by Kris Tualla
“I have a hard time believing ye, Lord Drummond,” the king warned.
“If I could release ye, I’d take ye and show ye!” Drew cried.
A meaty fist slammed the tabletop, causing the dishware to jump and scatter.
“But ye can no’!” David shouted. “Unless ye raise my ransom! And how do ye propose to do that when the people are fleeing all over the countryside like rats?”
Drew slapped his mouth closed. He didn’t move.
“You’re sworn to do as I bid ye, Lord Andrew Drummond. And I bid ye—hang them all!”
Chapter Twenty
January 22, 1355
Castleton, Scotland
Eryn moved slowly, conserving her gradually restored energy. She was so seldom ill, that her bout with the catarrh was almost as irritating as it was debilitating. But as she lay under piles of blankets for so many days, she had time to think about things. And one decision she made was to move into the master chamber.
At the beginning, she hadn’t time to consider it—Lord Andrew Drummond arrived the very day she announced she was claiming the title of Lady Bell and all the responsibilities that went along with it. And of course she housed the powerful knight in that chamber for as long as he remained with them. A man of his position deserved the best she could offer. She had a reputation to create, after all.
She gave herself to Drew in that huge bed intentionally, because she was not sleeping there. She knew the knight would leave. She had no expectations he would return for any purpose other than to punish her for actions he himself labeled treasonous.
And when he finally did leave, she still had no thought to relocate; the erotic memory of their lovemaking burned hotly enough in her own chamber that she could not imagine surviving if she slept in the master bed.
But Lord Andrew rammed his way through that reasoning when he rescued her from the English. Not only did he bed her that very eve with the intensity of a siege engine, he slept the night at her side. In her bed. In her room. He sullied her plan when he ‘sullied’ her.
Eryn smelled him on her sheets. The caress of her blankets was the touch of his hand. She closed her eyes and saw his—dilated to golden circles with desire for her. The ghostly woman of her fever-dream was not the only spectre she must endure there now.
It was time to move.
She ordered the entire chamber scrubbed. The ceiling and the walls were brushed. The hearth was scoured. The floors mopped. The curtains taken outside and beaten. The linens changed and blankets freshened—again.
Eryn sat in a padded chair and supervised the process. She insisted that no single trace of any previous occupants would survive the purging. It required an entire day, and half of the manor’s servants, and even so the floor was still damp at the setting of the sun.
When she rested in her own bed for the last time that night, she felt as if she was stepping into a new chapter of her life. Whether it would end happily was a consideration she put aside and refused to address.
January 22, 1355
London, England
“Five days!” Drew bellowed. Kennan cringed. The few remaining occupants of the tavern made faces but didn’t interfere. “I have been waitin’ on His Royal Majesty’s fookin’ Scottish arse for five damn days!”
Drew gulped the contents of his pewter goblet and slammed the empty container on the wooden table. He was definitely deep in his cups and he did not particularly care. He was tired of being responsible and being careful and waiting for King-David-the-Second to take the pole out of his arse and call him back to finish their discussion.
“Because I have a few more tidbits for His Fookin’ Highness’s enlightenment, I’ll say ye tha’ right now!” he slurred.
Kennan nodded, but his eyes were elsewhere.
Drew swung around and caught a pretty whore smiling at Kennan. He smacked his vassal on the arm. “Go swive her until she’s cross-eyed, McKennan! Make me proud.”
“Aye, sir!” Kennan stood, swayed a little, and then wove his way across the room to the inviting young lass.
“I hope he’s go’ enough coin because she’s goin’ to be wantin’ it all!” he mumbled into his chalice. He frowned when he found it empty and wondered when that happened.
“What about you?” a sultry voice tickled his ear. “A big man like you must need a big woman to satisfy him.”
Drew looked over his shoulder into the largest pair of breasts he had ever seen. I bet my whole hand would fit atween ‘em. He was tempted to try.
“What do you say, my black stallion?”
Drew lifted his eyes and met the gaze of a middle-aged harlot, definitely looking worse for the wearing down of her hard life. She sat next to him and her hand plunged into his lap. At first he thought to let her continue. She could have him finished in minutes with that stroke, and he could think of Eryn the whole time.
Eryn.
“What happened?” she squeaked. “You’re limp as dough of a sudden.”
Drew pushed her hand away. “No’ interested.”
She stood up so fast she tipped the bench over. “Oh, so you’re like that, are you? Well you might have said so!”
As she stomped away he heard her mutter, “Why is it always the best lookers that want their own kind?”
Drew started laughing so hard, he couldn’t stop.
January 23, 1355
Castleton, Scotland
Ian helped Eryn by moving and reorganizing her clothing in the master chamber cabinets—truly the biggest job of those tasks left to be accomplished. She was skilled with a needle and spent many a winter’s night designing and stitching dresses for herself, and tunics for young William. To see her extensive wardrobe, one might believe she truly was a Lady.
There was only one item of substance left to move. Her entire life up to now was contained in the confines of a smallish cedar chest. The chest was a gift from the nuns at Elstow Abbey when she was fifteen and being sent north to serve on the Bell estate.
All of her worldly possessions were packed in the trunk. At that point, they consisted of amber and silver rosary beads with a carved wooden crucifix, three woolen dresses that she had sewed, unbleached linen underclothes, one pair of serviceable boots, a woolen cloak lined with rabbit fur, and the blanket her mother wrapped her in when she was abandoned into the nun’s care.
“Abandoned might be harsh,” she whispered. “She might have left me somewhere to die, but she did make certain I would be seen after.”
Eryn sat on the floor beside the coffer and lifted the lid. The sharp and familiar scent of the wood soothed her—it felt like home, wherever that might be. And it kept moths off the woolen garments inside.
On top of the contents were new woolen hose she knitted over the past summer. Her current leggings were adequate, so these would go back into the chest until they were needed. But the scarf next to them could be used right away. She set it aside.
Next were a dozen skeins of wool yarn in various hues and all of her knitting needles. Those would be re-packed. As would the several lengths of soft, bleached linen beneath.
Below the linen were her treasures: the silks and velvets.
When the Lady Elspeth Bell died, Henry gave Eryn leave to plunder her cabinets and claim any fabrics there. He appreciated her skills, he said, and wanted her to sew for him and William. She did so, faithfully. And when Henry died, Eryn used some of the fabrics for herself.
“And when Liam stops destroying his clothing, playing outside like a berserker, he shall wear these as well,” she muttered. Until then, it seemed wasteful to allow them to languish, unseen and unused.
Eryn stood and draped the vivid fabric over her bed, checking for any signs that they might have been nibbled by some wee beasties. Satisfied that the cedar was accomplishing its pungent task, she carefully re-folded the valuable material.
Before she laid it back in the trunk, she paused. The small woven blanket her mother made was the only item remaining in the chest and it was on the
bottom. Eryn hadn’t pulled it out for years. But something today made her reach for it.
She knelt and spread it over her lap. It was such an unusual piece; six separate squares measuring about a foot wide and long—and each with it’s own complete design—were stitched together, two across and three down. The colors were still vivid, almost alive.
The lady and knight depicted showed more emotion than Eryn would have thought possible on such a small scale. One square portrayed Easter and Christmas, obviously religious in tone. And one was a map of Britain and the North Sea. An odd choice, she always thought. The ‘1327’ on one square was her birth year, so her mother obviously meant her to have it.
As for the unique design of the blanket, the nuns told Eryn that her mother was an embroiderer and weaver by trade. She must have made the woven blanket square-by-square from leftover yarns.
“A woman in that position would not have had enough money to buy her own yarn,” they told her. “Most likely she claimed the end pieces from her employers’ stock.”
Eryn pressed her lips together and wagged her head. My mother was a fool.
For the first time in her life, she understood the passion her mother must have felt for the man who bedded her. Truly, Lord Andrew Drummond rattled her world the moment she laid eyes on him. He was more than any other man she had ever met—and in every way a man could be.
But she couldn’t keep him. They came from too disparate backgrounds. And then there was the little matter of her false identity; if he knew she was not a Lady, but a bastard orphan, he wouldn’t want her anyway.
When she decided to lay with him, she knew she was taking an enormous chance with her heart. Once broken, she didn’t know another man who might fix it. Geoffrey would try. He would fail. But she wouldn’t trade those two nights in Drew’s arms for anything. Until she died, she knew the memory would warm her in ways nothing else could.
“But I’ll never be like her,” Eryn vowed. “I’ll never allow a man to plant his seed in my womb if we are not married.”
Why hadn’t her mother insisted on marriage? Or if marriage was not possible, at least a sheath? Drew said sheaths had existed since humans figured out where babies sprung from. Didn’t her mother know of such things? If she had insisted, then the man would not have left her alone with child.
And left the child alone as well.
My mother was a fool, and I have paid for her foolishness my entire life.
Eryn sighed. At least she had made a better decision. She absently traced a finger over the lady in one of the squares of the blanket. She startled when she realized the woven image matched the fever-ghost at the foot of her sickbed.
“So that’s where you came from; my childhood imagination,” Eryn whispered.
A shiver rippled through her and her skin puckered into gooseflesh. Something cold passed over her. Eryn gasped and looked behind her, expecting to see the apparition. Though her heart pounded and her hands trembled, she saw nothing but the open door to her chamber and a cheery fire on her hearth.
“And my childhood imagination still survives,” she chided herself.
Back into the coffer went the blanket. The silks and velvets were next, followed by all of the other emptied contents, excepting the scarf. Eryn called to Ian that she was ready for him to come and move the chest.
January 23, 1355
London England
Drew opened one eye.
He was in his London apartment. In his London bed. And the London fog outside his open window was expected. The fog in his head was not. He rubbed his forehead and groaned.
What had he done yester eve?
An enormous pair of tits floated through his memory. Right, then. The tavern.
Judging by the pale gray light outside, he had slept through breakfast and dinner time approached. The thought of food made him queasy, though his belly rumbled its adamant appeal.
“Well, David, will ye see me today?” he asked his empty room.
As annoyed as he was with his king, Drew appreciated the time he was given to consider his own actions. He could not—nay, would not—go about the countryside stretching honest men by the neck simply for doing what needed to be done.
Eryn’s clear green eyes sprouted in his mind.
Nor honest women as well, he amended the thought.
When he saw David again, he would press the man to reconsider his words. Drew prayed he could make his sovereign see beyond what was traditional to what was best for Scotland in the here and now. And if he could not, he needed to have a plan.
Drew had not been to his father’s estate for over fifteen years. And since the Death ended, he had not heard who of his family survived. Perhaps it was time to find out. Past time, in truth.
Someone knocked on his door. He clambered out of his bed, ignoring the pounding in his temples, and lumbered to the front room of the apartment.
Drew threw the latch and his vassal entered. “And how was your night?” Drew asked.
Kennan grinned. “She was comely and she said I was the best she’d ever had.”
Of course she did. Drew made his way back to his sleeping chamber to get dressed. “And did ye pay her well?”
“She would no’ take any money,” he answered, following behind. “And she asked would I meet her again tonight.”
Drew shook his head, regretted the nauseating motion, and sat on the edge of his bed. He commanded his stomach to behave. “She’s got a trick, I’d bet my life,” he warned.
“Of course she does!” Kennan pointed a finger at him. “And that is why I’ll not meet her. And then I’ve swived her for free!”
“Let’s hope none come after ye.” Drew lifted his hose from the board at the foot of his bed. He jammed one leg, then the other, into the knitted garment. He was glad he had slept in his shirt and he did no’ have to wonder where it might have gotten off to. If he could only find his tunic.
“But what I came to tell ye,” Kennan stooped to retrieve the tunic from the other side of the bed; he handed it to Drew. “Is that King David wished to see ye today.”
Drew yanked the tunic from Kennan’s grasp and slipped it over his head. “Does he, then. Well perhaps I shall keep him waiting for me this time!”
Kennan’s eyes rounded. “Really?”
“No,” Drew grunted. “I’m in deep enough trouble as it is.”
A duel of silence was being waged.
King David stared at Drew. Drew stared back. He would not speak next even if he sat in the Tower all night.
After he arrived and pleasantries had been exchanged, King David conceded that he might have been a bit hasty in his previous edict. Perhaps not everyone needed hanging.
“No, sire. They do no’ and I’m glad to hear ye say so,” Drew responded.
“Only the ones claiming a title they have no legal right to,” he continued.
Like Eryn. Shite.
“Will ye have me hang women as well?” Drew asked, hoping the shock of that idea might soften His Majesty’s opinion.
“Have women claimed titles?” he countered.
Drew shrugged. “Possibly.”
David paced around the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Have they claimed land?”
Aye—and sold it. “My lord, your subjects of all stations and both genders have done what they needed to do.”
He stopped pacing. “And what will happen if I order these men—and women—hanged?”
Drew pulled a steadying breath. “Ye’ll want to get well accustomed to this apartment, Sire. Because none in Scotland will raise your ransom.”
“How dare you?” David bellowed. His face was red as blood, but Drew no longer feared apoplexy; he’d seen that reaction often enough now to not be worried by it.
“Ye sent me all over the country and ye asked me to tell ye what I found. Would ye have me lie?” Drew barked.
And then settled the deathlike stillness and soundless clashing of wills. Knight versus
king. Reason versus ego. Servant versus master.
Well, not for long.
“And what if I order it anyway?” David growled softly.
Drew stood. His heart bashed about in his chest as he unsheathed his sword and laid it on the table.
David’s bushy gray brows lowered. His eyes dilated with a maniacal anger. “What in hell do ye think ye are doing?” he cried.
Drew dropped to one knee and faced the floor. “If a knight and courtier cannot follow his king’s orders, he can no longer hold that position.”
“Get up. NOW!” David shouted.
Drew stood slowly.
David pointed to the door, his hand shaking. “Take your sword and leave me be.”
Without a word, Drew reached for the jeweled hilt, which silently mocked him in the candlelight. He wasn’t certain of his status at that moment, but he obeyed.
As he left the chamber, David snarled after him, “Do no’ leave London, Drummond. I’m not done with ye yet.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Ye laid down your sword?” Kennan’s eyes rounded. “Ye laid down your sword?”
“Ye can stop saying it now,” Drew grumbled into his ale.
Kennan’s head wagged. “No… I do no’ think I can. What were ye thinking? Layin’ down your sword?”
Drew gulped the ale, banged the pewter stein on the tabletop, and signaled for another. What had he been thinking?
He had been in David’s court and training with his knights since he was fifteen. It was the only thing he kent that might ease the fury he felt when his father killed his brother. The hard physical activity did wear him down, true; but the anguish in his chest prompted silent tears that dampened his pillow. The combination of anger and pain kept him away from his home. He had not been back. Ever.
And today, without forethought, he unsheathed his sword and laid it before his king. If David had picked it up, Drew would be without industry or income. Forced to find a way to support himself. And a place to live. Today.
