“Aye, my steed has run too much this day,” Duncan lied, patting the horse. “We have seen to each other’s welfare often enough and this day will be no different.” He waved at the party. “Do not wait upon me, my lord. The keep is within view and I shall be there shortly after you.”
He had seen the shadow cross Fergus’ features earlier and took it as a warning. The lad had seen something of Duncan’s future. Was it good or ill that Fergus followed his request and rejoined the company, sparing only one more backward glance?
Duncan refused to think upon it. He would not consider that his fate was set, by the stars or even by some divinity. Nay, he believed that a man made his own future, with his choices and his blade. God was good. God created all and God should be worshipped, but God, in Duncan’s view, was also too busy to plan the destinies of each and every one beneath his hand.
The party was just out of earshot when Duncan heard a soft step behind him. His pulse quickened, though he gave no outward sign of his awareness that he was not alone.
If Duncan had aught to say about the matter, he would survive this day—and the man who followed him would not.
* * *
Ysmaine felt the mattress dip as Gaston joined her abed. She had been dozing until his return, then had slept more deeply while he bathed. She smiled as he drew her into his embrace and she curled against his heat, relief swelling her heart.
She had to tell him the news. Such tidings could not be kept to herself, not when she knew they would give her husband such pleasure.
“How was the hunt?” she asked in a murmur, and he planted a kiss upon her brow.
“Good, for the prey was a boar and not me.”
Ysmaine was abruptly awake. “What is this?”
“Fear not. The peril is passed. You have a prize in that maid, for she ensured I was warned in time.” He recounted the tale of the gloves to her, his calm manner failing to completely dismiss her dismay and subsequent relief. He drew her against his side and Ysmaine welcomed his heat. He kissed her temple. “And we shall have a fine feast, in addition to my survival.”
“I have a fondness for boar.”
“As do I.” Gaston nodded, but when he continued, she realized it was not the taste of the feast that gave him satisfaction. “To have taken such a noble beast, a king of the forest, will be seen as an omen for the days ahead, to be sure. I could not have asked for a better hunt. Your father was of great assistance.”
“Perhaps it is a divine endorsement of your suzerainty,” she said and he chuckled.
“I will take all endorsements, no matter their source.”
Ysmaine looked up at him, liking how his damp hair curled dark against his forehead. She pushed it back, basking in the warmth of his smile. His eyes were sparkling blue, like a night sky filled with stars, and she was beyond glad that this knight had found her in Jerusalem in her hour of need.
“What is it?” he asked in a low voice.
“It suits you to be a baron of the realm,” she said. “I think you doubted it, but I never did.”
“I doubted it because I did not know the value of a good wife and the alliance of her family. I could not have done even this much without you, Ysmaine.”
Ysmaine smiled, for they were in perfect agreement. The solar was quiet, though she could hear the distant sound of activity in the kitchens.
“You are tired this day. It is not like you to nap.”
“I have good reason, in addition to this having been a long day.”
Gaston’s eyes lit and he seemed to hold his breath. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.” Ysmaine smiled. “I know not whether it is son or daughter, but if all goes well, we will have a child in the spring.”
Gaston laughed and kissed her soundly, then recoiled as if she were wrought of glass. “Are you sufficiently warm? Have you rested enough? Should I sleep in another chamber?”
“Oh, Gaston, do not fuss so.” She twined her leg around one of his. “I need you close, now and always.”
To her relief, he settled back beside her, but he still touched her with reverence. “When? Do you know?”
“Radegunde guesses it will be May.”
“Your maid knows of this, yet I did not?”
Ysmaine laughed. “I wager Radegunde knows more of the arrival of children than you do, sir.”
He chuckled in his turn. “Aye, that is a fair wager.” He frowned. “We cannot go to Scotland, then, for Fergus’ nuptials in the spring.”
“Gaston, it is very early days, yet. Much may occur, for this is my first conception. We can decide about Scotland closer to the time of the wedding. Indeed, I believe none should hear of it before the Yule.”
“Surely you will round by then.”
“If all goes well.”
Their gazes locked and she saw his pleasure. “A child,” Gaston whispered. “Ysmaine, these are fine tidings.”
He bent and caught her lips beneath her own, doubtless intending that his kiss should be a gentle one, but Ysmaine did not wish to have only polite embraces for the better part of a year. She slipped her hand around his neck and pulled him closer, opening her mouth to him and inviting his ardor.
Gaston took her invitation, his fingers spearing into her hair as he lifted her to his kiss. She felt the quickening of his pulse and slid her hand down his chest to caress him. He was aroused, as she had guessed, and he caught his breath when she touched him boldly.
“Ysmaine, we should not. The child!”
“There are other pleasures we can pursue, sir.” She closed her hand around his strength and felt him inhale sharply. “My mother had a number of suggestions, for just such a situation as this.”
“She knew?”
“She hoped,” Ysmaine confirmed and caressed him more boldly.
“God in Heaven,” Gaston whispered, his fingers sliding into her hair. He fell back against the pillows with a gasp of pleasure that made Ysmaine smile, then surrendered to her touch.
* * *
The wind rose when Gaston’s party had disappeared from view, ruffling the surface of the river and making the boughs of the trees bend beneath its assault. It was an unnatural wind, one that made the forest sound full of whispering specters, and it drove the clouds across the darkening sky at a brisk pace.
There was a storm coming, unless Duncan missed his guess.
He disliked that he could hear little of his surroundings, for the branches of the trees cracked against each other and creaked in the wind. The leaves rustled. The undergrowth seemed to have come alive. He guessed that small creatures sought cover from the pending storm and marched more quickly toward the village.
Perhaps that was why he did not anticipate the stone.
Duncan saw it from the periphery of his vision, thought it a blowing leaf, then jumped when he realized his error. It struck Caledon square in the rump, hard enough that the steed jumped and snorted.
Duncan looked back but could see little for the wind blew from that direction, its cold fingers stretching out of the north.
The destrier might have steadied, but two more stones were lobbed at him, and the steed would have none of it. Caledon shied and whinnied, snapped the reins from Duncan’s hand, and galloped for the village. The gates could barely be discerned at this distance, but Duncan could see the sentry’s lantern.
Evidently, Caledon saw it as well. The beast fled directly toward the light.
Duncan heard another steed cantering closer and braced himself for attack. He pivoted and saw the silhouette of the horse drawing near. The wind drove dust and leaves at him, obscuring his vision. He guessed that it was a palfrey with a man bent low in its saddle. The creature fought the bit as it trotted toward him with determination.
“You will not escape me this time, Donnchadh mac Domnall,” a man cried in Gaelic, the threat in his words making the hair prickle on Duncan’s flesh.
That he should call Duncan by that name made all matters clear.
Duncan’s past ha
d returned to haunt him, and if this man was the first to assault him, he would not be the last.
But the voice did not come from precisely the right direction. It seemed to emanate from the shadowed forest to the right of the horse. Was it a trick of the wind? The horse bore down upon him, something glinting in the midst of the shadow on its back. A knife? Duncan could not imagine anything else. He held his ground until the beast drew near, then as soon as it was alongside him, stepped back crisply and struck at the rider.
The horse passed him by without stopping. The bundle fell from its saddle, revealing itself to be no more than a cloak wrapped around brush. The pin on the cloak had been what glimmered in the light.
Duncan bent to study it, not truly surprised to see it again. Not now that he had heard the Gaelic words. He reached to claim it, as he surely was expected to do, the wind making his plaid blow around him. He froze when he felt a knife blade at his back.
He smiled, knowing his expression could not be seen, knowing that he was not the only one who proved himself to be predictable.
“I had hoped to take you in the forest of Valeroy,” the man behind him declared. “I watched you and your wench. I would have liked to have let you watch me with her.”
Duncan’s blood went cold, but he was not yet prepared to be provoked. He savored the heat of his fury, biding the time it could be released.
No man would ever violate his Radegunde.
“I doubt you could have pleased her,” he said mildly.
The man scoffed, as Duncan expected. “I doubt I should have cared,” he said and laughed aloud. “I would have ripped her asunder, Donnchadh, just to see your reaction. Perhaps she would have begged for mercy. Perhaps I would have let you kill her in the end.”
His triumphant laugh had only begun when Duncan spun and smashed his fist into the man’s nose. The attacker staggered backward, blood flowing copiously from his left nostril. His eyes lit with fury and he lunged at Duncan.
Who ducked, then drove his knife upward. It was only when the blade had sunk into his attacker’s belly that Duncan realized his move was like that of Gaston with the boar.
The boar, in Duncan’s view, was a more noble adversary.
His attacker gasped and stumbled, but Duncan seized the man’s knife out of his grip and cast it into the darkness. It clattered to the ground some distance away and could not be seen. The attacker reached for Duncan’s blade, still embedded in his own belly, but Duncan caught the man’s head in his hands and slammed it hard against a nearby tree. The man staggered, and Duncan pinned him to the tree with one hand around his throat.
The man struggled and Duncan squeezed until his eyes bulged and he stilled. His face was red, his breath came quickly and his blood flowed like a river.
“Who are you?”
“Does it matter?”
Duncan punched him with his left fist and felt a tooth break free. The man’s lip was cracked and bleeding when Duncan repeated his question.
The man sagged in his grip, licked his lips, and glared at Duncan just before he raised his knee. Duncan was prepared for the move, given that glare, and kicked the other man’s feet out from beneath him. He seized his knife, pulling it from the wound, and his opponent’s blood flowed more freely. When the man might have battled him anew, Duncan touched the blade to that man’s throat.
“Your name,” he repeated with more patience than he felt.
The other man tried to spit to show his disdain, but the spittle dribbled on his chin. “Murdoch.”
“And why did my father send you?”
Murdoch scoffed again, but blood flowed from his mouth. “Why do you think? To make conversation? To see how you fare?” He spat with more success this time, hatred in his eyes. “Domnall might have been the father I never had. You abandoned him for you did not know his worth. I would have served him better as a son.”
“I abandoned him because I knew his worth with great precision,” Duncan corrected. “Why now?”
“What makes you think I would betray his trust?”
“I would have expected him to send Adam,” Duncan said, referring to his older brother. “Or for Adam to have taken the task himself.”
“Adam is dead!” Murdoch declared, emotion getting the better of discretion.
“How? When?”
“If you served your father, you would know!”
“Perhaps I would be dead, as well. Dispatched by my father on some quest that could only fail, in pursuit of a dream best abandoned.” Duncan felt remorse that his brother was lost but not surprise. Adam had always believed in their father’s folly.
Murdoch’s eyes lit with fury. “Domnall is right. You do not deserve to be his son! The blood of kings courses through your veins, but you would cast away all and bend your knee in service to whoever would see your belly filled. You are vermin. You are unworthy of your father’s name and family legacy.”
“And you become tedious,” Duncan concluded. “You may tell me what you know and I will see that you have aid. Or you may die now, with my assistance.” He moved the knife against Murdoch’s throat, letting him feel the cold edge of the blade. He felt Murdoch’s heart skip and for a moment hoped that he would not have to do what he would have preferred left undone.
Then Murdoch’s eyes narrowed in defiance, and he clearly mustered his spittle for his last declaration.
He never made it. Duncan slit Murdoch’s throat cleanly and cast his corpse aside with disgust. How many would die in pursuit of this dream? And even if his father’s dream was achieved, how could the victory be held? It was madness, ambition run amok, and could not come to any good end.
He had said as much years before, his last words to his father.
Domnall had despised Gwyneth and would have thought little of Radegunde. He would not have deemed Radegunde to be any more worthy than Gwyneth, who he’d once said was unworthy of being a whore in his court. Duncan knew the merit of both women better.
An old fury ignited deep within him, and he knew that he would have to see this matter concluded himself.
Duncan wiped his blade upon Murdoch’s plaid, disliking what he had done but knowing he had had little choice. He fetched the pin and put it in his purse, not in the least bit glad to see it again. He emptied Murdoch’s purse, finding little of value in it, but took what was there. He cast the purse into the forest, as if the mercenary had been robbed by brigands. The cloak was not sufficiently fine to keep, so he cast it into the undergrowth as well.
He looked down at the dead man for a moment, dreading the task, then relieved him of his garments. Duncan fingered every hem and checked every lining, but the man carried naught else that could provide any information about his origins.
That Murdoch thought Duncan’s father a worthy man said all, in truth, that Duncan needed to know. He ran a hand through his hair, hating that the past pursued him in this moment, then turned to follow the horses. Even Murdoch’s steed had made for the village and was out of view. The wind tugged at Duncan’s cloak as he marched onward, sorting through his memories.
One thing was certain: if his father was bent upon murder, then Murdoch was but the first who would be sent to hunt Domnall’s second son. For all Duncan knew, there were more such assassins already in pursuit of him. His future would not be secure until he and his father came to terms.
Duncan doubted that would be achieved without bloodshed.
Worse, the root of the matter was that he could not take Radegunde to Scotland until this old feud was resolved.
* * *
Duncan’s stallion had returned to the village gates, reins trailing, by the time Radegunde arrived there. She peered into the shadows along the road, but could not discern any sign of Duncan himself.
“Vexing man,” she muttered, crossing her arms across her chest as if that would keep her concern in check. The porter reminded her that the gates would be locked at sunset, and she spared a glance at the setting sun. It dropped all too rapidly toward the ho
rizon.
The clatter of hooves made her heart jump, but it was another steed with an empty saddle. A palfrey. Smaller and less fine.
Radegunde felt as if a cold hand had locked around her heart. Duncan was not alone.
“They said one warrior meant to walk his horse back,” the porter said, his brow furrowed. “Not two.” He came to stand beside her, peering down the empty road. He, too, looked between road and sky. “I should not send out a runner, not so late as this,” he said to her, his tone apologetic. “We could lose more than one man.”
“Is the road so dangerous?”
“Aye, in these times, the forests are thick with brigands, and they, like other predators, hunt at night.”
Radegunde nodded understanding. Her pounding heart sounded too loud to her own ears. Her palms were damp. Not Duncan. He could not be taken from her now, not so soon as this.
But the road remained stubbornly empty.
The sun sank ever lower.
The shadows drew long.
When the last glimmer of sunlight dipped below the horizon, the porter shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said to Radegunde, then closed the portal against the night. The sound of the key in the lock might have been a death knell, and Radegunde fought against her tears.
What had happened to Duncan?
She examined his steed, making an excuse to linger by the gate. The horse was not injured, merely spooked and already it calmed. She supposed that was a good sign, but wondered what it had witnessed. The other horse was of the ilk that one might buy in a market. It was reasonably healthy and its trap was more adequate than fine. She supposed she would take them both back to the stables.
The porter was yet watching the road from his sentry point and cleared his throat. “Do you know him?” he asked Radegunde, and she flew to his side to peer through the portcullis.
To her relief, a man was striding across the bridge with a grim purpose that was all too familiar. He wore a leather hauberk and his chemise glowed white in the light cast by the lantern atop the gate. He also wore a plaid, wrapped around his hips and belted, with the end cast over his shoulder.
The Crusader's Handfast Page 25
