Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  But, rather, this was the one thing that troubled Sorcha most; why would Una remove her grimoire and her keek stane from that grotto?

  Because she knew.

  And if she knew, why then would she leave these precious things with Sorcha, then return to the grotto to await her death?

  Because it didn’t happen that way.

  Sorcha was certain of it now. It was hardly any wonder she couldn’t grieve. Because Una was alive, and if she were not, Sorcha would feel it down in her bones. She believed this as surely as she breathed; that wily old woman did not share a tomb with the Stone from Scone. She was out there … somewhere.

  “I will find you,” she said, shaking a fist at the star.

  But they would not find Sorcha, she vowed. Traveling alone, she knew better than to use the king’s roads. David’s men were apt to patrol them, and if there be brigands, that’s where they would lie in wait. And yet it was no hardship to avoid them; Sorcha knew the woodlands better than most. She was a daughter of the wind, after all. A child of the forest. She and her kinsmen were the last of the painted ones, blah, blah, blah—save for the fact that Sorcha could no longer hear the heartbeats of her ancestors thrumming through her veins. She was no longer a dún Scoti, but a Caimbeul, ill-conceived by a man she was raised to loath. And this duplicity had been fostered by the entirety of her clan—people she had grown to love and trust. Sorcha no longer wanted any part of them.

  She spat upon the ground, forsaking the Guardians, casting away her histories like the wind. She would begin a new tale now…

  Certainly, by now, her laird brother would have sent riders to Keppenach and to Dunràth.

  No matter; they would return empty handed, none the wiser. Sorcha had learned quite a lot from her siblings. From Keane, she’d learned how to hunt and track. From Lael, she’d learned how to wield a blade. From Cailin, she’d learned how to shoot a bow. From Catrìona, she’d learned to use her charms. And Lìli—yes, Lìli was her sister—she’d learned to perfect her simples. Last, but not least, from her laird brother, she’d learned how to lie. Rage, black as the hair on her nephew’s head, beat its wings against her ribs. For, in truth, everyone lied to her.

  Everyone.

  You are not the daughter of a Guardian, a little voice at the back of her head taunted, and the words made Sorcha sick to her gut. Blinking away hot tears, she peered up at the long-haired star, moving like a snake across the blustery sky. She had a strange feeling that if she could reach the place where its shining tail touched the earth, that’s where she would discover all her answers.

  And regardless, if Una still lived, Sorcha thought she knew where she was. Every spring, right about this time, that wily old woman would leave the Vale, so she said, to ply her trade amidst the neighboring clans. But Sorcha was beginning to suspect she’d left them for another reason entirely …

  According to one of the tales in that grimoire Sorcha carried in her satchel—that same book Una gave her the day before she “died”—every spring, come May Day’s Eve, the Cailleach herself returned to drink from the youth-providing faerie pools on the Isle of Skye, thereby transforming herself into her summer sister.

  So, this was where Sorcha was going now—not to Padruig’s, but to the one place no one would ever anticipate, because good God-fearing folk no longer believed in the old tales. They were patsies to a king who’d forsaken the gods of their ancestors. But Sorcha still believed. And that star, up there, it seemed to be leading her straight to Una. Like a beacon. Day and night, it shone—day and night—and Sorcha was convinced it shone only for her … leading her to the Cailleach.

  Horse and rider went trotting past, and star-faced wood anemones bowed tiny white heads.

  Leaning back, Sorcha dropped her now worthless keek stane into her saddle bag. She had been holding it in her hand, on the off-chance the crystal might again deign to speak to her. But, the brighter that star appeared, the dimmer the keek stane grew, until it was naught more than a lucid crystal.

  Night sounds played like music in the air. A distant wolf howled. The canopy of green overhead soon gave way to wide, open skies and Sorcha reined in her mount on a small hill overlooking the village of Lochinver. Over the past few days, she’d traveled hill and dale, Mounth to the sea … and now she’d come as far as she could go, without procuring a boat. Tomorrow she would find a way to cross the sea, and sadly, what did she have in her possession to pay the fare?

  Certainly, not the keek stane. Nor the book she kept in her satchel. Sorcha had nothing else of value, except her sweet, loyal Liusaidh.

  Dismounting, she took in the view. From this vantage, she could see for miles and miles across the sea—mean and green, with frothing waves that churned in warning. “Turn back,” it seemed to say. “This way dare not come.” But Sorcha did dare. And anyone who knew her well enough to say, could attest to the fact that she was not so easily dissuaded. If Una was out there, Sorcha would find her.

  As though to reassure her, Liusaidh rubbed her muzzle against the back of Sorcha’s shoulder, moving a little closer, as though to hug her. Regretfully, Sorcha reached up to pat her dear horse, realizing of a certainty that it was soon to be good-bye.

  “I. Will. Find. You,” Sorcha whispered again, and she shivered, but not because she was afeared. She was not. Nor was she cold. She wore a burning mantle of fury to warm her to the bone.

  An ageless, eternal silence was her answer, and Sorcha leaned into her mare, caressing the lush white mane. Tomorrow, bright and early, she would part ways with Liusaidh to get herself passage on a ship. And by the time anyone anticipated her true destination—if they ever anticipated it—she would be long gone. Sailing across the Minch, to the Isle of Skye.

  Her father be damned. Her people be damned. Truth was all she cared about now.

  Dubhtolargg

  Not for the first time, and much to his regret Aidan dún Scoti armed himself for war.

  He had mistakenly believed his sister would return of her own accord. But, in hindsight, it had been a mistake not to go after her the instant he’d spied that defiant look in her eyes. Only once before had he witnessed such a look upon the face of a sibling, and he’d mistakenly believed his youngest, most complaisant sister would never do what Lael had done—walk away from the Vale without a backward glance.

  Now, Sorcha was gone, and Aidan had only himself to blame.

  He should have listened to his wife. He should have told Sorcha the truth—that her father was the man who’d killed Aidan’s sire and defiled their lady mother. But since he’d failed to do so, now the question that terrified him most was the one he loathed to ask: Would Sorcha dare to seek her bastard father?

  Padruig Caimbeul was a villain. Aidan loathed to think of his sister facing him all alone. He only wished Una were still alive, because the wily old woman always knew what to do.

  Once, not so long ago, she’d given him a loathsome prophesy—one he’d duly ignored. She’d said the wolves of Pechtland would all scatter to the winds. Right now, it seemed a literal divination, for only he and Cailin now remained, and Cailin was bound to wed Cameron MacKinnon, if the fool ever had the bollocks to ask.

  Eleven years ago, his sister Catrìona had been the first to leave, stolen from her bed in the wee hours of the morn by King David. And regardless of her means of departure, Cat never returned to the Vale. Lael rode out to help Broc Ceannfhionn retake Keppenach, and there she remained, wed to King David’s Butcher. Now, Keane was gone as well. But, of course, against Aidan’s wishes, he’d sold his soul to David mac Mhaoil Chaluim, for a bride—a princess of Moray, no doubt, but that was neither here nor there. And now Sorcha …

  Until this morning, he’d been so sure she would ride north to seek Keane and his new wife. But that was not the case. Both Lael and Keane lived within a few days’ ride from Dubhtolargg and riders had already returned from both Keppenach and Dunràth, neither having encountered Sorcha. So now he was worried, and he strapped on his sword belt and fi
lled his scabbard with his sword. Lìli entered the room as he sank the fine steel into its sheath.

  “I shall go with you.”

  “Nay.”

  “Aidan, please! Padruig is my father. You have no right to keep me.”

  Aidan turned to level his wife a look unlike any he’d ever given her before. “I have every right, as your laird husband.”

  Undeterred, she seized him by the arm, squeezing gently. “Please, Aidan,” she begged. “I do not trust him.”

  “All the more reason to keep you from his presence,” he said. Of course, he meant her sire—the odious miscreant who’d fathered not one, but two of the women he adored. He muttered a curse, wholly regretting having fostered such mettle in his women that they could defy him so easily, when grown men never dared.

  Why in Cailleach’s name had he kept the truth from Sorcha so long?

  The futility of the effort was never more apparent as he met his wife’s gentle gaze. Sorcha looked nothing like him and so much more like Lìli. They even shared the same copper hair, and the same haunting violet eyes. How soon after Lìli’s arrival had he, himself, begun to question the truth? Not long at all. And yet, in her absolute trust, Sorcha never once dared to question her patrimony. She had put the entirety of her fate into the hands of those who’d loved her. And now, Aidan loathed to think what she must be feeling.

  Betrayed, at the very least.

  “Aidan,” Lìli said, preparing to argue, “’tisna for myself I fear. ’Tis for you, my love… and for Sorcha. Dinna ye ken?”

  “Then you must have no fear,” Aidan reassured. “Because if anyone is to die this day, it will not be me.”

  “Infamous last words, Husband! I would warrant your father must have said the same when he dared to allow a snake into his hall! And remember, ye canna challenge Padruig without cause. He is protected by King David. If you slay him without reason—or unless he challenges you—”

  Aidan interrupted her. “David has ever been, and still is, a fool. I dinna care if he has managed to woo the entirety of Scotia to his cause.”

  Inasmuch as there was peace between the clans, Aidan would never wholly allow himself to fall in line behind an English usurper. He was not a lover of politiks. But how could anyone follow a man who’d been raised by an English king, who returned to Scotia to oust a rightful Earl of Moray from his shire, only to replace him with an English minion—a Scotsman feckless enough to bend the knee to a man some believed slew his grandsire?

  “Aidan… please, ye canna know what he is like.”

  Aidan spun to face her, infuriated by her words. He stabbed his chest with a finger. “I dinna ken what he’s like?” he asked. “I dinna ken? By the stone, Lìli, he murdered my father in front of my own eyes, and then he defiled my mother while still wearing his blood. And ye say I dinna ken what the man is like?”

  Lìli blanched. He had never quite so rudely outlined the things her father had done to him and his people. Because he loved her, she realized, and because he realized Lìli understood better than anyone what Padruig Caimbeul was capable of. “He will never allow you into his hall,” she persisted, afeared of the outcome if she did not go with him. “Not without stripping you of all your possessions. He will render you defenseless, and he will surround himself with guards. And if you should happen to lose your temper—”

  “This is precisely why I do not intend for you to go, Lìli.” Aidan rarely argued with his wife, but for once, he was annoyed by the sight of her, because, at the instant, she reminded him of all the lies they would now be forced to atone for. Not only was she the image of Sorcha, she was also the image of her treacherous Da. He shook his head, in part in disgust over his own role in his sister’s disaster. How must it feel to know she’s the daughter of a blackguard? Turning his back to his wife, he continued to dress.

  After a moment, Lìli dared to touch the small of his back, a timid gesture that brought a sting to Aidan’s eyes. Unable to resist her, he turned, arms outstretched, and swallowed the vile words he had for her sire. He took her into his arms and smoothed the hair from her face, softening his tone. “I canna allow myself to place you at risk, a ghrá mo chroí.” My heart’s beloved. “You have suffered enough by your father’s hands.”

  Lìli’s gaze pleaded with him still. “Please, Aidan… ye dinna ken. If he harms Sorcha I will suffer all the more. Please,” she begged. “She is my sister, too.”

  A simple fact that sickened him.

  What a web of deception they’d woven. His youngest sister was his wife’s sister, too—a bitter pill to swallow. Gathering Lìli’s long dark hair into his fist, he pulled her close, kissing her gently upon the nose, intending to deny her. But, alas, he realized it was true; she could read Padruig better than he could. Resigning himself, he laid his forehead against hers. Every word that came out of that man’s mouth was to be mistrusted. And yet, Lìli would know instinctively whether her father spoke true. As ucht Dé—for god’s sake—Sorcha’s life was precious and if there was any chance he could save her, he must seize it.

  Relenting, he kissed his wife again, this time upon the forehead, fearing the worst… that her father would somehow wrest his beloved from him, and without Lìli, his life would be intolerable.

  Fortunately, or quite unfortunately, whatever the case might be, Lìli knew Aidan better than anyone. She took his silence for what it was, a moment of weakness. “Please… you must allow me to go with you. I will know if he holds Sorcha.”

  “What if he does? He will not listen to you. He will never release her simply because you bid it.”

  Lìli pleaded with her eyes. “Aye, though perhaps my mother will?” Lady Saundra was still living, and mayhap, in truth, she would take a stand and champion her long-lost daughter. But, would she do so, even if the girl she would save might be her husband’s bastard?

  Together in the privacy of their room, with the rest of the house in an uproar, Aidan and Lìli remained silent a moment, and, after a while, Lìli squeezed him about the chest. “I wish he didna have to know.”

  Gods have mercy. Padruig would have no need to hear it, because he would only need to lay eyes upon his child to know; the man had two daughters, and he was deserving of neither.

  Padruig Caimbeul was a villain of the utmost degree. So, then, must Aidan put one sister at risk to retrieve the other? It was an untenable position to be in, but Lìli spoke true. He must take her along to face her Da. Resolved, he pushed her away, though not unkindly. “Go tell Cailin,” he said. “She is responsible for the Vale in our absence. Tell Ria to mind her aunt, and ready yourself to ride.”

  3

  The sea was a tempest, knocking ships all about the harbor. Unlike others afeared of a bit of gale, the men of Rònaigh were not so easily cowed. It suited them better to weather the storm at sea. But they couldn’t leave as yet ...

  Not until Sorcha arrived.

  And there she appeared … with her long, shining hair in a fat, loose plait, riding into the harbor on a beauteous white mare, unlike any beast Alec had ever seen. Horse and rider held their heads high, and Alec could read the fire in her soul simply by the way she whipped her tail—the horse, of course, not the rider. Auld Biera had told a fantastical tale, but everything was exactly as she foretold.

  “Could it be her?”

  “What do ye think?”

  The two men watched as the girl walked the fine animal to the end of the long dock, and speak softly into its ear. Lovely, she was—and Alec wasn’t just talking about the horse. He had a moment’s pity that she couldn’t be his.

  For a long, long time, Sorcha stood caressing the animal’s cheek, and Alec wondered what his kinsmen might say when they spied that sweet filly trotting off his ship. Truth to tell, he wasn’t so sure which excited him most—the auld woman’s promises for the girl, or her horse. So many of Rònaigh’s villagers had never even seen a horse—much less a horse of that caliber. For the most part, they didn’t need horses on their isle, except for
plowing. Dunrònaigh’s stable had a few Jacks and a handful of Jennies, but only Caden kept a fine horse.

  And the lassie … well, she was hardly a troll. In fact, she had the outward bearing of a queen, and if the auld woman spoke true, Dunrònaigh’s halls would soon ring again with laughter. Their children would romp along the fields. And, more importantly, Caden Mac Swein would be restored to his former glory. Although, first, they must get that girl to Rònaigh, and for this, they’d needed help.

  “Should we snatch her?”

  “Nay.” Alec frowned at the ship’s captain. “Have patience.”

  He’d already paid the fishermen to deny her passage, and they would be better served to allow the lass to come to them of her own accord. For what he had in store, he needed the girl’s trust.

  Anyway, he doubted any other ship would set sail today, with the Minch in such bad form. The ocean itself was like a woman, with her raging tempers, and the moon and stars had their sway. That new star up there seemed to have raised a ruckus, and none of these other ships were so well equipped as theirs.

  All these centuries later, his people still used the technology of their Viking ancestors—not the once-feared drakkar, with their dragon prows, but the Viking half ships used by merchants to carry cargo. With wider and deeper hulls than war ships, three knörrs could easily evacuate the entirety of their village, and they had four. The Blue Men might rage, but they would weather the sea like a champ. And they would find their way, no matter what bluster the Blue Men gave, for the maids who guided them through the mist were friends of the Fin Folk.