Knight Tenebrae

by Julianne Lee

  If only it were true. If only he could he certain of her.

  As the day wore on, Alex became bored and fidgety. He wanted to do something. Anything. In mid-afternoon—sometime after lunch and before sunset—he wandered away from the Great Hall and took a walk through the castle.

  The place was a labyrinth. It would have been nice to get a sense of which way was north, but the deep overcast sky and constant drizzle made it impossible to get his bearings even when he found a window or arrow loop. He wandered through narrow corridors that were like tunnels, chambers that were like caves. He found the kitchen, and hoped he could find it again when he wanted to. Smells were strong, and the scent of wood and dried peat burning permeated everything. The odor of burnt meat and bread under the smoke was relatively faint, even near the kitchen.

  At one point he came through a door that deposited him in what appeared to be a meeting room, or sitting room of some sort. Or it had been at one time, but now it had fallen into severe neglect. Heavy wooden chairs with wide arms, old, brittle, and discolored, stood around a cold hearth. The only light in the room drifted in from a small window opposite the door. The walls were free of decoration other than cobwebs heavy with dust. Alex idly wondered what this room might have once been used for, then his thoughts slipped easily away to looking for the stable. He thought he might have his horse saddled in the morning if the rain would stop. Some physical activity might take his mind off things.

  But just as he began to withdraw and pull the door closed, the room suddenly blossomed and glowed with candles. Gentle light filled the corners, and the hearth leapt to life. A bearskin rug covered the hard, stone floor, and a tapestry hung across the entire wall opposite the fire. The chairs were smooth and new, their leather seats supple and the studs attaching them shiny.

  Alex went cold, and his first impulse was to shut the door and get as far away as possible. But if this was that elf guy’s idea of an entrance, the thought occurred that Alex had a score to settle with the sonofabitch. He stood his ground and opened the door wide enough to see if the elfin creature was anywhere around.

  “Come in, lad.”

  Not the elf. It was a Scot, speaking Middle English. Curious, Alex took a single step forward and looked, but saw nobody.

  “Come inside and shut the door, young man. We’ve business to attend to.” The voice was commanding, accustomed to obedience. Alex complied. The door latch clacked shut behind him.

  He turned to look at it and hoped the feeling of being locked in was only his imagination.

  He still couldn’t see the source of the voice, but when he came around to the front of a high-backed chair he found an old man lounging in it. Small, wizened, and gray, he nevertheless gave the impression of having once been powerful both physically and socially. In these times those things went hand in hand.

  The old man peered curiously at him. “I know who you are.”

  A shiver came over Alex, and he briefly wondered where his grave was that someone had just walked over it.

  The man who couldn’t exist continued. “I also know who you are not. You are not my son,”

  Alasdair MacNeil the Elder? “They said you were dead.”

  “And so I am. Lucky for you.” There was no anger in the aged countenance, and the bright eyes held only curiosity. Perhaps a glimmer of amusement. “However, beware my wife, for you’re not the first to seek his birthright here. She is a danger to you. She loves her sons and will do her best to bring you low. She is highly skilled. You’ll note that none of the three who came before you remain, and each of them had a valid claim where you do not.”

  Three? “I claim nothing, and I don’t mean any harm.”

  A sly light came into the ghost’s eyes. “And you would be the first mac diolain of mine to even say so, were you my son. Even at that, every man, at some point in his life whether he means it or not, brings harm. And receives it without deserving it. The priests and those who command them will tell ye otherwise, but those of us who live genuine lives ken the truth.” He gestured to a chair on the other side of the hearth, and Alex carefully sat, eyeing the ghost in hopes it wouldn’t suddenly turn into a decaying corpse.

  “You know a lot about truth?”

  The former laird smiled, showing a ragged mouth of blackened and missing teeth. “Aye. Ever so much truth. I can hardly contain it. I know where ye come from. I know, though you’re nae my son, you descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, and that makes you a clansman. And your sons. And their sons...”

  “Niall of what?”

  “The first true king of Ireland. Let Hector tell the stories; he has the gift I never did. But let me tell ye, lad, I can see you’re a MacNeil for true.”

  Alex raised his chin. “I knew that.”

  “Ye did not. What you knew was only that you are your father’s son and his father’s grandson. You understood only that much because your people have forgotten how to tell stories. They only tell of their own lives and never of those who came before.”

  “That’s good enough—”

  “That is nothing.”

  “I took history in—”

  “You know naught of the first MacNeils. You know naught of the blood that came down to you through more than a millennium and a half of brave men and women. Ye havenae the first notion of clan loyalty.”

  Alex’s ears began to warm. “I care about my family, and would die for my country. I’ve pledged myself to the Scottish king, and have put myself at risk for the cause.”

  “A cause you still think of as someone else’s.”

  “I wasn’t born here.”

  The laird’s eyes went wide; he gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “Och, but ye were born here! Centuries ago. You were formed by this land, as were all your ancestors before you. You were made for this place. You’re part of the blood of my people. Not my son, but descended from the clan.”

  Alex’s interest perked. “I have ancestors living here now? Who? Who are they?”

  The old man sat back and gazed hard at him. “All of them, Alasdair. Every man, woman, and child currently living on this island who will leave descendants. They will live their lives and you yours, and most of them will never know you. But know you are part of them.” He nodded to affirm his words. “They are a part of you.”

  “So...you don’t mind if I tell people I’m your son?”

  “Have I a choice? No, I think not. And there is that you’re a tall, well-formed lad with a will for fighting and enough sand in your craw to not embarrass me.”

  That made Alex smile, for the old man suddenly reminded him of his real father. “Aye, sir.”

  The former laird waved him off. “Now, lad, go ask Hector for the stories. Learn who ye were, decide who ye are, then become who you will be.”

  Then he was gone. The fire was gone, the candles, rug, and tapestry. Alex found himself sitting in a cold, dark room, staring at an empty, decrepit chair covered in spider webs.

  He jumped up to slap away the webs that clung to him from his own chair, his back, his fingers, and picked the tendril pieces from his clothing. Once he’d made himself presentable, he left the room as quickly as possible. Outside in the corridor, he took a moment to gather himself and wonder if he’d hallucinated all that. It sure had seemed real, and he’d seen enough whacked-out stuff since coming to this century to think just about anything might be possible. He ran his fingers through his hair, checking for more spider webs, then went on his way.

  Wending the route hack to the Great Hall, he found the MacNeil clansmen lounging around still. So he plunked himself down in a chair and listened to their talk of past battles.

  He waited until there was a break in the storytelling, then said, “Hector, you know I’m new to these parts, and came to learn more about my father’s people. How about telling me about Niall of the Nine Hostages?”

  Hector’s face tightened. “You’ve never heard tell of the first of our clan? Who is also the first high king of I
reland? Och, it’s no wonder ye had to leave the eastern mountains, as deprived as you were. Did your foster father tell you nothing?”

  “I don’t think he knew.”

  More clucking from Hector, and chuckling from the others, then Hector took a deep breath to begin. It was plain he loved telling such stories.

  “Well, ‘twas more than a thousand years ago. The Irish king Eochu Muigmeadón had four sons, and a fifth was Niall, whose mother was a Saxon slave named Cairenn Chasdub.”

  “Niall was the mac diolain?” Alex asked with raised eyebrows.

  Hector paused, a slight smile turning the corners of his mouth. “Indeed, he was. And there’s something to he learned in this story, so I hope ye take the correct message.”

  Alex sat back. “Pardon the interruption.”

  “So, as I was saying, Eochu had five sons, the fifth well despised by his wife, who forced heavy labor on the lad’s mother so that he was born out in the open. Nobody, not even his own mother, would have aught to do with the child, for fear of the queen. Finally the poet Torna came and took the child to fosterage until he was of age to be king.”

  Hector paused here, and glanced at Alex as if expecting another interruption, but Alex kept still, his expression only of bland interest.

  “Well, then, when Niall rescued his mother from her servitude and dressed her in a purple robe, the queen was furious. She demanded her husband determine immediately which son should succeed him, for she saw it as the way to ensure it would be one of her own sons.”

  Now Alex did interrupt. “Wouldn’t it be the eldest?”

  The cluster of men murmured a collective grumble, and Hector said, “The English King Edward I brought that notion here, and we Scots are unaccustomed to the idea. ‘Tis an invitation to weak leadership to deny position to the most worthy candidate.”

  “But you’re the eldest in your family.”

  Hector straightened in his chair and drew himself up in offense. “I am laird by merit, not mere birthright. I lead by strength, by wit, and by the loyalty of my clan, and don’t need the Sasunnach law to award my position to me.”

  “Ah.” Alex nodded, and slowly began to understand some of the attitudes around here. “Forgive me. You’re right, and I should have seen that.”

  Hector nodded and continued. “So, the king turned the choosing over to the blacksmith, who contrived to test the five brothers by setting fire to the smithy where they were all at work. One son rescued the hammers, another a pail of beer, a third the weapons, and the fourth of the queen’s sons brought a bundle of kindling. Only Niall was strong enough to carry the anvil.

  “Next the five sons went hunting. When they wanted water, the first of the queen’s sons found a well, guarded by an ugly old hag. He asked for a drink, but she would give it only in exchange for a kiss, which he refused and went away thirsty. The second son then went, then the third and fourth. Each failed to take a drink, for they wouldn’t bring themselves to touch the hag.

  “Finally, Niall went to the well. When the hag asked for a kiss, he was pleased to lie with her, whereupon she became the most fair and beautiful lass he’d ever seen. Her name was Sovranty. Goddess of the Land. She named him King of Ireland, and told him his race would be kings forever. Because Niall accepted Sovranty with all her imperfections, he was deemed worthy to rule over the land with all its troubles.”

  Alex smiled and nodded, agreeing with the sentiment though he was certain it was the part about the pissed-off queen Hector wanted him to take to heart. “Aye,” he said, “it’s not a job to be taken lightly, nor to go to the wrong man.”

  The other men murmured agreement.

  By then it was late, and the people still awake began to drift off to bed. Alex returned to his chamber and lit a candle stump at the hearth to find Lindsay asleep in the bed. Part of him had hoped she would take the servant’s mattress by the fire, but he was also relieved she’d not. Then it crossed his mind she might have expected him to sleep on the other bed, but it was a fleeting thought for there wasn’t a chance in hell he would ever do it. He set the candle on the trunk by the wall and slipped out of his clothes, letting them all fall to the floor.

  As he slid between the covers, he watched Lindsay’s face. She seemed undisturbed by his presence, and he settled in. Lying on his back he closed his eyes to go to sleep, but he couldn’t help himself from looking over at her. So beautiful, her sleeping face on the pillow, her nearly black hair fanned out across it.

  He should have known she’d been spoken for when he’d met her, but he’d been utterly clueless. All this time it had never occurred to him to ask—or even wonder—whether she was available. Not when he’d thought about asking her to lunch that day of the crash. Not ever. Her voice echoed in his mind, what she’d said to him that day on the battlefield. She’d been right; he had wanted her. But he had her, and still wanted her. He couldn’t imagine ever not wanting her.

  His hand moved, just enough to rest on her hip. She stirred and raised her head from the pillow. For a bleary moment she blinked at the candle that was already guttering on the nearby trunk, then focused on his face. He expected her to roll away from him, perhaps to leave the bed, but instead she slid over close to him, under his arm, and rested her head on his shoulder.

  His fingers lightly touched and stroked the hair that lay across her forehead. He said, “You meant what you said?”

  “I love you. You’re all there is left for me, Alex.”

  Not what he’d hoped to hear. But for now he was willing to accept it, because it was all there was for her to give.

  Then she asked, “Why do you love me, Alex?”

  He struggled for a reply, then finally had to admit, “I don’t know.”

  “I turn you on somehow. Me and that pie-faced whore who smelled like a tuna boat.”

  “You know that’s unfair.”

  “Then, what?”

  His lips pressed against her head as he considered an answer, then he said, “I used to want someone as devoted to me as my mother is to my father. But I don’t seem to have found that.”

  The comment was received with only silence. Without letting it go on too long, he continued, “Maybe it’s because I can admire you. Maybe...” he thought hard, “...maybe it’s because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  She made a skeptical “hmm” sound.

  “Maybe it’s because you understand me in ways nobody else here ever will. If I meet someone else, no matter how long I might know her, she’ll never be able to understand those things about me I can never reveal.”

  “So I’m all there is left for you, as well.”

  “I wouldn’t put it—”

  “It’s true. We’re together because we’re stranded together in the midst of a sea of people who can never truly know either of us.”

  “Relationships have succeeded on less.”

  “Now you’re seeing my point.”

  He sighed. “I guess so.” Then he hugged her close, kissed her head, and closed his eyes to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the winter months, when weather permitted, Alex. Hector, and Alasdair Og rode to the village and visited around the island. Hector said it was to improve Alex’s Gaelic, and that turned out to be true because even the few words he picked up here and there were an improvement. With Hector’s help, pretty soon Alex could tell whether the subject at hand was the weather, the fields, or the livestock.

  The nearest village was shockingly small and poor. The people were even dirtier than the knights Alex had come to know in this century, and their clothing seemed to consist mostly of long tunics and lengths of plaid wool draped around them. Most of the men wore shoes, but none of the women and children did, even in the cold.

  The men who came from the peat houses to greet Sir Hector and talk with him seemed not to notice their abject state. Unlike the vassals in the south, they spoke in proud voices and looked Hector in the eye. In return he listened to what they ha
d to say, and spoke to them in a tone that suggested they were equals. The relationship between Sir Hector and his clansmen was far different from the vast chasm of culture and regard between the aloof Lowland nobility and the people who worked their rich lands, not to mention the downright pompous airs of the English knights of every rank Alex had encountered. Hector’s regard for his kinsmen and their sense of participation in his rule seemed almost a whiff of home to Alex, and he admired the laird for it.

  So strange to be in a place where nearly everyone for miles around had the same last name as himself. The entire island population considered themselves related to him, however distantly, and treated him like a cousin. The ghost of Hector’s father had been right; he hadn’t known what it was to be a MacNeil. But he was finding out. It made him wish his brothers could be here to see this.

  As the weather worsened toward January, he and Lindsay were more and more glad for the warmth of their room deep within the walls of the castle. When the ugliest storms raged, and even the high fires of wood and peat failed to entirely hold off the invading cold, Alex and Lindsay bolted their heavy, iron-studded door and retreated to their bed and to each other. They comforted and warmed each other, entwined and joined, surrounded by fur and feathers, the scents of stone, wood, and crushed reeds scattered across the chamber floor, permeated by peat smoke that smelled like the spirit of the earth itself. He moved slowly, rocking with care, at once part of her, she a part of him, and both part of this place, at home in the shadows and surrounding walls like a cave. Alex did his best to make her forget what had gone before.

  Other days, when the weather stilled to ice-locked cold, they spent hanging out in the Great Hall, where folks gathered from all over the island to visit with each other: the MacNeils called it céilidh. Sometimes there was music, and often dancing accompanied the music. Not as exciting as football on television, but far more interesting than gazing at tapestries.