Tamlyn shivered as she saw there would be 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. No one has ever defeated me in single combat. ’Tis my wish you should return to Glenrogha. If you remain you might divert my mind and I need no distractions.”
“If you insist on getting yourself killed, then I am going to be here to kick you for it.” 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. Sucking in her emotions, 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?” After her threats hurled at Damian, mayhap handing her a sharp object was not wise in his view.
“Och, do no’ be a total lackwit.” She held out her hand and snapped her fingers. “Your knife. Give it to me.”
“But, my lady…” Gervase glanced to Challon, in search of guidance.
“I swear, Challon, you must deliberately seek dullards for squires.” She 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 about the length of her arm, 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, wishing she could feel the warmth of his skin and not the cold of the mail.
She loved him so much it was an ache inside her. Her mind was torn, wanting to speak the words, fearing if she did not she may never have the chance. In that same breath, she pushed the foolish fear aside. Conjuring possibilities oft saw them become truth. She bit down on her lower lip, fighting the crippling emotions careening inside 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—”
“Moffet,” Julian called the one word command, ending her pleas.
The young lad took hold of Tamlyn’s arm. “Come, my lady, you needs must follow me.”
Tears filled Tamlyn’s eyes as she continued to stare at him. “Julian, I wish—”
“Go with Moffet, my lady,” Julian urged gently. His voice was soft, but resolute.
There would be no stopping him. Her head dropped, then nodded. With a last look, she allowed Moffet to lead her away.
♦◊♦
Julian watched Tamlyn allowing Moffet to lead her away. He scarcely noticed Vincent returned to preparing him, fitting the gauntlets and then vambraces covering his lower arms. As his squire readied his accoutrements, Julian’s eyes tracked her, unable to look away. She moved to the halfway point in the field, her people parting to make room for her.
Tamlyn wore the simple plaid kirtle with the grace of a queen. Nothing had the power to humble her mien, not even the tears she struggled to hide.
“Damian, shouldst I fail―” he began, only to have his cousin cut him off.
“You shall not. I will hear no such words.” Damian patted him on the back. “You are the best knight in Britain.”
“We both know I am getting old, slower. I lack the taste for this anymore.”
“What you have lost in speed, you more than balance with skill and intelligence. You fight with a cool head. And lacking taste for battle―your spirit wearies at Edward’s useless slaughter. I am sure you will have a particularly sharp appetite to dispatching this vermin. I meant what I said in the tower—I would fight in your stead. I would step into your place and carry the challenge.”
“That is a road to ruin. You heard what Aithinne spake, backed by Evelynour—if you fight in my stead this day you shall die.” Julian patted his cousin’s arm. “You have your own responsibilities now as lord of Lyonglen. I ask only that you protect Tamlyn. If I fail—kill Dirk. I do not want him to live to see the sun rise.”
“It shall not come to that, Julian, but aye, you have my word,” his cousin pledged.
They walked out into the morn. Julian noticed the screeching of the ravens, flitting from tree limb to tree limb. He pondered if that was a good omen. Mayhap it was.
Taking the lead rein from his squire Michael, he leaned his head against the side of the black stallion’s. “Once more we fight together, my friend.”
Looking to the heavens, he closed his eyes, becoming one with all about him. It was a nice soft day, as Tamlyn would say. He would fight. And he would win. He had too much to live for. Suddenly, a frisson of fear crawled up his spine. Life was seldom fair. Had he found so much to value in life, only to have it taken cruelly away from him, just as he found what he so long hungered for that his life could end?
Banishing such nonsense, he opened his eyes, ready to face the coming challenge. Then he spotted the white slashes on four birds sitting on a low bough. Magpies. Four of them. What had Tamlyn said about them? Four be an augury for a coming death.
“Then, so be it. Pray that ’tis Pendegast, and not mine,” he said under his breath. “Go stay with her, Damian. She shall require support.”
Damian nodded as Julian mounted Pagan. Nudging the horse with his knees, the stallion cantered to the center of the field.
♦◊♦
Aithinne joined Tamlyn, as she stood trembling.
She watched the two men ride to the middle of the field from opposite directions. Upon the black destrier, the Dragon of Challon was all in black, save the stripe of dark green in the tartan about his arm. Everything about Julian was understated. Black plates, mail and surcoat. No adornments of any sort. A striking contrast to Dirk’s brilliant scarlet and yellows over the silver mail and plate. He was seated upon a snow-white charger.
Odd, Julian fighting for honor was the one in black. But then, her husband wrapped himself in the dark color, used it to create power.
“May it protect him,” she whispered.
They reined their steeds at midfield where Malcolm stood. Her uncle was garbed in the brown robe of a Culdee, as Trial by Combat was a battle judged by God. The two men sat on their horses, the rising breeze ruffling their hair, staring at each other as though they were the only ones around.
Malcolm glanced to Dirk, then to Challon, his voice calling loud enough for all to hear. “Why have you come to this place and this hour?”
Sir Dirk sneered a challenge at his liege. “To do battle to prove my innocence.”
Challon fixed him with hooded eyes that would have sent a sane man to trembling in fear. “I come to do battle for the honor of my lady.”
Malcolm spoke. “This be Trial by Combat. One man lives, one man dies. God, and only God, decides which. Will you fight to the death, giving no quarter and receiving none, and accept God’s final judgment?”
“I will.” Both men swore in unison.
Malcolm nod
ded. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Santi. So be it. Go, and let God grant judgment or vindication as He wills.”
Both men turned their mounts and cantered back to the end of the field, though Tamlyn little spared Dirk notice. Her eyes remained fixed on Julian. He turned Pagan as Vincent lifted the claymore to him. Holding tip down so it formed a sign of the cross, he kissed the cross-guard and handed it back to the squire. Vincent carried the sword out several paces and drove it into the ground. At the opposite end, the squire serving Sir Dirk did the same.
Michael climbed upon the arming block to fit the full helm on Challon. For an instant, Julian’s eyes met hers. Time held its breath as they stared at each other, the strength of their emotions speaking what words could not. Then, the helm was lowered, covering his whole head. With care, Gervase settled the long lance into his lord’s grip, crosswise on the horse.
At the far side of the field, 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.
Grasping a white cloth in his hand, Malcolm held it out before him at chest level. Tamlyn sucked in a breath, as did everyone in attendance, waiting for Malcolm to let it drop. The cloth fell from Malcolm’s grip, fluttering 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, squeezing it.
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 were galloping full out, their hooves thundering on the ground. Tamlyn’s breath faltered as the lances slammed into both men. The sound of the impact was sickening. Her whole body flinched as if she took the blow.
The crowd groaned, and several called, “He held! He held! Challon held!”
Both men reeled, regained their balance, and immediately set the chargers 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 nothing.
Tamlyn grabbed her stomach in reaction. A buzzing in her ears sounded as if bees were flitting close. She had to hang on, but each blow Challon took, she felt it through her whole being.
“Two passes. Three more to go,” Damian said.
Already with a fresh lance, Challon was off the mark, turning the destrier. While Dirk’s horse seemed to tire, Pagan appeared to draw strength from the combat. At the last instant, Dirk lifted his lance, catching Challon on the right shoulder. It flipped him backwards over the black horse and slammed him into the ground. The crowd groaned. Tamlyn cringed, shaking and barely able to breathe, her heart aching as she waited to see if Challon would rise.
“Please...let him rise,” she whispered.
Dirk dropped the broken lance, and then pulled his mace and chain from the side of his saddle. Slowly, Challon staggered to his feet, only Pendegast bore down on him with the chain and ball, catching Julian across his 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, the heavy spiked ball slamming repeatedly into Challon’s back and helm.
Tamlyn screamed. This was madness. She had to do something to end this. She could not stand here and watch Julian being killed.
Grabbing Damian’s arm, she begged, “Stop this! For God’s sake, stop this insanity! He is killing Challon!” She started to push past Damian, but he caught and held her arm.
“Stay back, Tamlyn. You shall get Julian 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 Sir 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. The magnificent destrier likely saving Challon’s life.
Challon grabbed at his badly dented helm. He yanked it off and tossed it to the ground. He gasped for air and shook his head as if trying to rid it of ringing. Forcing himself to his feet, he glanced about to get his bearing. His eyes sighted the claymore stuck into the ground at the side of the field. Seeing that, Challon headed for the great sword.
Dirk ran for his. Only, Pagan charged toward the man blocking his path. Challon collapsed to his knees before the Glenrogha claymore.
“What is he doing?” Tamlyn’s voice broke, as she strained against Damian’s grip. “Julian, get up! Oh, God, please get up!”
Aithinne buried her face against Damian’s shoulder, unable to watch. Challon remained in that position, looking up at the sword as if it were a cross, and he sought answer to a prayer for strength. His face of such angelic beauty stared transfixed at the golden stone in the hilt. The grey clouds broke, and a shaft of brilliant morning sun shone down on Julian, and refracted through the amber jewel.
Rising, Julian yanked the great sword from the ground and turned to face his opponent. Unable to reach the broad sword because of the horse blocking him, the taller Pendegast wasted no time drawing his sword from his baldric and went straight into great hacking swings. The blades clanged and rang out, again and again, as Dirk kept backing Challon up with the force of his blows. Challon’s blade deflected the downward arc of Dirk’s, the blades singing discordantly as each fought for dominance.
Using the momentum, Julian spun his body completely around, and then delivered a kick to the center of Dirk’s plated chest. Pendegast appear to grow exhausted, while amazingly, Challon gained his second wind.
Tamlyn was aware that since May Day Julian had practiced every day with the claymore under the tutelage of her cousin Skylar. Now the sword of Glenrogha sang in his hands. The actions were effortless, as if the blade were an extension of Challon as he now fought in the Highlander way. The weapon thrust, parried, then swung in fluid motion, shifting to defense, the whole sword covering the length of the back of his body. He moved so fast the taller Dirk barely had time to block the blows.
Never had she seen a man so controlled, so powerful.
Julian spun once more. The force of the feat 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 to keep from screaming, 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 claymore to whack off chunks of wood from the lance. Backing up until he finally neared his broadsword, Dirk tossed the now considerably shorter lance at Challon’s head and lunged for the steel embedded in the ground.
The throng of people cheered, called warnings and moaned with each turn of events. Clearly rooting for Challon.
Pendegast came at Julian in a round swing, intending to slice him through the middle. Like a cat, Julian jumped back, arching to evade the blow. Even so, the tip of Dirk’s sword ripped through the surcoat and hammered the plate underneath.
Just then, Pagan charged across the field. He had set Dirk’s stallion to running, and now came back, once more, to fight at his master’s side. His strength waning, Dirk panicked and gave an overhead blow to Julian. The power of the attack drove him down on one knee. Using the claymore as a shield, Julian swirled the sword behind him to protect his shoulder and back. Dirk moved in and slammed his knee to Julian’s chin. It sent hi
m sprawling backward, open to a final blow before he would be able to recover.
“No!” Tamlyn screamed, and tried to break free of Damian’s grip.
The monstrous black destrier flew at Dirk. Rearing high, hooves slashing. Pagan caught Pendegast hard on the head with a hoof and continued to pound at him even after the man was down.
Michael rushed to help Julian to his feet, while Gervase and Vincent took charge of Pagan. Finally able to stand on his own, Julian went to the still excited horse, patted his forehead, and whispered to him.
He ordered, “Get that…carrion off my field.” Several men moved to obey him, dragging Pendegast’s body away.
Tears streaming down her face, she broke free from Damian, leaving him and Aithinne to follow. As she rushed toward Challon, people moved onto the field. Most to cheer and congratulate their lord on his victory. Tamlyn was frantic to reach him, pushing them aside. Then suddenly, she was there and flying into his arms.
Sobs tore through her chest as she hugged him. Julian moaned, and then loosened her hold around his waist. Tamlyn realized his back was bruised, which made her cry even more.
Challon tried to laugh, but stopped. “I think I shall forgo laughing for a few days.” That made her tears spring forth anew. He lifted her chin with his bent finger. “Mo chridhe, hush, don’t make yourself sick. I told you this was the best way to—”
Julian tried to laugh, then moaned at the pain. Suddenly, his eyes rolled in his head and his knees folded under him. Tamlyn and Damian caught him.
“I think I might still kick him,” Tamlyn sobbed and laughed in the same breath.
“Wait until he wakes up.” Damian chuckled. “He shan’t feel it now.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tha fios fithich agad.
(You hold a raven’s knowledge)
— Auld Scots Adage
“God’s teeth!” Challon sucked in a breath and steeled himself to hold still. “Tamlyn, a fortnight has passed. Must you continue with these nightly tortures?”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 32
