“You did well and I am glad you came to me.” Duncan drew her kirtle closed and she flushed crimson even as he led her back toward the camp. “Now, go to this Burke and do not leave his side until I return. He will defend you.”
“Nay, he brought Reynaud!”
“Nay, he came only to ensure you all were well. I would wager this one followed him.” Duncan held the girl’s gaze determinedly. “You have naught to fear from him, I swear it to you.”
She nodded grimly, looking very much her mother’s child. “Then I will go to him.” She brandished a blade beneath his nose. “But I shall keep this at hand. He might have lied to you, Duncan. Men oft do.”
Duncan escorted her as far as he dared, for time was of the essence. He watched Jacqueline step into the circle of firelight and make her way towards the knight.
He waited no longer than that. Duncan melted into the shadows, his anger rising as he heard Eglantine taunting another. She mocked the man’s prowess and Duncan winced at the sound of a blow falling.
But his Eglantine would do whatever was necessary to save her child. Duncan wished fiercely that one day he too might stand within the circle of his lady’s protectiveness, realized ‘twas a quest worth any price of pursuit, then took his blade and slashed the silk from top to bottom.
He stepped into the tent, his blade at the ready, and glared at the old knight perched atop Eglantine. “I have come to cut out your heart, Reynaud de Charmonte,” he declared coldly, flicking a glance to his lady. A bruise stained on her face and her kirtle was torn to her waist. The pleasure that lit her eyes so startled Duncan that ‘twas almost his undoing.
But he would have compense for that bruise.
The older man straightened, his expression turning grim. “Who are you?”
“I am Duncan MacLaren, chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”
Reynaud sneered, his gaze traveling over Duncan’s garb as he smoothed a hand over his own. “A mere savage!”
“A man who takes naught from a woman she does not willingly grant.” Duncan smiled thinly. “I fear that you lack not only courtesy but a heart, Reynaud, regardless of your fine attire. Shall we discover the truth of it?”
Reynaud moved with startling speed, bounding to his feet and drawing his sword in a flash. He slashed at Duncan and Eglantine cried out, though Duncan parried in time.
But only just. The man struck again and again with astounding strength. He was agile for his age and driven by fury.
And he was trained, as Duncan was not.
Reynaud struck a trio of times in quick succession, then paused. He swung unexpectedly from one side then the other. Duncan halted the blow that would have sliced his innards open and cast the blade back upon the older man with a grunt.
They soon were breathing heavily, those blows that went astray slashing the silk tent to ribbons. The lantern flickered as the chill wind from the sea found its way within. Duncan kept his gaze fixed upon the other man and struggled to anticipate his every move. He disliked the sense that he was only defending himself instead of attacking, but the other man’s skill far outranked his own.
Which meant perhaps that Reynaud should readily win.
They circled each other, the sweat gathering on Duncan’s brow at the boldness of his plan. Reynaud attacked again, his teeth bared, and Duncan took note of precisely where the man’s mail tabard entered. Reynaud’s throat was bare, which would suit Duncan well enough.
He deliberately moved too slowly and won a nick upon his thigh. Reynaud laughed, and Duncan pretended that the injury was worse than ‘twas. He lifted his blade anew, as though ‘twas not so readily done, and Reynaud was quick to engage once more.
His sword swung through the air and Duncan ducked, jabbing at the other man’s legs. Reynaud darted back and swung his blade low. Duncan winced as it nicked his shoulder. Again, he feigned greater injury than he had sustained and fell to one knee.
He groaned and gripped his shoulder as though ‘twas sorely wounded. He dropped his knife, ensuring ‘twas directly below him, then fell atop it.
And moved no more.
Reynaud laughed, then shoved Duncan with one booted foot. “And whose heart shall we see?” he murmured. Duncan heard the knight sheath his sword. He peered between his lashes to see Reynaud draw a smaller blade with a jeweled hilt from his belt.
Duncan held his tongue, watching the man carefully. His hand was beneath him, by no accident, and his fingers closed around the hilt of his own blade. Silently, he willed Reynaud closer.
“Sadly, you heathens do not fight that well, for all your size and vigor. I had so hoped you would show greater promise than this.”
Reynaud raised the knife and bent to drive it into Duncan’s chest. Duncan waited until the last moment to strike, but a weight fell suddenly across his back.
“Nay!” Eglantine cried, then she screamed as Reynaud’s blade sank home. She must have hidden in the shadows, when Duncan thought she had fled for aid.
“Eglantine!” Duncan bounded to his feet with a roar that astonished the older knight. Reynaud grappled for his sword, but he was not quick enough. Duncan drove his own blade into the other man’s throat, grunting as he drove it deeper into the chest.
“Just as I suspected,” he muttered, as Reynaud sputtered before him. “There is naught but stone where your heart should be.” He forced the blade deep beneath the mail, then he cast the villain aside, leaving him to die unattended.
But Eglantine. Duncan fell to his knees beside her and turned her pale face to his. He pulled the jeweled blade from her shoulder and the warmth of her blood ran through his fingers. He whispered her name and cradled her close. He could not lose her now! He could not be the reason for her demise.
He should not have wished to win her protectiveness; he would never have done so if he had realized this would be the price. Duncan kissed her brow and held her tightly even as he whispered her name.
And Eglantine opened her eyes. She smiled at him and raised one hand to touch his face. Her fingers shook and Duncan closed his hand around hers.
“I do not intend to die, Duncan. Not so soon after I have found you.” She swallowed and her smile broadened. “’Tis naught but my shoulder that is wounded and ‘twill heal. The blow did, though, steal the wind from me.”
Relief fed Duncan’s anger and he rose to his feet, his lady cradled in his arms. “You should never have taken such a risk! What possesses you to believe that you alone are responsible for solving the woes of all around you?” he demanded, even as he strode toward the company and some aid. “What foolery made you risk your own hide for me?”
Eglantine laughed softly and kicked her feet. Her manner was entirely inappropriate, to Duncan’s thinking, though he loved the way she leaned her cheek against his heart.
“He could have killed you! He could have injured you more sorely than this! What then of your daughters and your obligations? Why, if you were not wounded, I should give you a shake fit to rattle your bones!”
“I could not let him kill you, Duncan.” Eglantine’s voice was low but thrummed with such conviction that Duncan fell silent. He looked into her eyes and found love shining there so brightly that the sight nigh stole his breath away. She raised trembling fingers to his face. “How could I let him kill you when I love you so much as this?”
Duncan caught her close as his vision blurred, the tears streaming down his face as he whispered her name. She had given him the greatest gift of all in those few words alone, and he could not speak for the lump in his throat.
“Do you still love me, Duncan, despite my foolish fears?”
He nodded and his voice was hoarse. “Aye, Eglantine, aye. With all my heart and soul. You need never doubt it.”
She smiled and twined her arm around his neck. “Then kiss me, Duncan, and get us to a priest. I will wait no longer to be wed to you in truth, regardless of how this scratch does bleed.”
And Duncan could do naught but comply. He kissed her until they both
were breathless then grinned, before he raised his voice and bellowed for Ceinn-beithe’s priest.
The lady would have no chance to change her mind.
* * *
Epilogue
June 1177
at Château de Villonne
My dear Eglantine -
I sincerely hope that this missive finds you and yours in good health. All is most well here, and I would send my thanks for your speedy dispatch of my spouse last spring. Burke arrived home with naught but a blackened eye to show for his journey. I suspect there is a tale to be told, for he smiles with all the mischief of our son Bayard when asked about it. I similarly suspect that I shall never know the truth of it - but ‘tis enough that he was home for the arrival of our second son.
Aye, Amaury entered our lives with a roar this month and thus far has captivated all, including his daunting grandmother. Do you recall Margaux de Montvieux? She is little changed, though she shows a softness of nature in the company of the boys that one might not have expected. She and my father have yet to agree on any matter of import and, for the sake of peace, we endeavor to ensure that their visits are separately timed.
Your own mother visited us this summer, for she accompanied Brigid and Guillaume from Crevy when they came for the christening of Amaury. ‘Twas an event of great boisterousness, for all our blood came to share our celebrations. Bayard along with Rowan and Bronwyn’s son, Nicholas, took to tormenting Guillaume and Brigid’s young Niall, doing so until the babe wailed. At five summers, Luc and Brianna’s Eva is of an age to ignore them all, while her younger brother Connor watched the older boys with what might have been awe. God help us when they are all old enough to run about.
The priest seemed quite relieved when the ceremony was completed and the chapel was rid of us!
Further to your own family, Guillaume confessed to having found the seal of Arnelaine in his own office, though he could not understand how it came to be there. He believes that Theobald did not wager it, after all, though you and I know well enough that my Burke had it briefly in his possession. How odd that Guillaume found the seal a few days after Burke’s visit to Crevy-sur-Seine!
Arnelaine is now beneath the competent hand of a vassal and this season’s crops are said to be promising - but Guillaume pledges that the seal is yours, should you wish to return. Given the tales that Burke shared with me, however, I heartily doubt you will take advantage of his offer. It sounds as though you have found happiness, finally, Eglantine, and never has a woman more soundly deserved such happiness than you.
Belated congratulations from me on your nuptials and every good wish for your continued good fortune. I send you a gift with this missive and within the care of Alienor’s spouse. It seems he had much fortune at the Champagne fair, though with such wares I could not have expected much else.
This gift is a most uncommon but undoubtedly useful one. The companion of Iain is a Gael who has been in my employ several years - she is both a healer and a midwife and skilled beyond compare. When Siobhan confessed that she missed her homeland, I thought of Alienor and the child she carries. I should not like to think of any woman enduring childbirth without an experienced hand and fear that in your locale, skilled midwives may be rare.
And so, I dispatch Siobhan to your care, hoping she can be of aid to you and yours. I ask only that you take her beneath your hand as though she were a vassal of your own. She is as loyal as she is gifted.
With every good wish for your harvest and your health -
Your friend,
Alys de Villonne
Lady of Montvieux
& once Alys of Kiltorren
Eglantine folded the missive, knowing she would read it a thousand times again at her leisure. She met the gaze of red-headed woman before her, noting the freckles across that woman’s nose, the lines of laughter fanning from her sparkling eyes, and the solid capability of her hands. Iain was already gone, seeking Alienor, the light of victory bright in his eyes.
“Welcome, Siobhan,” Eglantine said in Gael, rolling the name over her tongue as Duncan had labored long to teach her. “Welcome to Ceinn-beithe.”
Siobhan smiled. “Aye, ‘tis good to hear my mother tongue again. But tell me, Eglantine, if you were born to this land, how do you know Lady Alys? Were you acquainted with her when she lived in Ireland?”
“Nay. I was not born the land of the Gael.”
“Nay? But the language falls so smoothly from your tongue.”
“You shall have to tell my husband that, for he has much to say of my pronunciation.”
Siobhan laughed. “Perhaps you should have been born here, for you look as though you belong in these parts.”
Eglantine smiled, liking that thought. “Do I then?”
Siobhan’s smile broadened. “Aye, it matters naught where one is born, as long as one discovers where one is truly meant to be. Is that not the truth of it?”
A man’s cry echoed over the holding and Eglantine watched Duncan climb the rocks bordering the sea. Esmeraude squealed with laughter as he swung her high, then planted her upon his shoulders. Jacqueline ran alongside laughing, the three of them barefoot, tanned and wet, no doubt from the sea.
She knew the moment Duncan’s gaze landed upon her and they shared a smile, its heat undiminished by distance. He turned his footsteps immediately towards her and raised his voice in song, her daughters lending their voices to his.
Eglantine watched them stride towards her, her heart filled nigh to bursting. And she knew that Alys’ midwife spoke the simple truth.
Eglantine was home because here, at Ceinn-beithe with Duncan by her side, was precisely where she belonged.
“Aye, Siobhan,” she murmured, smiling for Duncan even as the midwife wandered away. “That is indeed the truth of it.”
* * *
Author’s Note
For Duncan’s song of Mhairi, I heavily reworked a traditional Scottish ballad, bending its words to my (and Duncan’s) purposes. The original ballad is called Annachie Gordon and has been recorded by Loreena McKennitt with the traditional lyrics. This haunting arrangement is included on her album Parallel Dreams.
Happy listening!
* * *
Ready for more of the Bride Quest II?
Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE BEAUTY,
the story of Eglantine’s daughter, Jacqueline,
and the Highland warrior, Angus, who steals her heart.
* * *
Ceinn-beithe was behind Jacqueline, only her vows ahead. Her mother was wrong - Jacqueline had a calling and she knew the truth of it. She had not been swayed by well-intentioned argument, though she had come close, simply because of the price of her choice. Her mother’s point was well made and well taken.
Though it changed naught. Tears pricked at Jacqueline’s eyes as she realized how much she would miss her mother’s protective love.
She tried not to think overmuch about leaving Ceinn-beithe behind forever, as her small party rode toward the hills that sheltered the holding on the east. On the far side of these hills and a little further on, down a ragged trail from what might be generously called a main road, lay her destination - the convent of Inveresbeinn.
She had made her choice, now she would live with the result. She knew ‘twas in the cloister that her intellect would be appreciated, ‘twas there that the gifts granted to her could be given and accepted in kind. Mortal men wished only to possess her because of her appearance and Jacqueline had no interest in becoming a mere ornament in a man’s life. She knew she had the wits to do more and the compassion to give more and she would not waste the gifts that God had granted her.
‘Twas her calling and her choice and she would defend it to her last breath.
Her parents had selected these men to accompany her because they trusted them, but there was not a one among them with whom she might have shared a friendly word. ‘Twas a lesson, just as the funeral had been a lesson. This was a lesson in the limited appeal
of solitude and silence.
Aye, as a novitiate, Jacqueline’s world would be one of silence. She knew that and anticipated difficulties with it, but had not expected ‘twould trouble her so much. Even understanding what her mother did and why, did not make the sense of isolation easier to bear. The silence pressed against her ears, making her want to shout, to laugh, to scream.
But Jacqueline would persevere, for she had chosen rightly. She straightened in her saddle, reminding herself that ‘twould be two days ride to the convent, and began to murmur her rosary.
The hills rising before them were shrouded with mist, a fog gathering undoubtedly in the valleys. The sky was darkening to a grey the shade of pewter and the hills seemed clad in myriad greens and blues. Silence seemed to echo over the land, even the birds quiet. ‘Twas a tranquil scene, filled with the serenity that would characterize the remainder of her days, and Jacqueline told herself that she was content.
But there was more than silence lurking in the hills ahead.
* * *
“There.” Angus knelt in the shadow of the stones, his stallion hidden behind an outcropping of rock. Only the beast’s ears flicked, as though he too understood the need for concealment. Angus’ vantage point overlooked the road that wound toward distant Ceinn-beithe, home of the man who had betrayed Angus’ family.
His loyal companion hunkered down beside him and peered into the mist that had followed the rain. “God’s teeth, boy, but Dame Fortune cannot be finally smiling upon you.” Rodney’s comment was typically skeptical, though there was a light of consideration in his eyes now.
“Surely ‘tis not so unlikely as that,” Angus murmured, “when all has gone awry for so long.”
Rodney chuckled. “Do not tell me that you believe in good outweighing bad in the end?”
Angus almost smiled, but was intent upon studying the small party upon the road below. ‘Twas critical that they make no error in this moment, for Fortune would not smile so sweetly again.
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