RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  She wiggled her feet back and forth. “How can you sleep? ’Tis hot and miserable. My head aches. And I need to piss.” She tacked on mercilessly before sitting back down.

  “Stop being vulgar and trying to shock me.” He tried not to chuckle, but she saw his body move faintly, giving him away.

  She pursed her mouth as if considering the matter. “What be the proper word, my lord? Urinate? Such a vulgar word as well, do you no’ think? Do you English have an appropriate name for it? Something a lady is permitted to utter?”

  “Your mouth—shut it. You just went before we came here. I could sleep standing up, though at present I am not sleeping. No one could sleep with your sighs and fidgeting and mumblings to yourself going on about them.” Tossing aside the long feather, he yawned, stretched one arm out, and then folded them over his chest. “A word of advice—which you will promptly ignore. You best use this time to compose yourself before we meet with Edward. All this jittery flitting about might convince him you have something to conceal. Of course, I warn you—lie to him like you do to me and you could find yourself in the Tower.”

  Figuring it best to skirt that particular concern, she asked, “Do you?”

  “Do I what? Sleep standing up? A warrior learns to sleep at any chance he can, any position. Of course, most do not have to deal with Ogilvie females buzzing around.”

  “Nay. Do you wield your mighty sword for the good of England?” Aithinne mocked Edward’s words from last night. She tried to make it sound playful, but it hurt to think that there was a grain of truth to the assertion. It was bad enough to fear he came to her bed because she was an echo of Tamlyn. To think it might also be commanded by the English king to see Scottish ladies breed with English babes saddened her.

  “Every chance afforded me. I have not heard you complain about my thrusts and parries.” He swatted at a fly that came in through the open door and tried to land on his arm. When she jumped to her feet, he pointed a finger at her. “And do not think to try and slap me, Aithinne, because this time I will turn you over my knee.”

  “Slapping you never crossed my mind, my lord.” Straightening her skirts, she lit on the chair again.

  He gave her a nod. “Then, we progress in our relations. Heartening.”

  “In sooth, I was thinking of strangling you. Or chucking a rock at you. Mayhap, a chamber pot—” Her breath sucked in when she realized what she said. She glanced at him to judge his reaction.

  “Anything to keep life from being boring? What games do you play next? Poison the mead―” He stopped in mid-thought and stared at her intently. He had not reacted to the possibility of her hitting him with the chamber pot. Only, now he mentioned mead those shards Auld Bessa warned about was churning up their mischief.

  A blush spread up her neck and face making her feel faint.

  “I wish Challon wouldst come,” Tamlyn’s voice shattered the tense silence. “You may not need to make use of the garderobe, but I soon shall. Challon insists I go nowhere without him.” She glared at Damian, and then turned to Aithinne. “Does he insist you take an escort with you? I think it’s vile.”

  Damian opened his eyes. “He does not. He escorts her same as Challon does you. Stop grousing. There are just too many people about. Too much rage looking for a spot to vent. These Scots have to swallow the dictates of Edward. They might see you―two Scottish females—as coming through all this with none of the base contumely Edward has applied to them―and view you as a surrogate for their anger. Especially now that Edward gloated before all that you both breed with babes.”

  Aithinne glanced down at her fingernail, suddenly intent on pushing the skin back so she didn’t get the sore split at the side. Very important chore.

  Damian was right. There were people about―both Scots and English―who did not wish them well. Last night, a confrontation occurred after they had left the Great Hall. Sir John Pendegast, the elder brother of Dirk had blocked the hallway, along with another brother, Ambroise. They were not happy over Dirk’s death in Trial by Combat, nor that Edward accepted it as God’s will. She had feared they would have provoked a fight with Challon, had not the Bruces―Robert, Edward and Nigel―come along and stood at Challon and Damian’s shoulders.

  There was a family resemblance between Dirk and his brothers, though John’s eyes lacked the taint of madness Dirk’s empty black eyes had held. Howbeit, there was a strong hint of greed and need for power that flickered within them that made her fear this man. The Bruces might have caused him to back down for now, but she was sure he had not dropped the matter.

  The door opened and people came out, their conversation heated. They spared no heed to the others, but moved off in rapid strides.

  The elderly man, holding the door, glanced at Damian. “The king wishes to see the Lord RavenHawke.”

  Damian slowly rose to his feet. He came over and leaned down, brushing his lips to her hair over her ear. Appearances said he merely was giving her an embrace of endearment. He whispered. “Stay here, Aithinne. I do not care if you have to piss. Cross your legs. I do not want you dashing up and down the corridor. ’Tis not safe.”

  Without waiting for her answer, he strode across the foyer and into the chambers. The other man closed the door after Damian.

  Tamlyn dabbed a scented kerchief across her forehead. “So, we wait more?

  The heat of the morning increased as they sat waiting. No one else came or went. Nothing could be heard through the door. Aithinne stopped with the fidgeting, and struggled to stay awake. After Damian’s warning she knew he would throttle her if she napped in the hallway. Only, she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

  Suddenly, laughter erupted from inside the room. Tamlyn’s grim expression eased a bit.

  Challon came out. Alone. The lines around his mouth had eased faintly, so it was easy to judge matters had gone in his favor. He gave Tamlyn a faint nod, saying Edward understood and deemed God had spoken through the outcome of the Trial by Combat. The matter ended there.

  “Aithinne, please go in. The king wisheth to speak with Damian and you alone,” he instructed, yet his countenance revealing naught else.

  Aithinne rose stiffly, lifting up the sides of her kirtle so she would not trip. Her eyes flashed to her cousin her mislike of going before the king. Even so, she inclined her head, saying she would do as Tamlyn advised her: play submissive and accepting, no matter what was said or done.

  Damian was waiting just inside the door. His look was guarded but stern. “Do us all a boon and save your lying ways to use on me. I consider it a result of high spirit, one I can curb in time. Edward shan’t view it in that light. So keep your tongue behind your teeth. Am I understood, Aithinne?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Once I loved a maiden fair,

  But she did deceive me

  — The Revolted Lover.

  Inside the door, Damian took hold of her arm and pulled her close. “If you tell the king you need to take a piss, I shall spank you before him. Am I made clear?” He shook his finger before her face, trying to impress upon her the importance of her behavior.

  Aithinne looked at him with poignant, solemn eyes, and without changing her expression, she bit him. Not hard, but enough to make her point.

  “Ouch. Be that the last show of defiance, Aithinne.”

  She let go of his finger, but did not say a word.

  “Come.” Damian gave Aithinne’s elbow a small squeeze for support, as they moved into the inner chamber.

  He should have used the time whilst they were waiting to prepare her for this ordeal. Only, he was still too off kilter to keep tight his common sense after learning Aithinne was with child. Now, he regretted letting his temper get the better of him. There was more riding upon this audience than just his feelings. Being a warrior, he had long ago learnt to put away emotional problems until he calmed down and could consider them with a level head. Others oft wondered why he tended to appear to ignore events, only to act much later. He nev
er liked to rush into situations, rather held back and sorted through things, then acted accordingly. Such a demeanor saved wear on his mind.

  He was still trying very hard to avoid facing Edward’s revelation, so instead of preparing Aithinne, he traded jibes with her. Tweaking her nose. The corner of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smile―a nose with seven freckles. He hoped she was smart enough to see through his coming lies, and if they were fortunate, wise enough to keep her mouth shut.

  “Come, come. Do not be scared. Have a seat, Lady Aithinne,” Edward of England entreated. Looking up from the document he was studying, the drooping eyelids―so like his sire’s―lifted over vivid blue eyes, shrewd eyes that missed little. Naturally, he noted Aithinne looked to Damian for cue. “Ah, already the female’s eyes goes to you for guidance. As it should be. A good beginning, Lord RavenHawke.”

  “Thank you, Sire. She is quickly learning who is master of Glen Eallach,” Damian replied with a careless arrogance. He gave her a faint lift of his brows, his eyes warning her not to say a damn word.

  “Gilchrest let her run wild, We hear. The chore of taming this hellion must not be an easy one. We do not envy you. These females of Clan Ogilvie are too headstrong, too spirited. Peculiar, unnatural ways.”

  Damian shared a smile with the king he did not feel. “Still, I have little taste for a cowered dog or horse. I find I warm to spirit. More troublesome with which to deal, true, but I tell myself she will breed that spirit into my sons. I believe your beautiful Queen Eleanor was a woman of such fire. She followed you to Acre on the Crusade and save your life.”

  Edward’s face softened faintly, as memories of his queen flickered in his eyes. “She did. A Muslim fell on me with a dagger and stabbed me. I managed to fight him off and kill him, but alas, the dagger was dipped in poison. The physicians spake I wouldst not survive the toxin spreading through my blood. Our queen would hear none of it. She decreed I wouldst recover and she’d have any man saying otherwise put to death. I dared not contradict her, so had to get well. Now balladeers sing how she saved my life by sucking out the poison. Our queen was a warrior.” He paused, a sadness filling him. “I miss her.”

  Damian noticed how he had dropped the royal we when he spoke of his late wife. Few ever doubted Edward’s devotion to Eleanor. Most wished she were still around to curb his Angevin rages.

  Damian’s eyes swung to the rough-cut slab of red sandstone. At supper the night before, Edward had it directly behind him, using it as a makeshift table; a golden pitcher and two goblets sat on the uneven surface. It seemed out of place, odd, when Edward was trying to impress the Scots with the English riches that he would use such a poorly chiseled stone as a tabletop.

  Edward followed they path of Damian’s stare. “Ah, you admire the Stone of Scone.”

  “Not sure admire is the correct choice of words. I assumed the Scots would crown their kings on something a bit more ornate.”

  Damian recalled his mother describing the Stone of Destiny, upon which Scottish kings were crowned, as being smooth as polished glass, black and with Pictish symbols all around it―and much bigger, almost the height of a chair. This slab of stone before him looked hurriedly dressed, and not something that would be the cornerstone of Scottish regalia. Did the Scots sport Edward for a fool? Or was the king playing some darker game? Damian leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair and stretched out his long legs, to cover his reaction.

  “We understand from Anthony Bek you wish to enter into formal betrothal―banns called proper at Kinmarch Kirk by the Culdee there. Mayhap, considering the condition of lady of Coinnlier Wood, we suggest dispensation might be arranged to see the babe has the father’s name, eh? We shall be sending a priest of papacy to these remaining Celtic Churches anon. These Culdees are rebel makers. They preach the sermons in their tongue, not Latin. We are told they even marry and father sons. The office of priest passes from father to son, a hereditary position. And damn their eyes, they have more spine than most of their nobles.”

  “So it seems,” Damian agreed. “Whilst I wouldst like to see matters settled in haste—and—for the reasons you pointed out, I prefer it done in proper fashion. There still is time enough. Three cryings is not that long. I intend to set the way as I shall go at Lyonglen. Fix in the Scots’ minds the bent of my rule of Glen Eallach.”

  Edward was glancing through the parchment documents, charters of the Scottish nobles. He waved his hand absently. “When We granted you the charter to Glen Eallach, We made the lady and her brothers your wards. The males need to be fostered. Finish their training for knighthood. The lady—We advised you to breed into a loyal subject. ’Tis heartening you have taken the matter well in hand.” He grinned in a gloating manner. “We appreciate you follow our will. Bek can perform the ceremony here and now. So what is the concern?”

  Edward’s incisive eyes stared hard at Aithinne, judging. It sent a chill up Damian’s spine. No man could look at her and not see the prize that she was.

  Heading off where Edward’s mind was leading him, the lies came. And came. “As your man, I wish your blessing upon the union.” Damian sighed. “Of course, she is hardly what I envisioned for a wife. Challon likely got the pick of the litter with Lady Tamlyn. Lady Aithinne is a bit taller, but I supposed that works well since I am taller than Challon. She is not as full of figure, sadly. And then, she has those marring freckles on her nose.”

  Edward snorted a boisterous laugh. “In the dark of night, Lord RavenHawke, the eyes fail to see freckles. She seems possessed of strong health…and fertile. You could do far worse.”

  Damian’s muscles in his jaw flexed at the reminder that Aithinne carried a child. “Whilst I could take her to wife this night and be done with it, I prefer to see it handled in the English way. Lyonglen is now an English holding, not a Scots. The wedding wouldst serve as a declaration of that fact. As to the brothers, they received no training as pages, so are unready even to be a squire. I have already started to correct Gilchrest’s oversights. I will handle their training myself to make certain their shortfall is soon corrected.”

  “Commendable. You have made good use of your time away from us. Howbeit, before all is settled...troubling tales reached our ears. Rumors speak the lady married Gilchrest before he passed on, in order to keep control of Lyonglen. If such a wedding took place, that casts a pale upon matters. The church wouldst frown upon you marrying your...grandmother.” His words stressed how absurd he found the notion.

  “Dinsmore? Consider the source. The fool carried jests from Aithinne’s brothers. The lads love to torment Campbell as a pastime. I believe they even tossed pisspots down upon his head when he turned up claiming you had sent him to assume command of the holding. They have now dubbed him Dunny Dinsmore.”

  “And We shall deal with that bit of flummery when Our mind fixes upon the proper response. So, there be no truth to the tale?”

  “’Tis sad. The man believes everything you tell him.” Damian stifled a yawn. “Beg pardon, Sire, but wielding my sword for England’s glory does keep me up nights.”

  “Does it?” Edward’s cold Devil’s Breed eyes watched Damian. Then, he burst out laughing again. “We are sure England appreciates your diligent efforts. If the Dragon’s two bastard brothers are working as hard to beget babes upon Lady Tamlyn’s elder sisters, come spring all these Pictish heiresses will be bred into loyal English subjects, eh? We agree on your assessment of Dinsmore Campbell, so it wouldst be easy to dismiss his ramblings. Only, a similar story comes from another corner—Phelan Comyn.”

  “Comyn?” Damian’s expression said scoffed at the source. “Cousin to Earl Buchan and Lord Badenock, I need not remind you, Sire. Commanders of the Scottish Forces defeated at the Battle of Dunbar?”

  Edward pushed the papers aside. “But he did not support them.”

  “Nor did he support the English side,” Damian pointed out. “Methinks Phelan Comyn looks to his own interests alone. ’Tis my understanding once he was suitor for the l
ady, and my grandsire rejected his offer. I assume Gilchrest must have had good reasons. Comyn came circling like some carrion bird to feast upon the carcass of Lyonglen. I sent him packing with his tail betwixt his legs. The knave greeted us when we arrived here, and dragged up that I was likely Michael Challon’s bastard.”

  “Again, such a keen eye to the nature of a man you have. ’Tis much the same thoughts We hold on this Scotsman.” Edward nodded, drumming his long fingers on his thigh. “Well, what say you, Lady Aithinne? You have remained silent. Do you want this dragon for your mate? Or shall you have Phelan Comyn?”

  Damian’s fingers curled into a fist at the side of his leg, reining in ire against Edward’s probings. The king was testing, prodding, to see what sort of reaction he could provoke from them. Instead, Damian offered a countenance that said he was full of ennui. He kept his smile hidden, as Aithinne looked to him before replying to the king.

  “She will not speak unless I grant my leave.” He waited, then offered her a faint nod.

  “Ah! We like this female.” Edward slapped his knee. “We spot intelligence flashing in those odd eyes, but she is smart enough to take her lead from you, Lord RavenHawke. A wise woman.”

  “Whilst I have problems accepting that my fate be decided without my say―” Aithinne finally found her voice.

  “Ah! She goes and spoils it! We are giving you say, eh? We just asked.” The king wagged a finger at her saying she was being ungrateful—making Damian glad Edward was out of biting range. “So tell us, do you take RavenHawke or Comyn for you lord and husband?”

  “Since I wouldst rather kiss an adder than Phelan Comyn, I be left with only one option.”

  Edward plucked up a bell on the stand beside his chair and rang it. Anthony Bek came in, with a servant following on his heels. “Bishop, come join us in a toast, and then you can affix a seal to the betrothal agreement between Lord Lyonglen and Lady Coinnleir. We are becoming quite the matchmaker in our graying years. The marriages between my English lords to Scottish ladies shall see Scotland secure in our control. A great day, is it not?”