Knight Tenebrae

by Julianne Lee

  “So long as you’re the stronger one, lad. Never let her control you, or you’ll be a sorry man in your household and on the field.” Meaning, of course, that Alex’s men wouldn’t respect him if he appeared henpecked.

  “Lin...Marilyn has a sensibility other women do not. She behaves reasonably and thinks rationally. I’ll do well to attend to her counsel.”

  “But always within limits.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you would do well to temper your feeling for her as soon as possible.”

  That brought Alex up short. “Temper my feeling?”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’ve the dewy-eyed look for her seen only in men who will have a broken heart. For no woman ever loved a man in return. It’s naught but your protection and your position she wants.”

  “You don’t know what she wants.”

  Hector laughed. “I do. It’s what every woman requires in marriage. Safety and comfort. She doesn’t need your love at all, and you’re a fool to give it to her for her to abuse. Give her your bod only, and keep your heart for your own, so you willnae end up hating her when she breaks it.”

  Alex considered his next words for a moment, then said, “I admire her. She reads and writes, you know.”

  Hector fell silent and stared. “Does she?” Alex nodded. “Do you?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  Astonishment deepened on Hector’s face. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it, for I do not.”

  “How do you keep your accounts, then?”

  Now Hector looked as if Alex had just lapsed into speaking Chinese. “Accounts? I know what is owed to me and what I owe to others. A man doesn’t need to read for that.”

  “I see.”

  Hector sat up in his chair. “You read? Latin?”

  “English.”

  “How could you read and not have Latin?”

  Good question. Alex summoned a lie. “My foster father had very odd ideas about what would be useful to me in my life here, and only had me learn English.” And he’d learned it poorly, by the standard of everyone he’d met here.

  Hector made a disparaging noise at the absurdity of learning to read English.

  That day the MacNeil laird sent for his family, tacksmen, and additional servants to join him and attend him at the wedding celebration. In a few days his boat came with his wife and children, and the sons of Alasdair Og as well as the MacNeil sisters who were not yet married. Mama MacNeil stayed home, and for that Alex was grateful.

  While the castle staff made the MacNeil laird’s family comfortable in the lord’s chambers and his armed retinue in the barracks, Hector came to Alex in the outer meeting room beneath the Great Hall, where he sat with Sir Henry discussing watch rotation. Hector had the eldest son of Alasdair Og in tow. “Brother, I’ve made a decision.”

  “Regarding what?” Alex dismissed Henry and gestured for Hector to sit at the end of the table with him by the small hearth, while the boy stood by at attention. Gregor was seven, and since Alex had seen him last he’d grown what appeared to be a foot in height. His father’s death seemed to have sobered the boy, and when Alex looked at him he gazed back with a sharp, steady eye.

  “Young Gregor is now old enough to enter service as a page. I wish to let you take him.”

  At first Alex didn’t understand. Take him where? But then it clicked that Hector wanted Alex to be the boy’s foster father and master. And it was plain Hector considered it an honor he was bestowing. Flabbergasted, he somehow managed a smile. “You honor me.” He wished he hadn’t sounded so hesitant. But if Hector noticed, he gave no indication.

  “You will teach him to fight well, and to use his mind against his enemies. And if he were to learn something of letters along the way, so much the better.”

  Alex nodded. Declining wasn’t an option. To refuse this offer would damage forever his standing with Hector, and he was in need of allies these days. Besides, as he considered it, he realized it truly was an honor. “Aye. Thank you. He’ll be taught well, and he’ll grow to be a fine squire and knight.”

  Deal closed. Alex felt a surge of pride as he looked at his new ruddy-cheeked foster son, who smiled in return at the prospect of learning from Sir Alasdair an Dubhar how to become a man.

  * * *

  Alex and Lindsay were married two days before Martinmas, joined in matrimony in an interminable, tedious wedding Mass at the hands of Father Patrick, in the castle chapel. The wedding feast, on the other hand, was an enormous, festive affair for the small island, held in the pasture outside the gatehouse. The high revelry surged into the bailey and even into the Great Hall where music played and guests danced. Nobody wanted to miss the celebration of the laird’s wedding; free food was rare in these times, and reasons for joy nearly as scarce. But Alex barely noticed the other people; he only had eyes for his bride.

  Lindsay seemed happy, her cheeks pink and her wide smile bright. It was a sweet moment of his life, when it seemed he might never have been or done anything but this. He was Sir Alasdair an Dubhar MacNeil of Eilean Aonarach, and that was a very good thing. And finally Lindsay was his wife. In this time and place marriage was forever, and he was entirely cool with that.

  Attempting together the intricate moves of a local dance by the hearth in the Great Hall, Lindsay’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed with the same excitement Alex felt skittering all through his body. He wanted to laugh aloud with joy, but instead he leaned in to kiss her.

  “It will be a fiery ending.”

  The hair stood up on Alex’s neck at the weirdly familiar voice, and he spun to find that elf from the knoll. The creature called Nemed, who had whispered in the ear of the Dowager Lady MacNeil. The music was loud and the nearby voices numerous, but Alex could hear the elf clearly. He said, “All hope is lost, and all recourse closed to you. You doubt all that is certain, and are certain only of doubt.”

  Without a moment of hesitation Alex drew his dagger and stabbed, but the lithe creature was too quick. He laughed as he danced backward, barely missing the dancers behind him. “Take care. Never assume what others perceive.”

  Another swipe with the dagger, but the elf evaded. People around gasped and surged back to get away from him. A buzz of alarm swept the hall.

  “Get out!”

  The elf laughed. “You sow the seeds of your own end.”

  Without thought of anything other than banishing the intruder from this special day, Alex dove for him, but the elf disappeared before his eyes. Once again the dagger sliced only thin air, as if there had never been anything there. Alex turned and looked for the red tunic, but it was gone. The figure had fled.

  Or had simply gone invisible. Could he still be there somewhere? Had he ever been there at all?

  “Alex, what is the matter with you?” Lindsay grasped a handful of his tunic sleeve and hissed through her teeth near his ear. The rest of the partiers returned to their eating, drinking, and dancing, not to he cheated of the celebration by a small outburst from the groom.

  “You didn’t see him?”

  She shook her head. “Who?”

  “That blasted elf. He was here.” Alex glanced around, still searching.

  Lindsay looked around. “I don’t see him. Didn’t see him.”

  “He threatened us. Said something about a fiery ending.”

  “The fire that brought us here? Perhaps he meant that.”

  He looked into her face, searching for clues again. That hadn’t been the ending for him. Only death was ever the end, and coming here had been a beginning for him. But she apparently felt otherwise. He said, “I doubt it. It sounded like he meant the future.”

  “What could he know about the future?”

  “As much as we do. Maybe more. He knew who we were. He knows about Hershey bars. Him, or those folks in the knoll.”

  She thought about that for a moment, then said, “Perhaps he won’t be back.”

  “He probably will.”

  “
Perhaps he can send us home.”

  Again he searched her eyes, but couldn’t tell what he saw there. Then he said, “Maybe.” Maybe not. All he knew anymore was that he was certain of nothing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cold weather swept in. The harvest had been adequate, and the vassals’ tribute given. Alex heard no complaint from the farmers, but also knew he wouldn’t hear it even if there had been any. Nobody ever liked the taxman, and he was certain that had been as true for the feudal middle managers called tacksmen. Grain was stored and animals penned, and the island settled in for the winter as the days grew shorter and the weather sharper. The predicted attack had not come by Samhain, nor by Martinmas, and the constant anticipation was relieved by the bad weather. The colder it became, the less likely the MacLeods would attack. Alex spent long, tedious hours with Sir Henry, improving his Gaelic.

  As the days marched on, Alex hated the inactivity and he disliked it for his men, stifled by the lack of exercise and the annoying stale air of the closed castle. They would all be on each other’s last nerve by Christmas, and he dreaded it. Rather than look forward to rampant gossip and bloody duels, he decided he would do something about it while he still could. This year he was the master. He donned a few extra layers of linen and wool, then went to the Great Hall where the boys were hanging out, sitting at tables around the fire the way he once had in a ship’s wardroom.

  “Come run with me. All of you.”

  His knights, lounging in chairs by the hearth, gave him blank looks as if he’d just suggested they strip to their linens and dance atop the tables, singing, “I Feel Pretty.”

  “Come on. Let’s go.” Alex began to jog in place, then stopped to stretch a little.

  Nobody moved.

  He turned to his second in command. “Henry?”

  Sir Henry blanched. “Run? For no reason?”

  “No. Run for pleasure.”

  They laughed, and the knights all relaxed into their chairs again because they’d decided he was joking.

  “It’s not a jest. Come. Now.”

  Silence fell and glances darted around the room.

  Alex stretched in the other direction, then stood straight and said, “Okay, here’s the deal. We run because it makes us stronger. Just like drilling. When we drill with our weapons we become better at using them. When we practice running we become better at—”

  “Fleeing?” Orrin was asking for it again.

  “Chasing. We run toward the enemy and are never winded. Our hearts become stronger. We can fight longer. We outlast the enemy. In short, we stand a better chance of surviving a fight. Come. Now.” He waved them up out of their chairs, and finally they stood. The twenty-six of them looked doubtful, but Alex was making it plain he was serious and wouldn’t back down. “Remove your spurs, and any chain mail you’ve got on. Maybe later we’ll try it in full armor, but for now let’s take it easy.” He was drifting further into modern American English again, and the blank looks returned. He said, “We’ll not exhaust ourselves.”

  Doubtful faces, but at least they comprehended his English.

  Running in single file, Alex took them out the castle gate and down a track that cut across the pasture and into a patch of forest. It felt good to stretch his legs, breathing fresh air again. Cold air. In fact, it was extremely cold air. His breath came in thick clouds that trailed past him as he ran. A glance back at his troops, and he found them strung out along the trail. So he slowed to jogging in place and called out, “Rig it in, men! Close it up!” Many evil looks came his way, and it amused him. It was tempting to give them a hard time and razz them like a drill sergeant as they passed, but instinct told him that would be going too far. He could end up dead, no matter how tight he might be with the king. So he called to them, telling the slowpokes to step more lively and not hold up the real runners.

  When they came to the faerie ring and Alex saw his men were trampling the toadstools, he murmured softly to the air around him, “Sorry, faerie person, whoever you are.”

  In the corner of his eye he thought he saw someone in pale blue, but when he looked there was nobody near. For a moment he lagged behind, looking around, but found nobody and no sign of anyone. He might have thought he’d imagined it, except he knew how his eyes could deceive him with these folks. He hopped over the toadstools at the opposite side and continued on with his men.

  The run was only half an hour today. Tomorrow they would go again, and every day until the weather no longer permitted it.

  “They’ll hate you.” Lindsay kneaded his shoulders as he soaked in the iron bathtub he’d commissioned from Alasdair Ruadh. Hammered in the same way plate armor was made, the tub was similar to ones from the nineteenth century where one sat rather than lay. Somewhat top-heavy, it also rocked a bit with its uneven bottom, and sloshing was a danger. The thing was heavy as hell, a bitch to fill, not entirely watertight, and not much fun to empty, but Alex never had to deal with any of that so he didn’t mind much. And the garderobes needed water tossed down them every so often in any case, so it wasn’t as if the water had to be carried outside. Sometimes the maids used the wash water for cleaning other things afterward.

  “They’ll stop hating me once they realize they’re better able to fight because of it. If there’s one thing those guys care about, it’s being able to fight better than the enemy.”

  Lindsay said only “Hmm,” then took a shallow wooden cup to pour water over his head and wet his hair. A winter storm howled outside, rattling the window and whistling through gaps here and there throughout the castle. Rainwater trickled from the ceiling and down a rivulet along the section of bare cliff in their bedchamber, making the striations in the granite glitter in bright colors. Another small gap at the floor allowed the water egress below and out of the castle to the barbican, and the effect might have been somewhat pleasant, like a small indoor fountain, but for the chill and dampness it brought to the room.

  “Your hair is awfully long now,” she said.

  He ran fingers through it, and realized it could cover his face. Then he leaned against the back of the tub to gaze at her upside down, and smiled. “Yours is getting longer, too.” She’d stopped cutting it last summer after Bannockburn, and now it was past her shoulders, long enough to let herself be seen in public without her headdress. Usually it was kept in a loose braid woven and tied with colored ribbon to match her clothing, and he liked that for it meant she let it down only for him. In the sanctum of their chambers, he loved to untie the ribbon himself and free the dark locks to run his fingers through them.

  Now he reached up with a wet hand to touch it. “So pretty. Wavy.” God, she was beautiful! And when she smiled at him, as she was doing now, his heart melted until he would swear he could feel it go soft in his chest. She was as naked as he, and now he wished there were enough room in the tub for them both. He slipped his hand behind her neck, and she leaned down to kiss him.

  “She loves you not.”

  Alex opened his eyes to find Nemed standing over them with his fists on his hips, all evil red eyes and pointed ears, and neatly trimmed beard coming to a long, sharp point. The furred cape hung open on his shoulders, and the tunic beneath was black today. Alex jerked away from Lindsay. Nemed receded and faded into the shadows of the room. Whether he was gone or just not seen, Alex couldn’t tell.

  “What’s wrong?” She ran a thumb over his eyebrow to smooth it.

  He was about to tell her, but hesitated and decided against it. Nothing could be wrong. Frightening her would accomplish nothing, and there was nothing he could do about the elf. Best to ignore him.

  So he smiled and touched a finger to her lower lip. “Let people talk; I don’t care what they say. I love my wife.”

  She chuckled and slipped into a bad approximation of an American accent. “Right. Even if she is a trews-wearing, mace-wielding, scarred-up, no-dowry-having skank.”

  He touched a gentle finger to the still-reddish scar across her ribs, and chuckled. “E
ven then.” He glanced at the shadow into which the elf had disappeared, and hoped he was listening.

  The cloth in her hand sloshed over his chest as he gazed at her, and she smiled back. Against his better judgment, he wondered what Nemed had meant. She loves you not. Why would anyone, even that creature, say that?

  Christmas passed, and no attack from the MacLeods. Alex began to wonder if Ross had been scamming him. The informant was no longer in the running for the position of tacksman. Nevertheless, he frequently went to the roof of the keep to survey his defenses and contemplate his vulnerabilities. He disliked the open quay, but the sluices for hot oil at the top of the keep made the barbican a nice killing ground. It would be better, though, if he could keep attackers from even landing.

  According to his best guess, gunpowder wouldn’t come to Europe till later in the century and the metallurgy required to make even the crudest cannon was even further in the future. Artillery wasn’t possible, let alone practical here.

  A catapult, though, might do some good. Usually they were used as siege engines against stone walls, but looking out across to the water made Alex realize a small catapult could deliver a good-sized rock to an approaching ship if lobbed properly. One thing this island had plenty of, it was chunks of rock. His mind began to turn with building the weapon, and he ticked off his sources for materials. Wooden beams and dowels. Human hair. Leather. Oil. He put Alasdair Ruadh to work with another diagram.

  Winter snows blew through during January and February, and everyone relaxed for an attack in winter this deep was unlikely. Short, cold days came one after another, and the sense of time passing dulled to a standstill. To Alex it seemed spring—and the attack—would never come, and an antsy sense of eagerness crept in, which he struggled to hide from Lindsay.

  * * *

  It was March, before the weather had broken, when a farmer came running to the castle, across the meadow and from the west. The gate watch shouted the alarm, and Alex went out to the bailey to hear. The voice was muffled by thick fog, and it was impossible to see even the inner curtain from there.