Now she could not summon that ease, that sense of belonging here anymore. Some part of Damian St. Giles had marked this place, marked her soul.
Putting her hand on the crenellation, she stared off in the direction of Glen Shane. Her mind cautioned that this malaise was not good, she needed to put RavenHawke from her thoughts. Forget him. Mayhap in time she would achieve that noble aim. For now, he haunted her, visions of their time together, what he taught her about the magic of a man and a woman joining stayed constantly with her. Sometimes she wondered if the potion had done its job and obliterated her from his mind. In weaker moments, a selfish part of her wanted some fragment of their time to remain with him. She could not stop wondering where he was, what he was doing.
Pulling her mantle closer, she shivered against the damp morning air, watching the haar shift like aimless gray ghosts across the valley. Once more, she wondered where Damian was. She could close her eyes and try to summon his image, use The Kenning to try to touch his mind, but that would be the road to ruin.
“Mayhap I am the one who should have taken the forgetting potion.”
Chapter Eight
Cha d’dhùin doras nach d’fhosgail doras.
(No door ever closed, but another opened.)
— Auld Scottish Adage
Damian paused halfway up the tower steps when he spotted his cousin. For a heartbeat, he remained motionless, judging Julian’s mood. Knowing his cousin well, he had an idea what this secluded meeting at dawnbreak was about. Tamlyn.
Challon would take Tamlyn to lady wife this day, but that merely made legal what clearly happened on Beltaine. She now belonged to Challon in a way no blessing of the church could ever give. Damian envied his cousin. Oh, he did not expect everything to be smooth sailing for Julian and Tamlyn. There was the concern of her lord father, the Earl Kinmarch, now prisoner to Edward. Julian had stormed the man’s castle and taken him captive, by Edward’s command. Damian had a feeling Tamlyn would not let the matter drop.
Still, their bond brought a deep yearning within him. He wanted a home, a family. He, as well, had been a warrior for too long. He wondered if he would find those things waiting at his grandfather’s holding, pondered if his grandfather would even welcome him, or resent that Edward had sent him to assume command of the fief. Well, he would find the answers to these things soon enough. He wanted to be away from Glenrogha as soon as possible.
Challon’s head turned at his approach, but he waited for Damian to break the hush. The corner of his mouth quirked up. Julian was a master at wielding silence like a sword. Usually it failed to have an effect on him since he knew his cousin too well. Only, with the big voids in his memory gnawing at him, this dawn meeting left him with disquiet.
“Rather odd, to find a man about to marry out here all alone,” Damian commented. “I wouldst think there were other…more comfortable places you could be.”
“I will go back to her, shortly. I want to honor her before her people, and have them see she comes to the union with her full blessings. I want peace here. The people of Glenrogha love their lady. Her happiness is important to them.” Challon’s eyes looked over him in an air of detached assessment, though Damian sensed that was not his mood. “So where were you these past days?”
Damian had hoped his cousin would not ask that question. Stalling for time, he yawned, then shivered. How could he explain the lack of knowing, or worse, the bizarre flashes that skittered through his mind at the odd moment? “Truth?”
“I would not have asked otherwise.” Challon’s tone had an underlying hint of shortness.
Damian shook his head. “The truth―I lack any idea where I was.”
Challon frowned, clearly not expecting this response. “I know you said that before, but I figured you just did not wish to speak about it before the others. At first I assumed you were off with some wench. As days passed, I grew concerned you had been set upon by some of the brigands from Clan Comyn, either held for ransom or killed. You worried me.”
“And here of late, I might have thought that either prospect would please you,” Damian teased, hoping to drop this line of questioning. He misliked not having the answers.
Challon turned around and leaned his hips back against the crenellation, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I wouldst never wish you harm. You have always been a brother to me. Nothing changes that. I merely warned you to turn your thoughts of Tamlyn elsewhere. I need her, Damian. If I lose her…” He paused, looking to the waning night sky, which was lightening to a deep blue. “If I lose Tamlyn, there will be nothing left of me. She is my salvation.”
Damian nodded sadly. “I know. I am happy for you, Julian. Truly. Tamlyn and you have my full blessings.”
His cousin reached out and embraced him, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, my friend―my brother. Come, we need to break our fast and prepare for my wedding. We can ponder where you were, and why you cannot recall aught of your adventure, over some of cook’s fresh baked bread.”
Damian patted Challon’s shoulder. “Go on without me. I want to stand here and enjoy the solitude a bit longer.”
Julian nodded, started to turn away, but paused. “Mayhap the Faery Queen stole you away. ’Tis what these superstitious Scots whisper. When no trace of you could be found, the serfs swore the real Queen of Beltaine came and stole you from this mortal world.”
Damian wanted to laugh off the silly notion, only he felt suddenly lightheaded. “Ah, you unriddled my secret,” making a jest of it. Inside he was not laughing.
He watched the man they called the Black Dragon go back into the castle. Once the King’s Champion, Julian had at one time held great sway with Edward, though less since the nightmare of Berwick. Strange the paths of life. Julian, though deeply troubled, had found his paradise here in this forgotten pocket in the Highlands, whilst life had set Damian―who favored him so much that people oft mistook them to be twins―upon another.
Twins. What was it about the word that sent another peculiar ripple of disquiet along his spine to lodge in his brain? His mind worked to capture the illusive feeling, seize hold of something to unravel this sense of nothingness plaguing his memory.
Half-measures never see the deed done...
The voice was clear within his head, sounding so like Tamlyn. Yet not. It was deeper, whispered, throaty. Trying to focus his thoughts on the wisp of words, striving to pull an image to match them, he failed.
“But what deed, asked the crazy man?” he spoke to the dawn breeze.
♦◊♦
Damian watched as Challon dismounted and went to lift Tamlyn from the black palfrey. The fine-blooded mare, named Goblin, had been a bride’s gift from Challon to his lady. Eager to please Julian, Moffet rushed forward to take both horses’ leads. Challon’s stallion, Pagan, nuzzled the mare’s neck, murmuring to her. Challon lightly smacked the nose of the randy horse and pushed him back, so he could help Tamlyn from the sidesaddle.
In a manner befitting a man once the King’s Champion, Challon had gone to great expense to see the wedding take place in a lavish style, despite the rush. Damian understood. Challon sent a declaration to the people of Glen Shane that while he was conqueror of this glen, he now held it and would fight to possess it. He was a man worthy to be their lord.
Absentmindedly, Challon fingered the gold Pictish torque about his neck. Tamlyn’s gift to the man who would soon be her lord husband. Emotions were clear on Julian’s countenance, how he reverenced the meaning of the present, a token to the new earl of Glenrogha.
Julian had confided he designed Tamlyn’s wedding gown. Whilst not the customary color for a ceremony, she was dressed in black trimmed in gold, her gown matching Challon’s surcoat. Damian swallowed the lump in his throat as Challon took Tamlyn’s hand and led her to the steps of the ancient kirk.
The throngs of Glen Shane’s people, lining both sides of the road, fell in behind them, following. Malcolm Ogilvie, dressed in his robes of the Culdee, stood on the top step, waiting. A
hush fell over the gathering as Tamlyn’s uncle began the ceremony.
As the words went on, Tamlyn nervously glanced about her. Damian watched her, unable to take his eyes from the lovely woman. Tamlyn’s beauty had little to do with the raiments she wore. Most days found her dressed in a common kirtle and sark. He had to admit, Challon had an eye how to showcase his bride. In the black kirtle trimmed in gold brocade, and her golden hair flowing down her back, she robbed Damian of his breath.
Even so, something niggling bothered him. His mind worried, trying to pinpoint what was wrong about the woman who stood before him. It was bad enough his mind held a blank spot of what happened this past week. Now, it seemed to be playing tricks on him. Tamlyn’s hair seemed washed out in some manner.
Then, her eyes collided with his. He saw so many things in those amber depths, all so fleeting it was hard to name each. Damian recognized the time had come to let go of the false dream. Tamlyn was never his. She belonged to Julian, not only by royal decree, but by choice of her heart. His mind whispered its sorrow, be happy, my love.
Her eyes widened in surprise for a heartbeat, then the expression shifted to alarm as Challon turned, glaring first at her, then to Damian and finally back to Tamlyn. A deep blush of shame rose to her face and she lowered her gaze, clearly saying she knew it not proper for her eyes to tarry so long on another man when words were being spoken to bind her to Challon. Challon lifted a warning brow at Damian. Knowing his cousin was right to be irritated, Damian turned his stare to the priest.
Barely listening to the words droning on, he focused his attention on pursuing the Will-o'-the-wisp within his mind. He felt like a cat chasing his tail. Acceptance rode hard in him that Tamlyn belonged to Julian, only he could not dismiss that The Kenning had lied to him. So wrapped up in the preponderances, he failed to notice the Culdee had called for Tamlyn’s consent to the union. It was important for her to declare this, as the women of Clan Ogilvie could not be forced into a marriage. Their ancient Pict laws permitted the women the right to choose their own husbands. It was imperative the people of Glen Shane see Tamlyn gave herself freely to this English lord.
Tamlyn did not reply. At first there was a stunned silence. When the priest asked for her consent a second time, a buzz fluttered through the throng of people. Come to witness their joining, murmurs asked why Tamlyn did not plight her troth. The Culdee looked from Tamlyn to Challon, a flicker of question in his eyes. A flush of irritation colored Julian’s neck as the priest prompted Tamlyn for the third time.
She turned toward Julian, wearing, oddly enough, an expression of confusion and pleading in her golden cat-eyes. His patience clearly gone, he drew a breath and opened his mouth to speak, when her voice rang out.
“Aye, I take this man as my lord husband. To honor him above all others, provide him comfort, support him in times of the troubles, and give him daughters and sons.”
Challon stared, surprised by the lengthy declaration, obvious he never expected her to make such a clear assent before all.
Tamlyn radiantly smiled up at Julian, as he took her hand and led her into the church.
Damian watched them enter the ancient kirk, feeling a door shut within his heart.
He frowned. Then, why was his spirit so untroubled?
Chapter Nine
But how shall I thee ken, Tamlin,
Or how my true-love know. . .
— Ballad of Tamlin
“Princess Aithinne!” Einar rushed through the still room doorway, then fell to his knees and thudded his fist to his chest. “Riders are at the gate, demanding entry.”
Aithinne closed her eyes and prayed for strength. After fighting queasiness all morn, the last thing she needed was to face Dinsmore Campbell again. For the past three weeks, the man had done naught, but try to gain entrance to Lyonglen in every way thinkable. The Campbell knave simply refused to take no as her final answer. She feared her ruse of an ‘ailing husband’ was near end. Soon, she would have to don mourning raiments, and announce Lyonglen’s passing. She had hoped to prolong the period before sending out those tides, waiting to make sure she was with child.
For now, staring at that stringy, white-blond hair and scraggly chin whiskers might set her stomach to heaving once more. Of course, these past two morns it required little to set her lurching for the chamber pot. Putting a hand to her belly, she drew a steadying breath.
“Dinsmore? Again?” She sighed.
“Nay, Princess.”
Unhurried, Aithinne finished tying the string of yarn around the bundle of heath, milkwort, marsh marigold and silverweed, then hung them from the rafter to dry. Stalling. The nervousness in her belly was suddenly something other than sourness. The Kenning tingled, shifting through her with a sense of foreboding, pressing inward on her thoughts.
An image of St. Giles flashed before her mind’s eye. Instantly, the knot in her stomach tightened into a hard fist, her breasts stiffened. Longing lanced through her. Never seemed to lessen. Did the wanting never stop? She bit the corner of her lip pondering how could you miss someone you did not really know? Their nights together had been a mere handful, but he had claimed a part of her soul. As if she were no longer complete. No sooner than her heart whispered his name, anguish flooded her being. Wondering where he was, what he was doing. Was he happy?
Shortly after returning St. Giles to Glenrogha, tides of Tamlyn’s marriage to the Black Dragon had been carried to Lyonglen. Part of Aithinne quietly rejoiced that her beautiful cousin was now bound to the English warlord. The other side of her mind perceived it mattered little. She had looked into St. Giles’s thoughts, painfully heard his truths. He loved Tamlyn. She sensed the honor within this warrior; Damian would never wound the trust of a man he looked upon as a brother. Whilst he would never have her, sadly, love for Tamlyn would always live silently in his heart, leaving no room for another…for her.
Oh, she did not doubt he might accept her, knowing she bore the likeness of her cousin. A living hell. Each time he looked at her, every caress of his hand, Aithinne would watch his gray-green eyes, fearful of seeing the disappointment in her not being Tamlyn. She swallowed hard, forcing back the anguish.
Three sennights had passed and Damian still haunted her dreams. In long dark nights since, she had tossed and turned, her body recalling each touch, his taste, the feel of him moving inside her. A knife to her guts. With near obsession she wanted him, and worried one day she might crave him so badly she would foolishly toss common sense to the wind and risk her heart and go to him. It was misery not being with him, but a misery she could tolerate. Living with him when he loved Tamlyn would be more than she could bear. Each day would see her love wither, her soul die.
Hugh, Deward and Lewis pushed through the door, wedging themselves into a jumble of arms and legs. The more each struggled to ram past the others, the more entangled they became. She smiled at their nonsense, the normality of their antics bringing her a small measure of peace. Fussing, all three finally shoved forward, landing in a heap at her feet. Lewis punched Deward in the shoulder. In turn, Deward took a swing, only to have Lewis duck, so the blow landed squarely on Hugh’s chin. Stunned, Hugh flopped onto his back, not moving, whilst the other two fell upon each other, fists flying.
Knowing such idiocy could go on until they wore themselves out, she eyed Einar and nodded. He leaned over and picked up Lewis and Deward by the back of their belts. Sitting up, Hugh tried to take advantage of being free to swat his brothers, only Einar put a foot to his back and pushed him to the floor. Lewis tried to twist, so he could bite Einar on the thigh, but the Viking just gave him a shake, like a puppy would a rag.
“By Saint Ninian’s shinbone, you bite Einar and you will shovel out the garderobes!” Using the voice, Aithinne stomped her foot. The lads stilled, knowing she meant the threat. Shaking her head, she pitied the lasses who one day would wed her brothers.
“Sister be in bad humor again.” Lewis sighed, rolling his eyes.
Deward nodde
d. “She blawed the past two morns, she feels puny, she―”
“Oona says she is with child and we should treat her gently,” Hugh informed them, then reached out and punched both Lewis and Deward on their noses.
Aithinne snorted at their idea of gentle. “All three of you cease acting as buffoons and tell me who be at the gates if not Dinsmore. I certainly hope it is no’ the English storming the curtain wall, or they would capture this place before the three of you stopped fighting amongst yourselves.”
“But, Sister, it is the English,” Hugh insisted.
“English?” Aithinne had a sinking feeling her day just took a turn for the worse.
♦◊♦
Aithinne anxiously peered down through the merlons to the mounted warriors below. “Gor! That be a full complement!”
Knights, squires, even hobelars, were behind the bannerets carrying the pennon of Challon―the green dragon rampant on a field of black. Bile rolled in her stomach as she considered there would be no putting off The Black Dragon, as she had with Dinsmore and Phelan, with lies of Lyonglen being unwell.
A racket broke out behind her, same ruckus that always preceded her brothers’ entrance into any room. The three always walked through a doorway, with each wanting to be first. She exhaled disgust as their arms and legs shoved, tugged and slugged their way over the threshold.
RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Page 11
