RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Several people moved between them, paying little attention to how urgently she battled to reach him. Hindered by their shifting positions, Aithinne could only see glimpses of the tall knight. She struggled against the careless bodies, furious at the serfs for blocking her path to him. Finally, they parted and stepped to the sides, and she stared the beautiful warrior in the face.

  All she could see was Damian St. Giles.

  There was a vital, elemental power that emanated from this special warrior―fire of a Dragon of Challon. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stared at him. The armour, covering his upper arms and thighs, and the mail habergeon were dark steel, the shirt and surcoat gray. Another who comes with the color of fog. The breeze stirred the black, wavy locks touched with a hint of dark fire, a mark of one bearing ancient Celtic blood. Long, curling softly about his ears, it brushed the metal gorget that covered the back of his neck.

  Aithinne’s breath caught and held as she stared into the gray-green eyes, shade of the foggy passes of Glen Shane in early morn. He was handsome—nay, beautiful. And she loved him so!

  Then, he turned to Challon, who was being made ready for battle by his squires, Gervase, Michael and Vincent.

  Aithinne finally breathed, nearly swooning, as she comprehended Damian was not going to fight. Tears she had been holding broke free on a sob, torn from her. He caught her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.

  “Shhh…my lady. You do not want me to fight. So I do not fight. And yet you cry anyway. Is there no pleasing you?”

  Suddenly, the people lining the edge of the field stirred again, as Tamlyn came running toward them, Moffet on her heels. She pulled up when she saw the wooden rack holding five lances. The color drained from her face. Shoving to break free of the people blocking her path, Tamlyn headed straight for Julian, clearly determined to stop this combat at all costs.

  Aithinne felt dreadful. She knew what the woman, who was like a sister to her, was facing.

  Ignoring his furious wife bearing down on him, Julian examined one of the lances, running his hand over it. “Gervase, change this one out.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Gervase immediately set to do Challon’s bidding.

  “Challon, I want this stopped. Now!”

  “Tamlyn. I see you found a way out.” His lashes made a small sweep as he swung around to stare at Moffet. “I cannot imagine how.”

  Damian’s son blushed and lowered his green eyes, knowing he had failed his lord.

  Patting the lad on the arm to reassure him, Damian handed Challon the Glenrogha claymore. “I honed the edge myself last night”

  “Julian—” Tamlyn started, only to have him cut her off.

  “Damian, take Tamlyn away―” Julian requested.

  Nodding, Damian reached out to take Tamlyn’s arm. “He is right, Tamlyn, let me take you back to Glenrogha.”

  She backed up, staying out of reach of his grasp. “Why? So my idiot husband can get himself killed and I do not have to watch? You think that, then you are as big an amadán as he is.” She jumped to evade, but so did he, catching her upper arm to lead her from the field. “Take your hand off me, Damian St. Giles, or I shall claw your eyes out. I shall curse you until your ballocks shrivel and you shall never father children!”

  “Suddenly, I am pleased Challon got you as a lady wife.” Damian chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Tamlyn, calm yourself―” Julian began, only to have her cut him off.

  Tamlyn kicked at Damian, missed because she kept her eyes on her husband. “I shall be delighted to calm myself―when you come back to Glenrogha with me and forget this cork-brained nonsense.”

  Julian exhaled and glanced skyward as if seeking patience. “I already explained why these steps are necessary. That swine dared to touch you. No one touches my lady and lives. This is the only way.”

  Tamlyn shivered as she saw there was no changing his mind. “Amadán! Stupid, arrogant fool!” She choked on the words. “You risk all, Challon. What is honor without your life?”

  His arms encircled her, pulling her to his chest, and letting her cry. “You have so little faith in me, Tamlyn? I was the king’s champion, the best in all the Isles. I wish you would return to Glenrogha. If you are here you might divert me and I need no distractions.”

  “If you insist on getting yourself killed, then I am going to be here to go to you and kick you for it.” Tamlyn seemed so fragile as she tried to laugh, but a sob of pain escaped her.

  “If you will not return to Glenrogha, stay to the sidelines. Permit me to prepare myself. I wouldst prefer not to give you a reason to kick me.” He lifted her chin and lightly brushed a kiss to her lips. “Please, go with Damian. Stay with him.”

  Tamlyn hugged him tightly, crushing him to her as if to hold him and protect him. She stepped back and then glanced around her. Looking at Gervase, she barked, “Give me your knife.”

  He blinked, startled by her command. “My lady?”

  “Och, do no’ be a total lackwit.” She held out her hand and snapped her fingers. “Your knife. Give it.”

  “But, my lady…” He glanced to Challon, in search of guidance.

  “I swear, Challon, you must deliberately seek dullards for squires.” Tamlyn turned and shared the thought with Aithinne. Then, reached over and snatched the knife from Damian’s belt. She noticed all the men except Challon backed up a step. She chuckled derisively. “Dolts. Amadáns the lot of you!”

  Tamlyn ignored them, leaned down and sliced away at the hem of her woolen kirtle. When she had cut a thin band, she straightened up, and handed the knife back to Damian. Stepping to Julian, she tied the tartan sash of black and green around the middle of his left upper arm. “If you be determined to go through with this, then you needs must have a lady’s colors.” She ran her fingers down his arm, a yearning upon her face, wishing she could feel the warmth of his skin and not the cold of the mail. Clearly, she loved him so much it was an ache that consumed her.

  Julian hesitated, then once more pulled her into an embrace. “I know I can never gain your acceptance on this issue, but hope you will stand aside and let me do what I must. I have to kill Dirk of Pendegast. He touched you. I will kill any man who dares.”

  “Julian, please. . .”

  He placed a finger to her lips to silence her. “Women seldom understand the code of men. If I do not defend your honor, I wouldst lose the respect of my men. Of myself. But that is not the real reason. I failed to protect you. If I could not protect you, then by damn I shall avenge you.”

  She shook her head. “Nay—”

  Aithinne sobbed as Julian caressed the back of her cousin’s head with such emotion.

  Challon loved Tamlyn so, and no one doubted how the lady of Glenrogha felt about the dark warrior who was now her husband. Their bond was so beautiful. She felt envy and knew they were the luckiest people on this green earth. Oh, why could they not live in peace without the ugliness of the world intruding on their lives?

  “Moffet.” Julian called for the squire.

  The young lad took hold of Tamlyn’s arm. “Come, my lady, you needs must follow me.”

  Tears flooded Tamlyn’s eyes as she nodded, though she continued to stare at the Dragon. “Julian, I…”

  “Go with Moffet, my lady,” Julian urged gently. His voice was soft, but resolute. His eyes looked to Aithinne, beseeching her to help Tamlyn face this. “Care for my lady?” His plea was almost whispered.

  Aithinne nodded sadly, turned and followed Tamlyn.

  ♦◊♦

  At the side of the field, Aithinne stood next to the trembling Tamlyn. Soon, Damian joined them to watch the two men ride to the center of the meadow. Challon, all in black and on the black horse, was a striking contrast to Pendegast’s brilliant scarlet and yellow surcoat over the silver mail and plate. He was seated on a snow-white charger.

  “May it protect him,” Tamlyn whispered.

  Aithinne was unsure what her cousin meant, but did not want to ask
her.

  Aithinne put her arm about Tamlyn, felt the quiver ripple through her cousin’s body when Malcolm spoke, asking if Challon and Pendegast accepted one man lives, one man dies in Trial by Combat, believing this as God’s will. After each affirming this, they turned the mighty horses and retired to their end of the field. The squires stepped up on the mounting blocks and placed the battle helms on the warriors’ heads.

  Malcolm glanced at Pendegast, who raised the tip of his lance skyward. Then, her uncle’s eyes sought Challon, who repeated the action, signaling he was ready, as well. He gave both men a nod and then dropped a white cloth. It lightly fluttered to the ground.

  Before it hit, Sir Dirk set spurs to his charger. His mount cried out and leapt forward. At the opposite end of the field, Pagan jumped in response. Challon controlled the fidgeting horse, still holding the lance tip upward.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Tamlyn whispered in anxiety, her hand reaching out for Aithinne’s and squeezing it. So hard it hurt.

  Slowly the tip came downward and Challon kneed Pagan to go. By the time the two beasts met in the middle of the field, they galloped full out, their hooves thundering on the ground.

  Aithinne closed her eyes as the lances crashed into each knight, unable to watch. She heard the crowd groan, and several called, “He held! He held! Challon held!”

  Both men reeled, regained their balance, and immediately set the destriers to fly to the end of the field, so they could snatch up another lance. Once again, Dirk was already charging down the meadow before Julian snatched the weapon, spun Pagan on his back hooves and set him to a gallop. Again, the lance crashed into Challon’s chest—at the same instant his slammed into Dirk. Shards of wood flew about both men, as the long lances seemed to crumble to a pile of twigs.

  It was a living nightmare. The sounds of the horses, the lances breaking and splitting. Knowing they splintered against armor that protected flesh and bone.

  “Two passes. Three more to go,” Damian said.

  The horses screamed as they started the next run. Damian’s body jerked as the crowd exclaimed in horror. Unable to bear it, Aithinne opened her eyes, to see the last charge had flipped Challon over the back of his mighty destrier, and slammed him to the ground.

  Tamlyn moaned, her grip on Aithinne’s arm so hard she would leave bruises. Aithinne, like everyone else, held their breaths to see if Challon rose.

  “Please...let him rise,” Tamlyn whispered.

  Dirk dropped the broken lance, then pulled his mace and chain from the side of the saddle. Slowly, Challon staggered to his feet, only to have Dirk’s chain and ball catch him across the back. There was no plate there. Only the heavy hauberk stopped the ugly weapon from mauling flesh and bone. Pivoting his horse on its hind legs, Dirk came at Challon again, and again, the heavy spiked ball slamming repeatedly into Challon’s back and helm.

  Tamlyn screamed. Grabbing Damian’s arm, she begged, “Stop this! For God’s sake, stop this madness! He is killing Challon!” She started to push past Damian, but he caught and held her arm.

  “Stay back. You shall get Challon killed, if not yourself.”

  Pendegast came at Julian again. As he swung the mace, Pagan flew at the other steed. Head lowered, the midnight charger crashed into Dirk’s mount. Using teeth and hooves, the screaming animals reared, fighting with the same hatred as the men. Nearly berserk, Pagan tore into the other horse’s flesh, blood gushing down the animal’s white neck. The dueling stallions unseated Pendegast and he had to roll to escape being trampled under their hooves. The magnificent destrier likely saved Challon’s life.

  Aithinne swallowed back bile, watching as Challon yanked off his badly dented helm and toss it to the ground. She reeled, faint. Not seeing Challon’s face, but Damian’s. The Kenning told Aithinne she now faced the point where Damian would have met his death. Only, would Challon die in his place?

  At each end of the field, the great swords had been stuck in the ground, left for the warriors to claim if only they could reach them. Challon now headed for the Sword of Glenrogha. Pendegast watched for several breaths as Challon’s staggering steps carried him to the mighty weapon. With one more glance, he turned and ran toward his.

  Again, the furious black horse came to take a role, blocking Dirk’s path, preventing him from reaching his sword. Giving Challon time.

  Challon reached the sword. Instead of pulling it from the ground, he collapsed to his knees before it.

  “What is he doing?” Tamlyn’s voice broke as she strained against Damian’s grip. “Julian, get up!”

  Aithinne buried her face against the back of Damian’s shoulder, unable to watch. She feared while changing the path of their lives she saved Damian, but had condemned Challon to death. She could only sob her sorrow.

  Challon looked up at the sword as though it were a cross and he offered prayer. His face of such angelic beauty stared transfixed at the golden stone in the hilt. Aithinne experienced a slippage. One instant it was Challon, then next she blinked and the face was Damian’s. The gray clouds broke and a shaft of brilliant morning sun shone down upon Julian and refracted through the amber in the hilt of the great sword, as if he received a blessing from On High.

  Finally rising, Julian yanked the weapon from the ground and turned to face Pendegast. The blades clanged and rang out, over and over. Dirk backed Challon up with the force of his blows. Finally, Challon’s blade deflected the downward arc of Dirk’s. Using the momentum, Julian spun his whole body completely around, and then delivered a kick to the center of Dirk’s plated chest. Pendegast appeared exhausted, while amazingly, Challon gained his second wind.

  Never had she seen a man so controlled, so powerful with his every movement. Small wonder the men called this warrior the Black Dragon of Challon. Who would doubt this man was once a king’s champion?

  Julian spun once more. The force of the turn saw his sword carry Dirk’s right out of his hands, flying through the air. It landed, embedding in the earth and wobbling with the force.

  Shoving her hand into her mouth, Tamlyn bit down on her knuckle as Dirk picked up one of the half-broken lances and wielded it. Longer than the sword, he was able to keep out of harm’s path, while swinging it as a club. Meeting each thrust, Challon used the sharp claymore to whack off chunks of wood from the lance. Dirk quickly backed up until he finally neared his broadsword. He tossed the now considerably shorter lance at Challon’s head, and lunged for the weapon embedded in the ground.

  Throngs of people cheered, called warnings and moaned with each turn of events, clearly rooting for Challon.

  Pendegast came up in a round swing, intending to slice Challon through the midst, but Julian jumped back, arching like a cat. Even so, the tip of Dirk’s sword ripped through the surcoat and hammered the plate underneath.

  Aithinne felt as if she absorbed the blow to Challon as well, worried about Tamlyn and the child she carried, fearing how this all affected her.

  Just then, Pagan charged across the field. He set Dirk’s stallion to running. The poor animal, weakened by the blood loss, collapsed at the side of the field. Now, Pagan came back, to again fight at his master’s side. Dirk panicked and gave an overhead blow to Challon, driving him down on one knee. Using the claymore as a shield, Challon swung the sword behind him to protect his shoulder and back. Dirk moved in and slammed his knee to Julian’s chin. It sent him sprawling backward, open to a final blow before he’d be able to recover.

  Aithinne screamed, “No!” in the same breath as she heard it from Tamlyn.

  The monstrous black destrier flew at Dirk. Rearing high, hooves slashing. He caught Pendegast hard on the head with a hoof and continued to pound at him even after the man was down.

  Sickened, Aithinne turned, seeking Damian, wanting him to hold her, to warm her.

  Only, he held Tamlyn.

  Michael rushed to help Julian to his feet, while Gervase and Vincent took charge of Pagan. Finally standing on his own, Julian went to the still excited
horse, patted his forehead and whispered to him.

  He ordered, “Get that…carrion off the field.” Several men obeyed him, dragging Dirk’s body away.

  Tears streaming down her face, Tamlyn jerked away from Damian and ran to Challon.

  Finally looking to Aithinne, Damian’s face was haunted. He almost seemed to reel from her silent accusation. They stared at each other, the wind ruffling his black hair. He was so handsome, everything she could want in a man.

  And he did not love her.

  He said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

  Turning, he rushed to Challon, leaving her alone.

  So very alone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!

  Sayeth loud I hear ye lie!

  — The Battle of Otterbourne

  Aithinne looked at the endless flow of people and animals up ahead, winding at a snail’s pace along the road to Berwick, and as far as the eye could see. Turning in her saddle, she noticed it was the same behind her. She sighed. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sweat dripped to her brow; she swiped it away with the back of her hand before it hit her eyes. A small stream trickled down her spine, itching unbearably, only it was impossible to do anything whilst on the back of a horse. She suffered in silence. Complaining would not change a thing. Gritting her teeth, she rode on along with the Challon cadre.

  Now over three months along, the babe had made peace with her body. The sickness did not come as often, nor was it as severe. She welcomed the respite. Presently, the heat was making her ill, enough so she was not sure if she could hold it in. August was always the hottest time of year for the land, but this season it seemed worse than usual. The whole of Scotland labored under a long drought.

  Somehow, it seemed to mirror her soul. Her life.

  The high heat mattered little. Now that all of Scotland had been brought to heel, Edward Plantagenet, King of England, Lord Paramount of Scotland, had commanded a Parliament called for late August. Anyone of note was to appear before him and take oaths before the new ruler of the Scots. Every noble, freeholder, clergyman, burgess and vassal―over some hundred score people―would bend knee to the new monarch of the land, give extorted oaths of fealty and homage and be made to sign an instrument of their acceptance.