The Angel Knight, page 2
The girl coughed again, long and deep, and turned her head. The dark hair sifted away from her face, revealing pale skin and purple shadows beneath her closed eyes.
“Jesu,” Gavin muttered. “She is ill. How long has she been exposed out here?”
“Since September, the guard said.”
Gavin swore softly. “It is past Yuletide now. What a show of English chivalry. And her crime?”
“Her only crime, I hear, is that she is a cousin to the Bruce, captured with his womenfolk in the Highlands. King Edward has declared those Scotswomen rebels and traitors.”
“Edward has read the treatises of proper conduct in war. Noncombatants, especially women, merit protection by simple Christian charity.”
“Ach, Edward ignores the rules o’ chivalric conduct when it suits him. He claims the Scots are rebels under English jurisdiction, and not a separate sovereign country.” John looked at Gavin. “Edward had other cages made at Roxburgh and Berwick for Bruce’s sister and the young countess of Buchan.”
Gavin set his mouth in a grim line. Berwick. The very name of the town sent a chill down his spine. Within Berwick’s walls, ten years ago, he had witnessed enough savagery to change him from an idealistic young knight to an outspoken traitor. His actions had cost him much. He had spent years redeeming his reputation in order to gain back what he had lost.
Now, looking at this Scotswoman, he wondered if he even cared to have the esteem or the generosity of a king who would do such a thing to a woman.
He glanced at his uncle. “We only arrived at Carlisle this morning, and yet you’ve learned all this, and have been up here most of the day, from what the sentry told me.”
“I saw the wee lass like this, and could not leave her,” John said quietly. “I thought you’d want to know, but I had to wait—you were at Lanercost Abbey, in audience with the king and that pack o’ French bishops we brought here. Truth be told, I could not bear another moment with those mitre-heads complaining like spoiled bairnies all the way from Paris.”
“I have a tedious journey as ambassador, for certain. You were clever to ride away from our traveling party and wait here at Carlisle.”
“Edward would not approve of a Scot in your entourage, even your own uncle. It will be a relief to return to France, where they welcome Scots.”
Gavin loosened the leather thongs at his throat and shoved back his chain mail hood. His hair, dark gold, blew across his eyes, and he shoved it back. “We will not return to France for a while. I’ve decided to stay the winter. The king owes me good English land for my services to the crown. I mean to ask payment while I am here.”
“Aye.” John sighed. “But seeing this lass, I have to regret the years I’ve spent in English service, if it implies I am part o’ this.”
“So your old Scottish soul yearns to fight in support of Robert Bruce?” Gavin asked softly.
“You’re half Scots by my own sister. Can you trust a king who would do this to a lass?”
Gavin shook his head, staring at the cage. The Scottish girl reached out a thin hand to pull her plaid close. The cold wind stirred her hair. The tips of her fingers were red with the chill.
Warm layers of wool and quilted linen beneath his chain mail and surcoat shielded him from the cold. His thick dark blue mantle, lined with fur, whipped around his legs. Suddenly Gavin felt an urge to spread his cloak over the girl. “Edward sets her out here like some bit of flesh bait,” he said. “A lure for the king of Scots?”
“Perhaps. Robert Bruce is in hiding, a renegade since last spring. Edward cages her out of spite, for sure.”
“What do you know of her?”
“Widow to an English knight. Father and brothers dead—they were rebels who ran with William Wallace and later with the Bruce. The lass inherited a castle in Galloway that Edward sorely wanted. Still does.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Lady Christian MacGillan.”
“A clan name. You said her husband was an English knight.”
“Many Scotswomen do not take their husbands’ names.”
“Who was this English knight she wed?”
“Henry Faulkener.”
Gavin swore and pushed his fingers through his hair. “She is your cousin’s widow? Jesu,” he said, stunned. “Henry was older than my father. I hardly remember the man. In ten years I had word from him but twice. When did he die?”
“Last summer, fighting the Scots. He wed the girl when he took possession of her castle.”
“So that is why you wanted me to meet you up here.”
“And because someone should speak to the king on her behalf.”
“Edward will not pardon her, a Scot, so easily.”
“He might listen to your appeal. You were once one o’ his most favored knights.”
“It was long ago. Now he owes me one promise, land and a castle, and I mean to collect.”
“But you’ve successfully negotiated the marriage of his heir to the wee French princess. You’re back in his graces now. Convince the king—”
“John,” Gavin said curtly, “the only matter I plan to negotiate once I claim that land owed to me are the sale prices of my wool and grain at next season’s harvest fair.”
“Ach,” John growled. “He values your diplomatic opinion.”
Gavin frowned, gazing into the cage at the sad woolen bundle that was of Henry’s little widow. He heard the girl cough harshly and sink lower on the rough planked floor.
“She is your cousin by marriage.”
“She is a little dying bird in a cage,” Gavin said softly. “She ought to be removed to a convent and allowed to die in peace.”
“Indeed,” John said. “Let us see to it.”
Mist drifted between the wooden bars like ghosts, and Christian wondered if her own soul would drift free soon, a fragile wisp. She drew a ragged breath, feeling the drag of the illness in her lungs. Her feet were cold. She drew them under the plaid.
Only death would free her from captivity. But her daughter waited for her, needed her; she could not die. She stifled another cough. They were frequent, painful, and she was too exhausted to fight the illness, the chill, the hunger much longer.
Beyond the cage, she heard male voices. Guards often talked nearby, though by king’s order none were permitted to speak to her. She glanced at the wooden cage struts, where the elements entered her prison freely. Her garments and plaid were not much protection from the bitter winter. Blankets had been brought but had been taken away again. She was not surprised. She was rarely allowed to keep blankets for long. She shivered and coughed.
The men continued speaking softly. One had a gruff, older voice in a lilting Scots accent. The other spoke northern English in a deep, mellow voice soothing as the low strings of a harp.
She glanced toward the men, who stood near the cage, watching her from the parapet. She frowned. The older man was Scottish—were they both, then? Were they sent by Robert Bruce to ransom her? She felt hope, raised her head to peer at them.
And nearly gasped. The younger knight, tall and blond, looked like a warrior saint, shining and glorious—Saint Michael himself, she thought suddenly, sent to guard and comfort a dying girl. She blinked. Was he a vision, then?
His armor shimmered like silver, his white surcoat was embroidered with golden wings. Without hood or helmet, his golden hair touched his shoulders. He seemed made of shining steel and gold and heavenly peace.
Surely, she thought, he was an archangel come to her in her last moments. She lifted a hand. She wanted him to take her away, if it must be so. She felt sure she could trust him.
But that meant she was truly dying, and would not see her daughter again. She cried out against the thought, and then folded into the soft blackness that replaced the floor.
Gavin felt struck to his very soul.
Lady Christian had lifted her head, hair in straggling tendrils framing her gaunt face, and had looked directly at him for a moment. That flash of deep green was a startling burst of life in her shadowed face. Her steady gaze showed strength and pride and asked no pity. The spark in her lustrous eyes had wrenched his heart. Somehow her fragile soul had touched his own, carefully guarded as it was. He exhaled, and glanced at his uncle.
“Fainted away, she has,” John said. “God save us, she looked at you as if you were some saint, standing there. As if you—” he stopped suddenly. “What did Queen Eleanor call you, years ago? Aye, the Angel Knight. This one looked at you as if she believed you were her savior.”
Gavin cringed at the embarrassing memory of that youthful name. Thank God, he thought, age had creased and hardened the rather angelic beauty he had inherited from his Celtic mother. He had changed much since Queen Eleanor had called him her Angel Knight. He had triumphed on the tourney fields through skill, and he had charmed the ladies of the court with his looks and his manners. He had enjoyed splendor and favor. But those days had been long ago, before the queen’s death, and before Berwick. And before he had wed Jehanne.
He had changed further since Jehanne’s death. Once he had been arrogant—no longer. He was glad to be cleansed of that, though his humility had come at a high price.
Years ago he had whatever he pleased from women, and when he had married, he had expected a comfortable life with a kind and beautiful woman. But he had soon found himself watching helplessly while she wasted away under the insidious grip of a lung ailment. Humbling—and devastating for him in ways no one truly knew.
Jehanne had needed his help, as this Scottish girl did now. But he had been no savior for Jehanne, and could not help this girl, despite what he had once believed of himself.
Now his soul had grown hard, lost in shadow. No one would call him angel now. Least of all this small, dying young woman.
She could not be saved. He knew the signs—the rapid, shallow, noisy breaths; pale skin and bluish lips; coughing and weakness. The lung illness had a fierce hold over her.
Suddenly he wanted to tear open her cage and carry her away to safety. But that was a foolish notion fit for a roman de chevalerie.
“King Edward has little mercy where the Scots are concerned. He will not listen to me in this matter,” he told John, turning away.
His uncle laid a hand on his sleeve. “We cannot leave here without seeing her free first.”
“What would you have me do? Steal her away? I have no assurances to give you.”
“The sentry said Oliver Hastings brought her here last September,” John said then.
Turning, Gavin stopped. “So the king’s demon still rides for England.”
“Still acts as Edward’s sword arm in Scotland.”
“No doubt he relishes every stroke.”
“I hear he visits this girl whenever he is in Carlisle. Orders food withheld, blankets removed. The guards say he questions her mercilessly.”
Gavin’s fingernails bit into his palm. “He has a taste for cruelty to women. What does he want from her?”
“The sentry did not ken the issue between them. She will not talk to Hastings, though he has beaten her, they say.”
“Jesu,” Gavin growled. “Must you tell me this?”
“Aye,” John said quietly.
Gavin glanced back toward the girl. Though his heart seemed to twist in his chest, he turned away abruptly and began to stride along the wall walk. “She will likely die before the king even grants me an interview.”
“You’ll help her, then. Angel knight—it is still in you, lad,” John said as he walked with him.
Gavin laughed flatly. “Eight years in the French court, and a man emerges a cynic or a sinner. Never a saint. She is dying, and worse, a Scot. I doubt the king will even listen.”
“You will ken well what to say to convince him.”
“You credit me too well. I spoke my mind before, at Berwick, and earned myself charges of treason and exile. The king could have ordered me hanged. So I am scant hope as that girl’s savior. Do not forget—Edward despises the Scots with a poisonous fury.” He stalked ahead, then saw a sentry nearby. “Bring a coal brazier and blankets to the prisoner,” he snapped.
The guard blinked. “My lord—”
“Now!” Gavin roared. The man nodded and ran along the wall walk.
“Ah,” John remarked as they walked on.
“Little enough to do for the girl.”
“That, and asking permission to remove her to a convent, is little enough well done.”
“You are a stubborn man when you find a cause. You need more adventure, I think.”
John grinned. “That may be. The day your father and I rescued that Saracen princess near Acre is a day I have never forgotten. And you may need a fine adventure as well, lad.”
“Careful, sir. How did this girl capture your tough old Scots heart?”
John shrugged. “Reminds me of Jehanne. I cannot watch another lass wither like that.”
Gavin looked away. “She will only die in your arms for your trouble. I do not want to go through that again.”
“I only ask that you get permission to take her out o’ there. Your own mother was Scottish—”
“Aye, and my lady mother might have laid hands on her in that strange Celtic way she had and healed this girl. But my mother is dead, and this girl has not the rarest hope of a miracle.”
“Ach, once they called you the Angel Knight. You were a hero. Where is he now?”
Gavin sighed. That wasted bit of womanhood tugged firmly on his heart. “It will take a miracle to convince King Edward.”
“You’ll do it,” John said firmly.
“I no longer believe in miracles,” Gavin said abruptly, and strode away through cold fog.
A fever-dream, that was all. Christian looked toward the bare wooden bars of the cage door. No one stood there now. No guards, no angel.
She forced herself to a seated position and leaned back against the bars, coughing harshly. Shivering, she pulled the worn plaid up over her shoulders. The illness was affecting her mind.
She wondered if Dominy would be here soon. The English servant woman tended to her two or three times each day, bringing soup, bread and sometimes wine, and escorted her to the privy in the tower. Christian looked forward to those times in the day, like sunlight in darkness.
Dominy’s hands were warm and gentle, and the woman sometimes hugged her, even fed her when she was too weak to eat. And Dominy had courage enough to speak to her despite the king’s orders against it.
But Dominy had not yet come that day, and Christian guessed that Oliver Hastings was back at Carlisle again: her blankets had been removed and her morning meal had been bitter wine and stale bread, Hastings’s usual orders for her.
She hoped that he would be too busy with the king to visit her this time. She could hardly bear to hear his voice, low and toneless. She did not think he would hit her, weak as she was. The king’s guards would not allow Hastings to abuse her, yet they still obeyed King Edward’s orders toward her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.
Hastings wanted Kilglassie’s gold, but she could not help him. She had never seen it herself, and now felt certain it was gone. For a moment, she allowed herself a daydream, picturing herself in the great hall, seated with her harp. The fire-basket in the center of the room radiated glowing heat. Her gown was soft, her cloak lined with fur. Her belly was full. She would sleep that night in a soft enclosed bed.
Imagining, she could almost feel the cool, polished willow wood harp in her hands, could sense the tightly drawn brass wires beneath her fingertips. She imagined the delicate sounds as she touched the strings, and heard the familiar tones, pure and round and true, as she thought through the plucking pattern of a melody.
The memory of the music, all these months, had helped to save her. She had learned to play the wire-strung harp as a child, and knew, with a harper’s finely detailed memory, a great many of the Scottish and Irish songs that had been played by generations of Celtic harpers. Those melodies had always brought her joy, or a sense of healing, or a sense of peace.
And she had found those feelings again, even in this brutal place. She often closed her eyes and listened to the music in her mind, listened endlessly, strumming her fingers in familiar patterns. She had hummed the songs too, but her voice had grown hoarse from coughing, and so she had stopped.
Whenever she listened to her inner music, she did not feel the keen bite of the cold, or the painful weakness in her lungs. She heard the songs floating on the air, light and lyrical and soothing. She imagined them shining in the darkness like drops of gold and silver, a design made of stars.
She closed her eyes, and moved her fingers in a complicated rhythm, and gave herself up to the music. Soon the bars of her cage disappeared from her mind. Though she imagined herself playing the harp in her home, she tried never to recall the smoldering ruin of Kilglassie Castle as she had last seen it.
Such thoughts surely had the power to kill her.
CHAPTER TWO
“We shall find a new mission for you now that you have returned, Gavin.” Edward Plantagenet tipped back his goblet and downed the contents.
“I doubt any ambassador can convince Robert Bruce to surrender, sire,” Gavin replied wryly.
“He has no right to the crown,” Edward growled. “The young craven has turned traitor. Once I trusted him as one of my finest knights. Now he calls himself King of Scots. Hah! King Hob, my soldiers call him.” He gestured impatiently. “I will see him captured and drawn through the streets of London, then hanged and quartered—and displayed about the country in parts—like Wallace.” He smiled, feral-toothed. “I have made a solemn vow to be avenged on Robert Bruce and all Scotland for this rebellion. I will not rest until it is done.”
Gavin poured wine into the king’s goblet and filled his own silver cup. The red liquid glowed like melted rubies in the firelight. The roaring blaze made him think of Henry’s little widow in her cold cage. He wondered how to remind the king of his obligation as a merciful sovereign.
