“You must have moved in the last moment,” she said, then knelt at his side to adjust the position of the compress. He followed her guidance this time, wincing when she pressed harder against the wound. “You are sitting up,” she noted. Duncan caught his breath and applied the same pressure, for he was not about to lie supine without his knife at hand, regardless of the location.
Her brows lifted and she sat back with a slight smile. “Warriors are all the same,” she mused, but there was no censure in her tone. “I am Mathilde.”
“Radegunde’s mother,” he said and she nodded. “She has told me of your skills, and I thank you for your assistance in this.” Duncan was well aware that Radegunde listened, the question she wished to ask fairly shining in her eyes.
“You must have heard your assailant and turned,” Mathilde speculated.
“I heard something. A step. The snap of a twig. I do not recall precisely, but I sensed the presence of another. I drew my knife and began to turn.” Duncan frowned, wishing he had taken more care.
“Your knife was beside you and had no blood upon it.” Mathilde offered it, as well as his belt. Duncan checked the weapon, then returned it to his scabbard with one hand. He knew he had to keep pressure on his wound. He eyed the belt, wishing he could don it, and saw Mathilde’s fleeting smile.
So, she would not aid him in this task. He could guess well enough that Radegunde would not either.
Until he satisfied her curiosity.
Duncan sighed. “I wish I had inflicted an injury upon him, too.”
“Do you know who it was?” Radegunde asked. “Or who it might have been?”
“Nay. I thought this village to be safe.” He lifted the cloth and was relieved to see that there was little blood upon it. Mathilde eyed the wound and nodded that he might set the compress aside.
“We have been plagued by brigands these past few years,” she said as she rinsed the cloth, and he sensed that she chose her words with care. “The villainy has been worse since Lord Bayard’s demise at Châmont-sur-Maine, when the seal passed to his lady wife.”
“Even at this distance? I did not think the holding so close as that.”
Mathilde nodded grimly. “There are those who note that Angers, and thus Châmont-sur-Maine, which guards its northern flank, are the gateway to Breton. With King Henry resolved to make Breton his possession, there are many in those lands who would see his will defied.”
“Many perceive weakness in a woman’s stewardship,”
“Aye, and Lady Marie is not so fierce in nature as some noblewomen. I have heard rumors that justice can be bought in her courts.” Mathilde’s opinion of that was most clear. “And yet more rumors that she is seldom seen. It is good that Lord Gaston is returned from Outremer to claim his holding. A knight of his experience will not tolerate such foolery in his domain.” She turned a bright eye upon Duncan. “Why were you abroad so late?”
“I thought of Radegunde returning to the hall alone and meant to escort her.”
Radegunde straightened a little, hope in her expression, and he realized his own folly in admitting such a truth.
“So you are not so convinced of the safety of Valeroy as that,” her mother noted.
“Perhaps not,” Duncan was compelled to acknowledge.
Mathilde folded her arms across her chest. “And what, sir, are your own intentions toward my daughter?” It seemed that she shared a bluntness of manner with her daughter—or that Radegunde had come by that trait honestly.
Duncan took a breath then made the declaration he knew he must. “None,” he said with assurance. “I would defend her as a member of our company, no more than that.”
Mathilde arched a brow and there was a charged silence in the hut for a moment.
Then Radegunde leaped to her feet, her outrage clear. “None!” she echoed with disdain and it was evident that her silence had come to an end. Even knowing he had chosen rightly did little to keep Duncan from wincing at her reaction.
Mathilde watched them both with open curiosity.
Radegunde crossed the hut with furious steps and cast the red silk bag at him. “I suppose this is why.” She propped her hands upon her hips and glared down at him.
“You would be right in that, lass.” Duncan picked up the bag, fingering it to verify that the contents were yet there. He could feel the coil of the fine plait even through the silk and was relieved to find the token intact. He only realizing after he had done so that his concern and maybe even his reverence for that hair would be clear to these two observant women.
He did not doubt that Radegunde had looked within it.
“Who is she?” she demanded. She then pulled up a stool to sit before him, as if she meant to wait however long it took for him to make his confession. Her mother retreated, but Duncan knew Mathilde listened as well. “You owe me a secret, Duncan,” Radegunde continued with resolve when he said naught. “I will have this one.” She glared at him. “And I will have it now.”
He knew it was a fair request, and might in fact ensure that she lost interest in him.
Was that why he was so reluctant to utter the truth?
“Duncan, tell me,” Radegunde entreated.
Duncan kept his gaze fixed on the silk bag. “My wife,” he admitted, then flicked an upward glance to discover that Radegunde was not surprised. “It is my wife’s hair.”
Her anger had faded, to be replaced by a wariness that surprised him. “And you love her,” the maiden concluded. “That is why you carry such a talisman. I suppose it is only to be expected that you might have lost your heart to the woman you wedded.” She squared her shoulders, as if making best of the news. “What is her name?”
“Gwyneth.”
“And she awaits you in Scotland.”
This was the moment of decision for Duncan. It would be simple to let Radegunde believe that Gwyneth yet drew breath. He knew she had a firm moral code, and knew she would not try to tempt him to break his marital vow. It would have been the wiser choice, and Duncan knew it well.
But a part of him did not wish to deceive this enticing maiden, much less destroy her interest in him. She alone in all these years had pushed the memory of Gwyneth from his thoughts, after all. That part of him whispered that he had evaded death and should make the most of life, however long it might endure.
“Gwyneth is dead,” Duncan confessed, seeing the hope immediately light Radegunde’s eyes. “She has been dead these twenty years, and it is only her grave that awaits me in Scotland.”
“Dead!” Radegunde whispered and he saw tears of sympathy glitter in her eyes. “Oh Duncan, I am so sorry.”
Such compassion she had for others! Her reaction humbled him. “As am I.”
“Yet twenty years is a long time,” Mathilde noted softly, revealing where Radegunde had learned her talent for naming the truth.
“Aye.” Radegunde studied him. “Why do you so honor her memory?”
“Because I loved her,” he confessed, holding her clear gaze. “Because she was joyous and beautiful.” He swallowed, realizing that Gwyneth’s liveliness was a quality that Radegunde shared. He could not be responsible for two such women leaving this earth too soon. “But mostly because her death was my fault.”
“Well, then,” Mathilde murmured.
Radegunde did not flinch.
Of course, she did not. Duncan should have anticipated her reaction.
“I cannot imagine that you left her undefended,” she said, so determined to think well of him that his resolve to treat her with dignity redoubled.
“Nay, I did not. It was not violence that claimed her.” He found himself stroking the silken bag with his thumb and knew Radegunde noted his gesture.
She leaned forward and covered his hand with hers. “Will you tell me about her?” Her interest was clear and it tightened Duncan’s chest, along with the realization that Radegunde wished to hear the tale so she could absolve him of any responsibility he felt for Gwyneth’s demise.
“You are not a killer, Duncan,” she whispered, confirming his suspicion.
He scoffed. “I earn my way with a blade, lass.”
She waved off this protest. “I mean you are not a man of violence. Your trade is not of import in this. There are men who kill because it is a necessary task and there are others who relish the deed. You are not of this second type.”
It was true enough that he did not like the killing.
“Tell me of Gwyneth, please,” Radegunde asked again. “I should like to know of the woman who claimed your heart so well.”
The plea in her voice and in her eyes was an invitation that Duncan MacDonald could not refuse.
This was the power of Radegunde. She could convince him so readily to abandon what he knew he should do, and worse, he would succumb to her appeal with no regrets.
In this moment, Duncan was powerless to do anything other than fulfill her request.
That did not mean, however, that he had to confess the entirety of the tale.
* * *
Radegunde watched Duncan frown at the silken bag. She hoped he gathered his thoughts and found a place to begin, for she was not truly convinced he would share the truth of his past with her so readily.
Perhaps he meant to warn her.
Perhaps he meant to frighten her.
He knew little of her if he believed she could be so easily convinced to abandon any course. Her mother busied herself with stirring the fire. The sky grew lighter and Radegunde’s brothers were stirring. She knew her mother began her day and ensured the boys could break their fast, but she was also aware that Mathilde was listening.
Aye, she had seen her mother assess Duncan’s legs and noted the way her eyes had gleamed afterward.
Her man. That was what Mathilde had called Duncan, and Radegunde hoped with all her heart that he might become as much. Her mother had, as ever, seen to her heart and Radegunde realized that a single night with Duncan would no longer suffice.
It was inconvenient indeed to desire a man who would keep himself from her.
Because he yet loved his dead wife. Still, Radegunde admired his code of honor and his loyalty to Gwyneth. She did not believe for a moment that he truly was responsible for that woman’s demise, and hoped that if she convinced Duncan as much that he might look more favorably upon her.
He cleared his throat. “We met when we were children. Her family lived in the same village as mine. The women in their family kept chickens and sold the eggs, later the meat. Her father was the village baker. The children had the red-gold hair of their father, all of them.”
“The same hue as Christina’s hair,” Radegunde said, feeling the need to draw his attention to the courtesan.
“’Twas more fiery,” he said. “As if each wore a corona of flame. They were known to be passionate and her father had a temper, to be sure. He would rage at a man who did not pay for his bread, but once his diatribe had ended, he would calm again and oft give the man bread. Gwyneth’s mother said he was like a tempest that spends itself before it does any damage. He used to tease her that his tempest kept her warm at night and she would blush.” He met Radegunde’s gaze. “There were nine children in their family, and Gwyneth was the very middle child. She did not share her father’s temper, but she had his passion, to be sure.”
Radegunde swallowed at that. Had his wife been so lusty that only a whore’s experienced touch would suffice in her absence?
“’Twas Beltane, the first celebration of the spring and the night before the Maying. I was a man by law, but too young to be one in truth. I had seen only ten and seven summers, as had she. The fires were lit and sent sparks into the clear night sky. It was a potent night, one filled with desire and opportunity and joy. ’Twas the first time we touched, as man and woman do, the first time that we were more than companions. I shall never forget it.”
Radegunde wondered whether she had been a fool to ask for this tale. The yearning in Duncan’s voice made her own heart ache. “And what is amiss with that?” she managed to whisper.
Duncan granted her a fierce look. “She was pledged to another. I had no right to touch her, and she had no right to surrender to me what she should have kept for him. But impulse steered us both false. We surrendered to temptation and did not even have the wits to disguise what we had done.”
Radegunde exchanged a glance with her mother.
“We thought of naught but the pleasure we gave each other and it was a poor master. So it was that morning came, and we were yet together. Even then, we could have hidden our deed, but I was too proud for that. The night had been too much of a marvel for me to pretend that it did not matter. I could not let Gwyneth wed another. I led her to the center of the village and I took her hands in mine in the old way, and I pledged a handfast to her before all who came to witness it.”
“An old custom,” Mathilde murmured.
Radegunde glanced toward her mother.
“A pledge of a year and a day of fidelity,” her mother told her softly. “A commitment that can be abandoned or renewed. Did you pledge to your Gwyneth anew?”
Duncan shook his head and Radegunde felt a spark of hope. “Nay, for she was dead by then,” he admitted, extinguishing her hope as soon as it was sparked. “The man to whom she was sworn stepped forward that morn and challenged me, for I had taken what was his due. We fought and it was not a noble duel. We were young and strong and did not care what had to be done in order to win. I defeated him.”
“And he ceded?” Mathilde said.
“That day,” Duncan acknowledged. “But when Gwyneth rounded with the child we had wrought that Beltane, his fury grew anew. He attacked me when I left the village on an errand for our lord, and we fought in the forest, where none could witness the battle.”
“He thought to assail you, unobserved,” Radegunde said.
“Perhaps so, but his was the corpse left in the forest.” Duncan grimaced. “We had once been friends. I felt the fullness of my error when he moved no more, and I vowed then to change my ways and not be stirred to such a deed again.”
He paused then, his throat working, then shook his head. “But it did not matter. I had erred and I was punished for my deed. The laird of the holding absolved me of my crime, for I had defended myself from an attack he decreed to have been unprovoked, but his justice was not sufficient. It was Gwyneth who paid the price of my sin.” Duncan lifted his gaze. “She died before we could renew our vows, died in the birthing of the son we had wrought at Beltane.” He heaved a sigh. “Her merry laughter was silenced forever because of my unruly desire.”
“Surely she had some, as well,” Mathilde said.
“I was impetuous. I was impulsive. It was my responsibility to be a man of honor, and I was not. I killed the man who had the right to her, the man who had been my friend, and when the laird granted me forgiveness, the Lord took his own toll.” Duncan pursed his lips. “I betrayed them both, and I vowed at her grave that I would never surrender to impulse again.”
The hut was silent for a moment, the fire on the hearth crackling.
“And the boy?” Mathilde asked, before Radegunde could do so.
“Dead as well. Born dead, after much labor on her part.”
Her own throat was tight and she felt tears slip down her cheeks. “This was why you became a mercenary,” Radegunde whispered. “You left home because she died.”
“There was no future for me in that place.” Duncan studied her for a long moment, as if marveling at her tears. “You weep for those you never knew.”
“Because you loved them,” she whispered. “And because I always weep for babes who do not draw their first breath. So much lost before it has begun.” She turned away and wiped at her own tears, aware that Duncan watched her in silence.
Moments later, he continued his tale. “By the time the year and a day had passed, I was far from
home, alone and earning my way with my blade, determined to never be beholden to man or woman again.” His tone turned gruff and he looked drawn. “I might have continued that way if my life had not been saved by that knight.”
“And then you had no choice but to entwine your life with his,” Radegunde said.
The loss of Gwyneth then had been the reason that Duncan had lost hope and wandered in despair, the reason the knight who was Fergus’ father had saved him, the reason he owed a boon to that knight and his family. Had Radegunde been of different nature, she might have wept for herself and for Duncan, for the future they would not share because he yet loved his wife.
But it was not her nature to regret what she could not change.
It was her habit to change what she could. Radegunde cleared her throat and wiped her tears, intent upon arguing against Duncan’s conviction of his guilt.
“You did not kill her,” she insisted.
“Aye, I did.”
“Childbirth is a peril all women face, and I doubt that any who greeted a man in admiration or love would call it a risk not worth the taking.”
But Duncan shook his head. “You cannot know her thinking, lass.”
“I cannot believe that any woman would regret the better part of one year by your side.”
His eyes narrowed as he met her gaze. “You cannot know.”
“And I do not agree that the impulse and desire was all your own. That does not give credit to Gwyneth and her choices,” Radegunde continued. “Perhaps she did not wish to wed the man to whom she was promised. Perhaps seducing you was the sole way to change her own fate.”
Duncan appeared to be startled by this.
“She may have glimpsed his truth. I would not have been wedded to a man who chose to solve disputes with violence.”
Duncan opened his mouth, frowned, then shut it again. He cast Radegunde a mutinous glance. “You see all as you would choose to view it.”
“Is that not your choice as well?” she retorted and heard her mother chuckle. “Tell me this—did she blame you? Did she gnash her teeth in despair at what you had inflicted upon her, or was she happy by your side?” Radegunde heard the challenge in her own voice and noted how Duncan looked away. “What did she say at the last?”
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