Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Cursing beneath his breath, the soldier once again made to rise, and once again, the woman stopped him. “Save this …”

  Concealing a scowl of displeasure, Padruig’s man sat again, and the woman continued, oblivious to his rising temper. “She’s gone to wed that blind laird, so I hear.”

  “Blind laird?”

  “The one from Rònaigh.”

  “Rònaigh?”

  “That’s what some say.” She eyed her near empty glass with undisguised longing.

  “Innkeeper!” shouted the man, raising his hand. “Innkeeper, bring this good woman a round of ale.”

  The woman put a hand to her breast. “Thank ye,” she said kindly, looking pleased. “A wee dram does a body guid.”

  “An’ ye been drinking a verra long time from the looks o’ ye,” the soldier remarked. “But now tell me, madam, what else ha’e ye heard?”

  “Well,” she said. “The laird of Dunrònaigh—he’s a Mac Swein, I believe—I hear tell e’s the rightful heir of Conn Cétchathach.” The innkeeper placed a tankard in front of her, and the woman stopped to take a long, hefty draught, making him wait. Finally, when she was done, she wiped the sleeve of her gown across her mouth and burped. “Anyway, I hear tell the destiny star hast forebode the rise of Conn’s dynasty.”

  “The destiny star?”

  “Aye, you seen it.” She pointed to the door. “There be an auld song goes like this … ‘Come the destiny star rising o’er the Minch—”

  The man rose from his seat. “A pox on ye, auld hag! I dinna have time to listen to silly auld songs. If’n ye got naught more to share, we’ll be on our way.”

  The old woman appeared disappointed, and her chin grew long. “Ach, well,” she said. “Hie thee away i’ ye must, only be sure to follow that star. An’ ye’ll see,” she said. “Ye’ll see,” she said again. “Oh, and be certain to bring a gift for the bride.”

  “Devil take ye, woman! I’ve heard quite enough,” said the man, slapping his hand on the table.

  And then he rose, without bothering to say goodbye. To the innkeeper’s relief, he gathered up his men and marched back out the door, leaving the inn, for the most part, the way they found it, sans a few good, paying customers. The innkeeper cursed roundly, but the woman smiled, tipping her tankard back one last time, before setting the cup down. Then she retrieved her long staff from beneath the table, and took her leave, following Caimbeul’s men out the door, singing her ditty:

  “Come the destiny star rising o’er the Minch,

  leading a sweet maid through the mist.

  With lang, saft hair and skin so fair,

  she’ll tempt a lion from his lair…”

  After considering how desperate these people must have been to aide their lord, Sorcha was far more inclined to forgive them. It was a failing of hers, she realized—one her brother Keane had so oft warned about.

  “Sorcha,” he’d said. “Your saft heart will be your undoing.” And so here she was, wasting away on a remote little isle in the far northern reaches of the north most Sea, while Una was off and away, someplace else. Nevertheless, it did feel good to have a momentary distraction. Only now that Sorcha had something “other” to think about did she realize how much her fury had enervated her. She didn’t really want to loathe her kindred. She didn’t want to be angry at Aidan, or anyone else. Forsooth, she couldn’t change the fact that she was a daughter to a demon, but she didn’t have to be a demon herself. How could she say nay to people in need?

  Resolved to make the most of the occasion—and to be away as soon as possible—she marched over to the stables to visit Liusaidh. No one stopped her as she departed the kitchen. No one ignored her either. She was greeted by exuberant waves and wide smiles as though these people had known her an eternity.

  Clearly, Sorcha was free to come and go as she pleased, and, according to Alec and Bess, whatever she needed to aid her—anything at all—she needed only to ask.

  Right now, she only wanted to see her darling mare, and she didn’t have to look hard. She found Liusaidh locked away in a dark stable, munching on old hay, surrounded by curious children, poking their little fingers into the stall. But the instant they spied Sorcha, they moved away to allow her passage.

  “I ha’e ne’er seen a faerie horse,” said a girl, and Sorcha smiled, patting the child atop the head. “She’s no faerie horse, dearling. She’s a Guardian’s breed.”

  “Aye, well, me minny said she’s a faerie horse, an’ I must believe her.”

  “Must ye now?”

  “Aye.”

  There was little sense in arguing with a tot. If the round-faced cherub wished to believe Liusaidh was a faerie horse, so be it.

  Amused, Sorcha moved into the stall, closing the door behind her. She caressed Liusaidh’s cheek, whispering softly into her ear. “Dinna worry, lass,” she said. “We’ll be on our way soon enough.” Little more than a fortnight, if Sorcha had it right. Already, they were preparing for the festival that would signal the end of Sorcha’s prison sentence. However, Liusaidh need not spend her days locked in a tiny stall. Back in the Vale, they did not keep their horses trapped in dark stables. The minute she could, Sorcha intended to set her horse free to run. Liusaidh was far more accustomed to roaming the fields.

  Sadly, in the next stall, stood a dark horse, with an equally dark mood. As the only other horse in the facility, Sorcha was quite certain it must belong to the laird. Head down, the auld boy seemed a bit despondent, like his master. Perhaps he too would enjoy a romp in the fields, along with Liusaidh? Regardless, she was certain his master had not visited him in far too long. “What is that horse’s name?” Sorcha asked the children.

  “Diabhal,” answered an older boy.

  “He is Caden’s,” said a girl. “Will ye fix him?”

  “The horse?”

  “Nay!”

  The children all squealed with laughter.

  “She means our laird,” explained the boy.

  Sorcha turned to address the motley crew of children. With dirty little faces and pink noses, they all waited expectantly for Sorcha’s reply.

  Certainly, she was going to try to fix Caden, but she couldn’t promise. And yet, the hopeful looks on their faces were so earnest Sorcha daren’t disappoint them. “Aye, I will,” she said, and prayed it could be true.

  One boy came forward, holding in his hand a crushed yellow blossom. He handed the tribute up and over the gate. “Here,” he said. “It’s for ye.”

  “Tapadh leat,” Sorcha said. Many thanks.

  “Auld Biera said to gi’ it to ye,” the boy explained. “She said ye would ken how to use it.”

  “Did she now?” Sorcha asked, inspecting the crushed flower. It was a blossom of the ruagaire deamhan —the demon chaser, aptly named because it chased away evil spirits—those at large, and those inside a body. It bloomed most profusely around the summer solstice. The crushed blossoms, when steeped in oil, turned the tincture blood red. It could be used to staunch bleeding, bind wounds, or even to counteract poison. However, when taken internally, after being steeped in purified water, it had a calming effect on the body and spirit. Una had introduced her to the flower, and was partial to its healing powers. Once, when Sorcha was ten, she’d taken her up to the faerie glen near Dubhtolargg and showed her how to pick and prepare them.

  Hmm … the more she knew of this old woman called Biera, the more she suspected it could be Una by another name. However, rather than covering her tracks, her mentor seemed to be leaving her clues. “Can you show me where this blossom grows?” Sorcha asked the boy. He nodded, and she came outside the stall and took him by the hand. “Will you show me now?”

  “I will,” replied the little girl. “I will!”

  “Me too,” said another child, and they all vied for Sorcha’s free hand. By the time she left the stables, she had a tiny hand in each of hers and half a dozen little fists gripping her by the gown.

  8

  With only a smatteri
ng of warriors remaining, and mostly women and children left to defend the keep, the village of Rònaigh had weathered the winter with trepidation.

  As a last resort, they might usher everyone inside the keep, set fire to the moat, and use the time to evacuate the village via the tunnels below the hall. Built more than five centuries past, those tunnels led all the way down to the cove where they kept their fleet of ships. Escape would be no easy task when some of the tunnels were narrow and steep. But, once there, weather permitting, with access to the ships, they could escape the isle. Three knörrs could evacuate the entirety of their village. But, even then, putting in to sea was a tricky business. There weren’t any safe harbors in Rònaigh, and only a slip of beach—used, for the most part, by obstinate MacLeods. It took skilled sailors to navigate the surrounding waters, and even greater skill to penetrate the single rocky entry to the cove that protected their vessels. For centuries, this had been their greatest fortune—that it took hearty souls to venture so far north, and heartier yet to settle Rònaigh and stay. In the dead of winter, the North Sea was a deadly foe.

  Only now, with less than a month remaining before Beltane, the weather was unseasonably warm. If the prophecy foretold by the holy woman was true, now was the hour of their greatest vulnerability. But the coming celebration was one they anticipated with glee, for as long as they had breath in their bodies, the day would never pass without a tribute to Cailleach’s mercy and Brighde’s unflagging generosity. For all that Rònaigh was a fickle friend during winter, come summer, theirs was a wondrous bounty.

  So high above the frigid sea, the grass was always verdant and full of every kind of seed. And whereas they must ship in all their livestock, the sea was generous to a fault, providing fish and shellfish, more than enough to feed the village and a growing populace of seals. The Giant’s Cave was a feast of comestibles. Whereas strangers feared to go there, their tots fished the pools, chasing crabs.

  All in all, it was a land worth defending …

  And yet, Biera had said she would be the one who would lead them away—that girl with the long soft hair, who now walked hand in hand with their younglings, a number far outweighing living adults. It would take the entire village to raise them. And nevertheless … unless Sorcha fulfilled the seer’s prophecy, their time on this earth would be short. So much depended upon her tutelage of Caden. All the more depended upon the death of Caden’s pride. When came the time … and soon … Bessie prayed with all her heart Sorcha would prevail.

  She knew very well that Alec would have taken no joy in the stealing of an innocent, particularly after the ordeal with Auld Macleod, but all their hopes rested upon Sorcha’s shoulders.

  Stealing a moment together, the two faithful servants watched from the window as Sorcha went traipsing up the hillside with their children. Under the bright light of day and that strange luminous star, she looked divine in the gown Bess had given her to wear—the bride’s dress that once belonged to Caden’s minny. Even taller than Mary Mac Swein had been, the dress swung about Sorcha’s ankles as she walked. “D’ ye think she can do it?”

  Biera had been so sure, but Alec looked worried. He shrugged.

  “She didn’t like my bread,” Bess said, with a sigh. “Nobody likes my bread.”

  Alec turned to face her. “Ach, lass, she was merely despondent o’er the news. Dinna fash yersel’ o’er it. I love … ” He seemed on the verge of saying something more. “Your bread,” he said at last. “I love your bread, Bessie dear. I love your bread so much that it pains me.”

  Left with no bairns after her husband’s death, Bessie was eager to please. She had been doing what she could to fill the old cook’s shoes and she wanted desperately to win Alec’s heart. “Would ye like some now? I have three loaves remaining.”

  “Uh, aye,” he said, smiling awkwardly, although he kept her hand in his as he turned back to the window.

  Bessie dared to hope he shared her affection. Boldly, she laid her head against his shoulder, as they watched the children lead Sorcha up the hill, to the place where so many of Rònaigh’s lives were lost that terrible day last November. But, how curious, she thought … all those little yellow blossoms had appeared precisely where so much of Rònaigh’s blood was spilt. “What di’ she say that flower was?”

  “St. John’s Wort, named for the decollation of Saint John the Baptist.”

  “Who is Saint John, and what is a Baptist?”

  “I dunno, Bessie. But I think it must be someone important.”

  “Ach, then, we shall have to ask the priest when he returns. Although I dinna think it will be soon, after Caden threatened to hang him by his tongue after he told him the blindness was a curse from God.”

  They had a passel of priests who came to Rònaigh now and again, mostly to visit the Shrine of St. Ronan. All holy men and women were welcome to their isle, where many believed lay the cradle of life itself, for it was here the Christian god met with the church of Éire, and the faith and fury of the North Men.

  On the north side of their island was a druid circle, a sacred landmark where they held the yearly May Day festival. And further north, on the opposite end of the summit, lay the ruins of an old church built by St. Ronan—a monk who’d had foresight to see the divinity of Rònaigh. For as long as there was memory, these sacred places and stories had been a part of their lives. The holy woman said they were a chosen people.

  “But it’s curious,” Alec said. “Dinna ye think? A blossom named for a beheaded saint, now meant to heal the heart of a man who took his brother’s head?”

  “What if she’s wrong … ?”

  Alec turned to draw Bess into his arms. “Ach, sweet lass. If she’s wrong, Rònaigh will be lost.”

  For a long, long moment, neither so much as blinked, and then Bessie dared to lean into his embrace, turning sad brown eyes up to Alec’s face. “Pray, then. Pray the girl must succeed … ”

  “Bessie … I … I need to say something …”

  “What?” she asked, pleading for the words she longed to hear. Her heart kicked a beat against her breast. And then, suddenly, the sound of Caden’s voice roared throughout the keep. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, and Alec squeezed her one last time before rushing away.

  Caden could no longer spy the cracks in his ceiling, but he could damned well hear the wind wailing through them. His eyes seemed to have languished, but his ears grew keener by the second.

  Shortly after the … blindness, he’d ordered everything removed from his chamber—everything—all his weapons, all his belongings, even the brazier that was meant to keep him warm. He’d grown tired of tripping over his trunks and singeing the hairs of his arse. Only the bed and one chair remained, and if he shivered in the middle of the night, it was just penance for all he’d done.

  At this point, he must accept his punishment with as much grace as he possessed, and he must come to terms with the truth of the matter; Rònaigh was ill-fated.

  Nevertheless, for the first time in so many months he longed to be somewhere other than where he was. Feeling restless, he bounded from the bed, naked as the day he was begot and moved instinctively to the window, letting the sunlight warm his face.

  Ach … how long had it been since he’d allowed himself such a simple pleasure?

  He’d lived cold and lonely in the darkness since his brother’s death, but for the briefest time whilst they’d been conversing, that pawky girl had brought a ray of sunshine into Caden’s world. Now, rather than drink himself into oblivion, he found himself awaiting her return …

  But what if she did not come back? What if she appealed to Alec’s better nature, and compelled him to take her away? What if she never returned?

  He longed to know who she was, but even if he cared to brave the stairs, all his clothes were stored in the antechamber, left to rot in his trunks. For all the good that his eyes would do him, he might find himself wearing one of his mother’s gowns. Alec was right; he had too much pride to ask for help.

&nb
sp; Again, his thoughts returned to the lass he’d discovered in his bed, wondering who she could be. Her name was Sorcha, or so she’d claimed. But Sorcha who? And whence did she come?

  Caden would have asked these things and more, but for all the trouble he’d caused, that damned Alec now seemed to be making himself scarce. Friends they might be, but Alec knew better than to test him, and yet, test him he had. Left to his own devices, he’d gone and kidnapped some puir lass, and this was precisely what Rònaigh—and Caden—didn’t need now—to find himself at the end of her father’s blade, when he was unprepared to defend himself, or his people. So now, what consequences would they suffer for Alec’s impetuosity?

  He was beginning to rethink the logic over leaving the man in charge.

  He’d only hoped Alec would come to see reason and take the remaining village folk to plead their case with Auld MacLeod. They were not so long ago allies that the man should refuse them outright, particularly if they offered him Rònaigh. What good was pride, when they stood to lose their lives?

  It was an untenable position for their people to be in—to exult in their past glories when they had no future. Let no man be fooled; the circumstances were dire.

  And nevertheless, Sorcha made him smile …

  For all that she’d believed herself a prisoner, she’d appeared to have no shame, and not a meek bone in her body. She spoke her mind, precisely as she pleased. What kind of ma and da raised such a brazen lass? In all his days, Caden had never met a woman so self-assured—except for Brighde. But that vagrant holy woman must be akin to the Gods, for she had come and gone from Rònaigh every year for as long as Caden had memory, and even so, she appeared years younger than Caden, with her bright green eyes, flawless skin and golden hair.

  However, even Brighde’s beauty had not been proof enough for Caden. He was happy enough to see her, and pleased enough to see her go. To the contrary, this girl called Sorcha had infiltrated his thoughts so thoroughly and yet he didn’t have a clue what she looked like.