by Ria Cantrell
It was these very thoughts that kept Michael de la Pole from yawning outright. He had to appear that he hung on Richard’s every word even though quite the contrary was the case. That was the hardest of all his ruses; to appear bloody interested in anything that Richard had to say. De la Pole had to disguise his hatred or, when the deed was done, all fingers would point to him. Instead, he would appear to be Richard’s greatest ally and then he would play the grieving subject when Richard was laid in the cold earth. He also needed to be careful to not rush to do the deed. That was also difficult. Now that de la Pole had made the decision to end the reign of stupidity, it was all he could do to not throttle Richard with his bare hands. No, he had to wait. There was no better scapegoat than those Scottish dogs. Michael felt glee at the prospect of war with the savages.
As Richard rambled on about the beauty of the Scottish hills, Michael stifled his yawn of boredom. He did not have to hide his distaste of the barbarians and so he said, “Your Grace, I would be surprised if we are granted a chamber pot to piss in. These people are not known for their civility.”
Richard shot Michael a sharp gaze and he said, “You need not be so vulgar. It would be wise for you to remember who you are speaking to.”
Scolded, but not recalcitrant, de la Pole offered a false apology and hoped Richard did not see his eyes roll at the chastisement. He continued, “I am told that Campbell Keep is greatly renovated and that we should be well accommodated there. Why, one of my long standing loyal Knights has spoken highly of Sir Brandham and his holdings here in Scotland.”
De la Pole knew who Richard meant. He was an aging Knight who served under Richard’s grandfather. Ragnorsen was his name. He and Brandham’s son were bringing up the rear of the retinue. They had volunteered to service so that they could accompany the king on his journey. Sir Erik had spent many a summer in the Highlands with Drew Brandham. De la Pole performed his research and learned that Ragnorsen and Brandham’s children were to wed shortly. Both of them were long standing friends and brothers in the Knighthood.
Michael had seen Erik briefly a time or two, but he gave no thoughts to the man until Richard just reminded him of the alliance. Now that he considered it, there was something unnerving about the man, which was probably why Michael did not waste much time pondering his existence. Even though he was quite old, nearly forty and seven years, the man had arrogance and presence. He also had these cold blue eyes that seemed to convict de la Pole of his crime before he had even committed it. He was suddenly glad that Ragnorsen and his future son-in-law rode to the rear of the retinue.
Finally he said, “Well then, Your Grace, it is good that you have it on high authority that we will not be left to camp out with the farm animals. I’m sure if Sir Ragnorsen has claimed our accommodations will be sufficient, then there is little reason to doubt him.”
“Indeed. He is known for his honor and loyalty the order of Chivalry. I trust that he would not mislead Us in any way.”
“Hmm, verily. I think I need to get to know the man a little better. After all, he has years of experience upon him. It is good that he is not too frail to make this journey with us.”
The king laughed. “Surely you jest. Have you not seen him? He is older than Us, t’is true, but he is an imposing man, even with his years upon him.”
“I have seen him a time or two. It is just that he is quite on in years.”
“Michael, you are ever the jokester. Clearly, you are toying with your King.”
Michael smiled loosely. “Aye, my Liege. I am ever trying to amuse you.”
“Well, careful, then. Mayhap you would be better suited to be my fool, if your jests prevail.”
That snide little piece of rat’s dung! It was all de la Pole could do to not pummel Richard’s pasty face into the dirt.
Fool indeed. We shall see who the fool is when your blood soaks the ground! Just you wait!
~~~~~
Erik Ragnorsen had been pressed into service to accompany the Royal Entourage into Scotland. It had been quite a while since he had been in the wild and beautiful Highlands but he was glad to be able to see his old friend during the Progress. That friend’s son rode beside him and he could not have been prouder of the young knight had Ian Brandham been his own son. He was strong and brave and above all, he held honor to be the forefront of his vow to the Chivalry. That meant a lot to Erik. When Drew had asked Erik to foster his son, Erik never even gave it another thought. It seemed right and natural and he had promised to make Ian into a great knight.
Ian had come into the chivalry only a few weeks ago and upon the Royal Decree for the Scottish “Gyration”, he had been officially dubbed by the king’s own hand only days past. Erik felt pride well in his chest as he stood beside his fostered son who never faltered at the buffet splayed upon his cheek by the king. It was symbolic of the fact that he was no longer a squire to take unquestioned slaps if his knight so deemed. In truth, Erik did not like that practice and he believed in hard training but saved his violence for battle. Besides, it became very obvious early on that his own daughter, Marianna was smitten with the lad. It was not a big shock to Erik and Rhianna that Ian and Marianna would eventually wed. They were completely devoted to each other and both Erik and Drew gave their blessings to the union.
The wedding was supposed to be a few months past, near to the time when Ian was knighted, but with the Royal Progress, the couple had agreed to postpone it until Ian returned. A spring wedding would be better, anyway and Marianna thought that the opportunity to accompany their ruler on his tour through the lands was something that Ian should never pass upon.
Now as they fell into line with the Royal Guard at the rear of the progress, Erik embraced his warrior instincts. He watched Ian and wondered if the excitement of the journey would quell the deep intuition that Ian shared with his father, Drew. Back in the days when Erik and Drew fought in many a campaign, Erik had come to rely on the uncanny cognition that Drew always presented. It saved their hides more than a time or two. Erik sensed danger and he wondered if Ian would as well. He was still young, after all, and had no real battle experience to speak of since they had been residing in a time of relative peace.
To Erik’s enjoyment, as if reading his thoughts, Ian cocked his head and looked at his knight with a half-smile on his lips. “I don’t like that one riding with the king, Uncle Erik.”
Although Erik was Ian’s foster and elder knight, Ian had always addressed him as such. Soon he would be the young man’s father-in-law and he briefly wondered what title Ian would grant him then. He smiled at the thought but then nodded; his still-blond hair brushed against his broad shoulder. Some would say he still looked like a Norseman with his long blond hair and his ice blue eyes. The Fates had been kind to him because he still felt as he had when he had first wed his beloved Rhianna. Just thinking about her brought a true smile to his face.
Then, reminding himself of his thoughts, he said, “I don’t either. There is something not right about the king’s confidante. We’d be wise to keep him in our sights if we can.”
“I know not why I cannot trust him, but I feel it deep in my chest; like a dull ache.”
Grinning more broadly, Erik retorted, “Well then, we should not discount that feeling. It was never wrong when your father felt that way, and I would wager it is not when you do.”
Ian nodded, momentarily distracted. There was something about the cold black depths of the man’s eyes who accompanied the king that unnerved him. He agreed with Erik that the man would have to be watched. He was glad that Erik agreed with his cautious observation of the man. Ian Brandham decided that he would talk to some of the others on the Royal watch to gather information about the one called de la Pole. He thought about what Erik had said and he silently mused to himself. It was true. Both of his parents had gifts that fostered good intuition. While his father did not speak much of it except to say that he had an uncanny sixth sense so to speak, Ian knew it to be so much more. His mother, on the o
ther hand, was more obvious with her gifts that she called Treasures of the Ancients.
Shielding his eyes from the cold sunshine raining down upon their riding party, Ian said, “I will make it my business to learn more about that one, Uncle Erik.”
“Hmm, aye. I think if we dig into it, we shall see that our concerns are most likely well-founded.”
Ian realized that he was new to the Guard, so others may be reluctant to give up any information on one of their trusted own, but he also knew about the intrigues in royal company. He had the opportunity to attend Court the past year and he became familiar with the common practices that were the norm in the Royal presence. While some were reluctant to trust a newcomer, many were happy to give up secrets to earn their place in the chain of the favored. Ian may have grown up no more than a country lad, but he had trained well under the watchful eye of both Sir Rurik Ragnorsen and of Sir Erik.
In a sense, Erik was harder on him than his father Rurik had been, but Ian was grateful for it. Erik was a skilled warrior and he was the embodiment of Chivalry. Ian was grateful for the role models of the Order from his own father to his Knight and to Sir Rurik.
The loss of Rurik still burned in Ian’s heart. He had learned so much from the father of the man who had trained him. When Rurik passed on two summers ago, Ian felt the emptiness similar to Erik’s. It was hard to think that the vital man who had guided his path in the order of Chivalry no longer would be in any of their lives. Ian knew the hurt still pulled at Erik and he said a silent prayer of thanks that his own father was still quite hale.
Ian noted that his mind had wandered to these nostalgic thoughts during the tedious drone of the horses hooves on the slow ride with the Royal progress. He guessed it was all the more reason to be glad that he was going home for at least a short while. It would be good to see his mother and father. He missed his wild-spirited sister, as well.
Erik interrupted Ian’s thoughts and he said with a teasing smile, “You are lost in musings. You know it would be wise to school your daydreams and be alert.”
Ian smiled at the jab and said, “You are right, Uncle. I was lulled into melancholy thoughts and I should be aware of all around me. I suppose I was just thinking that I was actually glad to be heading home. It will be good to see my father. I’d like to talk to him about that uncanny gift of his. Perhaps he can give me some more insight to the pullings in my gut.”
More seriously, Erik replied, “He can, I am sure, but you have a good grasp on what you sense. I think I would trust my life on it.”
Ian’s brows knit at those words. It was one thing to have your Knight proud of your elevation to the Order, but to have him say he had held confidence in Ian’s instincts; a confidence that could guard his life; well, that spoke more than any words Erik could have said to him. Again, Ian felt a deep sense of gratitude for the opportunity to have trained under Erik. He had a long line of warriors to aspire to and he vowed he would always try to make them all proud. His Scottish uncles were forces not to be reckoned with and he hoped that while he was back home he would be able to visit, at least briefly with those men who had shaped his life from the time he had been a very young child.
Erik teased again, “Alright, enough of your sappy reminiscing. Perhaps you can ride up the ranks and listen for talk about our friend up there. See if you can glean anything.”
Ian nodded. “Aye. I think I will.”
He spurred the flanks of his horse and he took the lead only to fall in line with some of the other members of the guard that were further up ahead on the road.
Erik kept his senses sharpened and concentrated on his surroundings as they made their way further into the north country. His warrior instincts were on high alert and he fell out of ranks so that he could ride alongside the column of travelers. He was one of the lead guards with the Royal Envoy, so his actions were not suspect. He urged his destrier forward and he patrolled up and down the flanks of horses, carriages and supply carts. It not only helped to pass the time, but it also kept his sharp eyes on the many people that were part of the royal progress.
Erik’s hand was ever near the pommel of his sword as his cold blue eyes scanned the feathered finery of the followers in the retinue. Everything seemed fine but still he was cautious. It was not every day that the king was in route to Scotland and Erik was not naïve to think that everyone wished the young monarch well. His back was straight and stiff in his circuit of rounds up and down the heavy line of traveling retinue.
They would set up camp in a few hours, but for now, while the sun burned brightly in the sky, the coalition would make the most of the daylight. Erik wished the progress would move more rapidly but sadly they could not press the lines to speed up. The longer they were out in the open, they ran greater risks and it was harder to protect the king in his plight. There were just too many variables and Erik could not shake the nagging feeling of danger. He was not so gifted with intuition as his friend and Ian, but he had spent these many years with his beautiful wife, Rhianna. Her ability was beyond uncanny. When he had first met her, it was thought she was a witch, but in reality she was a healer with great Sight. He supposed her sense of premonition had rubbed off on him, at least just a little.
From his many years as a trained soldier, Erik knew not to ever discount those fingers of warning that squeezed into him. He engaged all of his senses, including those that warranted unpleasant responses. Despite the cold bite of the air, the strident sun caused perspiration to increase. The pungent smell of the unwashed bodies of some of those in the retinue reached his nostrils like tendrils drifting on the breeze. Erik preferred the strong odor of horse sweat than that of the over-adorned court followers.
His eyes kept sharp watch on the many people who milled in line. There were all types of people and Erik observed them silently as he made the rounds. He made mental notes of those people who flared a warning of some sort or another. Erik had become a good judge of the human animal in his years being a soldier. He also had a strong propensity for remembering faces; even when there were many in a crowd. He made his mental notes and he moved down the formation to reunite with Ian at the back of the Guard. For now, all was peaceful, but if he was a betting man, Erik was pretty certain that peace would not be long-lasting.
~
Chapter Twenty-One ~
Tom felt gob-smacked. His cousin’s husband had just spent the better part of what was left of the night telling him a tale that was so unbelievable, he almost felt that he had been listening to a madman. However, Derek Campbell was not an irrational man. At no time, did he falter from the story. At no time did the man seem like a raving lunatic. In fact, he was not rambling but detailed the events of how he had come to marry Kiera in clear and precise accord. Derek had left very little out of the story, which made it almost believable; if it could be believed. Tom’s head ached. He needed time to process what he had been told.
Derek was a medieval man; in the literal sense of the word. He had lived during a time that most people only read about in history books. While Tom was drawn to learning about that era, it was not logical to think that he would ever meet someone who dwelled in the pages of the past. To make a long story short, Derek had been cursed, more or less, to stay between time until he was granted some sort of redemption for deeds or rather, misdeeds of his life. It wasn’t until Kiera had come to Scotland after her engagement had been called off and found herself living in the apartments in the ancient Castle Campbell, that Derek was to know love. It was then that she sensed Derek’s spiritual presence and eventually unlocked him from his purgatory of suspension between life and death by falling in love with him. For the love of God, it was something that romance authors write about.
So here was this medieval man, now living in the present with a woman Tom had known all his life. He shook his head. It really should not be believed. It was impossible, wasn’t it? A creeping feeling started gnawing into him about his own unnatural past. No information could ever be found about his pa
rents except for the MacCollum tie because of the plaid blanket he had been wrapped in when he had been left as an orphan in his parents’ hospital. The conversation he had with his mom before he had left for Europe popped into Tom’s head. You had none of the immunities of normal things that babies have. You had immunities to things like the bubonic plague. Tom shook his head as if to clear it of those annoying thoughts. So what that he spoke an older form of Gaelic. His natural mother must have been Irish. So what if he loved all things medieval and craved to read about everything he could on that time. Lots of nerds did stuff like that. Hell, there were thousands upon thousands of people who replayed the past in re-enactment groups for just such a reason.
But the things Derek had said to Tom really had messed with his head. How was it possible? Derek was no ghost. He was as solid as any man as he had ever met. Yes, he was different but he seemed to be skilled in things that were modern. He drove a car…he used a computer and other devices. Tom thought perhaps this was just an elaborate hoax being played upon him. It was just that as he mulled over all that Derek had told him, Tom had the sinking feeling that this was no drunken stupor. He did not want to think of the other implications that Derek had explained. He is my most hated enemy.
What Derek had said made Tom think that somehow he had slipped back in time when he had blacked out and the beauty in the painting was actually there in the flesh. It wasn’t just a dream of a heated kiss. That was preposterous! Still, the smells and sounds seemed real enough. He had never had a dream where he could remember every sensory thing that had transpired. He practically could still taste the honeyed flavor of mead on the lips of Jenna Brandham. He could still smell the dung out in the stables left from the many horses that lined the outer bailey of the ancient castle. He remembered sidestepping the muck and mire that had puddled in the great yard from a late autumn rain. He almost could still feel the coarse woven linen of that weird poet shirt he had been wearing. He could remember the silken feel of Jenna’s hair coiled in his fist when he drew her in to kiss him. Those things didn’t seem like mere images from a dream. Had he actually been transported back to a time so long ago?
