RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Aye, my ears are fair numb with listening about your Pictish ways,” he dismissed with impatience. “I married an Ogilvie heiress, eh? Edward is Lord Paramount of Scotland. His commands become law by suzerainty. The Scots army is broken. All Scottish nobles are either dead or made prisoner to the Plantagenet.”

  “Or their loyalty is bought by English gold and estates,” she recklessly sneered. “Despite Edward Longshanks’s thoughts on the matter Coinnleir Wood be mine.”

  Challon offered her a fleeting smile. “Mistake this not, my lady. I hold both glens through charter from Edward. There is no changing this. Your cousin––my lady––has come to terms with these matters, and I believe she does not find her lot in life such a hardship. Enough talk. I will see Lyonglen―now.”

  Aithinne tried to swallow, but could not. Her throat was too dry. She struggled to keep her attention on Lord Challon, but her eyes kept straying to Damian.

  She steadied herself for the coming confrontation. “I am sorry, Lord Challon, you may not see Lyonglen. He be ill…gravely ill.”

  Damian’s expression narrowed on her. “How ill?”

  “Too ill to receive anyone. If you will explain the situation to me, I will try to convey it so that he understands. I make no promises, mind.” A reasonable offer considering she was unsure just how much a man over two months in his grave would listen.

  “Lady Aithinne, I shall see Lyonglen. Now,” Challon insisted.

  Aithinne took a step back, and glanced to Damian, but saw his reflection was as implacable. She hoped they would accept her excuse and go away without her having to drag out her arsenal of lies before them. The more she told them, the less they sounded believable even to her. Without thought she backed up a step, then caught her cowardly retreat and straightened her spine. “I am Lady Lyonglen. I deal with all matters concerning the holding.”

  “Beg pardon?” Challon frowned, then glanced to Damian. “I understood you are lady of Coinnleir Wood―Lyonglen’s ward, according to Tamlyn. You state you are now the Baroness Lyonglen as well?”

  “Aye. Lyonglen’s pennon does not fly from the rampart and our gates remain closed to all comers. I only permitted entrance to you and your men because you are now kinsman through marriage. My lo…rd hus…band…feels unwell and wishes no visitors.”

  Damian’s head jerked back, then he roared the question―the accusation―at her. “Husband?” This time she did back up as he started toward her, looking as if he could strangle her. Would enjoy strangling her! “You are my grandmother?”

  Aithinne gaped. Surely, the man was mad. Utterly mad. Odd, she did not note the taint of lunacy before. Of course, with the spells and potions she had not witnessed him in a normal way. “You…you…think you are Lyonglen’s grandson?” Shaking her head, she reeled. “Nay, my guard―hus…band had no children by his f-fi-first wife. Well, actually there was a child, a daughter―”

  “My mother,” he snapped.

  Aithinne knew she must look a dolt, but she could not stop her head from going side-to-side in denial. “She died years ago…nearly two score passing…same time as his lady wife, a dreadful fever that took many of Glen Eallach’s people.”

  “My grandmother died of the wasting sickness. My mother recovered and lived. When she married my father––a Norman––Lyonglen disinherited her. He swore her name would be forevermore blotted from his life. Seems he kept that vow well.”

  “But…but...” Heat flooded Aithinne’s face and the hall swirled about her as the enormity of his words hit her mind.

  “I am the grandson of Gilchrest Fraser, Baron Lyonglen. Due to his age and infirmity, and in honor of their friendship, Edward Longshanks sends me to assume control of Lyonglen. I was granted charter here and am now the new baron of Glen Eallach. He felt it would be––”

  “Noooo!” Aithinne grabbed the back of the lord’s chair and used it as a crutch to stay standing. The whole bloody world was pressing in on her. She had to suck air deeply to keep from tossing up the small amount of food in her stomach.

  As if the enormity of RavenHawke’s announcement was not enough to swallow, a noise arose at the doorway leading to the kitchen. A monster comprised of three heads, six legs and six flaying arms tried to shove through the doorway.

  “A beastie so terrible that Nessie would flee,” Aithinne moaned.

  RavenHawke and Challon swung around to face the threat, their hand-and-a-half swords unsheathed and in their grips. Without word, they had moved to a position of protection before Aithinne, their backs to the other, showing they had fought in this manner many times before.

  In mêlée fashion, the three young men tumbled into the room and then at the feet of the two imposing warriors. Finally aware of the situation, they glanced up at the Dragons of Challon, and for the first time comprehended the error in their entrance. Mouths open in shock, their eyes full of awe traveled up the warriors’ long bodies to the gleaming swords raised in a position to strike.

  On their heels Einar came running in. Breathless, he fell to his knees before Aithinne and slammed his fist to his chest, then he intoned in his deep voice, “Beg pardon, Princess, they would not listen. You must come. There be men at the gates!”

  Aithinne cringed, fearing even the strongest spells and Oona’s dark potions would fail to blot out the memories of three lackwits who looked alike, and one equally distinctive moving mountain of a giant who called her Princess. “Can this day get any worse?” she muttered under her breath.

  Damian rotated around to glower at Aithinne. One black brow arched. “Princess?”

  “Och, the poor man be barmy.” She tried to smile as she motioned for Einar to rise, whilst she moved to stand before her brothers. When he failed to do so, her foot reached out and surreptitiously kicked the Viking. Aithinne ignored RavenHawke’s challenge, and focused her attention on her brothers. “More men? Pray who comes now to disrupt Lyonglen’s peace?”

  Deward looked at her as he struggled to rise. “Aithinne, Dinsmore―”

  “Not again!” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “You know my orders concerning that knave––”

  “Nay, Princess.” Einar informed her, “This time he demands entrance, says he comes on the command of Edward Longshanks. By the English King’s leave, we must open the gates and permit him to enter and to see Lyonglen.”

  Deward worried, “What shall we do?”

  At the tides Dinsmore Campbell came, bearing orders from the English king, Challon and RavenHawke exchanged silent questions. Damian gave a faint shake of his head, clearly telling his cousin he failed to believe Edward had sent Dinsmore Campbell here.

  A tightness filled Aithinne’s chest as she stared at RavenHawke, regretting so many things. Only it was too late. Way too late. Girding herself for the coming storm, she summoned the image of her cousin, Raven, to her mind and tried to wrap the same mien of regal coolness about her. She did not know what sort of bluff Campbell was putting forth, but there was only one way she could answer it.

  “My lord h-husband is too unwell to receive men plying their pale aims…”

  Hugh, straightening his clothing, gave Lewis’s ribs the point of his elbow. “But, Sister, Dunny Dinsmore––”

  For the first time, Lord Challon actually smiled. Lowering his sword, he laughed. “Campbell’s new name is rather fitting.” His lack of respect for the man was clear in his words.

  He turned to Damian. “You rule here now. What say you? Shall the new Lord Lyonglen receive this pretender?”

  The muscles in RavenHawke’s jaw flexed, as he scowled at Aithinne. “Would your lord husband––”

  Lewis blurted out, “Oh, but he’s not really her hus––”

  Both Deward and Hugh clamped a hand over Lewis’s mouth stopping him from revealing that Aithinne had never married Gilchrest Fraser. Dizzy, fighting nausea, Aithinne could hardly concentrate on the new developments, let alone weigh their possible repercussions.

  “Not really what, Princess?”
Damian moved closer, his eyes noting her wan complexion.

  She swallowed hard, backing up steps as St. Giles closed the space between them. “Not…really…really…well enough…”

  Seeking aid to escape the man nearly stalking her around the end of the lord’s table, she looked to Lord Challon. His expression reflected concern for her appearance as well. “Lady Aithinne, are you in poor health? You mention Lyonglen ailing. Are you so sorely afflicted, too?”

  Aithinne yanked the lady’s chair before her, a shield to stop St. Giles. She glanced from the angry man back to the Dragon. “I have been…distressed by matters of late, my lord.”

  “My lady!” The Captain of the Guard hurried in. “Beg pardon, but the Campbell yells if we do no’ open the gates and permit entrance, he shall battle his way in. He has a large force with him and swears he carries the might of the English king. I have ordered the curtain wall manned and all are at ready. What shall we do? ’Tis clear he means to attack.”

  “Attack?” Aithinne gasped. “Why––”

  She knew why. Dinsmore was suspicious about Lyonglen. No one had seen him for months. Rumors of his illness had been impossible to contain after the Scots’ King, John Balliol, raised his standard. A runner had come with word, demanding Gilchrest should rise to John’s call and muster the garrison of men at Lyonglen. She had to give a reason why her guardian was unable to join the Scottish forces.

  She feared giving no valid reason would make it appear he backed the English. That would leave Glen Eallach vulnerable to the Comyns to seize the holdings they had long coveted, punishment for Lyonglen appearing to support Longshanks. Had they not already done the same to Clan Bruce? Pressed and with few options, she had at first sent forth word that her guardian was too ill to lead his men for the Scottish Army. What a mistake! At tides the elderly man was not in good health, both Phelan and Dinsmore came sniffing around, wanting to know just how ill the man was.

  She knew both men saw Gilchrest’s weakness as the opportunity they had waited for. Both had tried to gain entrance to Lyonglen, demanding to meet with the baron on urgent matters. Knaves, the lot of them! They only wanted to get in so they could seize her. Both had bragged, years before, that they would take Aithinne and force her to the marriage bed, their arrogant boast reaching her ears.

  With this fate looming before her, Gilchrest sadly drew his final, ragged breath as the first Peacock butterfly came with the spring. His last wish had been for her to keep Lyonglen safe, away from both the Campbells and the Comyns, his final words, “Seek the way of the raven.” No other choice, she had concocted the marriage.

  At four and a score, she despaired she would ever find a man she wanted to wed. She liked being lady of her holdings––if arrogant, greedy men would just leave her alone! With the marriage, she could continue to control Lyonglen. The plans formed and her course set, doubts immediately intruded with word of the English crossing the borders.

  Aithinne knew Edward Longshanks, the most ruthless king to ever sit on the English throne, wanted to possess Scotland―and would. Was not his stranglehold on Wales and Ireland clear as to the fate that lies before the Scots? Edward would marry her off as a prize to a noble loyal to him. Howbeit, if she were to get with child and claim the holdings as his birthright, maybe Edward would grant her leave to remain in Glen Eallach without the monarch forcing her into a loveless marriage.

  RavenHawke caught hold of the chair’s arms, lifted it and used it to back her against the table, pinning her there, so she could not continue her retreat from him.

  “Now, Princess, time for some truths from you―though I am coming to see you are unfamiliar with the notion.”

  The pale green-gray eyes bore into hers, holding her in thrall to where she could not look away. All about her receded to near shadow as she could only see him. Images of their time together, his hands upon her breasts, his mouth on hers. Desire twisted within her. The wanting a knife to her insides. She wondered what he thought about her, if his body recalled what his mind could not.

  The fey eyes watched her, undressed her body in front of him, before moving back to lock gazes once more. Then he stripped her mind. Oddly, he said not a word, just watched her. The anger slowly shifted to a questioning, then surprise.

  The long black lashes flew wide and Damian St. Giles uttered, “He is dead.”

  Panic surged within Aithinne. She had never run into a male with such powers. There was little doubt this man had been touched by the blood of the Sidhe. She had pondered this―feared this―before, only it made more sense now Aithinne knew his mother had been Scottish.

  Made more sense…and more treacherous.

  Chapter Eleven

  She must be mine, yes, mine alone,

  I cannot live without her.

  — Old Welsh Air

  With his powerful cousin at his side, Damian St. Giles stood upon Lyonglen’s bastion, observing the two score men below. Campbell’s array of troops of foot, archers and hobelars― lightly armed and protected horse soldiers―was impressive, though typical of the Scots, a ragtag looking bunch at best. Damian was surprised Dinsmore could raise such a large force after the English had crushed the Scottish army weeks before.

  “Methinks not all Scots fought alongside Red Comyn at the Battle of Dunbar,” he commented to Julian. “Campbell assumes Lady Aithinne commands here, and thus with a hail of arrows, she would crumple to his feeble assault.”

  Julian smiled smugly. “Dunny Dinsmore has not counted on the Lords of Challon being in possession of the keep, eh?”

  “Good thing we are.” Damian’s eyes swept down the row of men-at-arms along the wall, sizing up Lyonglen’s guard. Many were past their fighting vim, or flabby around the middle. “Overfed and not trained hard enough, eh?”

  Julian crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the assessment. “Appears you have your work cut out for you. Edward was right to send you here. The position keeps it coveted by Clan Bruce, the Comyns and the Campbells. The fief, especially when combined with Coinnleir Wood, is too big a prize to leave under the hand of a weak lord or a lady—even though she is one of these warrior women from Clan Ogilvie. Glenrogha and Kinmarch are in my possession. Guillaume shall be installed as the new lord of Lochshane, and Destain takes command of Kinloch. Glen Shane is secure. Noel will ride north to claim Craigendan Keep soon. By your taking charter of Glen Eallach, Edward shall hold the heart of the Highlands in his fist.”

  Damian glanced back to the men below. “You mean the Dragons of Challon hold.”

  Julian offered him a sly half-smile. “What Edward fails to comprehend works to the good of all.”

  Julian’s war-seasoned knights and soldiery were interspersed amongst Lyonglen’s troops, on lend until Damian could pull men from his smallholding in Parvon, Normandy. Though he knew his face little showed recognition of the fact, he took note of the wary Scots’ eyes going to their lady to see if she raised objection to the two English lords assuming command. Witnessing Aithinne’s acceptance of the situation, her men seemed to relax. Possibly, even Englishman were preferable to a Campbell, judging by their clear hatred for the men below. Once assured their lady gave approval, all looked to Challon for orders.

  Used to standing in the shadow of his powerful, older cousin, Damian did not resent this. A mantle of power rode comfortably on Julian’s shoulders that few men ever achieved, instantly drawing the respect, awe and admiration of those around him. Julian Challon was born to command. Men understood and reacted to this instinctively.

  “Begin as you shall go,” Challon advised lowly. The words carried only to Damian’s ears, urging him to step into the power as the new lord of Lyonglen, before the soldiers fixed it in their minds to look to the Dragon for direction.

  “Aithinne! I know you be watching!” Wearing a supercilious smirk, the blond man at the head of the troops stood up in the stirrups of his saddle, and shouted for all to hear. “Open the damn gates, Aithinne Ogilvie, or I command my archers to let
loose their arrows. I give you to a count of ten. Then…”

  Aithinne tensed at the threat, but Damian reached out and touched her shoulder, lending backing. She seemed surprised, wary.

  Stepping so he was visible between the merlons, the right side of Damian’s mouth quirked up. “And here I wouldst have bet my gold spurs you could not count so high, Campbell.”

  The Scotsman’s head snapped back and his eyes narrowed, squinting to see who mocked him. The man tried to keep the smile upon his face, but it was evident he was less than happy to spot Damian St. Giles standing on the boulevard. “I demand to see Aithinne Ogilvie. Assure myself she be safe. I come in the name of King Edward of England.”

  “The Lady Aithinne is protected―by Edward’s command. You and five of your guard may enter the bailey. All ’tother remain outside. Agree to these terms or my men shall cut you down where you stand.” Damian nodded to Challon’s men to see his will carried out. Instantly, with unified precision, all the men along the wall stepped to the crenellations and presented their bows, arrows notched and targeted upon the Campbell force.

  Dinsmore’s affable expression remained plastered upon his face, despite understanding Castle Lyonglen was now under the command of an English lord. The dolt obviously decided to bluff it through. “Verra well. Five it shall be, Lord RavenHawke―though King Edward shall not be happy his messenger be greeted by such a reception.”

  Damian flashed a wicked grin, calling his bluff. “Aye, Edward shan’t be pleased by this.” Lifting his hand, he signaled the portcullis raised and the bridge across the dry ditch lowered.

  Aithinne waited until she saw Dinsmore and the five horsemen cross over the wooden bridge, under the murder-holes and into the bailey proper, before rounding on him. “You are letting him in? Why? He be―”