by Speer, Flora
“I have been told that King Henry has chosen a second wife for you.” She spoke quietly, with no hint of reproach in her tone.
“You heard it from Cadwallon, of course. He shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m glad he did. It was a kindly meant warning, which I chose to ignore. You mustn’t blame yourself, Quentin. You have no choice but to obey your king.”
She stood there in his tent that still smelled faintly of their lovemaking, and she looked straight at him, but she made no move to touch him.
When Quentin lifted her hand and kissed it, then attempted to pull her closer, her resurrected pride made her remove her fingers from his grasp as soon as she decently could.
She noticed the evidence of his rising passion for her and recalled the hard, masculine splendor that lay beneath his plain wool tunic. She felt the now-familiar warmth beginning to spread downward to the spot where they would join and fuse into one being. Never had she experienced so intense a longing as her desire to lie down on his cot with him, and to let him carry her to the heights of passion.
Then she looked into Quentin’s eyes and saw by the sorrow in his gaze that he understood she would not do what she most wanted.
“Have patience,” he said. “Trust me. This time I will keep my oath.”
“My sister needs me,” she told him.
“Fionna.”
It was not a question, nor a demand that she remain. She believed he uttered her name simply to acknowledge what they had known together, the unique, incredible beauty they would not enjoy again.
Quentin stepped aside to let her leave the tent.
After Fionna was gone he stared blindly at the tent flap for a long time. He was still standing in the same spot when Cadwallon appeared, toting a bucket of hot water for his morning wash and swearing at Janet under his breath. Cadwallon set the bucket down so hard that a good portion of the water sloshed out of it.
“Cursed women,” Cadwallon grumbled, his voice muffled by the rumpled tunic he was pulling over his head. “Unreasonable creatures, all of them. They can drive a man mad without even trying.”
“Amen,” said Quentin.
“I need a title,” Cadwallon stated. “And a nice piece of land to go with the title.” The muscles in his brawny arms rippled when he splashed water over his face and shoulders.
“Do you?” said Quentin.
“Aye. And once I have them, I’ll tame that stubborn wench. See if I don’t. I’ll teach her who’s the lord and master.”
“Will you?”
“I’ll smack her pretty backside every time she unleashes her viperish tongue on me. I can think of better uses for a woman’s tongue.” Cadwallon turned to stare at Quentin, who hadn’t moved from his position by the tent entrance. “You look like death.”
“Thank you,” Quentin said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I,” said Quentin, “have made the biggest blunder of my life. There is no way to rectify it until I can speak to King Henry. And by then, it may be too late.”
“I know what you mean.” Cadwallon flipped open the lid of the basket that held his belongings. He grabbed a fresh undershirt from the basket and used the shirt to dry his face and chest before he put it on. “Give a woman a chance, and she’ll turn a man’s life upside down. Or, inside out, depending on where you started with her in the first place. What we need, my friend, is a few cups of wine, to make us forget.”
“Too much wine will only make my head ache,” Quentin said. As for forgetting, he didn’t think he ever would.
Chapter 15
Fionna knew she was right about Murdoch’s intentions. He was too clever to attack Royce’s party while they were still under the protection of King Alexander’s men-at-arms. Nor were her brothers likely to strike after their chosen victims had crossed into northern England, where marauding bands of Scotsmen who ventured so far south and were caught, were likely to be hanged with few questions asked. Murdoch would not risk being hanged. Therefore, Fionna reasoned, the attack must happen soon.
That was why the closer they were to England, the more nervous she became. Her impression that she and her companions were being watched grew ever stronger. Nor was there much to distract her from her fears over her brother’s schemes.
Quentin no longer rode with her. He kept his distance, staying in the vanguard of the troop, usually at Royce’s side. Fionna was left entirely to Janet’s company, with Cadwallon and, occasionally, Braedon in attendance. Though the women were surrounded by Royce’s men-at-arms at all times, Fionna’s continuing unease must have communicated itself to Quentin. On the last afternoon before they reached English soil he surprised her by leaving Royce and dropping back to join her.
“Don’t look so worried,” Quentin said. “We’ll not let down our guard. Royce and I do understand that if Murdoch means to attack, he’ll have to do it today, or early tomorrow.”
“Be careful, Quentin,” she responded. “I’m sure Murdoch still wants to cause an incident by killing you.”
“He will not succeed.” Quentin’s grey gaze held hers for a long, tense time before he looked away. He nudged his horse forward, departing from Fionna’s side without another word.
She watched him go with hopeless longing in her heart.
They were riding on a track that curved to the southwest as it wound around the base of a high, rugged hill. Other, equally precipitous hills crowded close on either side, making it impossible for horsemen to venture more than a few yards off the narrow road. Thus, the group was strung out in a thin line with the baggage carts in the rear, guarded by a few men-at-arms.
By chance the day was clear, with neither fog nor rain to offer protection to anyone skulking after them, a fact that should have reassured Fionna, but did not. She felt a chill along her spine and glanced about nervously. Then, as they came round the curve of the hill, the lowering sun shone directly in their eyes and for a few moments Fionna was unable to see much at all. From the complaints the men nearest to her were making, they were having the same problem.
Clever Murdoch had chosen his time and place carefully. He and his men had apparently been circling around Royce’s party, for he appeared suddenly from the west, riding out of the shadowy shelter of the steep hillside at the head of a surprisingly large band of fellow Scots. They didn’t bother to make demands or offer challenges as honest opponents were bound to do. In silence, with the bright sun at their backs, they quickly deployed themselves across the road like menacing silhouettes, blocking the pathway from hillside to hillside.
Before Royce had a chance to call his people to a halt or issue any orders, the Scots drew their swords, a motion Fionna heard, rather than seeing it. An instant later, raising a fierce battle cry, Murdock’s company attacked.
Fionna was using one hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s bright glare. Despite the helmet that covered part of Murdoch’s face, she quickly recognized him in the forefront, brandishing his huge broadsword as he charged directly for Quentin. Gillemore was riding at his brother’s left shoulder, heading for Royce. On Murdoch’s right side Colum loomed bareheaded, his dull brown hair tied back to keep it out of his eyes, his unshaven face split by a wide grin that showed his broken and discolored teeth.
Fionna heard Janet’s cry of horror as she recognized her betrothed. Knowing Janet would be terrified by Colum’s appearance, Fionna wheeled her horse to the left, trying to reach her sister, who was only a few feet behind her. She was prevented by the swirl of battling men and by Braedon, who was stationed on her right side.
“No!” Braedon shouted at her. “Don’t go there. You’ll be killed.” Lunging toward her, he caught the bridle of Fionna’s horse and attempted to lead her out of the crush of struggling men and horses. The Scots were sweeping down the line of Royce’s people, yelling and hacking away at their opponents with a bloodthirsty abandon that appalled Fionna.
“You don’t understand,” she cried, struggling to free herself from Braedon’
s restraint. “I have to get to Janet!”
She knew Cadwallon would protect Janet with his very life, but Colum was a brute and a bully. He would not fight fairly. Janet was going to need her sister’s help in addition to Cadwallon’s aid. While she pulled at Braedon’s fingers, trying to make him release her horse, Fionna heard Colum’s glad shout.
“Why, look ye, lads, here’s me wee bridie, just awaitin’ fer me ta tak’ her inta me lovin’ arms. Come ta me, Janet, lassie!”
With a roar of fury Cadwallon shoved his horse in front of Colum and struck hard with his broadsword before Colum could reach Janet. Fionna saw Cadwallon deftly parry a wicked swing of Colum’s sword. Then the two men were lost to her sight.
“Janet!” she screamed. “Braedon, help her, or give me a weapon and let me help her.”
“I’ll do it. You stay here,” Braedon ordered her. By this time he had succeeded in dragging Fionna’s horse to a spot a little apart from the contest. He didn’t release his grip on the bridle until she and the horse were partially concealed by a clump of bushes. Then he issued the abrupt kind of order no squire ought ever to give a lady. “Don’t move! Stay where you are and pray your brothers don’t notice you. I’ll find Janet and bring her to you.”
With that, Braedon was gone, leaving Fionna torn between trying to help Janet, and trying to find Quentin. She told herself Janet now had two dependable men – and probably more than that – striving to protect her from Colum. As for Quentin, he was wearing his chainmail and she had seen him shortly before the Scots appeared, riding along the path with his mail coif pulled up to protect his head. The men-at-arms spoke with great respect of Quentin’s prowess on the battlefield. Surely, he would survive the fray.
Her efforts to calm and reassure herself weren’t working. From the place where Braedon had left her, she couldn’t see Quentin. Or Royce, either. She couldn’t see much of anything. She could hear, though, and the noise was deafening. Men shouted threats at their opponents, or cried out when they were wounded. Weapons clashed, blade upon thrusting blade. Horses neighed continually.
Never before had Fionna been so close to warfare, and she found the scene thoroughly confusing. The action was too fast for her to follow the individual combatants. All she could see was a tangle of rearing horses and slashing weapons, steaming male bodies and dust rising from the horses’ hooves – and glaring red-gold sunlight that kept getting in her eyes and blinding her. The smell of blood and sweat was sickening. And the noise went on and on, never lessening, never ceasing.
“Quentin, where are you?” With one hand above her eyes to shut out the sun’s glare, Fionna stood up in her stirrups, trying to get a better look. She saw Royce handily fighting off Gillemore’s maladroit attack. Untrained in weaponry though she was, still she could recognize poor swordplay when she watched it, and she was certain Gillemore wasn’t going to win the contest against Royce’s obviously superior skills.
Then she saw Quentin. He was just beyond Royce, engaged in combat with Murdoch. As usual, Murdoch wasn’t dealing honestly. He ducked under Quentin’s raised arm to slash, not the man, but the horse. With a scream of pain that rose over all the other sounds of battle, Quentin’s mount stumbled to its knees.
Fionna was scarcely aware that she had left the shelter of the bushes and was riding toward the two men. She had no thought of what she was going to do; she only knew she had to stop Murdoch before he killed Quentin. Urging her horse forward without regard for her own safety, she skirted the fringes of the battle scene until she reached the front line, the place on the road where the combatants had first met.
And all the time, she kept her gaze on Quentin, for he was the lodestar guiding her, drawing her onward. With the sun now behind her, she watched with terrifying clarity while Quentin rolled off his bleeding horse’s back, to land on his feet with his sword still in his hand, though his shield lay under the dying horse. Without his shield only the strength of his sword arm protected him from Murdoch’s determination to kill him.
Fionna saw Murdoch grin and reach outward from the saddle, striking at Quentin from above. Steel blade met steel blade, the blow sending sparks flying. Fionna could see how Quentin was trying to pull Murdoch off his horse. Bending far to one side as he was, Murdoch was unbalanced before Quentin grabbed him, but miraculously he kept his seat.
Fionna’s horse stumbled over a body and she almost lost her own seat. By the time she had righted herself and controlled the frightened animal, she couldn’t see Quentin any longer. But she could see Murdoch. He looked horribly, dreadfully, happy. His face was one big grin and he was bellowing a wild and bloodthirsty song, a tune she’d heard too many times in the past, when Murdoch was in his cups. He sounded as drunk now as he ever did in the hall at Dungalash. Either he had already killed Quentin, or he was about to do so.
Feeling sick, Fionna forced her unwilling mount around a pair of blood-covered men who were hacking at each other, though they could barely stand any longer.
“Quentin!” she cried, knowing he probably couldn’t hear her – if he was still alive to hear. “Quentin, where are you?”
At last she found him again. He still held his sword, but he was down on one knee, with blood flowing from a gash in his thigh, and he was struggling mightily to rise to his feet. Above him loomed Murdoch, still on horseback, with his sword arm lifted, poised to strike. Fionna heard her brother’s cruel laugh and knew Murdoch’s next stroke would lop Quentin’s head from his body.
“Nooo!” She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think, or look elsewhere for help. She knew without pausing to think that if she didn’t stop Murdoch, no one else would reach Quentin soon enough to save him.
She kicked her horse hard and rode straight for Murdoch. As she rode she shrieked aloud her rage at him, for all the terrible things he had done to her and to Janet, and for the dreadful, intolerable crime he was about to commit.
Through his bloodlust Murdoch heard her and turned his head toward the sound of her voice. For just an instant he went perfectly still with the shock of seeing her. His mouth dropped open in surprise and his raised sword arm slumped a little.
“What’s this?” Murdoch yelled at her. “Are ye still livin’, then? Weel, it won’t be fer lang.”
Guessing that Murdoch hadn’t completely recovered from his amazement at the sight of her, Fionna seized her advantage. She kicked her feet out of the stirrups and launched herself off her horse and onto Murdoch, grabbing his helmet, knocking it off so she could scratch his face and stick her fingers into his eyes.
“Let go, ye she-devil!” Murdoch shouted at her. Swiftly he brought his arm down to clip the side of her face with the hilt of his sword.
Stars swam before Fionna’s eyes, but she held on, clutching Murdoch’s greasy hair, kicking and scratching and screaming at him until she succeeded where Quentin had failed, and pulled her brother out of the saddle. She went with him, and Murdoch had the wits to turn as he fell, so she landed beneath him, with the breath knocked out of her by his weight.
Murdoch recovered first. He straddled Fionna, one knee on either side of her legs so she couldn’t kick him again, and then he raised his sword, pointing it at her like a huge dagger, with both of his hands on the hilt. Fiery red sunlight reflected off the lifted blade.
“I thought I’d killed ye weeks ago,” Murdoch said, his pale blue eyes glittering with rage and hatred. “But now I’ll see ye dead for certain before this day ends. Nay, I’ll see ye dead before yer heart beats thrice more. Say a prayer, lassie.”
Murdoch’s sword descended with what seemed to Fionna amazing slowness. She tried to twist to one side to avoid the blow, but Murdoch was holding her lower body immobilized, so she couldn’t move far.
Fionna watched with detached interest as Murdoch stabbed her. It didn’t hurt at all. She had twisted away just enough that the blade missed her heart. It was going to take a second blow to finish her off. When Murdoch lifted his sword again she noticed with the same cool detach
ment that the blade was stained with her blood.
Suddenly, belatedly, her body reacted to the wound Murdoch had already inflicted. An incredible pain lanced through Fionna’s left arm and her side, pain that was searing hot and icy cold at the same time. In its terrible grip she could not move to try to save herself.
“How very odd,” she whispered, and waited patiently for Murdoch to stab her again. She wished he’d hurry and end her pain; her eyesight was beginning to blur and she was so cold she’d be shivering violently if she weren’t already paralyzed and dying. But as long as Murdoch was preoccupied with her, he’d leave Quentin alone.
Then a furious, wordless roar assaulted her ears, a shout so loud and so agonized that it banished her cool, distant detachment, turning paralyzed indifference to abject terror. A mailed hand seized Murdoch’s sword, wrenching it from his grip. A chainmail-clad arm encircled Murdoch’s throat.
Fionna thought Murdoch’s heavy weight was lifted off her body, but she couldn’t be sure. She seemed to be floating slightly above the ground, and all the noises around her were sounding more and more far away and indistinct. Blessedly, the pain was receding, too. She was aware of someone bending over her but, with her dim eyesight, she couldn’t see who it was. She felt something wet falling onto her cheek, like hot raindrops, which was strange, because she was so cold. Then she heard a voice that came to her fading senses like a soft whisper, though some part of her mind recognized it as a shout of despair.
“Fionna!”
Quentin, she thought, very calmly. Good, he’s still alive. I must warn him about Murdoch. But when she tried, she couldn’t utter a single word.
* * * * *
“Get him out of my sight,” Royce ordered his men-at-arms, two of whom restrained Murdoch while a third bound his wrists behind him. To Murdoch he added, “If your sister dies, I’ll cut your throat myself. You won’t have to wait for Quentin to return with your brother.”
