Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  “Weak? The lassie only needs tae look at ye tae see who be truly weak.”

  Lia sat with her own bowl in hand, laughing at the insults they tossed back and forth. At least the ride north had not been boring with these two constantly providing entertainment.

  Lia had just taken two bites of her dinner when a sound behind her sent a bolt of terror through her and froze her in place. For an instant, she thought she might have imagined the noise until she looked to Connell, who was staring at something behind her. He slowly sat his bowl on the ground and drew a viciously long dagger.

  “Pray, lassie,” he whispered between clenched teeth, “dinna move.”

  She swallowed hard and looked to Robert but only caught a glimpse of his back as he disappeared into the trees surrounding the small clearing of their camp.

  Lia squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the urge to bolt toward Connell.

  She heard another sound behind her, but before she could utter the scream that lodged in her throat, Connell lunged forward and seized her arm. He yanked her to him and Lia only glimpsed a dark blur. She heard a muffled grunt and turned to see Robert tackle a man from behind. Connell shoved her behind him and Lia focused on the man sprawled on the ground in the place where she had been sitting. His head was covered in blood and his clothing was ripped to shreds.

  “Nay!” the man cried, holding up his hands, also scraped and bloody. “Mercy! I beg of ye!”

  For an instant, Lia was certain Robert meant to kill the man. “Wait!”

  But Robert only grabbed him and yanked him to his feet. “What mean ye, attackin’ the lassie like that?”

  “I didna attack her,” the man blubbered. “I only sought her help.”

  “Her help?” Connell asked, his dagger still in hand, his other arm stretched backward, keeping her behind him.

  “All ken ye bring a healer. I beg of ye, I was attacked!”

  “Attacked?” Robert asked in confusion.

  “The Demon Laird! He stalks the trails at night attackin’ those who canna find haven after dark.”

  “The what?” Robert asked, his face paling.

  “The Demon Laird! He attacked me. I ran, tryin’ tae reach safety, but he found me on the trail. I saw yer campfire. I beg yer help.”

  Connell cursed softly and returned his dagger. “Lassie?”

  “I will help him.” She pointed to a log, bidding her heart to stop pounding so hard. She had work to do. “Sit and I will check your wounds.”

  Robert nearly tossed him in the direction of the log.

  “Robert,” Connell said.

  “Aye,” he replied. Before Connell could say anything more, Robert again vanished into the trees.

  “Pray forgive me,” the man said as Lia crouched to examine him. “I live in the village not far from the castle. The tales of the Demon Laird stalking the land at night have grown mightily. I didna believe them, but I was caught outside at sunset... I . . . I believe them now.”

  “How do ye ken it was the Demon Laird and not a common cutthroat?” Connell asked.

  “His hounds.”

  Connell’s face lost color and he stared at the man in disbelief. “Hounds?”

  “The Demon Laird’s hounds tracked me as I tried tae get back tae the village.”

  Robert abruptly reappeared from the forest. “I saw blood on some rocks. Ye fell?”

  “Aye,” the man said nodding vigorously. “The Demon Laird’s bloody hellhounds chased me. I fell down a slope in a rocky ravine. I saw yer campfire and ran tae ye. Fortunately, the hounds didna pursue.”

  Lia finished examining him and rose. The wounds only supported part of the man’s tall tale. She stepped to her medicants and packs, withdrawing clean bandages. Connell and Robert stepped with her.

  “I found where he fell,” Robert said tightly. “And spotted the tracks of dogs.”

  “Dogs or wolves?” Connell asked.

  “Dogs, most likely feral. By the look of the track, they werena large enough tae be wolves.”

  “Shadows probably spooked him,” Lia said. “His wounds were most likely caused from falling on the rocks, not by any attack.”

  Connell breathed a sigh of relief. “It worries me the tales the common folk have devised in our absence.”

  “Aye,” Robert said. “The MacGrigor was once loved by all. That they could turn on him so quickly be troublesome indeed.”

  “Look at it this way,” Lia murmured, “at least you know your laird is still alive.”

  The voices were silent now, but Ronan’s heart still slammed against his ribs. He couldn’t remember anything of the attack except that he had a sense he had struggled to breathe and had nearly choked. His throat hurt. But he was grateful for the silence. He blinked open his eyes, struggling to pull his blurred vision together. He was on the floor again, but this time he knew it was the floor of his own solar.

  His vision partially focused on his hand outstretched before him. He had to get up and get himself back into bed. His body ached against the hard wood. But as he told his body to move, it refused.

  His heart pounded harder and fear snaked through him. Nay, no reason tae panic. His blackouts as a child had been similar. He had always struggled to get his body to obey him afterward. He gulped another deep breath into his lungs and tried again.

  Terror rocked through him. Never had it lasted this long. He stared at his own fingers. If he could just move one. But they wouldn’t even twitch. Nay! Was this the result? That he would not be a prisoner of the English but instead be trapped in his own body?

  The door opened. “Holy hell,” Aidan muttered. “I leave ye tae tend tae clan business for just a moment and look what happens tae ye.”

  Ronan still could not move. He could not turn his head to look at his brother.

  “Ronan?” Aidan said, his voice growing more alarmed.

  Ronan struggled to move. Nay! It would not be like this. Aidan stepped into view. Ronan’s eyes rolled wildly in his head. His heart pounded in terror. All he had fought for, all he had battled against, and he was trapped just as effectively as he would have been in that cell.

  Aidan reached for him. “Ronan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nay!” his voice croaked in his own ears and suddenly his hand balled into a fist.

  Aidan leapt backward, startled.

  Relief washed over Ronan as his body obeyed his commands again. “I’ll be all right,” he said hoarsely, but his words sounded slurred.

  Aidan stepped forward and carefully pulled him up.

  Ronan closed his eyes, leaning heavily against his brother. It would not be today that he became trapped in his own flesh . . . but what about tomorrow?

  They traveled throughout the day, not stopping to eat but instead chewing on dried meat as they rode. Lia realized this was another reason why her teeth hurt. The meat was as tough as the leather that made up her saddle, but she gnawed on it without complaint.

  They entered a small Scottish village, and Lia was surprised to see people out and about on the streets and children playing.

  “Longshanks’s war hasna reached here yet,” Connell said softly.

  “But you said you fought.”

  “Allied with other lairds, a few miles east of here, in the Lowlands.”

  As they passed through the village, she heard hushed whispers from a group of people standing before a small tavern. They stared at her and her escort warily.

  “Ye see,” a voice whispered harshly, “I told ye they were sent tae fetch a healer.”

  “The MacGrigor be cursed.”

  “He made a deal with the devil tae escape the English.”

  “Be silent,” another said, crossing himself, “lest ye call the Demon Laird’s attention here. Old man Liam died in the night; it is said the curse caused him tae fall ill.”

  Demon Laird? Lia wondered, her gut coiling. This was the second time she had heard the name. She chided herself. She should not believe in such superstitious nonsense. She glanced at C
onnell and Robert.

  They looked at each other a long moment and said nothing, but Lia clearly saw the concern in their expressions.

  She could not stop the dread that rose within her. What truly awaited her in MacGrigor’s keep?

  Ronan staggered from his bed and caught himself on the bedpost before he toppled over. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his face. He had to get out of here. His solar had become nothing more than another prison. But he did not dare call on the servants for assistance. They were terrified of him. His heart twisted in pain and he slumped against the bedpost. What did it matter? All of his fighting to survive, and for what? The terror of his people? How could they fear him so terribly after all he had done to prove that he could lead the clan as well as his father had?

  He squeezed his eyes closed, bitter resentment rising within him.

  Nay! his heart cried. His people did not deserve his anger. Their reaction was completely natural. It was the English who had done this to him; it was the English who deserved his hatred. By God, he would live. He would survive this and would not rest until they paid in blood.

  He staggered to his chest and managed to haul on his trews. Not bothering with a tunic, he grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. Lurching to the door, he stepped out, grateful it was night and he could escape his solar for a brief time without anyone the wiser.

  They crested a rise and Connell stopped his mount. Despite the late afternoon, the mist still hung thick in the air. Summer in the highlands, they had told her. Lia inhaled deeply. Such a pleasant scent, the heather around her. Smoke from hearth fires was also heavy. A beautiful village, its buildings made of wattle and daub, lay before her. She could tell it was a prosperous community, untouched yet by the war. But the streets were surprisingly empty and the market quiet. The few who did remain on the street hurried about their business with their heads down, stealing only furtive glances at her as Connell and Robert led her through the streets.

  “There we be, lassie,” Connell said and pointed at a massive stone keep that appeared before them in the distance.

  She swallowed hard, wondering why trepidation rose so powerfully within her.

  They rode down the main street of the village. One woman stepped out of a building and stopped short when she saw them. Lia surmised by her clothing that she was a servant, but the weave of the cloth she wore was of fine make. Yet Lia’s eyes narrowed. The woman’s apron was stained with dirt and blood. It took only an instant for Lia to realize the woman tended to the sick.

  The woman appeared to take a breath to call out to them but seemed to think better of it and bit it back.

  Lia was about to ask Connell to stop when he barked a sharp order and startled her.

  “Ho, there!”

  Only then did Lia realize the castle was preparing to close the gates for the night. Already? The sun had not yet set and church bells had not rung for Compline.

  The guard on the battlement called Connell’s name and waved. Two more, standing beside the closing gates, struggled to stop their swing, bidding greeting to both Connell and Robert. The two men urged their horses into a trot. Lia followed, no longer needing a lead for her own horse. They rode through the gates and Lia stared up at the giant keep. She had never seen a castle this closely before.

  The gates closed behind her as she dismounted. Connell offered his arm and Lia summoned her courage. He gave her the lead walking up the narrow stairs into the keep. Upon entering, she looked around and shivered, waiting for Connell and Robert to join her.

  “Are all castles this dark?” she asked, her voice a bare whisper.

  Connell looked around, a worried frown marring his brow. “Nay,” he said, his voice matching hers. “’Twas not like this when we left.”

  “It’s cold,” she murmured, shivering even more.

  “It can get a wee bit dark and drafty,” Robert said. “But usually in winter, and it never be like this in summer.”

  A single torch guttered in a wall stanchion on her right. On her left, barely visible was a stairwell disappearing into the blackness. A chill breath of air lifted the hairs on her arm and the silence that greeted her pricked the gooseflesh crawling down her spine. Her own breathing rattled in her ears, and her heartbeat thundered against her ribs. Behind her, the door to the keep boomed shut and she turned slightly to her left, dismayed to see her only means of escape blocked by a heavy oak door.

  “Saints be merciful,” Robert muttered. “What has happened here?”

  “I dinna ken,” Connell said. “Perhaps we should find Aidan.”

  “We should take the lassie directly tae the MacGrigor.”

  “Nay, something be verra wrong here.”

  “At least the wench didna steal all of the gold that my brother sent with ye,” a deep voice whispered behind her.

  Lia’s heart threatened to stop. She jumped and spun then blinked. In the dark stairwell, a giant of a man seemed to materialize out of the blackness, heavily cloaked, his cowl pulled low. He stepped forward into the dim light of the torch, but she could not see his face.

  “MacGrigor?” Robert asked in shock. “Ye . . . ye are recovered? We feared ye would not survive long enough for us tae fetch the healer.”

  “Ye fool,” MacGrigor snarled. “How dare ye bring an Englishwoman here?”

  “But she is a healer.”

  Lia swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Aye,” she said, praying her voice didn’t shake. “I heard you had need of one.”

  He took a second step forward, the torchlight falling on his face. Lia’s heart hesitated again but for an entirely different reason. She was a tall woman, but she felt as if she had to crane her neck to look up at him. Steel-gray eyes gazed at her, smoldering in fury. His long black hair framed his face perfectly under the cowl of his cloak. He had a broad forehead and high, prominent cheekbones. His jaw was strong and proud, although his nose appeared to have been recently broken. His lips were full and sensuous but pressed in a hard line. Underneath the volumes of fabric of his cloak, his massive shoulders and chest filled her vision.

  Lia drew a deep breath, a tremor passing through her.

  “As ye can see,” he whispered, his voice soft but deadly in its power, “I dinna need a healer any longer.”

  She studied him closely, noting his broken nose was not the only recent injury he had received. Small white patches of newly healed flesh marred his perfect face. They would probably fade to unnoticeable scars, but Lia’s eyes narrowed, seeing darker lines of not quite healed wounds around his throat. They continued downward until they disappeared under his tunic. He leaned heavily on a cane. The clansmen had been right. The English had tortured their laird. No wonder he didn’t want her in his home.

  “I understand,” she said, her voice firm with conviction. “But know this. In the matters of healing there is no nationality, no rich or poor, no noble or serf; I help everyone as I am able.”

  MacGrigor studied her a moment, as if trying to divine the truthfulness of her words. “I dinna want ye in my home.”

  “MacGrigor—” Connell tried.

  “Be silent!” he snapped, his eyes never leaving Lia. “Ye will remain only one night. Men will take ye back in the morning.”

  Her stomach clenched and tears pushed forward in her eyes, but she refused to shed them. She had nowhere to go.

  “MacGrigor, nay,” Robert said. “Ye canna do that tae the lass.”

  Lia blinked at him in shock and noticed MacGrigor doing the same thing.

  “Have ye been so long absent ye have forgotten who I am?” MacGrigor growled.

  “Nay,” Robert said, ducking his head. “The lassie canna return. If the English realize she came here, she will be hanged.”

  MacGrigor’s brow furrowed. “Have they banished ye?”

  Lia’s anger pricked. Did he judge her so harshly simply because she was English? But she clamped her jaw closed. She’d not justify the comment with a response.

  MacGrigor
arched an eyebrow at her. He looked at her a long moment, his eyes narrowing. Then his expression changed subtly. His gaze took on a distant stare, as if those steel-gray eyes could see right through her. He glowered, and for an instant, she thought he peered into her soul, trying to determine her true purpose. The muscles in his face tightened and his mouth pressed into a harder line, tugging downward at the corners, giving him a vicious expression. He did not move; he did not blink.

  A whisper of fear cut through her. She took an involuntary step backward.

  His pupils dilated alarmingly.

  Lia stared at him, something stirring in her memory. She had seen a similar expression before.

  MacGrigor blinked rapidly and his eyes returned to normal. For a long moment, he did not move. Abruptly, he shook his head as if trying to clear it then rubbed his eyes and swayed.

  Lia automatically stepped forward and gripped his shoulder. “Easy,” she whispered.

  He recoiled violently. “Dinna touch me, Sassenach!”

  Lia should have been terrified of him, but she wasn’t. She focused on his actions completely, correlating what she had just witnessed to what she had learned under Sueta’s tutelage.

  “You are wrong,” she said softly. “You have great need of a healer.”

  He curled his lip at her. “Ye will leave in the morning.”

  He turned on his heel and disappeared back up the stairs.

  Chapter Three

  Ronan returned to his solar, slamming the door shut behind him, and staggered into a chair. He barely caught himself, his vision blurring. His body shook uncontrollably and pain roared within him. He dropped his cane and struggled to adjust himself in the chair before he toppled from it. His breath rattled and he fought to get his limbs to obey him.

  God’s wounds! Why had Aidan brought a Sassenach here?

  Ronan still battled to catch his breath. He had to regain control of himself. He had been mortified he had suffered another blackout and the Sassenach had witnessed it.

  You have great need of a healer.

  He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter.