The Knight's Bride

by Stone, Lyn

  “Oh yes, Melior will find it. He will present your request. Question is, will your father heed it?”

  Alan wondered that, as well. Never had he asked his sire for anything. They had not spoken, nor communicated with each other since Alan had been sent to his uncle in the Highlands at the tender age of seven.

  The man lived, Alan knew, and still served as sheriff and warden of the border before the decisive battle at Bannockburn. He believed the castle at Rowicsburg remained in English hands for the moment, but the good baron may have taken himself off to England when he heard of Bruce’s victory. Only time would tell, time Alan had little of.

  If the musician had located a mount to purchase and ridden hard, he would have arrived in Rowicsburg in little more than a day. Counting the day’s ride back, today would be the very earliest Alan could expect help to arrive. If it came at all.

  It galled Alan to ask anything of his English father, but where else could he turn? Despite his comradely treatment of his cousin, Ian Gray, Alan did not truly trust the man. Since Ian was now related by law and could not wed Honor, he might be willing to join forces with her father for the reward of Byelough and its lands. And Gray could not hope to win an outright battle with Hume’s men any more than could Alan and his meager force.

  He could not depend on the king’s help. Bruce was chasing after Edward and laying waste to England. And good King Robbie would never spare men for a personal favor anyway. Bruce might do so to protect Byelough itself. He seemed to consider the holding important, both for its location and the secret caves nearby. But Alan knew he could not depend on that, even if Bruce could be found in time.

  His father was the best chance for holding Byelough against Hume. He no doubt had a full purse and could hire every freelance in and around Rowicsburg if need be. For a personal battle such as this, political loyalties could be laid aside for the nonce. ’Twas not an uncommon thing at all.

  Alan found he was not above employing guilt to bring the old man running. Family was family. If Adam of Strode had any honor at all, he would come to the aid of a son.

  It did seem strange to pray that Rowicsburg had held out against the Scots forces. Alan did have hope there, since most of that army was now rampaging through the north of England. Yet it made him feel disloyal to Scotland to wish they had failed to take so important a place, just so his father would come here and lend his aid. Alan was and ever would be Scot.

  He reached to smooth the folds of the plaid Honor had urged him to wear. “Makes you look invincible,” she had said when he went to the solar for fresh clothing this morn. Alan smiled. She did like a highlandman, after all. At least when it came to facing down her father.

  Morning gave way to evening, and evening to night. Constant knocking from the builders’ implements ticked off the moments. Intermittent taunts from Hume’s men drifted from the distant camp. Alan waited, hopes for reinforcements dimming by the hour.

  Long after full dark, he abandoned his vigil, gave orders to the guards, and returned to the hall.

  “Bid our lady join me,” he said to Nanette, who sat near the fire hole with her sewing.

  The birdlike Frenchwoman nodded and rushed away. Moments later Honor appeared. “Has my father gone?”

  Alan chuckled without humor. “Would that such fortune blessed us. Nay, he squats nearby and makes ready for our wee war. Are you well?”

  “Well? As well as any prisoner can be, I suppose.” She dropped into the chair next to his own and signed heavily, wringing her hands. “You must let me go, Alan. Someone will die if I do not.”

  “Then someone will die,” he stated. “Have you eaten?”

  “I cannot think of food.” Her eyes pleaded with him for her release, but Alan would never grant her that. She would not go out these gates and disappear from his life forever. Even if he knew she would be well treated by her kin, he would not allow it. He certainly could not send her home with a man who abused her.

  Her selflessness warmed his heart. That she would sacrifice herself for Byelough’s people, for him and for her daughter, proved her goodness of heart. But the fact that she would do it so willingly also fostered an anger against her that he could not suppress.

  Just as he turned to her to chastise her for it, a commotion at the hall door snared his attention.

  Father Dennis and one of the guards rushed toward him from the stair that led from the kitchens below. Sandals and boots slapped against the flagstones and the two men panted as though they had run all the way.

  “Sir! Melior has returned. He and others are emerging from the bolt-hole even now!”

  Alan jumped to his feet and made for stairs. Honor grasped his sleeve to keep pace.

  “Stay here!” he ordered without halting. She let go of him, but he sensed she followed.

  Once they reached the kitchens, they entered the storeroom just as Melior came through the low doorway: He smiled sadly. “Sir Alan, I have brought him with me, but—”

  “My father is here?” Alan dashed the skinny musician aside. Between the sacks of grain and chests filled with spices and supplies, Alan spied a portly figure assisting someone from the small opening at the back wall. A baby wailed.

  Alan felt glued to the spot as he watched a woman emerge from the opening. The man held her arms to support her and a small, very angry face peeked over her shoulder. As she straightened, he saw that the bairn was strapped to the woman’s back in a sling. He stepped forward then to help the trio through the maze of stores piled around the tunnel’s opening.

  His father turned and gazed at him from near equal height. The brown hair had grayed with age. Adam Strode was just past the half century mark, after all.

  “Alan? My Alan?” he whispered. “It is you!”

  “Da?” The familiarity slipped out unheeded as Alan searched the features for the man he had once known. Changed, certainly, but not to an unrecognizable degree. “You came.”

  The older man looked away and snorted. “Well, of course I came. Years of your angry silence could not alter the fact I am your father! Did you think I would not come?”

  “My silence? What do you mean? ’Twas you who—”

  “Hist!” a feminine voice intruded, “Could ye take each other ta task a mite later? I’m bent wi’ th’ weight of this wee beast. And he’s devilish hungry.”

  Alan jerked his attention away from his father to the woman. She appeared near his own age, covered neck to toe in a rich cape of gray wool trimmed in what looked to be marten fur.

  Her smooth, handsome face contorted with a grimace of pain as the bairn let go with a screech and yanked with both fists at her disheveled hair. “Get ’im off me, would ye?”

  Both Alan and his father rushed to her back. Alan untied the sling and Adam lifted the child free. “I’m Janet,” the woman declared, and held out her hand to Alan. With a nod of her head toward the noisy child, she continued, “and this is yer fractious brother, Richard.”

  Alan stared at the squirming baby. “Wh-where is my mother?” When no answer came, he jerked his gaze to his father. “Da?”

  “Your mother’s been dead these last six years, Alan. Did you not know? Did Angus not tell you?”

  A fist of pain struck Alan’s chest and he backed away. He dropped heavily to a sack of grain and buried his face in his hands. “Nay,” he whispered. “Nay.” His mother, dead.

  “A fever took her. She was quickly gone,” his father said, but Alan barely registered the words through his haze of grief.

  Truth told, he could scarcely recall the face of the woman who had borne him, but the feel of her soft hands on his brow, the musical voice with its sweet lilt, remained steadfast in his mind. He had clung to the sensation and the sound of her almost every night since last he’d seen her, near twenty years ago.

  He felt Honor’s hands on him now. Her soft, small fingers kneaded his shoulders, brushed over his hair. He heard her quiet orders. “Take everyone above, Father Dennis, Melior. See to their comfort for
a while. We shall join you anon.”

  Feet shuffled through the rushes. The baby’s whine dimmed as everyone ascended the stair to the hall.

  Alan turned and buried his face in Honor’s middle. Tears worked their way through his tightly closed lids as he held his breath. He clutched her hips, his hands fisted in her robes. Without words, she gave him what comfort she could. He embraced it in near desperation.

  His mother. Dead. Soft arms cradled his head as he wept silently for other arms he would never feel about him again. For goodbyes he could never say. For forgiveness he could not yet offer, even did her shade appear to ask it.

  When he finally released her, Honor knelt before him and kissed away his tears. “I am so sorry, Alan. I grieve for you,” she whispered.

  He nodded and gently set her away from him so he could stand. “Aye. But we’ve no time for this now. I must speak with my father. His men must be camped nearby and we need to plan our strategy.”

  She made some murmur of agreement and led the way out of the storeroom. By the time they had crossed the kitchens and climbed the stairs to the hall, Alan had recovered himself. He put thoughts of his mother away.

  Honor must be his first concern.

  Chapter Ten

  Alan’s father, the new wife and child, and Father Dennis sat grouped around the head table with two chairs left vacant for Honor and himself. Alan sat and immediately downed a full tankard of ale without glance or greeting for his guests.

  When he had finished, he turned to his father. “Where are your men?”

  Adam Strode lowered his gaze to his wooden trencher, his large, capable hands flat on the table on either side of it. “There are no men, save myself. David Bruce had the castle surrounded. Janet, Richard and I happened to be in the town when the Scots arrived. Lord Witherington will have surrendered Rowicsburg to the Scots by now.”

  “How did Melior find you?” Alan asked, resignation settling about him like heavy chains.

  “By chance. He stopped at the alehouse and asked how he might send word to me from my son. The alewife is a good friend to Janet and knew where we were hiding.”

  Alan looked at the woman his father had taken to replace his mother. She shifted the sleeping babe in her lap and glared back. “So you’ve no help to offer, then,” Alan stated.

  His father grunted. “Only my wits, such as they are.”

  “English wits. Well, we know how sharp they are, do we not?”

  “They have kept your body and soul together!” his father declared. “Had I not made a Scot of you, you’d be heading south now with that puling king of mine or else rotting in that bloody bog near Stirling.”

  Alan smirked. “Protected me, did you? Admit it, Da, you did it to straddle the border. To rule lands in both countries through Nigel and through me.”

  Then Adam sighed with defeat. “Aye, that, too. Look, son, I offered my loyalties to Longshanks, as did your brother Nigel. That Edward was my true king. I am English and I make no apologies for it. That’s what I was born to be. But I would not have had two sons bound to Edward the Second as he came to power. As eldest, your brother had to go to Gloucester. I am glad I did not have to sacrifice you as well.”

  “Sacrifice?” Alan asked. “What do you mean?”

  His father looked up at him, the sad wrinkled eyes bright with tears. “Nigel is dead.”

  “No,” Alan whispered, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “Mother and Nigel?”

  “Aye. Your brother took an arrow through the heart on one of the expeditions into Wales last year.” After a long silence, he sniffed and shoved back his chair. “Enough talk of death. What’s to be done here? The jongleur says it is Lord Dairmid Hume, your wife’s father, who lays siege to you. May I ask the reason?”

  “He wants her back,” Alan stated succinctly, “for another alliance he has in mind.”

  “Ah, I see.” Adam frowned and worried his beard with his fingers. “You have only a handfast and he won’t wait out the year, then?”

  “No,” Honor interrupted. “We were wed by my priest!”

  Adam smiled at his daughter by marriage. “He cannot simply null a union that has been blessed and duly consummated, now can he? Where’s the worry?”

  Alan and Honor exchanged wary glances.

  Adam rolled his eyes and slammed his palms against the table. “Well, you’ve said the priest blessed it, so you’ve left the other undone, eh? Jesu, Alan, didn’t that sheep-shagging uncle of yours teach you anything? Do you not know a marriage is not legal until...? Oh, good lord!”

  Alan rose and kicked back his chair. “This is not a matter for discussion, Da.”

  Adam laughed bitterly, “I should say not! ’Tis a matter for action, I’d say. Immediate action.”

  “For mercy’s sake, Da, Honor has just birthed a child,” Alan offered in a low voice.

  “Not yours, I take it?” Adam asked. He snorted. “No, I guess not. When?”

  “She bore Tavish Ellerby’s babe some...six weeks past?” He looked to Honor for confirmation of the time and she nodded.

  His father nodded once and took the sleeping child from his wife. “Point me to our chamber, Alan, and get you to your own. Methinks you have business to attend, and Janet and I need some rest.”

  Honor guided the couple to the stairs leading to the upper chambers. Alan could not see her face, but knew it must be the bright red color of his own. Damn the old man.

  Consummation. He’d not once considered that lack of it might endanger his right to keep Honor. Her women-inwaiting would know that he and Honor had not lain together as husband and wife. He had only slept once in her bed and she had been too great with child then to accomplish anything. After Kit’s birth, he had bedded down in the hall, or sometimes the stable. And if Diarmid Hume took Byelough Keep, the women might feel compelled to admit as much to him in order to regain Hume’s good graces.

  Alan felt he had no right to ask Honor to lie with him. Not that he didn’t want her. God’s bones, he thought of little else. But he knew she still loved Tavish. Alan did not want her to come to his bed only to gain his protection, but he must protect her at any cost. And he must be a husband in truth in order to do that. He must own her legally.

  Then all he need worry on would be preventing her widowhood.

  Honor rushed ahead of Alan’s father and Lady Janet, wanting to be done with settling them in for the night. She pushed open the door to the guest chamber and stood aside for them to enter.

  She regretted the lack of a bedstead, but guests usually brought their own. Gesturing toward the thick, woolstuffed pallets her women had hastily laid, she assured them, “We shall have a bed constructed for you on the morrow. Shall I have one of the women attend you, lady? Or take your child to sleep with them?”

  “Nay,” Alan’s father answered for his wife. “We shall fend for ourselves this night. We be so weary, I think we could sleep upright against the walls.”

  He turned and took one of the hands she was wringing against her waist. “Be easy, girl. Does my hulk of a son put fright in those lovely eyes of yours?”

  “Oh, no!” Honor answered, surprised that he would think such. “My father is the one I fear.” And her befrothed, but she would not dwell on that worry. Father must be trying to repair his plans without involving the comte de Trouville. Thank God.

  “Dairmid Hume,” Lord Adam mused, still clasping her hand. “I met your father once, you know. He traveled to London with Balliol during the peace talks. We were scarcely more than lads, but he had a nose for politics even then. Didn’t think much of England, as I recall.”

  “So he always said,” Honor elaborated. “He sold his lands near Edinburgh and has lived in France since his marriage to my mother. He is somehow in Robert Bruce’s employ concerning matters of the French court.” Honor slid her hand from his and began backing toward the door.

  She wanted nothing more than to get to her solar and comfort Alan in his grief. His mother’s a
nd brother’s deaths might have been well mourned by these two, but the tragedies were new to her husband. She recalled his quiet tears in the storeroom and how staunchly he put them away for later, turning his concern to her.

  “Bruce’s man? Hmm, that could complicate matters here. Or it might possibly help.” He shrugged. “So our Tavish found you there in France?” the Baron asked.

  Honor ducked her head to avoid his eyes. “I wed him here, my lord. We were married for two months before he joined the Bruce.”

  “And so, died, leaving you to Alan’s care,” he concluded for her. “I begin to see how this goes. Is this marriage not to your liking, little one?”

  “Sir Alan is all that’s kind and honorable, my lord.”

  The baron smiled, and Honor could see Alan’s future countenance in the sire, no less handsome for the added years. “You love him?” he asked.

  “I hold great respect for your son, my lord,” she replied, avoiding a direct answer to his question. “He is very loyal. Alan promised as Tavish lay dying to look after me. Us,” she corrected. “My daughter, Christiana, and myself. Tavish did not know of the babe, however.”

  “But my son accepts that your girl is now his to care for?”

  Honor nodded emphatically. “He does, Lord Adam. He dotes on her, more than is wise, I think.”

  “And you as well, I’d reckon,” he said, scratching his head and shaking it. “But he would not intrude on your husband’s memory, is that the truth?”

  “Tavish was his friend,” she explained. “I believe he holds that dearer than his own desires. He is a good man, my lord.”

  Lady Janet scoffed as she tucked furs around her son. “Lord deliver us from good men, eh? I nigh had to drug this one to get his clothes off. That faithful to his wife, he was. Even with her dead those three years!”

  “Hush, Janet!”

  She laughed and hopped up from the pallet to slide her arms around his waist. “Listen to him growl! Such a fearsome bear. And he knows I mean no disrespect. I loved his lady almost as much as he. Only right that I look after him for her,” she tweaked his beard as she crooned, “as he grows old and toothless.” Janet chuckled again when he grabbed her hand and nipped her fingers.