“Tell me you are not worried about Tamlyn.” He laughed in challenge.
Julian’s right hand caressed the pommel of his sword. “’Tis verity I am. But I will only be able to protect her if I am at my best. I am a warrior, too. At this moment, that is my value to her.”
“Your value to her is she loves you. Methinks she little cares that you are a knight above all others.” Damian frowned as they rode up another rise, and then started down into the thickly shrouded glen. “Damn, I hoped the fog would lift by now. Mayhap we shouldst consider going to Lyonglen instead of Glenrogha.”
“That would keep us on the road for nearly another day. If someone plans to waylay us, then we wouldst be vulnerable to attack that much longer. I shall send riders on ahead to Lochshane and Glenrogha both, marshal forces to ride out and meet us.”
Julian turned in the deep seat of the war saddle and called, “Aylmer, Moffet―”
Damian’s hand shot out catching his cousin’s arm. “Not Moffet. I wouldst keep him close to reassure me. If you send him ahead, my mind will be worrying about Aithinne and him both. This way, they are in one spot. My focus will not be as divided.”
“Bray.” At Julian’s summons, the squires spurred their mounts to catch up.
“Moffet. Stay with the ladies. I charge you to especial keep close and watch oven them. Aylmer and Bray, take a banneret with you. Aylmer, go to Lochshane and charge my brother to ride out and meet us with a column. Bray, ride to Glenrogha and pass my orders for riders to come, immédiatement. Be alert.”
They watched the riders go off, and in a short space disappear in the thick fogbank.
Damian feared they might have sent the men off to their doom, yet knew there was no other choice. “God speed.”
The muscles around Challon’s mouth tightened. “Now, we wait.”
♦◊♦
“Challon, we needs must stop.” Tamlyn clucked her tongue, a signal to Goblin to pick up the gait so she could ride beside her husband.
Challon glanced to Damian, seeking his silent guidance. Both were aware Aithinne and Tamlyn needed to rest. The horses needed to stop, but that sense of urgency was heavy on his mind.
Julian looked grim. “I regret the pace is taxing, my lady, but we hope to reach Glenrogha around nooning. We can rest then―safely.”
She glanced at Damian as if it were his fault. “Men! I sorrow that women carrying bairns are bloody inconvenient for you, but Aithinne needs to rest. She does not fare well. Her back pains her, sharp pains. I fear if you maintain this punishing pace, it shall put the babe at risk. So stick that where you sit on your horse, my lord husband.”
Damian turned in the saddle and noticed Aithinne’s countenance had grown ashen. “Damn.”
He spun Galleon on his back hooves, and set the horse to lope back to the middle of the column until he reached her. Pulling alongside her, he noticed she was struggling to sit upright in the saddle. Her hand on the high cantle was trembling, and the reins were loss in the other one.
“Tamlyn said your back distresses you?”
She nodded, her lower lip quivering. “Beg pardon, my lord, I canno’ ride much farther…it hurts. I ken Glen Shane be near, but fear I might faint. I need to rest, and drink some water.”
Challon was watching, so Damian gave him a slight shake of his head to the negative, to let him know they could not ride on. “You should have said something, Aithinne.”
“I ken you want to reach Glenrogha.” She tried to give him a fleeting smile, but it seemed beyond her.
Julian signaled for the column to turn off onto a small plateau. High enough up, it had a decent view of the surrounding area, yet was secluded by a small stand of trees, thus not leaving them in the open. Damian lifted Aithinne from the saddle and led her about half way up.
His eyes searched her face, fearful they had pushed her too hard in this heat. He reached up, caught the stray lock of her auburn hair, and slid his finger down its length to push it back under the hood. Her lip quivered, but she tried to smile.
“Come.” He took his spare mantle from his pack and placed it on the ground for her. Sitting down slightly behind her, his fingers kneaded the small of her back. “That help?”
Accepting water Moffet fetched for her, she gave him a smile. “I do not mean to be a burden, Damian.”
“Hush, Aithinne. Just feel better. You worry me.”
“The rubbing helps. I give you thanks.”
“Neither Julian nor I are indifferent to the strain the travel is placing on you. It’s just the fear we are being followed and seek the walls of Glenrogha.” He offered explanation, lest she believe they were uncaring.
She gave a small nod, and then drank the water.
Damian’s eyes inspected the terrain, searching for anything out of the ordinary. A shadow that moved in the mist. Something. Anything. A breeze swirled around them, and a longed for one, as it was cool and held the promise of rain with it. The first rain in fortnights.
Casting his mind inwardly, he tried to focus on the bits of the dream that stayed with him. He recalled fog, not rain. If it rained, then the path to Glenrogha should be safe.
“You fear someone follows us?” she asked, turning so she could look at him.
He exhaled and nodded. “I cannot shake the sense. I had a dream last night.”
“Troubling from your expression.” She reached up and ran her thumb over one brow.
“You worry.”
“Pieces of it faded, as dreams are apt to do. Other fragments linger sharp in my mind, so detailed ’tis hard to separate my mind from it fully.” He caught an apple that Challon tossed to him. Taking his knife from his belt, he cored it and sliced it for Aithinne. “Tell me about Phelan Comyn and Dinsmore Campbell. Especial Comyn.”
Aithinne made a sour face and chewed the apple chunk before answering him. “Neither be my favorite thing to talk about. What do you want to ken about them? You think one of them follows us? Why? What have they to gain? Edward made you baron of Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood. There be naught they can do to alter that now.”
“Men with pale aims oft discard common sense. Greed twists their minds. I barely know either of them, hence my asking. I am just considering possibilities.”
She sighed. “Dinsmore be a pain, but unlikely to cause trouble for anyone outside of himself, my assessment. Not too bright. However, oft those most lacking in wherewithal can be quite cunning. They catch you off guard because you underestimate them. Phelan…I am not sure anymore. When I saw him at Berwick, I had the sense of never truly knowing him. He paid me court for several seasons. I thought—feared—mayhap Gilchrest wouldst arrange a marriage. The Comyns be the most powerful clan in the Highlands, with their bloodlines rivaling that of the Bruces’ claim. Most of the clan was appeased when Longshanks put their kinsman, Balliol on the thrown. Not Lord Badenock. Red Comyn thought his claim should have seen the crown placed upon his brow. I do no’ think Phelan was pleased with being in the shadow of his more powerful cousin.”
“Then, why did my grandfather not accept his offer of marriage?”
“Gilchrest sought a strong alliance to see me protected. But he truly cared for me and wanted me happy. I think he saw I held misgivings about the man. The Ogilvies and the Comyns have never rubbed along well. Then, one time when he came to press matters, I caught Phelan coming out of the stables―and he had no’ been seeing to his horse. I deemed it the height of foolishness, and lacking in respect for me, for him to swive a serving wench whist trying to win my hand in the same breath.”
“On the morning after you and I had our audience with Edward, Challon and I went to visit the king alone. I was surprised that Phelan was there. Edward’s bit of mischief, more of his game playing.”
“Mischief? I do no’ understand.” Her brow creased in worry.
Damian did not like to upset her, but felt she deserved to understand his misgivings about the Scotsman. “The king said Phelan came to him with a claim that you were bet
rothed to him―”
“Why that swine!” Her revulsion was clear. So was her fury. “I will cut his heart out.”
He picked up her hand. “Aithinne, hear me out, please, before you lose your temper.”
“Very well, though from the sound of that I shan’t like what you will say.” Her amber eyes with the green streaks narrowed on him. “So speak.”
Damian knew this would not go well, but there was little way around it. “He said the child you carry is his.”
For a moment, she glared at him like she would hit him. She nearly hopped to her feet. She stared down at him like he was a loathsome snake, and truly he felt like one. She was livid. He expected that. Hurt, mistrust and deep pain was reflected in her haunting eyes, before she turned and fled down the hillock.
Well, the claim had caused him an instant of feeling like someone had punched him in the gut. Most males would react the same way. Then, reason kicked in.
Jumping up, he grabbed his mantle from the ground and followed her. “Aithinne―”
“Do not Aithinne me, Damian St. Giles!” she snapped.
When he tried to take her elbow she ducked under his arm and away from him. He hurried his steps so he blocked her path to Gràdh. “I did not believe him, Aithinne. Only, I...”
She looked at him as if he crawled out from under a rock. “He lied. That shall be all I say on the matter.”
“I believe you,” he tried to assure her.
She was having none of it. “Och, go away, Sir Nodcock!”
She started toward the horses again, but he caught her arm and this time he would not let go when she tried to pull away. “I did not believe him about the child. But I did wonder...”
“Oooo…I promised not to hit you. But you really should stop opening your mouth and letting all that stupid tumble out, or I shall be obliged to close it for you―with my fist.” Her eyes flashed daggers at him. “Let go…now…Lord RavenHawke.”
Demons nibbling at him, he held fast. “When you came to my bed…that first night at Lyonglen―”
“Damn your eyes.” She was angry and fighting tears. Looking skyward, as if for divine intervention, she spoke carefully. “I shall tell you this once―since you seem determined to step squarely in the cow pie of your stupidity―I came to you a virgin.”
The words sprang forth, along with regret, but too late. “You came to my bed not a trembling virgin but experienced in the ways of the flesh. I did not take your maidenhead that night. There was no blood.”
“Amadán! If you do not leave me alone, I will show you blood.”
Challon came slowly up the hill, frowning at Damian as though he could not believe his cousin acted as such a knave. “Come, Lady Aithinne. Let me aid you to your mount. Sir Nodcock is too busy getting his booted foot out of his mouth.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Now hold thy peace!” the lady said,
“For as I say, so must it be.”
— Thomas the Rhymer
The attack came. Just as he expected.
The rain clouds had sounded high in the passes all morn, but thus far had not broken to pour their life-giving blessings upon the parched land. He had so hoped for rain. There was no rain in his dream. Since they were near the two cold-water lochs, moisture hung in the air to see the haar stayed heavy and low to the ground. The damn stuff swirled about him as he rode ahead to scout the landscape.
Luck holding, they had passed onto the vast holding of Kinmarch, thus they should be nearing Glen Shane anytime. And thus far, he had found no sign they were being followed, spotting nothing untoward to cause alarm. Just The Kenning kept him believing otherwise.
He patted the horse’s neck, soothing the sweating animal. His own nervousness was infecting the horse’s disposition. Trying to reassure the beast, he spoke lowly to him. “Galleon, ’tis impossible to see far down the trail―or in any direction, for that matter. I will be glad when we are within the curtain of Glenrogha. You earn extra rations of oats for all your hard work.”
The horse nickered softly and tossed his head up and down, bringing a chuckle to Damian.
Tamlyn had told Julian the mists that perpetually hovered before the passes of Glen Shane were part of an ancient warding placed upon the valley by the first lady of the glen. Supposedly, the haar screened the passes, hiding the entrance so none could find the opening to the granite cliffs. For centuries, no invader had put foot on their soil in the pristine pocket in the Highlands. None until Challon had come. Her people saw that as an omen and accepted Julian’s arrival as blessed by the Auld Ones.
“I wonder…might this damnable haze be a blessing instead of a hindrance this day? If I cannot see them, then they cannot see us either, eh?” Damian asked the animal.
In his dream he saw the fog as leaving them vulnerable to attack. What if the mists were the key to saving them? If their party could reach the passes, could the Sacred Mists enfold them within their protection, close behind them, and block out the ones with evil in their hearts from finding a way to follow them? Mayhap the shrouded landscape was their salvation to surviving. They just needed to hurry their pace.
Excited by this possibility, he lifted his reins to turn Galleon.
Then he heard them.
Thousands of ravens high in the hills of the passes of Glen Shane. The blackbirds let him know he was close. And yet, in the same breath they were the harbingers of his nightmare. The shrill cries shattered the muffled stillness of the mist-shrouded Highland glen.
Warning him it had begun.
Startled, endless scores of ravens took to the sky. For a peculiar instant, the world held its breath as the heavens were transmuted to black. Upset by the discordant cacophony, Galleon reared slightly on his rear hooves as Damian spun him about-face. He did not blame the animal. The screeching set Damian’s teeth on edge as well. The fog shifted, eddied thicker about him, the loch breeze ruffling his hair, as his eyes followed the spiraling path of the noisy blackbirds.
Time had run out.
♦◊♦
A single thought pounded through his brain: he had to reach Aithinne. Save her.
Could life be so cruel? Now that he had found her, knew she was the woman from his long-ago dreams, would Fate snatch away the very thing that gave his life meaning? Auld Ones, be damned! Aithinne was his. He would fight to his last drop of blood to protect her.
As he rode over the crest of the knoll, The Kenning slammed into his mind. Men. On the far side of the hill, they were lying flattened to the ground, waiting to ambush the column. Some were archers with longbows. A few had the more costly crossbows―an assassin’s weapon. Feeling a slippage, he could see them as clearly as though they were before him.
Withdrawing his sword, he sent Galleon forward to defend Aithinne. Nothing―nothing mattered more than saving her. Without hesitation, he would give his life to protect her. Knew he likely rode to his death.
As he galloped past the assassins, several let loose with hastily aimed bolts from crossbows. One sliced with a dull thud into the side of his thigh. Just like the dream. His warrior’s mind tried to block the pain; white hot, it spread out in both directions within his leg muscles. ’Twas fortunate, the shaft had lodged in the side or he might bleed to death before he reached Aithinne.
Fully anticipating danger, Challon reacted to Damian galloping toward the column. He quickly marshalled the squires into a phalanx before Tamlyn and Aithinne. Arrows hammered into the tall shields, whilst behind them Gervase and Vincent aided the women to dismount. They circled their animals, putting the women between the horses, trying to use the animals’ massive bodies as a barrier to the raining arrows. Three plowed into the side of Gervase’s bay steed. With a deep-throated groan, the horse collapsed in a scream of agony. The young man loved that stallion, but he never hesitated to move before Tamlyn, covering her with his shield.
Damian’s eyes searched for Aithinne. Vincent guarded her on one side, with Moffet moving in to cover the other. “Oh,
God, protect them. Please,” he whispered.
Swinging Galleon about, Damian prepared to clash with riders closing in on them. The enemy materialized out of the fog on both flanks. And they came like Hell unleashed. Challon spurred Pagan forward, intercepting the charge arriving on the left. Damian faced the half a score striking from the right.
Damian dispatched two with ease, then whipped Galleon about to join Dyel and Michael to attack the remainder. The trained squires fought valiantly and would earn their spurs this day—should they live that long.
“Damn!” he cursed under his teeth, his eyes assessing where they stood.
Bodies were on the ground, and yet still men more came. They were facing a large force, likely outnumbered. Trapped, surrounded by the three-prong attack, no aid would come from the garrisons at Lochshane or Glenrogha. The riders―if they had gotten through―had not time enough to reach the fortresses and return with the much-needed reinforcements. They were on their own, battling for their lives.
Using his knees to control Galleon, and leaving his hand free for his sword, he intercepted them. With slashing precision, he dispatched one, and then turned to block a blow from a second. Galleon reacted to his training, and tore into the horse of a third rider, unseating him. Then, the expected bolt sliced into the flesh of his right shoulder, a freakish shot hitting at the narrow point where the breastplate ended and the shoulder spaulders covered the upper arm. The pain was so intense he could hardly grip his broadsword. He shifted the hold to where he could swing with his left, thankful warriors learned to fight with either hold.
RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Page 30
