Promise Me: A Scottish Medieval Protector Romance, page 32
PROMISE ME
GAME OF KINGS
BOOK ONE
L.L. MUIR
CONTENTS
Preface
The Eight Canonical Hours
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
L.L. Muir Books
GOCM Series Order & Links
About the Author
DEDICATION
For Suzi…
Who read the Frankenstein draft
of Promise me,
fell in love,
and pushed for its release.
Passionate readers are my tribe!
PREFACE
FIRST, A TRIGGER WARNING: If you are a regular reader of mine, you may find this book more sexy than my usual stories, mostly because the importance of marriage, offspring, sex and virtue was of great importance at the time in which this story is set. Trust me when I say I put no sex on the page.
Next, know that this is only the second novel I had ever written at the time, so be gentle. I have combed through and revised, rewritten, and re-loved every paragraph, and now it’s time to share it with you.
A few gimme’s. Edinburgh was spelled Edinburough at this time, which is how it is pronounced to this day, but I spared you that little bump in the road. Some of the writing will seem much too modern for the time, and for those of you who hate anachronisms, I apologize. But strictly maintaining period accuracy would make the reading awkward enough as to distract from the story, which is a great one. Besides, at least half the dialogue would need to be in French…
Also, Edinburgh Castle was not yet constructed, though I have many scenes there.
Liberties taken with history: the man characters are fictional, obviously. King Malcolm III was even younger when he took the throne than I allow here. Otherwise, mentions of battles and the passing of the crown, etc., are historically accurate.
It wasn’t until after the Battle of Hastings in 1066 that castles of stone, which we think of now, came to Scotland. Most communities resided within timber forts in this period, though Scots were certainly gifted in all manner of stone construction. If you want to go down a rabbit hole, mark this one and come back to it. Fascinating stuff. Makes you want to go to Scotland and find it all!
Another thing. Yes, I have recently written of a hero named Tearloch, but when I tried to change this hero’s name to something else, he would have none of it!
So there you have it—all my confessions. Now forget them all and enjoy the story of Tearloch and Kenna, PROMISE ME. They have been waiting for the microphone for a very long time.
THE EIGHT CANONICAL HOURS
These times were used universally in the Middle Ages…
Vigil (or Nocturns): Late night, often starting around midnight and lasting into the early morning (e.g., 2-3 AM).
Matins: The dawn office, sometimes combined with Lauds, sung as the first light appeared.
Lauds (Morning Praise): At sunrise (around 5 AM).
Prime (First Hour): Early morning, the first hour of daylight (around 6 AM).
Terce (Third Hour): 9 AM.
Sext (Sixth Hour): Noon (midday).
None (Ninth Hour): Mid-afternoon (around 3 PM).
Vespers (Evening Prayer): At sunset (around 6 PM).
Compline (Night Prayer): Before retiring for the night (around 7 PM).
CHAPTER ONE
The Carlisle Stronghold, Scotland, 1059
“Commander, we found her,” Duncan announced as he hurried down the wooden steps then across the great hall to Tearloch MacPherson’s side. There was warning in the man’s words and Tearloch waited for bad news. Something odd was transpiring here among the Carlisle tribe, and he knew it would not be to his liking.
There was nothing odd in having the wood fort heavily guarded, but guarded by women? Had all the men died, then? Had they been poisoned? Or had they all moved to the other end of the glen where another settlement was perched, as if keeping watch on the fort, while at the same time, keeping its distance?
Duncan Keith, his lieutenant, was seven years his senior but equally as fit. The man took a moment to calm his breathing, then drew nearer, darting looks at the mob of stubbornly silent women huddled near the cold dark maw of the hearth.
“But I’m afeared the woman is quite mad.”
Tearloch’s stomach plummeted. It would break the king’s heart to learn his long-lost sister suffered such distress. Would he still insist Tearloch marry the lass? No matter. If he did, so be it. For over ten years Tearloch had served at the side of Malcolm III, the recently crowned King of Scotland, and he was not about to let his friend down in his moment of sorrow.
“Malcolm will be devastated,” he said quietly.
Duncan frowned for a moment then his brows rose. “Och, nay. Not the lass. It’s the auld woman who’s daft. The sister is yet to be found.”
Tearloch took a deep breath and let it loose. He had hoped Macbeth’s kinswoman, Agatha Carlisle, would have died long ago, but the Fates seemed against him this day.
Again, he turned a fierce frown on the servant women. They were dressed oddly, all in undyed wool, and seemed unafraid of him and his men. Or perhaps they merely feared the Carlisle woman more than anyone else in this world. That, he could believe. He’d never before tried to cow a woman but it was worth testing. They hadn’t blinked when he’d threatened them with the pit, but now?
“Very well. One of ye will tell me what became of the lass named Kenna or ye’ll all go in the pit…with Agatha Carlisle.”
A dozen flurries of white ran at him, knocking him on his backside and surrounding him like giant hungry chicks, their chirping voices mingling like so many excited birds anxious to be heard.
From outside the squawking cocoon boomed the laughter of Duncan Keith.
Leagues away at Gowry Hall, afternoon
“Heaven spare my gown, but not my bridegroom,” Kenna Carlisle prayed as she smoothed her hands down her hips and thighs, willing her fingers to remember the feel of the prettiest garment she had ever owned. She was determined to remember how beautiful the deep shade of blue, what it looked like now, before bloodstains or slices from a blade.
She’d prayed a bit too loudly, judging by the horror on her maid’s wee face. Of course she should not pray for the man’s death. She’d barely been introduced to him when the siege began, but considering those first few moments...
“I’m fair to certain,” she half-teased, “that either the bride or the groom will be dead come mornin’, and with the size of The Gowry, I wouldn’t wager much on me breakin’ my fast again. Unless a blade takes a likin’ to him, that is.”
Wee Fia’s pinched brow raised another notch, her eyes looked ready to lose their seats. Obviously, this was neither the time for loud prayers, nor levity.
“Come now, Fia. Do you suppose I’ve lost my mind, then?”
She took the maid’s shaking hands in hers, attempting to distract them both from their possible fates once the fighting outside ended. Teasing normally worked on Fia, so Kenna tried again.
“I’ll tell you true, I’m a bit worried. I don’t think The Gowry will like it when he hears I’ve changed my mind about the marriage.”
After cheerfully serving Kenna for two years, in spite of their prison-like home of Fort Carlisle, Fia’s sense of humor had apparently fled at the sight of either The Gowry, his foes, or both. She pulled at Kenna’s hands as if begging for mercy and Kenna was instantly contrite. The young woman was sliding into hysterical waters, and the reference to the way Gowry had murdered his last messenger only served to quicken Fia’s descent.
The victim of Gowry’s short temper had been reluctant to tell his laird of the small army on the horizon, and his fear had been justified a moment later when Gowry plunged his short blade into the young man’s defenseless neck.
Kenna shivered at the memory of Struan Gowry, the pale haired killer she had been sent to wed—the fleeting glimpse of his dagger before he struck, the sound of his rough voice bellowing for his bride and her maid to be hidden in his chambers. Spittle and hair had flown round his head as he’d barked orders for their defense. Then, while watching her and Fia ascend the stairs, Kenna had suspected him of gauging her flesh for
If Gowry’s enemies succeeded, perhaps she would never learn which it had been.
Fia’s cheeks had turned green.
“Not to worry.” Kenna put an arm around the girl’s slight shoulders that barely reached her elbow. “Of course, we won’t be telling the laird I’ve changed my mind, as he does not seem to appreciate bad news. We’ll just sneak away quietly when the battle is over, what say you?”
The teasing could not be undone, sadly.
Kenna pulled back the younger woman’s hair before the girl knelt and retched. Vomit hit the bottom of the chamber pot with such force that it rang like a bell. Grateful to be an arm’s length away, Kenna turned her head and held her breath.
Fia had done better than expected—Kenna was impressed the maid had reached the pot in time.
“Calm yourself,” Kenna soothed, despite the fact the two had been fretting inside the dusty bedchamber for an hour listening to a battle waging outside the walls of Gowry Hall. In her most convincing voice she added, “You may wish for death just now, but I tell you I’ll not allow it.”
The inconsolable Fia whimpered and retched. Kenna stood and paced. The hackle-raising war cries that began the siege had long since been abandoned for concentrated killing. Every few minutes the rhythmic clanging of swords would miss a beat, followed by a groan or a telling silence. The silent moments grew in length, filled only with the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Did this mean the siege was nearing its end?
Alas, the distant scuffling commenced anew, and a telling odor snaked its way through the coverless window, forcing her to swallow hard. Imagining how much blood it would take to put that scent in the air nearly had her wrestling her maid for a turn at the pot.
No longer able to contain her curiosity, she pushed her fear of danger aside and moved to the window set inside the rough log walls. Fearing the bailey would be a sea of red, she leaned tentatively forward. She should refrain, but for the first time in her life there was no one forcing her to do as she ought.
The scene below surprised her. She had expected more men to be fighting; there were few. There was blood, there were bodies, but the rich spring earth was still black, the turf still green. Tiny yellow blossoms hid together in the shadow of a felled gate, waiting to see if they, too, would survive the day.
A large man with his back to Kenna matched vicious sword blows with her husband-to-be. They were a striking pair—Gowry pale and blonde, the other dark as an avenging angel. They were of a height, Kenna realized, which was impressive considering her bridegroom’s Viking stature.
Gowry glanced to the side, then laughed in the other’s face before stepping back out of reach. In the blink of an eye the coward had snatched up a young boy and placed the lad between himself and his dark enemy. He slapped a short sword into the youth’s hands and pushed him forward to fight in his stead before turning away, only to be stopped by another foe, thankfully.
Kenna was not the only one stunned by Gowry’s cowardice. The lad and his opponent stood facing each other, blades raised. The boy looked stricken, like Satan himself was standing before him, demanding his soul. His small weapon shook though he held it with both hands.
She could now see the side of the man’s face, and the fury on it more than explained the lad’s trepidation, but it was quickly replaced by pity. His massive broadsword lowered.
But just as she dared hope that the lad would be spared, he chose to follow his own childish wisdom and swung his small blade with all his might at his mountainous opponent. The ineffective weapon bounced off the larger one and back against the boy’s head. A thin line of red quickly stretched down his face while he scowled at his own traitorous blade.
The warrior cursed and stepped forward as he knocked the lad’s weapon to the ground then scooped the foolish child into his arms. She couldn’t help but laugh at the surprise on the laddie’s face.
The man shouted an order at the pile of rags in his embrace. In answer, the boy’s hand flew to his head, covering his wound. Kenna’s amusement was cut short, however, when the stupid man actually threw the child away from him.
Admittedly, Gowry had stumbled backward in their direction, but the small neck could have broken when the wee tattered body landed on its side a good distance away.
Only from Kenna’s vantage point, high above the child’s body could anyone have seen his movements. She watched with joy as the boy slowly inched one hand up to tuck under his cheek, smiling like a clever servant sneaking off for a nap. He slapped his other hand up against his wound before lying still once again.
So, the devil had spared the boy from further clumsiness, and likely spared him from Gowry’s further sacrifice.
“Well done, then,” Kenna breathed. Perhaps he would spare her and Fia as well.
A mere heartbeat later, Kenna’s cowardly intended was simultaneously struck by an arrow in his chest and the dark angel’s sword through his belly. After the blade was pulled from its human sheath, the blond groom fell stiffly to his knees. He looked up and found Kenna.
Strands of his aging yellow hair were gently lifted by either the breeze or the wake of his departing soul. While he remained upright, his snarling lips moved and she knew this man—whose clutches she had just escaped—cursed her with his last breath.
His hair landed lifeless once more against his head and he fell silently forward into the dirt with not so much as a puff of dust.
“Well, Fia, looks like my weddin’s off, then. The Gowry is dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
Her maid continued to retch, But Kenna couldn’t pull herself away from the window to offer any further comfort. The reality of the battle was just too disturbing, so different from the romantic tales Old Clark had recounted.
Also, she was lured by the familiar and pungent kiss of the sun-warmed pine of the embrasure. Golden pearls of sap were the only decoration to this unhallowed hall to which her aunt had sent her, and she reached out to test one with her finger. Firm but sticky in the warmth of the late spring sun.
The breeze had strengthened enough to take away the stench of blood, and she could not make herself exchange that clean cool air for the fresh reek of the bedchamber.
She was free. Praise God, if he still listened to one such as her. For the second time in two days, her prison doors had opened. And now she would do what she had always planned if she were ever free of Aunt Agatha’s clutches, and now Gowry’s.
Just that quickly, between a breath drawn and a breath released, Kenna knew what she would do with her freedom. She needed only to wait for the battle to end.
In a powerful movement, one man cut the head off another, and to her horror she was unable to shut her eyes to the sight of the head spinning free. In its wake, a spray of blood splatted in a dotted trail down the backside of a pale horse.
She was unaware of how long she stood staring and motionless, her senses filled only with red rain. Death was no glorious end. After the fighting was over, these men would not awaken, wash off their blood, and sew their parts back on to take up other duties.
She blinked and looked for her groom. At least one consolation, then. Gowry, at least, would stay put.
As would the man she would be hunting, once she found him.
An arrow pierced the wall near her, bringing her out of her musings. Seeking the source, she locked gazes with that magnificent warrior who had spared the boy. Dark-haired and fearless, he stood in the middle of the fray, a languorous breeze teasing at his uncovered mane. Heavy chain mail secured his black clothing against a body that seemed...familiar.
But that was impossible. This was the first time Kenna had ever been away from Carlisle’s stronghold since being taken there when aged five. She saw very few visitors and in her twenty summers since, had seen fewer than a dozen men. Had this one been among them, she would remember.
Bodies, including that of Laird Gowry, lay motionless at the man’s feet as he lowered his bow, still facing her. When she looked at him in question, he smiled, his teeth a welcomed brightness against his sun-browned face. He tipped his head to one side and motioned her away from the window. She immediately realized her foolishness and stepped back. Then, peeking out from deeper in the room, she watched him turn once again to his bloody work.
