The Knight's Broken Promise

by Nicole Locke

  Setting his shoulder in first, he entered the hut. The moon’s light slashed through the burnt roof. The one room was small, square, but he could see little else. There was no time to avoid the small iron cauldron swinging towards his head.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Oh, cat’s whiskers around a mouse’s throat, I’ve killed him!’

  Gaira stopped the still-swinging cauldron and swallowed the sharp bile rising in her throat. With shaking knees, she knelt beside the man. Slowly, so slowly, she lowered her hand to his mouth and felt hot breath against the back of her hand. He breathed!

  Her heart swiftly rose. Dizzy, she closed her eyes and drew in a steadying breath. When she was sure she could, she opened her eyes to inspect him.

  He was a large man, not taller than any Scotsman, but maybe thicker, and his chest was so broad it was surely carved from the side of mountains. She could not discern his face in the moonlight, but she could see his hair was long, wild and he had let his beard grow unkempt.

  His hair and beard puzzled her, for it was very un-English and this man grew his as if he were the lowliest of serfs with no comb. But an English serf would not be this far north and all alone.

  Carefully, she felt along his sides for a pouch or weapons. He smelled of cedar, leather and open air. Only the fine, soft weave of his clothing gave beneath her fingers. His body, warm through his tunic, was hard, unforgiving. She frowned at the fanciful word. A body could not be unforgiving.

  Feeling along his front, her palms suddenly dampened, tingled, and she stopped at his hips. She wanted to continue her exploring, but she realised it wasn’t to find weapons.

  What was wrong with her? She had three older brothers. This man could be no different. But he feels different. She squashed that thought. Foolishness again. If her hands felt strange or hot, it was because she was scared he’d awaken. Aye. Plain nervousness was all she felt.

  Willing her hands to obey, she moved them around his waist. Did his breathing change? No. His eyes were still closed. Taking a steadying breath, she felt the flat ripples of his waist, the knot of his hip bones. She stilled her breathing as she slid her hands down each bulging cord of his legs. At a strap near his boots she felt the hard hilt of a dagger. Pulling it out, she felt the weight and heavily carved decoration on the handle.

  ‘Nae a peasant, are you?’ Setting the dagger aside, she felt along his broad arms and immediately felt the cold steel of an unsheathed sword at his side. Her skin prickled with anger.

  ‘Even if you hadn’t spoken, I’d know you’re English for the liar you are. Peace! Hah! What man comes in peace when his sword is drawn?’

  With trembling fingers she unwrapped his fingers from his sword. Wobbling at its weight, she set it on the other side of the room and grabbed the rope hanging at her waist. It wasn’t long enough to tie his hands and feet, but it was mostly his hands she was worried about.

  Her heart thumped hard against her chest. She was worried about other parts of him, too. She was not so naive to think this man was safe. His muscled body, his ability to speak English and Gaelic, were testament to a soldier’s training.

  Without a doubt, he would have a foul temper when he woke. But what choice did she have? She had hid in the hut. It wasn’t her fault the brastling man had entered. She’d had to swing the cauldron and protect herself.

  But now what? He was sure to awaken soon. He was English, but she didn’t know if he’d burned the village. She couldn’t take any chances. It wasn’t just her own life she had to worry about.

  ‘Think, Gaira, think!’ She had his weapons. They might give her some control. Quickly finishing the knot, she scrambled back into the scant shadows to wait.

  * * *

  ‘What do you mean she’s not at her brother’s?’ Busby of Ayrshire spat on the ground. The glob hit square in the centre of the old leather shoe worn by his messenger.

  ‘She’s not on Colquhoun lands, my laird,’ the messenger stuttered. ‘Her brothers were most surprised to see me.’

  Busby rubbed his meaty hands down the front of his rough brown tunic. The only satisfaction in this bit of news? His cowering messenger was afraid. He liked it when they were afraid.

  ‘Did you explain to that whoreson Bram if he dinna produce his sister to me within a sennight, our bargain was off?’

  ‘Aye. We were given leave to search the castle.’

  Busby took a step forward. ‘Did you tell them for this bit of inconvenience, I demand the further compensation of five sheep? And I wouldn’t have taken her had I known she was so bothersome? And if they want war between our clans they’ll have it?’

  ‘Aye, my laird.’ The messenger bent his body to look up. ‘I told them all, every bit of it. It dinna make nae difference. We searched everywhere and there was nae sign of her.’

  The wench had been missing for three days while he waited for the messenger to bring her back or bring him news. The fact he had neither fuelled his fury.

  ‘Tell me their response,’ Busby demanded.

  The messenger shifted his feet and almost imperceptibly took a step back. ‘They were not pleased.’

  ‘What. Do. You. Mean?’

  The messenger took a full step back. Busby let him. It did not matter. The messenger was still within his reach.

  ‘They were most displeased. I, er, feared for my life. They said something about losing their sister and, if anything should happen to her, it’s on your head.’

  ‘What?’ he roared, and clenched one hand around the man’s thin neck.

  A croaking sound escaped the man’s mouth and Busby eased his grip. ‘They told me they’d search the area from here to Campbell land first, but you should go south.’

  He released the man, who scrambled back. ‘Go south? What for?’

  ‘There’s a younger sister,’ the messenger wheezed. ‘Married and living in Doonhill.’

  ‘That is days south of here! Prepare my horse. I’ll not be wasting any more time.’

  The messenger started to shake. ‘Which horse for you, my laird?’

  ‘What do you mean which one? My horse, you knapweed. ’T is the only good horse in this wreck of a land!’

  The messenger gnawed the inside of his cheek. ‘She took it.’

  ‘She what!’

  ‘Took it,’ he stuttered. ‘’Tis also missing.’

  Busby took a ferocious step forward. He desperately wanted to wrap his hands again on the messenger’s throat and squeeze until he could release some of the raging frustration he felt, but instead, he turned his anger inward, let it cool. Only one person deserved his full wrath and he had every intention of delivering it to Gaira of Clan Colquhoun.

  * * *

  Pain throbbing through his temple woke Robert from blackness. He opened his eyes and saw shafts of moonlight through wisps of a burnt roof. He started to sit up.

  ‘Move too fast, English dede-doer, and I’ll throw this dagger at your loopie nobill part!’

  He stilled. The voice came from the corner of the hut. A woman took a step forward.

  Highlighted from the moon above her, she stood dressed in a tunic and leggings too large even for her tall and thin frame. Her hair was plaited in sections and swung like tiny ropes over her breasts. Her stance was wide-legged and crouched and she waved a dagger in front of her. He peered closer. His dagger.

  ‘You threw a cauldron at me,’ he accused in Gaelic.

  ‘Swung it, more like, and I reckon you deserve a lot more than that! You had your sword drawn and you stink like an English knight.’

  Moving his arms, he felt the ties of rope around his wrists, but his legs were free and, using them as leverage, he sat up. The grip on her dagger tightened and he moved slower. He knew from his battles that those afraid were just as dangerous as those angry. From the pain
ringing in his head, he knew she was both.

  ‘The hut was dark. It would have been foolish not to have my sword drawn.’

  ‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’ she scoffed.

  The conversation was not going well.

  She was angry, a Scot and a woman. He was English and in a Scottish village that Englishmen had massacred. She held a dagger and his wrists were tied. The odds were not in his favour.

  As far as he could tell, it was only she and he, and she could not make him stay on the floor for ever. But if she was a villager, how had she survived?

  ‘I mean you nae harm,’ he continued in Gaelic. ‘What do you do here?’

  ‘Now, that should be a question I should be asking you.’

  ‘I am but a traveller.’

  ‘An English one despite your trying to use our language you’re mangling,’ she pointed out. ‘What is your name?’ she asked in English.

  She spoke the King’s English. If she was a villager, she was no simple one. ‘I’m called Robert of Dent and there’s hardly a crime to being English.’

  ‘There is when we stand in a village where my kin were killed.’

  She straightened; the dagger did not waver. His hands were still tied, although he was fast loosening the rope. ‘I have just recently come. I had no play in this. What do they call you?’

  She ignored his question. ‘How am I to know you had nae hand in their deaths?’

  He was surprised by her response. ‘So are you not one of the villagers?’

  Even in the dim light, he could see her features pale, then darken with anger. ‘Nae, you weedy outwale! How’m I to be a villager? I’m alive, I am.’ She stopped. Tears sparkled, when she continued, ‘You must have seen what happened to the villagers when you passed this way.’

  He didn’t understand. ‘You escaped.’

  ‘Nae, I’m a traveller, too, and came too late.’

  Her reply was too careful and his wrists were now free. ‘You are more than a traveller, you said you had kin here,’ he replied. ‘Did your kin perish?’

  Her body jerked at his question. ‘You just be passing by?’ she asked.

  She ignored his question. Given their surroundings she had a right to be suspicious of him.

  ‘Aye,’ he lied.

  ‘Hah! You with a sword drawn and a fine dagger, I’m to believe you?’

  He could tell this wouldn’t be easy. ‘Pray—’

  Running footsteps behind them!

  ‘Auntie Gaira, there’s a horse at the top of the hill. Auntie Gaira, it smells and I can’t see anything. Are you all right? I’ve come to warn you!’

  The woman’s attention flew to the door. It was all the diversion he needed. Dropping the rope, he sprang to his feet and caught the boy entering the hut.

  ‘Put him down!’ she shouted. ‘He’s done nothing to you! Put him down, I say!’

  The boy, absorbing the woman’s panic, wriggled and fought in earnest. Robert grunted when sharp teeth chomped into his side. Yanking the boy free, he held him out in front of him. ‘Seems I’ve got something of yours.’

  ‘He’s innocent, I tell you.’

  ‘He may be, but it seems we’re even now. You’ve got the dagger, but I’ve got your boy. I’ll guess you’ll not throw that dagger any time now.’

  The woman looked defiant and he tensed, ready to dodge if the dagger flew. Regardless of what he said, he had no intention of the boy getting hurt.

  She threw the dagger at his feet. ‘You may do what you wish of me, but I beg you to leave the boy be. He has seen enough.’

  He took the dagger and the boy flew into the woman’s arms. The darkness would not allow him to discern her features, but he sensed her relief and something else.

  ‘Can the boy leave the hut before we begin?’ she asked.

  Her voice was uneasy. It was so different from before that he didn’t comprehend her words, but then he understood. She thought he’d rape her. What horrors had she known before he arrived? He’d been here only moments, but seen charred ruins and shallow graves.

  It had been two days since the attack. From the rancid smell, he knew some had died of sword wounds, but many more had been burned. She’d been here longer than him and seen too many horrors.

  ‘I’ll not be harming you or the boy. I may be English, but I meant it when I said I came in peace.’

  ‘We are beyond your peace.’

  Guilt. An inconvenient feeling along with his need to protect, but he suddenly felt both. It had to be the woman.

  Her arms were around the child. She was vulnerable, yet she still challenged him. She was brave, but through the filtered moonlight, he could see the exhaustion in her limbs and hear the grief in her voice.

  He lowered his eyes. Her ankle was crudely wrapped and didn’t hide the swelling. It was her feet he had seen in the tracks. Only hers.

  ‘I passed by your...garden. Are you the one doing the bedding for the spring?’

  Instead of answering, she fell to a crouch and tried to turn the boy to face her. ‘Alec, please go up to the camp.’

  The boy wrenched his head to keep his wary eyes on him. ‘Doona want to.’

  ‘Alec, you be listening to me on this. You know I forbade you from coming to the valley. You disobeyed me. But I’ll be letting any punishment go if you leave now.’

  The boy didn’t move.

  Her tone softened. ‘Alec, if you go right now I’ll give you my last honeycomb.’

  The boy looked at her, his face scrunched up. She nodded vigorously at him. With barely a glance back, he ran out of the hut.

  As the boy’s footsteps faded, the woman slowly straightened.

  ‘My life for a sweet. Ah, to be five again,’ she said wistfully. She smiled and grasped her hands in front of her. ‘I fear we had a misunderstanding. I’m Gaira of Clan Colquhoun.’

  He wondered where her anger and defiance had gone. Her stance, the very air around her, had changed. He was suddenly suspicious. ‘Your manner has changed.’

  ‘Aye, you may be English, but you are different than the men who burned Doonhill.’

  This woman made no sense. ‘Aye, I am, but how do you suddenly know?’

  ‘Gardening?’ she said, looking at him in exasperation.

  He was thoroughly confused. Did she want to speak of plants?

  ‘You did not ask if it was I burying the dead. You asked whether I had been gardening. Any man not wishing to hurt the feelings of a child cannot be the same as the monsters who destroyed this village.’ As she turned her back to him and bent down, the large tunic fell forward and exposed her stretched backside under the tight leggings.

  All thoughts left his head. He knew the moonlight played tricks on him; knew his thoughts were filling in what his eyes couldn’t possibly be seeing. But still his mouth turned dry. The fine strong curve of her legs seemed to stretch to heaven and her derrière was round, full, lush and entirely too...there.

  All these years without a woman and he had never been tempted. They had pressed against him, flashed their breasts, licked their lips and he hadn’t felt a flicker of emotion except annoyance. But this woman’s backside, wrapped tight in a man’s leggings, struck him across the loins with heat. He felt the rush, the quickening, and forcibly focused at the object in her hands.

  It was a sword and pointed towards him.

  ‘I thank you,’ she said, her tone still polite. ‘I have been trying to protect him from what really happened to the people here.’

  She cleared her throat. Paused. She was waiting for his response.

  It wasn’t just any sword. It was his sword. Embarrassment doused his lust. What would Edward think of his soldier now? The sword flexed slightly as she wiggled the hilt.

  It would be so e
asy to take the blade from her. Her balance was off and the sword was too heavy for her. She was no threat.

  But he was a threat to her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m pointing a weapon at you, that’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘I thought you said I wasn’t a monster.’

  ‘Aye, I said you weren’t the same as the monsters who burnt this village. But you’re still English. I can’t trust you.’ She nodded her head. ‘Kick that rope and dagger to me. I’ll be using them again.’

  Concentrating on his movements, rather than his thoughts on what she looked like, Robert slowly kicked the dagger and rope to her.

  ‘I’m awake this time and you’re all alone,’ he said. ‘Why would I hold still so I can’t protect myself?’

  She didn’t take her eyes off him. ‘To prove you aren’t one of the monsters.’

  He paused. He knew there was a woman and a boy. He didn’t know if there were any other survivors.

  ‘It didn’t hold me before,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I’ll not be making that same mistake twice.’

  ‘And my sword?’

  ‘I’ll be keeping it, as well as your dagger.’

  He fought the instinct to fight back. She was Scottish, but a woman and she had Alec to protect. She was vulnerable enough without him adding to her fears. Still, too, he needed more answers and she wouldn’t be talking if he was a threat. But if she tied him more tightly, he would be defenceless.

  He held his clasped hands in front.

  She shook her head. ‘Behind you and turn around.’

  ‘I’ll need to relieve myself.’

  He could feel her weighing his words before she nodded and placed the sword down.

  ‘For an Englishman, you’re right, you know.’ She slowly walked to him.

  He didn’t feel right as he held still for her to bind him again. ‘About what?’

  With more twists around his hands, she wrapped the rope around his wrists. She tied more securely this time, but he didn’t clasp his hands tightly and would still be able to loosen the rope. It was dark and she didn’t notice.