The Angel Knight, page 14
“Would it not serve you to learn more?” Fergus asked gently.
“It might,” she admitted. She looked up after a moment. “Tell me news of my cousins.”
“King Robert and his brothers? Ach. Iain and Donal have seen the Bruce,” he whispered, casting a glance toward Dominy.
“Dominy cannot understand Gaelic,” Christian reminded him.
Fergus nodded and continued. “Robert Bruce was near these very hills but a week past, with the small band of men who have been with him since last summer. They live like the lowest outlaws in the heather, taking food and shelter where they can. He greatly needs more men, and food, and weapons. My eldest sons are with him. Iain and Donal will join his band soon. For now they guard the hills and forests until the Bruce returns here.”
“What of Robert’s brothers? Thomas, Edward, Alexander?” She frowned, biting her lip against the sudden tears that threatened. “Fergus—did you know that Neil Bruce was captured at Kildrummy, and hanged at Berwick?”
“I heard,” Fergus said softly. “I heard. The eldest of his brothers, Edward Bruce, is with Robert still, as are James Douglas and Neil Campbell and the earl of Lennox.” He laid a hand gently on her arm. “But your cousins Thomas and Alexander Bruce were caught two weeks ago, when they landed in ships near Loch Ryan.” He paused. “They had hundreds of men with them, Highlanders and Irish galloglàch, in many ships. Many of the men were killed on the shore, or drowned. Some were captured. Macdouells, it was, Galloway Scots, who headed the English ambush.”
She watched him warily. “What happened to my cousins?”
Fergus sighed. “Thomas and Alexander were executed by the English at Dumfries,” he murmured. “I am sorry, Christian.”
She lowered her head and squeezed back sudden tears. “Thomas Bruce helped me to escape the English here at Kilglassie. O Dhia, Fergus. Robert’s own brothers. Three of the four are gone now, all lost to the English.” She remembered playing with her Bruce cousins as a child, when her grandmother, who had been first cousin to Robert Bruce’s mother, would bring her to visit them at Turnberry Castle. She shook her head sadly.
“My sons said King Robert was filled with a terrible grief when he heard the news of Loch Ryan. He even talked of giving up the cause of Scotland. He said the price of his brothers dying for him is far too dear. Christian, you must let him know that his queen and his daughter, and the rest of his womenfolk, are alive, if still held by the English. He has had no word since you were all captured last September.”
She nodded. “The queen is in a private house, and his daughter and his sister Christian are in convents. His sister Mary, and Lady Isabel of Buchan, are at Roxburgh and Berwick, held in cages like my own. But the last I heard of them, they were well enough. Fergus—help me to meet with Robert. I will bring him this news myself. If he sees me well, he will be more assured of their safety.”
Fergus frowned. “You may be able to do that, when he returns to the hills near Kilglassie, but—”
“A quick meeting in the forest would be safe enough. Ask Iain to arrange it for me, and bring me word of when and where.”
“Perhaps you could bring the king some news of English plans,” Fergus said. “Since you have an English husband.” Christian widened her eyes at the suggestion. “I only thought to warn Robert that the English are gathering their forces in this area, determined to find him. But spying—” she frowned. “I know nothing of English plans.”
Fergus shrugged. “Keep your ears sharp. Gavin Faulkener will have visitors. You could do a great service for your king.”
She hesitated. “I do not know if I could do that again.”
Fergus sighed. “Ach. So you like this husband better than the last, eh?”
She blushed and looked away.
“He looks a reasonable man,” Fergus said. “But he is a Sasunnach, and we must be cautious. Do what your heart tells you. But as I tell my parish flock, if fighting the Saracen devils in the Holy Land is not sinful, then neither is it sinful for the Scottish people to resist the English.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A melody floated on the night air, now cascading, now rising, a sparkle of sound like tiny silver bells. Gavin left the parapet where he had been watching as sentry, and approached the great tower. Leaning in the doorway of the small chamber, he watched and listened while Christian played the clàrsach.
In the low amber light cast by the fire, she sat straight and still on a low stool, holding the harp between her knees. Its rounded upper corner was tipped back against her left shoulder. Rapid and graceful, her fingers struck the brass strings to bring forth a delicate, lovely melody.
Nearby, on pallets laid out on the floor, Michaelmas, Will and Dominy lay sleeping. John snored gently in the corner nearest the door, in keeping with the arrangement that he and Gavin had worked out between them: while one slept for a few hours, the other watched out over the parapet at night.
Christian tilted her head as she played, her hair, without a veil, like a full, dark cloud. Clever and quick, her fingers created the decorative melody and its lower harmony. Beneath her skirt, one foot tapped a soft beat.
She began another song, floating tones soft as mist, a lyrical, haunting pattern of sound. Gavin closed his eyes and rested his head against the doorjamb, feeling the song flow through him and then draw him into its quiet, dark depths.
The music, magical, lilting, seemed to surround him, with a lovely harper at its heart. Gavin was content to be caught within that exquisite, serene web of sound. He listened, soothed, and felt as if she played only for him.
Christian let the harpstrings ring into silence.
Gavin opened his eyes. “You have the touch of an angel,” he said softly. His words hovered in the air like the last low breath of the strings.
She looked up, her eyes large and dark in the shadows. “That was an ancient song,” she said, “called a sleeping tune. It is said the druids used such a melody to work enchantments.”
He smiled slightly. “It was no doubt successful for them.”
She set the harp upright. “Michaelmas asked me to play for her while she went to sleep. In my father’s castle, ‘twas the task of the harper to play the whole household to sleep.”
He chuckled, listening to the soft snores around them. “You have surely done that in this household. And now you should get some rest yourself. It is well past compline. God keep you the night, my lady.” He turned, then looked back. “Christian—thank you for the music.”
He stepped out into the starlit courtyard.
An hour or so later, Christian watched as Gavin, silhouetted against the deep color of the night, walked the parapet, unaware that she stood below in the shadow of the great tower. She had been unable to sleep, stimulated by the music, as she sometimes was when she played. She had grabbed up her cloak and had gone outside, hoping that the brisk night air would tire her. But now she was more alert than before.
And Gavin’s soft words kept ringing in her thoughts. You have the touch of an angel, he had said; thank you.
Across the wide courtyard, high on the parapet, his shadowed figure was turned away from her. He stood at the battlement and stared out over the loch, his cloak billowed on the wind like dark wings.
If any had an angel’s touch, he did. She smiled ruefully. Gavin Faulkener had shown her more kindness, compassion, and caring in a few weeks than Henry had shown her in years of marriage.
But she felt utterly confused. She had seen a hard soldier in him, too. He had been sent to Kilglassie as an oppressor rather than as a savior. That was the cold, real truth. She could not let herself forget it.
She sighed. Fergus wanted her to act against Gavin and help the Bruce by supplying information about the English. She had done that once before, when Henry had lived at Kilglassie, without much struggle of conscience over it. Her loyalty and obligation then had clearly belonged to her king and cousin, Robert Bruce, rather than with her English husband, who had shown her only coldness and disdain.
But if she did the same with this second English husband, Gavin Faulkener would never be more than her enemy. There were moments when she craved his touch, his kindness, his affection so much that it frightened her. She fervently wished that he was not an English knight. But wishing would not change it.
She sighed and peered up at a black sky pierced by countless glittering stars. Her fingers played with the leather thong that hung down inside the neck of her gown, and she pulled at it. The golden pendant tumbled into her palm, its filigree work gleaming in the starlight.
Michaelmas had returned the pendant to her last night, after Fergus had left. The child had worn it around her neck all the months that her mother had been gone. When Christian had tied the thong around her own neck, its familiar weight falling once again against her breastbone, she had been keenly reminded that the treasure of Kilglassie might never be found.
The gold was rumored to lie in the heart of the castle. But surely the fire had destroyed it, wherever it lay hidden. She could imagine molten gold seeping down between fitted blocks of stone like veining in a mine.
Without the treasure, Kilglassie’s old legend had no substance. She was the keeper of nothing but a pretty pendant, golden wire and a garnet, linked to an empty legend.
Gavin turned around on the parapet and looked down into the courtyard. Among the jagged shadows of rubble, he saw a slight, slim figure, and recognized Christian. She moved gracefully across the center of the yard and stopped, looking up at the night sky. Dressed in the dark blue gown and mulberry cloak, she blended with the shadows. Then her hood slipped back to reveal the shape of her face, pale in the starlight.
Frowning, Gavin moved slowly down the steps, wondering why she stood so still. He crossed the courtyard toward her.
“Are you well?” he asked. “Why are you out here?”
She turned quickly, obviously startled. “I am well enough,” she answered. “I was just walking.”
“You should be asleep,” he said. ‘It is hours ‘til dawn.”
“I could not sleep,” she said. “I thought the night air would help me to relax.” She began to walk across the courtyard. Gavin moved alongside her, slowing his long stride to match hers.
“You have made progress here,” she said, glancing around at the shadowed piles of rubble.
He nodded. “We have done some clearing, John and I. But we are only laborers—we can lift and stack, break stone and saw wood. We cannot make the repairs that are needed here. Dominy has more masonry skills than we have,” he said. He turned to her, glad of this chance to ask something that he had been thinking about recently. “Christian, I know something of castle design, but I have no ability to carry it out. Earlier I asked you to help me restore Kilglassie. I can make better decisions if I can understand the way it used to be. Show me each room, and explain what is missing and what is damaged.”
She blinked up at him. “Now? It is dark.”
He smiled. “Not now. Meet me at first light outside the
great hall. We shall begin there, if you will help.”
She tilted her head in thought. “I will do it,” she finally said. “We need a roof over our heads quicker than you know. The winters are usually wet. We have been fortunate in the dry weather of late.”
A strong draft of cold wind stirred their cloaks, and rippled through her hair. Taking her arm, he drew her into the shelter of the doorway of one of the ruined towers. He was keenly aware that she stood only a breath away, her shoulder brushing his arm. Behind them, in the blackness of the tower, he heard the occasional ruffling of the sleeping doves.
“We need to begin repairs,” Gavin said. “The king expects me to go to Loch Doon and report to Hastings for whatever supplies are needed here.”
“War comes first for King Edward,” she said stiffly.
He could not deny that. “The king will want the necessary repairs made quickly so that he can house two or three hundred men here.” He heard her draw in her breath sharply, but she did not speak. He continued. “Edward will expect me to see to those improvements only, and put off the rest of the work indefinitely. The gate needs repair soon, but in this winter weather, the next step is to fix the roof and floors in the great tower first, for our own comfort and safety.”
“You will need coin for any repairs, and your king is not generous with funds. Henry always had difficulty acquiring the means and the supplies he needed.”
“I know that. I plan to hire the laborers and pay them myself. Is there a town within a day’s ride of here?”
“Ayr is closest, but the English have the castle and town.”
“I am English, my lady, as you love to remind me. Is there a market there?”
“They hold a weekly market every Saturday. The great fair is twice a year.”
“I can hire workers through the guilds in Ayr, then.”
“You can. But wait yet. Fergus Macnab will bring men. He is a man to trust.”
“Is he?” he said, looking at her sharply.
“If he said he would find workers, he will keep his word. Even to a Sasunnach. He is a good man. And he and his family were kind to Michaelmas while I was... gone.”
He watched her for a moment. “You never said you had a daughter before she arrived here looking for you, my lady.”
She lifted her chin. “Will you reprimand me for that? I was only protecting her.”
He frowned, puzzled by her reaction. “I do not criticize you for shielding your child, lady,” he said. “I only meant that I was surprised by her existence.”
“I thought you might be bitter about her.”
“Why?” he asked, startled.
“She is a Scottish child,” she answered simply.
He was not certain what she meant, or what difference that could make to him. “A child is a child. And she is lovely. Although she does not resemble you with that blond hair and square chin. She favors the Faulkeners.”
She shook her head. “Michaelmas isna Henry’s and my true daughter.”
He raised a brow. “Henry’s byblow?”
She shook her head again. “Henry and I adopted her the first year we were wed. His sister gave us charge of her.”
“His sister Joan? But she was the prioress of a small convent in the Scottish Borderlands. My mother retired there several years ago.”
Christian stared up at him. “Your mother? Was she there when King Edward closed down the Scottish nunneries? That priory was sacked and burned.”
He nodded, looking away. “I know. She died that day.”
She gasped. “I am sorry, Gavin. Henry never mentioned her to me.”
“Did he not? He sent me word of her death when I was in France.”
She shrugged. “I heard naught of it, but it is not surprising to me, knowing Henry. Would she have been his cousin?”
“She was wed to his first cousin, my father. Henry knew my mother and father very well. He and my father, and my uncle John, traveled to the Holy Land together. My mother had been widowed for years when she finally decided to take holy vows. I was in France then. She entered that particular religious house because Dame Joan was there. They were close friends.”
“I met Joan once. It was after the convent had been burned,” Christian said. “She was frail—her heart was not strong—and she was frantic trying to find homes for their little orphans.”
“Is that how you came to have Michaelmas?”
She nodded. “Dame Joan sent word to Henry that she was ill and needed help. He brought me with him because Joan had asked him to take one of the orphans.”
“He wanted the child, then.”
“I was surprised that Henry agreed, but he had a good enough heart for children and horses. He just did not care for Scottish wives.” She laughed flatly, but then her smile sweetened. “She was a beautiful bairn, nearly a year old, with silver-blond hair and beautiful blue eyes. I loved her as soon as I saw her,” she said softly. “We returned here with Michaelmas and a wet-nurse, but the woman ran off with a soldier shortly after we came back. Moira had given birth to Patrick a year earlier, so she nursed her. Michaelmas is a milk-sister to Fergus’s lads.”
Gavin listened, frowning, his arms folded over his chest. He rubbed his chin with one hand. “Henry sent me only one or two letters in ten years. I heard little of him other than that he had been granted a Scottish holding. Henry wrote to me of my mother’s death, but never mentioned that he had a wife or an adopted child. He kept his thoughts and his business to himself always, as I remember.”
“He was very secretive,” she agreed.
“What did Joan tell you of the child’s parents?”
“She told me little. Henry spoke privately with her, and later said that Michaelmas was an orphan, born in that convent. But her mother was dead and her father unknown. He never told me the mother’s name. I do not know if he even knew. The nuns named her for the feast day on which she was born.”
“Ah. Saint Michael’s day in September.” He deepened his frown, trying to work out the curious puzzle: he did not remember Henry Faulkener as a compassionate man, likely to adopt out of kindness. And there was the fact that Michaelmas reminded him of someone he had seen, though he could not yet determine who; he wondered if it could be Henry, who had been a tall, heavyset, blond man like Gavin’s father. “Are you certain she is not Henry’s bastard daughter? His sister Joan might have taken the child, and he might have felt an obligation to take her into his own home when Joan was ill.”
“I have wondered about that. I knew little of his past. Henry never said any such thing to me about the child. But then, he said little to me about any matter.” She looked up at the stars. Gavin studied her uplifted profile, delicate and pale in the dim blue light.
He leaned against the doorframe, and glanced up at the arch over their heads. “I noticed today that there is a stone inset above this tower door, with some carving on it. But ‘twas ruined by the fire. What would that have been?” he asked.
“That was my parents’ marriage stone. It was cut with their entwined initials, a beautiful thing. Like their marriage. They truly loved each other.”
