Forever Her Champion (3 page)

Gaius shook his head. “My father always wanted a grandchild. He will like having her about.”

Theodosia didn’t know what to say; she was coming to think that, indeed, the gods knew of her plight and had brought Gaius into her life at precisely the correct time. Was it even possible that all of this could be true? She would soon find out.

Gaius and his father, Agrippus, lived like two bachelors on a very large farm. There was plenty of work to be done and Theodosia wasn’t afraid to learn. In fact, she rather liked it. Gaius taught her to cook and to milk goats, to press wine and make flour. Theodosia learned quickly. She soon came to love her new life and, in time, love for Gaius bloomed as well. A truly good-hearted man who readily accepted Lucia, Theodosia knew that the decision to leave her parents’ home had been the best decision she had ever made. She knew that Lucius would have approved.

With the introduction of Gaius, the ring that Lucius had given her those years ago once again turned a deep, rich crimson and would remain so until the day Theodosia passed it on to Lucia on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Fortunately for Lucia, the ring would turn crimson two years later at the introduction of a certain young soldier who happened to cross her path.

The ring of Lucius’ family, the ring of true love or of lost love, continued to live on through the ages, passed down from Lucia to her daughter, and from her daughter onward. The story of the ring was also passed along with it, an oral tradition for the female members of the family, and through the centuries, the eldest daughter of each generation would hold great hope that the ring would turn crimson for her. Somewhere along the line, it was said that if one spoke the words inscribed upon the ring,
with dreams only of you
, that a lover would appear within a fortnight. Many a young woman believed in those words. Many a young woman was rewarded for that belief.

But a few were not. No one could be sure why those spellbound words sometimes worked or sometimes didn’t, or why love would turn the stone to crimson and heartache would turn it to black, but it didn’t really matter. It was a glorious tradition within the females of the family and the mystery of the crimson-stoned ring continued to brand Theodosia’s descendants with its particular kind of magic.

The lore of the Lucius Ring lived on.

N
othing
good ever came in the dark of night.

Valeriana knew this, even at the age of four. Monsters only invaded your dreams at night, or Brownies and fey fairies came to steal little girls from their families. Her mother had told her this just that very night when Valeriana complained at bedtime. Hours later, when she woke to the raspy sound of her father’s voice, to the worry in his eyes, she knew something terrible had happened.

“Wheest, child,” her father whispered harshly. ’Twas not anger in his voice, but worry blended with the illness he’d been battling for days. His handsome face looked ashen, and eyes that typically sparkled with mirth were dim and glassy. His dark hair was a mess, resembling the feathers on a rooster after battling a fox in the hen house.

“But why must we leave?” she begged for an answer as he scooped her into his arms. “And why cannae ye go with us?” Her papa was her entire world. He was her hero, her champion. The thought of leaving without him made her stomach hurt.

Her father pressed her close to his chest, ignoring her pleas. “There be no time to pack everythin’,” he told her mother, who was shoving some of Valeriana’s clothes into a bag. “Ye’ll nae be gone that long.”

“If ye think ye’re sendin’ me clear across the world without a change of clothes, ye be sadly mistaken!” Her mother did not look happy. But then, she rarely ever looked happy.

Taking her mother literally, the child asked, “Why are we goin’ across the world, Papa?”

Doing his best to soothe away her worry, he tried to explain. “’Tis nae across the world, I promise. ’Twill only be fer a few days. Weeks at most. I need ye to be brave. Can ye do that for me?”

Nodding rapidly, she swiped away a tear. “Like ye, papa? Ye want me to be brave like ye?”

He gave her a warm smile and a pat on the back. “Aye, lass, like me.”

“Can I take my pony?” she asked as her father draped her wool cloak around her little shoulders.

“Nay, child, ye cannae take yer pony. But ye’ll be home soon and can see him then.”

With her small arms twined tightly around his neck, she buried her face against his shoulder. “But who will take care of him?” She didn’t want to leave her home, her pony, or her father. “Have I made ye mad? Is that why ye’re sendin’ me away?”

She heard his breath hitch as he choked on a sob. “Nay, lass!” he exclaimed. “Ye’ve done nary a thing wrong, my sweeting.”

“Then why do we have to leave?”

From across the room, she heard her mother let loose an exasperated sigh. “Fer the sake of Christ, will ye be quiet, child?”

An overwhelming sense of dread draped over Valeriana’s wee heart. Where her father was patient, her mother was often frustrated with her. Her papa had never paddled her bottom when she asked too many questions. When her mother sent her to bed without supper, ’twas always her papa who came to her with a meal. Being sent away without him was a terrifying prospect.

“Damn it, Ronna!” her father ground out. “She is just a child! She is afraid and confused.”

Ignoring him, as she often did, her mother stuffed one more dress into a satchel and stomped toward the door. Impatient and angry, she said, “If we do nae leave now, we’ll soon all be dead.”

Standing to his full height, with Valeriana in his arms, he hugged her one last time. “Dunnae worry, my sweeting. I shall come fer ye soon. Jean Luc will be yer champion now.”

Although she adored her uncle, Jean Luc, she did not want him to be her champion. She wanted her papa.

Moments later, her father was tucking an old, soft doll into her arms. Valeriana’s eyes grew big and round with excitement. Made of soft linen, the doll wore a pale green dress. Her hair was made of hemp, and she had blue eyes sewn with silk threads that were beginning to unravel. But Valeriana didn’t care, for ’twas a gift from her papa. “Do I get to keep her, Papa?” she asked as she hugged it close to her chest.

Her father offered her a warm yet brief smile. “Aye, my daughter, ye do. But I need ye to listen carefully to me. Can ye do that?”

Growing serious, she gave a rapid nod of her head. “Aye, Papa, I can.”

They were alone in her room while her father explained. “Ne’er let it out of yer sight. The doll is verra old and verra important, lass. If anythin’ were to happen to it …” He took in a deep ragged breath. His forehead glistened in the low candlelight. “I love ye, Valeriana, more than ye’ll e’er ken.” Kissing the top of her head, he headed toward the door.

“Papa, can I show Maire?” Maire was by far her most cherished friend. She belonged to the stable master and Kate, a woman who worked in the laundry.

“No, lass, ye cannae show it to anyone. ’Tis verra important to keep it a secret.”

A secret? She’d never been entrusted with a secret before, save for one she was keeping for Maire.

“And fer the sake of Chr-” he paused, his breathing labored as if it was taking every ounce of will to keep speaking, to keep going, “ne’er let yer mum ken ye have it, lass. ’Twill be our secret, yers and mine. Promise me lass, that ye’ll nae tell a soul, livin’ or dead.”

It must be very , she decided, especially if he didn’t want her mother to know. As they made their way through the dark corridors of the keep, Valeriana vowed to keep her promise to her father.

At such a tender age, she could not begin to understand the importance of this night or the doll or how either one would effect every moment of her life henceforth. In time, her memory of that night would fade like fog in the morning sun, to the point where she’d not know if it had truly happened or if it were the imaginings of a lonely little girl.

R
ianna Coultier was so
close to finding her birth father, it made her fingers tingle with jubilant anticipation. If only God would finally smile upon her and bless her with a way to get to Allistair Castle. If she owned a horse, she could be there in four short days. But as it was, she didn’t; thus her only option was to walk. A walk that, if she were to survive it, would take more than a week.

’Twas, to say the least, far too dangerous a journey to make on her own. As poor as a church mouse, she could only hope to beg passage with a tinker or someone else of that ilk.

It had taken her a year to make her way to Inverness. A year of living hand to mouth — something she was quite accustomed to — as she made her way from Glasgow to where she now stood: just outside the Blue Boar Tavern in Inverness. Her empty stomach growled with hunger. She’d spent her last siller on a meat pie the day before. If she didn’t find employment soon, she’d starve before she ever made it to her father’s home.

The taverns she had already visited that day had no need of a penniless young woman to wash the dishes or clean up after the drunkards. Ever hopeful, she smoothed the wrinkles from her worn but serviceable green dress, and took a deep breath. To her bones she could feel that her luck was about to change, though there was no sane way to explain the sensation to anyone.

Just as she was about to open the door, a loud commotion came from within. Curses, the sounds of breaking furniture: the tell-tell signs that a brawl had broken out. ’Twas not her first experience with drunken melees. Instinct born from working in taverns just like this bid her take a few steps back and to the side, for at any moment, the owner of the tavern would be tossing some poor, drunken lout out on his arse.

To a certain extent, she had guessed correctly. Moments after she stepped aside, a rather large, blonde-headed man came crashing through the door, splintering it to pieces. But he was not alone.

He’d brought three equally large men with him.

They tumbled into the muddy street in a jumbled mess of twisted arms and legs. Rianna could only watch as the three men fought hard to subdue the blonde.

One of the men let out a loud growl as he yanked his arm away. “The bloody bastard bit me!”

The sickening sound of a fist against flesh and bone made her wince in disgust. Who hit whom, she could not rightly say. A moment later, the question was answered when blood began to ooze from the nose of one of the three men.

After much grunting, kicking, and well-chosen blows, the blonde man’s head fell back into the mud with a thud. A long moment passed while the three men slowly let loose their holds on the young man. His chest heaved mightily, his body limp, bloody and covered in mud.

Unable to resist the urge to take a step closer, Rianna gazed down at the drunkard. Mud-caked blonde hair stuck to the left side of his face. A trail of blood streamed from his mouth and nose, blending with the sweat and mud. He looked a horrible sight.

The last of the three men stood and shook the cobwebs from his head. “Ye bloody bastard,” he mumbled right before kicking the man in the thigh. “Ye’ll rot in the goal fer this.”

A nagging sensation built in the back of her mind. There was something familiar about the man lying on the ground. Mayhap she had served him once, in another tavern in another town.

As the three men pulled him to his feet, his head lolled from side to side. ’Twas then she saw something that stole her breath away in one moment, only to have her heart begin a rapid tattoo the next.

Along the right side of his neck, just under his chin, was a crescent shaped scar.
Nay, it could not be him.

How many blonde men possessed such a scar? Stepping closer, with mouth agape, she studied his face as best she could. ’Twas too difficult to tell, what with all the mud and blood.

But then he opened his eyes. Indigo blue eyes, as dark as the night sky in mid winter.

Aiden Macgullane.

* * *

L
ong forgotten
memories bubbled to the surface, taking her back to her childhood.

She was six years old again. A lonely little girl with a mother who paid little attention to her, for she was too wrapped up in her own misery. They’d been living in
Ardanaiseig —
a little fishing village on the western cost of Scotia. They’d been there less than a fortnight. Rianna had tried making friends with the other children, but to no avail. They’d have nothing to do with her. She was as poor as the day was long and illegitimate to boot, so the parents of these children had forewarned them not to play with her.

Left out once again from the games children played, Rianna sat on the ground near the loch, wiping tears from her eyes. Miserable and missing her father — the father she could now barely remember and was never allowed to talk about in front of her mother — she cried quietly.

’Twas then she met him. A boy of eleven, with hair the color of sun-bleached linen and the darkest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

“What be the matter, lassie?” he asked as he plopped down beside her.

Embarrassed and not wanting to sound like a bairn, she chose not to answer.

“I be Aiden Macgullane,” he told her as he grabbed a pebble and tossed it into the water. “What be yers?”

“Rianna,” she told him as she gave him a sideways glance. ’Twas an easier question than his first.

“That be a right pretty name for a right pretty girl.”

Trust had never been easy for Rianna. Not since the night her father had sent her away and broken his promise to come for her soon. In the two years after that terrifying night, she had learned more cold hard truths than any six-year-old little girl ought to know. People would pretend to be your friends, only to turn their backs on you when you needed them most.

“Now, wee one, tell me why ye’re cryin’.”

“I was nae cryin’,” she argued.

Aiden tossed another pebble into the loch. “I ken how unkind the children here can be,” he told her. “I have pet badgers that be friendlier.”

Her eyes grew wide with astonished curiosity. “Badgers?” she asked. “Ye jest.”

“Nae, I’ve befriended badgers,” he told her. “An entire family of them. I’ve even named them.”

“Ye have?”

With a nod, he said, “Aye. I named them after all the past kings of Scotland. I call the ugliest one James the Third.”

As a little girl, Rianna knew very little about politics or kings. But she knew enough to find his jest humorous and to let loose with her first belly laugh in an age. There was no great love for their current king, James III.

Thus began a friendship between two lonely children.

Less than a year later, Rianna would run through the rainy streets of
Ardanaiseig
, sobbing uncontrollably. They were moving yet again.

“Aiden!” she had cried when she reached the door to his hut. Pounding as hard as she could, she cried out for him. “Aiden!”

When he finally opened the door, his eye was swollen shut behind a hideous dark purple bruise. Momentarily forgetting her own pain, she asked him what had happened, even though she already knew the answer. His father had been angry and drunk again and, as the mean old man was oft want to do, he took his anger out on his only son.

“Are ye well?” she asked him, knowing in advance that he would not admit to being in any pain.

“Aye,” he answered quietly before stepping outside. “Why are ye cryin?”

Sniffling, she wiped away her tears. “We be movin’ again,” she told him.

Rianna was forced back to the here and now when an exceedingly intoxicated man stepped out of the tavern. Apparently unable to see her through his whisky-induced stupor, he stumbled into her.

With slurred words, he asked if she might like to take a tumble in the stables. Rolling her eyes, she ignored his ribald remark and began to pursue Aiden Macgullane

* * *

A
s far as plans went
, it was not necessarily a bad one. With a mother such as Ronna Coultier, Rianna had learned early on how to save her own hide, as well as her mother’s, on multiple occasions.

In a narrow and dank alley away from the center of town, she prepared her speech, affected an accent that belied her upbringing, and carefully placed a rolled blanket under her dress to give the appearance she was with child. Next, she donned a white kerchief to use as a kerch to give more credence to the roll she would play: Aiden Macgullane’s poor and bereft wife.

Believing she was as ready as she would ever be, she set out for the goal. Her stomach continued to growl with hunger and, for once, she was glad for the feeling. It would help lend credence to her role.

The goal sat near the center of town, an ancient building made of dark gray stone that seemed to scream of depression, fear, and heartache. Taking a deep breath, Rianna lifted the latch and stepped inside.

’Twas just as dark and dreary as she had imagined. A cold brazier sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by squat little stools. Ahead of the brazier, behind a narrow, dilapidated table sat a middle-aged man with long dark hair. Assuming he was the sheriff, Rianna painted a pitiful look upon her face before approaching him.

“Are ye the sheriff? I be Rianna Macgullane, wife of Aiden Macgullane. I’ve been told ye have him here, that ye just brought him from the Boar’s Head Tavern for public drunkenness and lord only kens what else.” She spoke quickly, giving him no time to respond or ask a question of his own. The more she spoke, the more perplexed he appeared, just as she had hoped he would. “He be a blonde man, with blue eyes and a wont for drinkin’ and fightin’.”

“Lass,” he said when she finally paused to take a breath, “what on earth are ye ramblin’ on about?” A crease had formed on his brow, his lips drawn into a hard, thin line.

“I be talkin’ about me husband,” she said, affecting the image of a poor and submissive woman.

The sheriff was growing impatient with her. “And who might yer husband be?”

“Aiden. Aiden Macgullane,” she replied demurely. “I was told ye brought him here this morn, fer fightin’ at the Boar’s Head.”

Sudden awareness set in; she could see it in his expression. “Aye, we did. As drunk as the day is long and just as angry,” the sheriff replied as a deep scowl began to form. “He’s been arrested and awaits his trial.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her. “Be gone with ye now. Ye can visit him on Sunday.”

Mustering up a few tears, Rianna began to plead with the sheriff, to show her
husband
mercy. “The poor man,” she said with a pitiful frown and shake of her kerch-covered head. “He has nae been the same, ye ken, nae since the battle of Lochmaben Fair.” Intentionally, she shivered at the name of that fierce battle when rebels loyal to Alexander Steward and James Douglas attempted to overthrow James III. “Captured by the English, my poor husband was. A prisoner for two long years. Tortured he was. He suffered things no man should ever endure. He has nae been the same since. He managed to escape a year ago and return to me and our children, but he was nae the same man as when he’d left.”

The sheriff stared in astonishment. “He was at Lochmaben Fair?” he asked, his voice a blend of awe and horror.

“Aye,” she told him with a sniffle. “Ye heard of it?” She asked the question innocently, but she knew his answer before he replied.

“Who has nae heard of it?” He stood and came around to help her into the chair next to his table. “Who did he fight with?”

“The Gordons,” she told him. “But bein’ a woman and mother of three, I do nae pay much attention to such things. All I ken is that me husband was captured by the English and—” she broke into sobs then, feigning hurt as well as ignorance.

“There, there, lass,” the sheriff said, patting her shoulder as if he were a thoughtful father to her. “Do nae cry o’er it. Yer husband be home now, away from the bloody English, aye?” He smiled warmly — momentarily forgetting he was the sheriff and not some doting father trying to console his daughter.

“Aye, but now he be
here,
in yer goal, a prisoner once again,” she pointed out between sobs.