The Angel Knight, page 29
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
“Was it heather ale you wanted when you went to Moira’s house?” Gavin asked, guiding his black stallion alongside the destrier she rode. His words were mild enough, but his tone was grim. “Heather ale—or rebellion?”
Christian looked at him warily. Following the path of a wide burn, they headed northwest. Cool mist still floated around them, although at mid-morning the drizzling rain had finally ceased. A tense silence, but for a few brusque necessary remarks regarding the journey, had continued between them while they rode, and when they had stopped once to rest and eat some oatcakes.
She readjusted her mount’s reins. “I see you are ready to discuss this matter at last,” she said coldly. His harsh silence had worn on her mood until she felt ready to shout at him, although she knew that she had been in the wrong.
“Answer the question.”
She raised her chin high. “You have been drinking Moira’s heather ale all week. Some would say it is worth any trouble.”
“Do not be difficult,” he growled. “That ale is fine stuff, but its price comes too high. You evade the issue. Did you plan to join the rebellion that day you went to fetch the ale?”
“I am no spy,” she said, suddenly remembering how she and Fergus had listened through the well shaft. But she had been careful to say nothing to Bruce herself of what she had heard there, although Fergus had spoken of it.
“Did you seek to spy?” he asked.
“I did not,” she answered stiffly.
“Did you invite Robert Bruce to Kilglassie?”
She felt a blush heat her throat and cheeks. “He invited himself. Or Fergus did,” she amended. “They both knew about the storage chamber. Robert would have come there for shelter on his own before long. The weather has been foul.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “You endangered the lives of everyone at Kilglassie when you allowed Robert Bruce to take shelter within our walls.”
“I had no choice. He is my king, and my cousin. Kin are of great importance to the Scots.”
“Kin! I am your husband, lady!” he said loudly. “But that kinship was hardly important to you when you let Bruce and his men into the castle!” She raised her chin a little higher, flaring her nostrils, resisting the urge to shout back at him.
“I did not let them in,” she said. “There is a sally port on the lochside, through the rock. A tunnel leads to the underground chamber. They came in that way. I never saw them until we all went down there together.”
Gavin flashed her a quick glance. “A hidden entrance in the promontory?” She nodded. He swore angrily. “More secrets? What else have you not told me?”
She looked down, gripping the reins, and decided on the truth. “I did meet with Bruce in the forest that day. Fergus and his older sons took me there.”
“Why?” The word was harshly spoken.
“Of the women captured last September, I am the only one free now. Robert did not know the fate of his wife and daughter, or his sisters—only that they were all taken. I wanted to tell him that they are alive. He needed to know that.”
“Why did you not tell me that you were going to do this?”
“Tell my Sasunnach husband?” she asked pointedly.
“Ah. We will never get past that, I see.”
Her control abandoned her. “We will not get past it as long as the English king sends you orders to take the Bruce!” she shouted. “Or as long as he plans for you to command a garrison at Kilglassie, and steal our gold if you can!”
“Steal your gold and capture the Bruce?” He turned, his eyes a flash of deep blue in the mist. “Is that the treatment you expect from me? You once claimed to trust me. Clearly that was untrue.”
Cheeks flushing hot, she looked away. She trusted him as a man, as a lover, and that brought her joy. But part of her still feared his Englishness. “I could not trust your Sasunnach loyalties in this matter, Gavin. And I did not want to place you in danger. But Robert asked my help, and asked my silence.”
“And you gave him both,” he said bitterly. “You allowed him into Kilglassie. Surely you knew that he and his men could have taken the castle from within. We have no garrison to fight off an attack. And not all of the workmen would willingly defend Kilglassie against the Bruce.” He slid a sharp glance toward her. “Do not deal with me as you dealt with Henry, I warn you.”
“I would not have gone against you in that way!” she shouted back at him. “Henry acted as my enemy from the day we were wed until the last. He was a cold, cruel man. I allowed Scotsmen to take the castle in Henry’s absence, aye. But all my loyalty was for Scotland then.” Scowling, she stared straight ahead and gripped the reins fiercely.
“All your loyalty is still for Scotland,” he said flatly.
She shook her head silently. Once, loyalty had been a simple thing. But lately it had been sorely tried in her life. The opposing forces of Scotland and her king, and her English husband, all claimed love and loyalty from her.
Summoning greater calm, she turned to him, wanting him to understand why she had done this. “I only meant to help Robert and his men. They have been starving in the forest, and living outside in the freezing rain. Some of them were sick. There was a gale coming. I did not think beyond that. I swear it.”
He was silent as he rode beside her.
“Please believe me, Gavin,” she said quietly.
He sighed. “Last night I went down to the underground chamber myself,” he finally said.
Startled, she glanced at him. “What?”
“I owed Bruce an honorable debt for saving your life, and my own. We spoke for a long while. I agreed to allow him to hide there until we return from Ayr. And he offered to keep a secret guard over Kilglassie in my absence.” Christian simply stared at him. He sent her a cold glance. “My debt to your cousin is now paid.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Do not think this makes a Scots rebel out of me, lady.” He stared ahead as he rode, his jaw tight. Christian glanced at his profile. His hair, streaked gold over brown, floated to touch his shoulders, and his white and gold surcoat shimmmered over his black tunic. But the unyielding expression on his lean, handsome face made her wary of his thoughts.
“Am I your prisoner now?” she asked, dully, after a moment.
He frowned. “What?”
“Do you mean to take me to Ayr Castle as your prisoner?”
“Do not tempt me,” he growled.
Misery threatened to swamp her. She drew a long, shaky breath to keep from crying. This marriage had been her salvation somehow, but she felt as if she had unknowingly destroyed it. She loved Gavin as fiercely as she knew how. But perhaps it was not enough. She could not prove her loyalty to Gavin by turning away from her king and cousin when he needed her help.
Once, she had set fire to Kilglassie and ruined a legend because her loyalty to Robert Bruce had demanded it; and now it appeared that she had sacrificed her own marriage for the same reason.
She rode on, listening to the creak of the horses’ leather trappings, keenly aware of the heaviness of his silence.
“I am sorry,” she said softly. “I wanted to help my cousin. But I did not mean to destroy your trust for me.”
Gavin reached out then and pulled on the reins of her horse, stopping her mount beside his. She looked up at him in confusion, and he leaned over to take her face in his hand, his grip hard on her jaw. His eyes blazed an intense blue in the soft mist.
“Trust you?” he said gruffly. “I do trust you, though God knows why. I trust you to follow your heart, which you did for Robert Bruce. I know you meant no harm. It is you who cannot trust me. Your heart has already decided its loyalty.”
She shook her head. “My heart is torn. I love Scotland. And I love one Sasunnach,” she added in a soft voice. Her lip quivered violently, and a hot tear loosened to fall on his hand.
He relaxed his fingers. “No one could ask finer loyalty than what you gave so freely to Robert Bruce. I envy him.”
“But I love you, Gavin. I do,” she said tremulously.
He wiped at her tears with his thumb. “I know you do,” he said. “As much as you can, with your fierce little Scottish heart. But I want more from you, and you will not give it to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want from you the kind of loyalty that you show your heather king.”
“You have it of me, and more,” she said.
He shook his head. “I do not have it of you yet. But one day, lady, I will,” he said. “And then your heart will be completely mine.” He tipped her chin upward and looked intently at her. “But first it seems you must learn for yourself that I am trustworthy.”
She watched him silently. The blue depths of his eyes held a cool reserve, as if he felt sadness, and yet patience. He dropped his hand from her jaw. “We are half the way to Ayr. If you fear that you will be taken prisoner there, then turn back now.”
She shook her head. “I will go with you.”
He watched her for a moment, then nodded and turned his horse to ride ahead.
Christian stared after him. After a moment, she snapped the reins and followed Gavin.
They rode through thick mist, over ground that was boggy with rain, following the course of the burn. Water saturated the ground, brown and smooth in puddles and small pools, and rushing through swollen burns and streams. The mist clung in narrow glens and wreathed the rugged hillsides, but was still thin enough that they could easily find their way. To the east, the high mountaintops were blurred, pale shapes.
And each time Gavin looked around she was there, a small, stubborn figure cloaked in mulberry wool. They stopped once more to eat the last of the cheese, drinking clear water in silence. She seemed thoughtful and a little sad, but she said very little to him, as if she had decided to be cautious.
He could see the shadow of fatigue in her pale face, and saw her sometimes stretch her shoulders and back wearily. But she did not complain, had never complained that he had ever heard. He shook his head in wonder at her tenacity.
His anger toward her had vanished miles back, once he had shouted out his frustration with her, and had understood her motivation for allowing his country’s enemy into his own castle. She had a sympathetic concern for the man’s safety and comfort.
Now, on this cold, damp journey, he was heartened by her presence, and touched by the steadfastness she showed in coming with him. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss the misery from her sweet, solemn face. But he would wait until she came to him.
He felt exposed, raw and vulnerable after what he had said to her. Reserved with his innermost feelings, he had found great difficulty in expressing his heart like that. But he had needed to let her know how much he needed her complete loyalty. He harbored a terror that she would leave him, as Jehanne had left him, bereft and alone, in spite of his efforts. He had failed with Jehanne; he had always thought that he had not loved her enough.
But he loved Christian with a passion deeper than he could comprehend. The conflict of loyalty between them frightened her more than it did him. His fear was that she would let their differences ruin what they both needed so much.
He had asked complete devotion and loyalty from her, yet knew he withheld that from her himself. He was not yet ready to reveal his own deepest, most vulnerable feelings. Trust was indeed a difficult thing.
They halted once more to rest the horses, leading them over to drink from a small trickling spring that spilled out of a rocky hillside. Gavin turned to see Christian scoop water with her cupped hands and drink, and then reach upward to stretch her arms and yawn. The sensual curves of her slender body were evident even beneath her tunic and thick cloak.
God, he loved her. The thought struck him like a fist in the center of his belly, a blow of utter truth. He watched her intently, savoring her face, her hands, her graceful movements. She sparked like a bright candle flame in his shadowed heart. He sighed and rubbed his jaw, thinking, and sat on a boulder.
She sat nearby, and they watched the deep, wide burn tumble and rush rapidly over clusters of boulders, its loud gurgle blending with the faint cry of a bird somewhere overhead.
“That’s a falcon,” she said, looking upward. “But I cannot see it now, for the mist.”
He looked up and saw a dark shadow gliding through a drift of fog. “There he goes. Gone to join his mate, perhaps. Or searching for a high place to rest,” he said.
“That is true freedom,” she said, her head tilted back. “See how it flies—oh, and swoops. It is beautiful.”
“Aye,” Gavin said, looking only at her. Then he glanced northward. “We are close to Ayr here, I think.”
“Another league or so that way,” she said, pointing. “If the day were clearer, we could see the church tower from here. But if you mean to take me to a monastery that offers lodging, there is an abbey two leagues east. We would have to ford the burn here. Farther on the water gets too deep.”
He eyed the heavy brown rush of water warily. “Deeper than this? These waters are far too swollen for crossing.” He sighed. “I will have to find a place for you in the town. I did not want to do that. Perhaps you should have turned back.”
She shook her head. “I would have come with you whatever happened.”
He glanced at her. “Why?”
“I was afraid that you would go to Ayr and learn that you are better off without a treacherous Scotswoman for a wife.”
He almost laughed. “Ah. Is that what I’d learn there?”
She shrugged, looking away. “You might.”
He sighed then, sensing that she was very serious. No matter what he did, she still held back from him the full measure of her love and trust—because of Henry and his hatred of the Scots, because of Edward Plantagenet and his damned cage, because of Oliver Hastings and his greed.
She had survived the lung ailment, but the deepest hurts had not yet healed inside of her. He understood that, for he had never fully recovered from the old, painful wounds of loss that he carried in his own heart.
He looked at her. “We will go first to the town, and find an inn for you,” he said. “I will be back for you by tomorrow at eventide. Promise me that you will keep to your room.”
“Are promises good between us again?” she asked quietly.
“Mine always have been,” he said, standing. “Are yours?”
At sundown, she stood by the small window of a loft room in an inn on High Street in Ayr. Opening the wooden shutter to the cool darkness, she inhaled the blend of tangy sea air and the fragrant smoke of the cooking shops. She was not hungry, having finished a hot supper of fresh fish and vegetable stew, and half a loaf of bread, something she enjoyed but had rarely eaten outside of a town. Now she relaxed her shoulder against the wooden window frame and listened to the raucous mingle of sounds.
Church bells pealed out the sundown hour of vespers, and cartwheels squeaked as families and laborers traveled home; men called out greetings to one another and women and children laughed; somewhere a dog barked incessantly. She heard the slam of shutters as the merchants closed up their shop windows at the end of the day.
Laid over it all, she heard the light, mixed chatter of birds. She saw seagulls swooping overhead, but she could hear doves, larks, falcons, even a swan’s trumpet and the odd curdling note of a capercaillie. So many birds caught her curiosity, and she leaned her head out of the window to look for them.
The street was lined with buildings, their sloped wooden or thatched roofs sagging toward one another wherever the houses stood close together. Off to one side she could see the wide part of the street where the market stalls were built, near the market cross at the center of the town. The earthen street was nearly empty now in the gathering dusk. She could still hear the birdcalls, but could not see a dovecote, or any large groups of birds roosting anywhere.
She and Gavin had ridden their horses past the outlaying boundary ditches and through the town gate, traveling past stone and thatch houses and small garden yards on their way toward the more crowded part of the town. Looking for an inn, they had ridden nearly the length of High Street, passing through the market square. The inn they chose was near the marketplace, surrounded by merchants’ houses, the town hall, and the Greyfriars’ church. From her window, Christian could see the long, narrow stone bridge that spanned the River Ayr. A little way along that wide river, the castle was set on a hill overlooking the town.
Gavin had deposited her at the inn with a generous payment in silver coin to the innkeeper. The proprietor’s wife had insisted that the sheets were clean, the mattresses free of fleas, and the meals hot and fresh. Gavin had smiled his thanks, and later had slipped a few silver pennies into the hand of the little serving maid, just to insure the truth of the claim.
He had left Christian at the door of the small upper chamber, reminding her that he would be back by the next evening.
“I have asked the maid to accompany you if you wish to go through the Saturday market tomorrow,” he said. He had handed her a small pouch, heavy with coin. “I am certain there are things you wish to purchase for Kilglassie. But do not go out alone.”
She had nodded, holding his leather pouch, staring up at him. After a moment, he had inclined his head. “My lady. Good night,” he had said, and had turned away.
“God keep you,” she had whispered as the door closed behind him. Then she had rushed to the window to watch him ride down the street toward the castle. She had stayed by the window until the black charger and blue-cloaked rider had become tiny shadows in the dusk, crossing the narrow stone bridge.
She had wanted him to put his arms around her before he had left. A lonely hurt lingered because he had not touched her. Now, long after he had gone, she leaned a shoulder against the window frame and watched the distant blur of Ayr Castle, set on its mound above the wide, calm river.
Gavin was in that castle now, along with Hastings and a full array of men who were the enemies of Scotland. Ayr had tolerated the presence of the English better than some parts of Scotland. Port towns were accustomed to absorbing many cultures—Norse, Irish, Flemish, French, as well as the invading English.
