be.

  All eyes were on the soldier wearing the blue and white surcoat of the Conyers’s arms. She sensed the movement of a few other soldiers, circling around the crowd in the churchyard, but paid them no mind. Like everyone else, her gaze was riveted on the man striding purposefully forward.

  He stopped a few feet away.

  He stood motionlessly, his head turned in her direction. It was ridiculous—fanciful—his eyes were hidden in the shadow of the steel helm, but somehow she could feel them burning into her. Condemning. Accusing. Despising.

  Her legs could no longer hold her up; they started to wobble.

  “What is the meaning of this, Conyers?” her father said angrily, apparently blaming Sir John for the conduct of one of his men.

  “Speak,” the priest said impatiently to the man. “Is there an impediment of which you are aware?”

  The soldier flipped up his visor, and for one agonizing, heart-wrenching moment his midnight-blue eyes met hers. Eyes she could never forget. Pain seared through her in a devastating blast. White-hot, it sucked every last bit of air from her lungs. Her head started to spin. She barely heard the words that would shock the crowd to the core.

  “Aye, there’s an impediment.” Oh God, that voice. She’d dreamed of that voice so many nights. A low, gravelly voice with the lilt of the Gael. Oh God, Maggie, that feels so good. I’m going to . . . “The lass is already married.”

  “To whom?” the priest demanded furiously, obviously believing the man was playing some kind of game.

  But he wasn’t.

  Eoin is alive.

  “To me.”

  Margaret was already falling as he spoke. Unfortunately, Sir John wasn’t going to get his wish: the bride would faint before the wedding night after all.

  2

  Stirling Castle, Scotland, late September 1305

  ARE YOU SURE about this, Maggie?”

  Margaret took that as a rhetorical question. She was sure about everything, as her oldest friend well knew. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Brige?”

  Margaret’s question was a rhetorical one as well. Of course her friend hadn’t. Like Margaret, Brigid hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles from her home in the Rhins of Galloway in the remote southwestern corner of Scotland. A place that was so far away it seemed almost another world. God’s bones, it had taken them nearly two weeks to travel here with carts, and it wasn’t a journey she was anxious to repeat anytime soon.

  If she was successful—when she was successful—she might not be going back at all. Though the gathering at Stirling was an attempt to make allies of Scotland’s rivals for the crown to form a unified force against England, her father had another purpose in being here. He intended to propose a marriage alliance between Margaret and young John Comyn, the son of John “the Red” Comyn, Lord of Badenoch. It was her job to win over the young lord and make him eager for the match. As winning over men was something she’d been doing since she could talk, she would probably be betrothed in a fortnight.

  Margaret spun around. “Isn’t it magnificent? Look how high the rafters are! The Hall is so large I’m surprised the ceiling does not come tumbling down. How do you think they built it to stay up there like that?” She didn’t bother waiting for an answer, she was already racing across the room to examine the enormous fireplace. “I can stand up inside!” she said, ducking under the colorfully painted mantel.

  Brigid laughed as she peeked back under. “Careful,” her friend warned, suddenly sober. “The embers are still glowing from this morning. You’ll light your skirts on fire.”

  “That would make an impression, wouldn’t it?” Margaret said with an impish smile. “No one would forget me then. The girl who caught her skirts on fire.”

  “No one will forget you anyway,” Brigid said with a fond—if slightly exasperated—shake of the head.

  But Margaret wasn’t listening; she’d already moved on to the next discovery. Since they’d arrived at Stirling Castle a few hours ago, it seemed every minute had been filled with them. She’d barely taken time to wash—in the finest tub she’d ever seen—change her clothes, and run a comb through her still damp hair before she’d dragged Brigid off to go exploring. They could rest tonight.

  Margaret put her hand on one of the walls. “It is plaster! I wasn’t sure. The painting of the arms is so exquisite I thought it might actually be a shield! Can you believe they painted the whole room with this brick and vine pattern? There isn’t a surface that hasn’t been decorated in here. I’ve never seen a more colorful room. And look at these curtains.” She moved toward one of the windows and pulled the heavy scarlet velvet around her. “It’s fine enough to make a gown.” Glancing down at her plain dark brown wool kirtle, she grinned. “Actually it’s finer than any of my gowns. What do you think? Will someone notice if we take it?”

  Brigid shook her head with amazement. “Can you imagine using fabric as fine as that for curtains?” Suddenly, her face drew tight with consternation. “Do you think our gowns will be very different from the other ladies?”

  “I should hope so,” Margaret said with a proud squaring of her shoulders. “We are wearing some of the finest wool in all of Scotland. There are no finer weavers than from Galloway. I should think the other ladies will be very envious indeed.”

  Brigid bit her lip, not looking convinced. This time it was Margaret who shook her head. Her friend worried about the silliest things. They were just gowns, for goodness’ sake!

  Margaret walked past the wooden screen of the dais into an antechamber. “Look at this, Brigid. It’s some kind of private solar. Holy cross! Do you see these candlesticks? They must be solid gold!” She plopped down on one of the benches around the edges of the room. “There isn’t a chair without a pillow in this place. I believe I’m going to be busy when I return to Garthland Tower making cushions for all the benches.”

  “You shouldn’t blaspheme, Maggie, and you don’t sew.”

  Margaret replied to this minor detail with a stuck-out tongue. Leave it to Brigid to point out the realities. But maybe that’s why they were such good friends. Brigid was the riggings to her sail. She didn’t let her get carried away. Well, too carried away. As for the blasphemies, her brothers said far worse. If anyone was going to hell, it was them.

  “Very well, I shall have Marsaili make them then.”

  “I don’t think she likes to sew any more than you do.”

  “Well, at least she knows how,” Margaret said, grinning.

  She stood and walked over toward a table. On it was some kind of checkered board arranged with tiny carved pieces. She picked up one of the figures to examine it, noticing that it appeared to be made out of ivory. There were all kinds of different-sized figures in two colors. Some were arranged on the board, and some were off the board on opposite sides of the table. “Maybe this room is for the bairns,” she said. “It looks like some kind of a game.”

  “That’s a fine-looking game for a child.” Brigid frowned when Margaret pick
ed up another piece. “Do you think you should be touching that, Maggie? What if someone gets upset?”

  Margaret looked at her friend as if she were daft. “It’s just a game, Brige. Why would anyone care about that?” She picked up two of the biggest pieces. “Look at these—they are adorable. It looks like they have crowns. They must be a king and queen.”

  Brigid wrinkled her nose. “They look scary to me.”

  Margaret shook her head. “They should go in the middle.” Realizing there wasn’t a space in the middle in the checkerboard pattern, she improvised and put the queen in the center of the four spaces. “Well, the queen will go in the middle and the king will have to stand to her left.” She grinned and moved the pieces around. “With all these men on horses around them.”

  “I take it the queen is you?” Brigid laughed. “Ruling over the men like you do at Garthland?”

  “Well someone needs to,” Margaret said matter-of-factly. “As much as my father and brothers are away, nothing would ever get done if I didn’t take care of all those ‘minor details.’ ”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing, knowing that Margaret handled far more than the “minor details” for which her father liked to give her credit.

  Brigid picked up a few of the pieces to examine them, and then a small flat piece of wood that Margaret hadn’t noticed before. It had something written on it.

  “What do you think this says?” she asked.

  Margaret looked at the lettering and shrugged. Like her friend she had no idea.

  Not knowing how to play the game, they giggled as they took turns arranging the pieces in humorous formations.

  “Do you hear something?” Brigid said. “I think someone is coming.” She gasped in horror. “It can’t already be time for the midday feast? We aren’t ready!”

  “I’m sure we still have plenty of time. It can’t be that late—”

  Margaret stopped, turning as a group of men walked into the antechamber. There were at least a half-dozen of them, but they seemed to be following one man. At least she assumed they must be following him, as he had the noble bearing of a king and was one of the most richly attired men she’d ever seen.