“Not so much that…” Erik began before the lady interrupted him again.
“True enough.” Her gaze seemed suddenly more intent, so perceptive that Erik feared she could discern his every thought. “You fret for my welfare because you love me.”
Erik stared at her. He knew he should protest her claim, knew he should pretend otherwise until he could confess his desire with an honorable pledge to wed her, but the words would not rise to his lips.
Undaunted, Vivienne smiled and laid her hand over the pin he had surrendered to her. “A man’s deeds oft say more than his words,’ she said softly. “You love me as I love you, and thus our destiny is entwined forevermore. You might not have come from the realm of fairies, but you climbed through Kinfairlie’s enchanted window to win my heart all the same.”
Erik was struck dumb that she should understand him so readily. Her bold declaration should have troubled him more than it did, save that he knew she spoke the truth. He said naught, for he was glad to not be parted from her, even for the weeks it might take to reclaim Blackleith. Her presence would complicate matters but at the same time, the very sparkle of it gave him encouragement.
“You will remain out of all battles,” he decreed, ignoring her triumphant laugh. Doubtless she had guessed why he had changed the subject. “And you will not argue with my every choice, but do what you are bidden to do.”
Vivienne’s smile only broadened. “I will do whatsoever needs to be done,” she said with conviction, then spared a mischievous glance to Ruari and did a fair imitation of that man’s manner. “Upon that you can rely.”
Erik smiled despite himself. She took a step closer to him, majestic and fully persuaded of the merit of her argument. “Tell me what your eyes tell me,” she coaxed. “Tell me that you are gladdened by my presence, that you could not imagine days and nights without me at your side.” She laid her hand upon his arm and tipped her face up to his, her eyes shining and her ripe lips curved into a bold smile. “Tell me that you would have missed me in truth.”
Erik was spared the need to reply. Vivienne made to ease closer but must have slipped on something under the water. She shrieked as her feet suddenly flew out from under her.
Erik caught her just before she landed in the sea. He held her fast against his chest and turned to make for the shore. “Aye, it does a man good to rescue damsels from their own folly,” he muttered.
Vivienne laughed and kicked her feet, apparently untroubled by his gruff manner. “You lie, sir,” she teased and Erik felt himself smile.
“Perhaps your presence is not so unwelcome as that,” he acknowledged. Unable to resist temptation, he bent and kissed the smile from her lips.
He intended only a brief embrace, one that would ensure her silence, but as always, Vivienne’s passion was beguiling indeed. She kissed him back with rare fervor, with the same hunger that he felt for her, and he was keenly aware of how long he had been without her wondrous caress. That familiar heat unfolded within him and his grip tightened upon her, his treacherous body more that prepared to return the lady’s caress despite his inability to offer for her with honor.
Holding her fast in his arms made Erik realize how finely wrought his lady was, how vulnerable she could be. He recalled Beatrice’s fate, feared for his daughters and feared yet more for Vivienne. He deepened his kiss, knowing she would taste his concern and not caring in the least.
“Aye, and that is why we have journeyed so far,” Ruari shouted. “The better that you might stand in the sea, lad, and catch some ailment for which there is no cure. It would serve your brother well if you died of the ague afore you even reached his gates. Indeed, why else have we traveled all the length of Scotland, save for you two to rut in the sea?”
With some reluctance, Erik ended his embrace and strode to the shore. He set Vivienne on her feet, then discussed the best course onward with Ruari. Vivienne wrung out the length of her skirts, and appeared intent upon not slowing their pace to Blackleith.
They climbed the rocks once more just as the sun crested the horizon and began their journey inland. Erik was the only one to glance back at the sea. The sails were unfurling on Rosamunde’s ship and billowing in the wind, the vessel already moving to the south.
There was no turning back, no further source of aid. It was between himself and Nicholas, and whoever Nicholas might have summoned to his side in Erik’s absence.
It grew darker that afternoon, as slate-bellied clouds rolled across the sky and gathered ominously there. The wind came in fits and gusts and was colder than it had been earlier this day. Erik felt that he returned willingly to a nightmare. His scar seemed to burn upon his face, his flesh seemingly recalled the place where it had been so carved, and his limp felt more pronounced.
A shiver rolled over him when they crossed the boundary of Blackleith’s lands, though Erik hoped the others did not notice his response.
It was not long before the high dark thicket rose high on either side of the road, blocking out the sight of even the roiling sky. Its shadows were dark and deep; Erik’s memories of this place no less dark.
He paused at one end of the hedges that swallowed this increment of road, of this veritable tunnel wrought of vines and thorns, and swallowed.
“It was here then?” Ruari said quietly from beside him, no real question in his query.
Erik took a deep breath, fearful for a moment that he would not be able to pass this place. He recalled Vivienne upon the threshold of the labyrinth, determination gleaming in her eye. He spared her a glance to find her watching him as keenly as a sparrow watches a crumb.
She came to his side, though her touch upon his arm was fleeting. “It is a loathsome stretch of road,” she mused, peering ahead into the shadows. “As if the place itself has a recollection of an injustice served here.”
Erik knew that she had guessed the history of this place and the reason it troubled him so. He looked down the road again, trying to see it with her eyes, without his memories, and its shadows shrank somewhat. “It is but a stretch of road,” he told her tersely, not truly believing as much himself. “It can possess no memory of treachery.”
She tilted her head to regard him and he felt a surge of admiration at her resolve. He was convinced that her spirit could never be quailed, that she would stride with confidence into any situation, no matter how dire it appeared.
He fiercely wanted her to give his daughters such confidence.
“Then let us pass through it,” she said, as mildly as if they discussed the crossing of a meadow. “For there is nothing to fear upon a stretch of mere road, even if the bushes shade the way.”
She was right. Erik stepped into the darkness that consumed this length of road, Ruari upon one side and Vivienne on the other. The older man drew his blade and Erik did the same. The shadows swallowed them in a trio of steps, the shadows pressed against them, the vines seemed to whisper innuendo.
The passage seemed longer than Erik knew it to be, each step recalling some blow he had sustained. Indeed, he was besieged by vivid recollections, for he had not passed this way since his assault.
Here his horse had fallen, here the knife had touched his cheek, here he had crawled to the safety of the forest’s embrace. Here he had lain bleeding for what had seemed an eternity.
Here he had lost all awareness, certain that he would never wake again.
He relived his worst nightmare upon that stretch of road, though through it all he was keenly aware of Vivienne’s presence. She smelled of flowers and sunshine, she was a beacon of light in that treacherous passage so redolent of his past. Her step did not falter and she did not fall back to walk behind him.
There was a patina of sweat over Erik’s flesh when they reached the other side of the passage, and the sudden brightness of the sunlight made him blink. He looked back, shuddered to his very toes, and saw only a shadowed course of road behind him.
“A mere stretch of road,” Vivienne said, her gaze revealing that she knew it
to be otherwise.
On impulse, Erik lifted Vivienne’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, knowing that her fortitude had seen him through that darkness.
He could only hope that he could win the chance to have her fortitude beside him for all time.
It was late afternoon of the second day when Vivienne had her first glimpse of Blackleith. They stood a good dozen paces short of the lip of the forest, underbrush as high as their waists, the trees forming a canopy overhead as glorious as that of any cathedral. Ominous clouds crowded the sun, which had already begun its descent, but its rays touched the leaves overhead, gilding them to a glorious hue.
Blackleith’s hall itself was an uncommon combination of Norman construction, local traditions and a measure of ingenuity. It certainly was not so glorious as the fortresses of the south, neither so massive as Ravensmuir nor as artfully designed as Kinfairlie, but it was doughty and of considerable size.
It had been constructed with a square base, the lower part of the walls were wrought of cut stones fitted so tightly together that the wind probably could not whistle through them. The walls were thick, the better to keep heat within the building. There was only one portal near the ground and no windows below the second story.
The stones continued to the height of two men. The walls above were made of smaller, rounder stones, stacked according to their shape and size, then sealed in place with wattle and daub.
“The large stones were hewn further south,” Ruari informed her. “Upon the lands of the Earl of Sutherland. They were hauled up the river on barges when the water was low, pulled by ropes hauled by men upon the banks.”
“But the stone changes,” Vivienne noted.
“That is stone locally gathered, and time it took to collect them, to be sure.” Ruari nodded sagely, as if he had gathered the stones himself.
“It would have been finer all wrought of the same stone,” Erik said, “but the cost became too much for me.”
“You had this built?” she asked, before she recalled that detail of Ruari’s tale.
“Such as it is.”
Vivienne heard a warning in Erik’s tone, as if he would caution her that he was not overly affluent. She did not truly care, and if he did not realize as much, then she would not deign to tell him so.
She was beginning to doubt the merit of her decision to join him. Though he had held fast to her hand in that place where he had been assaulted, though he had kissed her hand with what had seemed to be gratitude, he had then dropped her hand as if her very touch scorched his flesh. Vivienne could make no sense of Erik’s manner though she wondered yet again whether proximity to Blackleith made him recall the great love he had shared with his wife, Beatrice.
She ignored his comment and looked upon the holding he meant to regain. The roof of the hall was thick thatch, and the windows had solid wood shutters that could be latched over the openings when the wind was fierce.
Ruari seemed to have appointed himself as a guide of sorts, for he enthusiastically recounted the merits of Blackleith for Vivienne. She could feel Erik behind her, feel his gaze upon her, but she felt it time enough the he granted her a measure of encouragement.
Ruari pointed to the stone structure. “Within the hall, the main floor is used as both great hall and accommodation for guests, and while we abided there, Erik always claimed the upper floor for himself and his family. The second floor is reached by a ladder, though it is sufficiently large to be divided into chambers, to be sure, and the chimney passes through the floor on one side. In this way, the heat of the fire is shared throughout the structure.”
“Most clever,” Vivienne said.
Ruari nodded. “Indeed. There is a single hole in the roof, where the smoke is emitted. And Blackleith is the first abode in all of Sutherland with a moat dug around the hall, one so deep that the water within it is always dark and cold. Why, the earl himself thought it such a sound notion that he talked of adding one to Dunrobin after he had seen this keep.”
Vivienne noted that the summit of Blackleith’s hall lacked a banner, like the heraldic ones that snapped in the wind above her family’s keeps. “Is that Blackleith village?” she asked, indicating the cluster of peasant cottages beyond.
“Aye, and there is a small chapel, as well,” Ruari noted. “See the abode with the dark door? That is the home of the blacksmith, his skill so considerable that even the earl sends his favored weapons to this smith for repair. There is also a mill, run by a miller who divides his fee with the laird.”
Beyond the village, sheep grazed, white against the purple heather, and a few chickens pecked the earth. Fields spread to the west, along the north bank of the river, though they were falling fallow. Blackleith had the appearance of a holding that had once been more prosperous than it was presently.
Children played on the edge of the fields and Vivienne turned to Erik. “Are your daughters among them?”
He shook his head, for clearly he had already sought their familiar figures, and his expression was somber.
Vivienne forced herself to sound cheerful. “Though they would scarcely play with the children of the peasants. Doubtless they are within the hall.”
She saw Erik’s gaze slip toward the chapel. She followed his gaze and caught her breath when she saw the small cemetery beside the chapel. Surely, he did not think that Nicholas had killed such young innocents?
“Nicholas is free with coin that is not his to spend, to be sure,” Ruari complained, pointing a heavy finger to a structure beyond the keep which might have been new. “Though there is no coin more easily spent than that for which a man owes no accounting, upon that you can rely. Why, I heard tell once of a man in the employ of the earl who traveled all the way to London for a trio of cloves, the better to make hippocras for the earl, then demanded that the earl pay the sum of his expenses, the bills for the stabling of his steed and lodgings for himself, no less every morsel of food that crossed his lips and ale that filled his belly. Now, there was a man with audacity and to spare!”
“It is a stable, and it is new,” Erik said. “But what need has Nicholas of a stable? There is only the old grey plow horse at Blackleith, and she is well accustomed to the shanty beside the smith’s cottage.”
They all looked toward the smith’s cottage, but no grey horse was tethered there.
“Where is the grey plow horse?” Ruari demanded with outrage. “What has he done with her? And how are the peasants to till the fields without her?”
“I am not certain that they have,” Erik mused.
Upon closer inspection, Vivienne saw his point. The fields might not have been even tilled this year. Certainly it was not a familiar crop to her eyes that grew within them.
“There are not as many sheep as I might have expected, perhaps half as many as in former years,” Erik noted with evident displeasure. “And the children look to me to be thin.”
The smith’s wife stepped out of their cottage to shout at the children and Ruari swore beneath his breath.
“She is but half her former self,” he said, concern pulling his lips to a tight line.
Vivienne could have guessed what had happened to the bounty of Blackleith for she recalled Nicholas’ fondness for fine garb.
A trio of squires left the hall then, their silken tabards glinting in the sunlight. They were plump, these three, and they laughed loudly as they made their way to the new barn.
The smith’s wife regarded them with undisguised hostility. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at them, after she summoned the children to her side. They scampered into the cottage, as if fearful of the proud young men.
“Squires?” Ruari demanded with a wrinkled nose. “And what need has the Laird of Blackleith of squires? There are no tournaments hereabouts, upon that any thinking man can rely. Doubtless he has minstrels in his hall each night, and poets at the board! Perhaps there are pearls sewn in rows upon his chausses and gems ground into his ale each night!” Ruari flung out his hands.
“While the people who labor beneath him are condemned to starve for lack of a plow horse. Doubtless he sold the old mare for a pittance! Your father must be turning within his grave at this, to be sure.”
“Hush, Ruari, lest you be overheard.”
Ruari snorted and might have said more despite Erik’s warning if the squires had not led six splendid steeds out of the barn in that very moment. Instead he exhaled in awe and exasperation, then muttered a curse and shoved a hand through his hair. “It is no marvel that the smith’s wife is so displeased. She was always a kindly one, but such abuses with coin as these would drive the sweetness from the ripest apple.”
Vivienne watched as hooded falcons were brought on gloved fists, and sumptuous saddles were put upon the horses. The coats of these steeds gleamed, so well did they eat, and their necks arched proudly. They were fine steeds, to be sure, but it was not clear how Nicholas had managed to afford them.
The miller’s wife stepped out of her cottage, spared a glance for the smith’s wife, then regarded the steeds with disdain. “We should demand that the laird grant us one of his horses,” she called to the other woman. The squires pretended not to notice her, but Vivienne had no doubt they could hear her words. “Lest our children starve this winter.”
“I know not what he thinks we shall eat,” the smith’s wife retorted. “Since the lambs are taken for the laird’s own table and a man would lose a hand for taking so much as a squirrel from the forest. A child does not grow strong and tall upon onions, to be sure.”
“I hear horseflesh is fine to eat,” the first woman replied. “Though truly, hunger does make the best sauce.”
The squires glared at the women and did not deign to reply.
“He would slaughter them all for such a crime,” Ruari muttered and Erik did not doubt as much. “It is clear these steeds are prized beyond all else.”
“How long will a woman watch her children go hungry?” Vivienne asked. “They may become so desperate that they do not care what his retaliation might be.”
Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances Page 29
