Both of which he despised. Even his hair felt too confined, its dark auburn hank bound at the back of his neck by a remnant of the torn yellow silk. Altogether discomforting, was this grand chivalric posturing. But necessary.
As soon as he established the fact that he was a knight to these people of Byelough Keep, he would change back into his breacan and be damned to them all if they thought him common.
Being a baron’s son had never counted for much in his life, but he did feel pride in his newly earned title of Sir. The least he could do was make a good first impression.
“This way,” the priest said, beckoning Alan toward the sturdy oak portal at the back of the hall. “Milady’s solar,” he explained.
“Sir Alan of Strode, the lady Honor,” Father Dennis announced in his low-pitched voice. “He comes from your lord husband, milady.”
Alan’s stomach clenched with apprehension as the lady raised her gaze from her needlework. Eyes the color of a dove’s breast regarded him with bright curiosity. Her dark brows rose like graceful wings. The small, straight nose quivered slightly as her rose petal mouth stretched into a blinding, white smile. He stood entranced, just as he had expected to. Tavish was ever an apt one for description, and Lady Honor proved no exaggeration. Alan thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Perfect.
“You are well come, good sir. Pray, how fares my husband?” She rose from behind the large embroidery frame and came to meet him, holding out her hands.
Her heavy, voluminous overgown hid her form. It caused her to appear a wee bit stout despite the daintiness of her face, neck and hands. Nonetheless, her movements proved graceful as a doe’s. Alan released a sigh of pure pleasure in the mere seeing of her.
“My lord husband has been detained?” she asked, her soft speech as welcoming as her smile. He supposed the speaking of French most of her life had mellowed it so, though she spoke the more gutteral English with hardly any accent. He recalled her father was a Scot, a baron and a highly educated man. Living at the French court a goodly part of her life would have exposed her to many languages. Tavish had boasted of her accomplishments. A woman of vast charm and keen wits, he had said.
Alan cradled her soft palms, raising her fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, reluctant to release her. She smelled as heaven must, of rose water and absolute cleanliness. The woman radiated gentleness and contentment; a contentment he must now destroy. God’s own truth, how he hated this task.
Placing her palms together, he encased them in his own and shook his head sadly. “Because I stood his friend and comrade-at-arms, Tavish bade me bring ye all his love, Lady Honor. His last thoughts were of ye.”
“No!” she cried, snatching her hands from his. A fiery epithet scorched the air between them. A French word, if memory served him, and one that ought not be uttered in the presence of a priest. Surely he had misheard, but that and others like it were the only French he knew.
He watched her, in awe of the change. She paced frantically, kicking her heavy skirts forward. Her palms slammed against the needlework frame, scattering skeins of silk thread the length of the room. Then she marched smartly back to where he stood and cracked her palm against his newly shaved cheek.
Alan stood fast, hurting for her as he saw her fury dissolve into grief.
The young priest hovered uncertainly as Alan took the lady in his arms, cradling her lightly against him, muttering softly in Gaelic. He held her loosely as she repeatedly pounded one small fist against his silk-covered mail. By the rood, how he had dreaded doing this, and ’twas worse even than he had expected.
He shot the priest a look of helplessness over the top of her head. “Father Dennis, a posset to soothe?” he suggested, hoping to stir the befuddled young fool into action. Some priest, this one. Unmoving as a standing stone and about as much use. “Th’ lass is overset! Bestir yerself!”
“No! No posset!” she said, shoving away. “I’ll hear this now. All of it.” Savagely, she wiped her face with the edge of her linen undersleeve and sniffed loudly. Within seconds, she had composed herself and raised her brave wee chin. Large, luminous eyes brimmed with more tears, which she refused to let fall. Her braw courage near cracked his heart in twain.
“Come you,” she ordered briskly. She grasped Alan’s wrist with both hands, guided him to the padded window seat and pushed him onto it. She remained standing so they were near eye to eye. “Now you will tell me. Father Dennis, would you see to—” She paused to draw a deep breath. “See to my lord’s remains?”
Alan shook his head, looking from her to the priest. “I did that already. He bides little more than a league away, ’twixt the Tweed and a wee burn. That’s what he wished.”
The winged brows drew together in a scowl. “Not home to Byelough? Why?”
“He didna want ye seeing him as he was. I promised.”
She gulped, touching her chin to her chest. “How...how was he, then?”
“Met death as he met life, head up and leanin‘ forward. ’Tis all ye need know.”
“Devil curse you, sir! I would know it all. Everything. I must!” she demanded, biting her lips and wringing her hands together. A visible shudder ran through her, but then she braced up like a soldier.
Alan drew her to the wide seat and pulled her down beside him. Looking directly into her tear-brimmed eyes, he gave exactly what she asked for. “Toward the end of the fight, an English blade took Tav’s leg ‘twixt knee and hip. I tied it off and put fire to seal it soon as I could strike one up. Then I found an English baggage wain to cart him home. He died four days ago. I gave him what solace I could, my lady. Ye gave him more, I’m thinking, if ’tis any comfort at all. He loved ye well and worried for ye.”
She absorbed the words in silence, her fingernails biting his palms, her eyes searching his. Suddenly she nodded, released his hands, and stood, dismissing him. “Stay to sup and sleep in the hall. Tomorrow you may take me to him.”
“Aye, and glad to,” Alan agreed. Then he reached into the lining of the English surcoat and pulled out the folded message from Tavish. “He sent ye this.”
She thumbed the broken seal and frowned. “You have read it?”
“Nay, I swear not. The Bruce did so agin my wishes, but he strongly approved the words. Made them his own command and bade me tell ye to obey. Immediately, he said.”
The lady seemed not to hear as her gaze flew over the message. Disbelief dawned on her face, then contorted the fair features into something approaching horror.
The troubled gray eyes flew to his and narrowed with suspicion. “You wrote this! Oh, it bears Tavish’s name and is signed by his hand, but you made the rest. Foul! And you call yourself his friend? Shame on you to use a dying man for your own gain!”
“Lady, I did not...could not,” Alan protested, looking to the priest for help. “I swear!”
“You did! See how the lines waver, not his fine, steady letters at all!” Her forefinger punched viciously at the crinkled parchment.
“Pain and fever racked him as he made the marks,” Alan explained. “On my soul and all that’s holy, Lady, I canna write! I canna even read! God’s truth, I dinna lie. I never lie!”
Lady
