Knight Tenebrae

by Julianne Lee

  But when he looked over to see Lindsay, her horse standing fetlock-deep in mud, she was wiping tears from her eyes. He nudged his horse to a walk and went to her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She mopped her face with a patch of leather between the horn plates of her armor coat, but only left a smear of mud and blood.

  “Tell me.”

  Her gaze avoided his, but finally she said, “These people don’t deserve this.”

  “Let their king worry about them. He’s responsible for the welfare of his people. He’s a lousy king, and it’s going to get him killed.”

  “They don’t deserve this.”

  “Did those people up north deserve it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then tell me what we’re supposed to do.”

  “You’re thinking like one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “Them. These medieval people who don’t know any better than eye for an eye and might makes right.”

  “It’s an ugly world, Lindsay. I didn’t create it.” The green wool wound around his body had loosened, and he tugged it tight again with a yank.

  “But you’re certainly making the most of it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She stared at him, long and hard, her jaw muscles working, then said, “Have you ever tried to contact that elfin fellow to see if he would send us home?”

  Dread filled him. “Have you?”

  “Of course I have. But there’s not been so much as a glimpse of him since that day. He won’t speak to me. Even that day in the knoll, he never looked at me. Not once. I think there’s something very wrong here, Alex.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  For a moment she looked as if she might blurt something in anger, but she snapped her mouth shut and lowered her chin. “Nothing. It means nothing.” Then she reined away and spurred her horse to a gallop. He wanted to chase her down and make her explain, but didn’t, lest she ask questions he’d rather not address.

  In subsequent days on this raid, three other towns were plundered and two churches burnt, then the Scottish army returned north with their booty to Lochmaben, where supplies were assessed and allocated, and rewards distributed. Alex found himself in possession of a large herd of cattle and some jewelry consisting of a necklace and some loose stones. After slaughtering one of the cattle for his men to feast on in the safety of Lochmaben, Alex then sold the rest of the livestock to a landed knight who had use for them. However, he kept the jewelry: a gold necklace set with rubies, two unset sapphires, and a small handful of pearls. Jewels were lighter to carry than would be their worth in coin—pounds of silver pennies that were currently the largest English denomination.

  Besides, in the back of his mind lurked a hope he might one day give the necklace to Lindsay to wear. As a woman. Someday.

  Shortly after their return to Lochmaben, Edward Bruce’s army was summoned north to join Robert in Torwood Forest, near Stirling Castle and alongside the Bannock Burn. It was time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The battle was a month away and Torwood, just south of Stirling Castle, was filling up with tents belonging to the knights of the Scottish army. Cook fires sent smoke all through the trees, and the sharp smells of grease and charred oat bread wafted everywhere. Paths became trampled throughways, particularly as one neared the king’s pavilion, where knights, squires, and pages came and went in increasing numbers as the king went about the business of mustering every resource at his command. A large clearing in the midst of the trees was made muddy by horses charging back and forth in drills, carrying knights bearing lances and swords.

  Alex was drilling with his sword opposite one of his men when John Kirkpatrick rode over to hail him.

  “Mac Diolain!”

  Man, he wished they would stop calling him that! He lowered his sword and wheeled to face him. “Aye, John?”

  “I hear tell of a trick you have against the lance.”

  Alex nodded. “I don’t need a lance to defeat a man who uses one. I don’t even like using them myself. Everybody knows that.” A cluster of men on horseback was drifting near to hear.

  “Will you show me?”

  It was a flattering thing to be asked that by a tried knight, particularly one as experienced and lauded as this one. Alex smiled and opened his mouth to agree, but hesitated. The move was dangerous, even with the lance blunted. Screwing up could get him killed, and he couldn’t expect John to particularly care if it did. But men were listening, and he couldn’t appear fearful or his leadership of his company might weaken. In an instant he decided he had to do the demonstration but would at least relieve himself of concern for hurting John. “Yes. But I won’t use my sword, or I will kill you.”

  John made a harsh, disparaging noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t be so certain.”

  “Aye, I am. If I carry my sword to show you this, I will end up killing you. So I’ll use a stick.” He called out to his men, “Someone bring me a straight stick the thickness of my thumb and the length of my sword!”

  Quickly a branch was torn from a tree, stripped of leaves, and brought to him. He gestured to the opposite end of the field for John to face off against him, then spurred his horse and cantered to his own position. The steed was eager to go, dancing in the mud, so without delay Alex raised his stick and urged the animal to a gallop. John started off toward him.

  Long, smooth strides. Alex’s horse was a steady runner. Keeping a careful eye on the opposing lance, stick raised in his right hand away from John’s lance, he gave no indication of what he might do until the very last. Careful...careful...he ducked and swung. And connected.

  John’s helmet flew from his head. The lance hadn’t come near Alex, who regained his seat and wheeled to see Kirkpatrick drop his lance and grab his face. Blood poured from under his gauntlet and over his chin. Alex had broken his stick and the man’s nose.

  Nevertheless, when John lifted his hand, he was grinning. “Brilliant!” He didn’t seem to care his nose was flattened, and he sprayed blood from his lips as he spoke.

  “It only works once, though. You have to sucker in the knight so he thinks you’ll sit still for him to stab you.”

  “Sucker?”

  Alex shrugged as his horse circled and pranced. “Uh...deceive.”

  “Oh, aye. I thought I had you there.” John laughed. “I’m glad you didn’t have your sword!” That brought a round of laughter. “By my lights, a man wouldn’t live long enough to face you twice!”

  “Well done!” It was the king, sitting his horse at the edge of the clearing, and everyone fell silent. “You’re a man who is there, but not there! You make me pleased I made you a knight those years ago, Alasdair an Dubhar!”

  Stunned, Alex gaped for a moment, then removed his helmet, thanked the king, and bowed his head before restoring the headgear. An Dubhar That was a new one on him. He wondered what it meant.

  “Return to your practice, all of you.” Robert made a gesture to include everyone in the field. “You’ll not want Edward and his minions to catch us unprepared!” The men responded with gestures of obeisance, then obeyed and resumed practice while Robert watched.

  In addition to the cavalry, archers and other foot soldiers trained everywhere about. Practice ranges had been set up, where men with bows shot straw-filled dummies to pieces over and over. Drills with mace and dagger carried on in clearings made the woods echo with the ping and clang of metal on metal. During this time it was a challenge to walk anywhere without stepping in front of someone wielding a weapon of some kind. Knights on foot sparred with each other in preparation for what they knew would be the deadliest affair since the beginning of the war. Word had come that Edward II was marching from Berwick with thousands upon thousands of English cavalry, Welsh longbowmen, and Irish conscripts, bringing along a pack train that would sustain them in Scotland for a very long time; it was now or never to make the English
king understand he had no place in Scotland.

  Lindsay was barely speaking to Alex now. Still forced to share his tent, for moving in with Colin would be to risk discovery, she nevertheless made it clear Alex was no longer welcome in her bed. In keeping with the social conduct of knights and squires, they rarely ate in proximity to each other, particularly if there were other knights around to socialize. Alex found himself missing her, though she was there every night.

  He sure didn’t know what he was supposed to do, or be, for her. She thought he was fitting in too well with their new circumstance. How that was a bad thing, he had no clue. He saw himself as merely successful at his job. He fit in because he was good at it. His men respected him, and he liked that. There was no downside he could see. Especially when he saw how his wealth was accumulating. Lately he’d been one of the most successful knights of his rank, and the rewards had been generous. Lindsay’s vague dissatisfaction with his attitude made no sense. He tried to ignore it.

  Aside from the bewilderment over Lindsay, Alex was delighted to learn Hector and his MacNeils had come from Galashiels to join the excitement, and it was a grand reunion though they’d been apart for only a month. The brothers MacNeil caught up on gossip, drinking, and talking by Alex’s fire well into the night.

  Alex asked about the name Robert had given him: “An Dubhar.”

  Hector’s face lit up. “He calls you that, does he? An Dubhar?”

  “Is that good, or bad?”

  “Apparently the king thinks you’re dangerous. A shadow. Darkness.”

  “Darkness?”

  “An Dubhar. The darkness. The shadow of death. Robert, who is known throughout England and Scotland as the most skilled fighter in all the islands, thinks you’re a deadly and dangerous man, mo caraid. I commend you.”

  Alex decided he liked the name very much. In these times it was good to be thought deadly. And it beat the snot out of being called mac diolain.

  Hector and Alasdair Og told stories about raids in Lothian, where landholders were being punished by Edward II as had been the towns in the south. They all agreed it would be a wonderful thing to rid the area of English presence and bring peace to all concerned.

  “Ailig an Dubhar, come join us in Robert’s battle,” said Hector. “Come fight under the king’s own command. We Gaels must stick together. Watch each other’s backs around the Lowland race. Bring your men and fight alongside your own people.”

  “My men belong to Edward Bruce. They all fought with him before they came to me.”

  Alasdair Og snorted, and Hector chuckled. “Your men will follow you if they’re truly yours. They’ve followed you thus far; they’ll go with you to fight directly under Robert and be glad for the privilege.”

  Alex thought about that. Hector was right. Leadership and obligation here were more by personality and opportunity than by law. Most of his men would stick with him, he was sure, and the ones who didn’t he was better rid of in any case. He nodded. “All right. I’ll go.”

  It was late and the sounds of activity throughout the forest were dying away. Alex didn’t think about wondering where Lindsay was until she returned. Without her mace she wandered into the firelight, backlit by other cook fires beyond the trees, as if she’d materialized from the other moving shadows.

  Alex held up a hand to stay the conversation with the men and addressed her. “Where did you go?”

  She gave him a bland look, then replied, “James Douglas’s camp. There was a contest. I didn’t win.”

  “Where’s your mace?”

  “It wasn’t that sort of contest. We were wrestling.”

  Now he frowned and tilted his head as if to ask the question she must know he couldn’t ask in front of Ailig Og. But she ignored him and asked to be dismissed. He was forced to let her go rather than let Hector’s brother know something was amiss between them.

  He returned to the conversation, but Hector was peering at him as if to ask that same question. Alex shrugged, and shifted the subject to the sacking of Carlisle. Hector and Ailig Og both were eager to hear that story, and so immediately forgot about Lindsay.

  But Alex didn’t forget. Later, after the MacNeils had returned to their own camp, he sat on his pallet in the tent and pulled off his boots in preparation to sleep. His voice went very low, though he knew his modern American dialect was as incomprehensible to the medieval Scots as would have been the Hungarian they believed it to be. “Where were you really?”

  “Wrestling.”

  “And nobody could tell?”

  “I told you, I didn’t win. That’s why I didn’t win. I threw every last bloody match. It was either that or explain why I didn’t want to participate.”

  “What were you doing in Douglas’s camp, anyway?”

  “Socializing.” She fixed him with a hard gaze. “I am allowed, am I not? Colin invited me to get to know some other squires. Some of them were fairly senior and could teach us a lot, he said. And he was right. You know how those guys are, the senior ones. Damn near as old as I am, just aching to get their spurs and a few of them pissed off because they don’t have them already. It’s all any of them care about; earning the right to carry a sword into battle and ride at the front.” She was silent for a moment, then added, “I feel rather sorry for them.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s awfully pathetic, don’t you think? Their entire existence hinging on which weapon they get to cart around.”

  He thought about that, then said, “I don’t know. Doesn’t sound that much different from wanting to fly fighters instead of lesser aircraft. Combat experience makes all the difference in a military career.”

  She rolled toward him as if to say something, but said nothing, and turned away once more.

  An irritated sigh blew through his nose, and he pulled his plaid around him and rolled into his parachute to sleep. But he was awake for a long time, thinking about how much he didn’t want Lindsay hanging out with other men.

  Eventually he spoke. “Lindsay?”

  There was no reply, and he figured she was asleep, but finally she said. “What?”

  It nearly killed him to ask this, but he forced himself. “Why did your feelings change?”

  “Which feelings?”

  He looked over at the shadow that was her, and wished he could tell whether she was serious or just messing with his head. “You once said you loved me.”

  The silence unwound, but at length she murmured, “It’s entirely possible to love someone and not be happy with them.”

  His heart sank, and he rolled over again, not to sleep for a very long time.

  The next day after breakfast, instead of taking his horse to the drill field, Alex wandered in the direction of James Douglas’s camp. He wanted to see where Lindsay had gone.

  And there she was, standing among a cluster of squires in the shade of gnarled Scotch pines, chattering away. A bright smile lit her face, and then she laughed at something one of them said to her.

  Dark anger rose from his gut and swarmed into his head like black flies. His ears buzzed and the day was suddenly too warm even for June. Deep breaths took the edge off it, and he muttered to himself, “They think she’s a boy...They think she’s a boy...”

  But she knew she wasn’t, and what mattered most was what she thought when she looked at them. And he could see in her eyes she enjoyed their company. She leaned against a tree, thumbs hooked into her belt, as relaxed and jovial as he’d ever seen her.

  One of the men was Sir James himself. The tall, thin, dark-haired one. He’d been only a teenager in 1306 when they’d first seen him, but now he was eight years older and had grown to a healthy, energetic, and flamboyant manhood. Alex hated him. He was known as the Black Douglas, partly for the color of his hair, but also for his ruthlessness and skill in battle. He was the king’s favorite. An extremely rich and influential man, who would more than likely become even more so if Bruce achieved his goal of removing the English from Scotland. And Alex knew he would.<
br />
  So did Lindsay.

  Alex was about to step back into the shadows of the trees, when Lindsay looked in his direction. She fell silent and a shadow crossed her eyes. Her lips pressed together. She looked down at the ground. Alex faded into the trees and went on foot to watch the sparring in the drill field.

  Today was not a day for him to pick up a weapon.

  Later on, Alex went looking for Lindsay and found her taking a drink from the burn that ran past the forest. She was the one kneeling, but he immediately said before he could think better of it, “Marry me.”

  Startled, she looked up and her Are you mad? look lit her eyes. “Is that an order, sir?” She stood to face him, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and shook water from her hand.

  “It’s a plea. Please marry me.” He hooked his thumbs into his sword belt and tried to appear casual, but he knew he was failing. His stomach clenched, and his pulse was entirely too quick. He hated feeling like this.

  “What, and give up all this?” Lindsay gestured to her leather armor and trews.

  “I know you don’t like to fight.”

  “I would like being hidden away and treated like furniture even less. As a man, even a small, effeminate one, I get to go where I want. I get to keep the money I make, and I get to decide whether or not I want to marry. I can be a merchant if I want. Or a farmer.”

  “No. you can’t. You’re a soldier.”

  “Which will make it difficult to do something else, to be sure. But not impossible. Which, being a woman would make those things impossible.”

  “Marry me, and I’ll let you do what you want.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re one of them now. I don’t even know why you’re bothering asking me this.”

  “You love me.”

  “I do. So, what?”

  “I want to protect you. I see you wandering around this place, and I know how dangerous it is. All it would take is for someone to pick a serious fight with you, and it would be all over. Even your buddies would kill you in a heartbeat if it was in their best interest to do it.”