Only For A Knight (17 page)

 

But Euphemia MacLeod’s place at the high table loomed empty all the same—as it had every morning since Robbie’s arrival.

 

A slight that proved both annoying and an unspeakable relief, for although he harbored no great desire to meet the young woman, neither could he explore possible ways to disentangle himself from their betrothal unless he was first granted the opportunity to speak to her face-to-face.

 

And at the soonest.

 

A thousand pities on her if she continued to thwart him, for he believed he’d found a mutually acceptable solution to their dilemma.

 

One that might persuade her to release him quite swiftly, and amicably.

 

But his burgeoning plan was by no means a possibility that would hold overlong—too many and fair were the maids clamoring for the hands of young, marriage-hungry Clan Douglas men in the south.

 

Knowing it, Robbie adjusted his plaid against a chill draught pouring in through one of the deep-set arrow slits and steeled himself to enter the hall and to face another round of his father’s interpellations and protests.

 

Objections he refused to accept.

 

Indeed, his heart ran wild with possibilities, his hopeful mind refusing to see the lady Euphemia as an insurmountable obstacle. And he certainly wasn’t of a mind to view his flame-haired beauty as a treacherous pit yawning open at his feet.

 

If the saints were kind, the lass would soon acknowledge the inevitability of their attraction, and if the fates were kinder still, the lady Euphemia’s rumored love of prestige and position would be his blessing.

 

Just as his beauty’s disdain for suchlike might prove his greatest challenge.

 

Lifting his shoulders, Robbie rolled them in preparation for the trials ahead. Ne’er had he encountered a more stubborn maid. At times, he’d almost believe she’d prefer sleeping in the damp vaults beneath the keep rather than set foot in the sumptuous chamber she’d been given.

 

Guidsakes, even after receiving an open-armed welcome from all save his father, she kept herself in the background, stubbornly sitting at the lowest end of the hall and going about in borrowed kirtles of fine, but plain-woven cloth, stoutly refusing the finer raiments he knew his stepmother repeatedly offered her.

 

She’d also shown herself quite skillful at secreting herself from view, ofttimes slipping out of the hall so soon as courtesy allowed, and always before Robbie could easily take his own leave of the high table.

 

A feat she seemed to have accomplished already this morn, for like his faceless bride-to-be, the fetching Juliana, so vital and warm, was nowhere in the hall.

 

Just to make certain, Robbie scanned the shadows one more time, scrunching up his eyes to peer through the haze of bluish peat smoke hanging in the air, its dark sweetness even permeating the entrance vestibule, reminding him anew that he was indeed home.

 

His days of traipsing the length and breadth of the realm, sometimes sleeping beneath the roofs of allied clan chieftains, sometimes sharing the bed of a comely, warmhearted tavern wench, more often making his pallet in a comfortable hollow amongst the heather, are now past.

 

But not forgotten—or useless.

 

He’d learned many skills in the years he’d been gone—and made numerous friends.

 

Some of whom he hoped would help relieve him of an unwanted bride. Others whose undoubted capacities as bedmates might now help him woo and win the bride he wanted.

 

If he again gained the opportunity to ply her with those skills!

 

Determined to confront her this very day, and to claim at least one sweet, full-on-the-mouth kiss, Robbie savored the thought of their encounter, wrapping round him all the sensual confidence he’d accrued in his time away.

 

The rough years.

 

But not so turbulent and lonesome as to have been unpalatable.

 

The corners of his mouth tilting upward again, he stretched his arms and flexed his fingers, for once not trying to quell the pleasurable tightening in his loins. Truth be told, a bed in the heather, his naked body wrapped in his plaid and sprawled beneath the stars, had ne’er displeased him.

 

Though not quite the bliss of lying unclothed with a toothsome, well-rounded lass, bodies intimately entwined, he’d found much wonder and gladness on such nights nevertheless. And he’d e’er consider each hour spent so close to the land, a blessing indeed.

 

Memories to be treasured for always.

 

But now new memories stood to be made—just as sure as old ones welcomed and embraced him. Some bore hard on his patience, testing his wits most severely, but others warmed him to the roots of his soul, made him feel a wee lad again.

 

One of those latterly memories, grizzle-headed Fergus, sat nearby on a three-legged stool, a clutch of young squires, fresh-faced and in high-spirits, gathered round him as he regaled them with ancient tales of valor and battle, Highland honor and bloodletting.

 

Robbie watched the old man for a time, his heart smiling as surely as the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The bandy-legged Fergus, Eilean Creag’s longtime seneschal before he’d reluctantly relinquished his duties to his capable wife, Elspeth, appeared not to have aged a day.

 

Unchanged, but still older-looking than stone.

 

And silver-voiced as always.

 

A flaring pitch-pine torch hissed and smoked on the wall above the graybeard’s head, and glancing up at it, he changed the tone of his storytelling from that of braw Highlandmen belting on broadsword and dirk to the more wrenching but oh-so beloved Celtic themes of lost and unrequited love.

 

Deep, heart-piercing tales dredged from the very warp and weft of the Gaelic soul.

 

Robbie winced, deliberately closing his ears.

 

He may be Highland to the bone, mayhap even more so than some, but at the moment he had no stomach for soppy sentimentality.

 

Pretending not to have seen Fergus, Robbie started forward, heading great-strided away from the old man and his audience of eager-eared youths as swiftly as he could. His mind set, he cut his way through the crush of the crowded hall, only breaking stride when he neared his father’s hounds.

 

Large, gray, and shaggy-coated, they slumbered in the glow of the hearth fire, wee Mungo welcomed into their midst, unafraid and content-looking, snug as a flea in a pig’s ear.

 

Once again, Robbie’s body tensed, but not in a pleasurable manner. A light throbbing began at his temples, worsening the longer he stared at the sleeping dogs.

 

He did not want to know how many days, before his return, the loyal animals had been banished to curl together for warmth, huddling in the hall’s darkest corners, damp and shivering with cold.

 

He shuddered, chilled by the thought.

 

Even Roag, his father’s declared favorite and great-grandson of Robbie’s own beloved childhood companion, Mauger, had suffered amongst the banned.

 

Yet now they roamed where they willed again—save on the dais.

 

A discipline the dogs accepted with usual canine grace.

 

Robbie’s mouth curved in satisfaction. Aye, the passing of seven days and nights had made clear the successes of his admittedly untried skills as a dragon slayer.

 

But much more stood to be accomplished.

 

His most fearsome hindrance yet breathed fire and swung a razor-sharp tail, his black glowers even causing any hapless souls yet trapped at the high table to hang their heads and lower their glances in abject submission to the Black Stag’s most virulent whims.

 

“God’s eyes!” Robbie muttered, staring at the morose lot.

 

He quickened his pace, his own face grim-set, his shoulders squared—this was his father at his blackest.

 

A situation best settled at once before it could worsen and refoul the entire hall. But when he reached the high table, the words he’d meant to have with his father froze on his tongue.

 

He’d been sore mistaken.

 

It hadn’t been the Black Stag’s frown that had those sitting round the table looking downward. Nor did his father’s renowned ill temper have aught to do with it.

 

Not at all.

 

Everyone present, including the Black Stag, was simply examining the array of oddities displayed on an opened length of sheepskin spread across the table.

 

Gog-eyed himself now, Robbie stared at the collection of peculiarities. Everything imaginable and
un
imaginable appeared to be on hand.

 

Bundles of dried herbs the dubious likes of which he’d ne’er seen, an assortment of vials, earthen jars, leather-wrapped flagons, and a few less than savory-looking objects, the origin and purpose of which he did not care to speculate on.

 

But someone had to.

 

Using two fingers, he picked up what he hoped to be no more sinister than a dried bat’s wing and dangled the thing in the air.

 

He turned to his father. “What manner of nonsense is this?”

 

The Black Stag shot him a grieved look. “Have a care, laddie,” he said. “You tread dangerous ground if you mishandle such things.”

 

Robbie raised a brow, but the look on his father’s face was enough to make him cease wriggling the thing in midair and let it drop from his fingers.

 

“I thought to find you breaking your fast on cold meats and slaked oatmeal . . . not contemplating a horde of . . .” He trailed off, suppressed a shudder.

 

Warning or no, he couldn’t help drawing his dirk and poking at what looked like a browned and withered finger.

 

“I hope that is a stick?” he asked of no one in particular, not really relishing an answer.

 

“A God’s name, think you any of us can say you what it is? ’Tis
charms
they are, I suppose we could say,” Duncan snapped in response, tossing down a swig of ale, then dragging his sleeve across his mouth. “Though for what purpose, I canna tell you.”

 

Robbie raked a hand through his hair. “I am not sure I’d wish to know.”

 

His father snorted. “You ought be interested for amongst these
enchantments
is a cure for your bride-to-be’s ailing—or so we are told.”

 

Ignoring that, Robbie dropped onto the trestle bench and demonstratively reached for a large wooden bowl of oatmeal. “And where did these . . . eh . . . treasures come from?”

 

“From old Devorgilla herself,” Sir Marmaduke put in from the end of the table. “You would be wise not to rumple your nose too vigorously over that one’s offerings. The crone sent them in honor of your wedding.”

 

Robbie all but choked on his slaked oats.

 

“The Devorgilla?”
He stared round. “Clan MacLean’s fabled
cailleach
?”

 

Sir Marmaduke nodded.

 

“The very one—the most revered wisewoman in the Isles, or so it is claimed,” he confirmed, smearing a thick layer of honey onto a bannock.

 

Looking up, he narrowed his good eye at Robbie. “Since you’ve heard tell of her, you will know that her gifts are not to be taken lightly . . . or shunned.”

 

Unable to keep a tremor of humbled respect, or mayhap trepidation, from tumbling down his spine, Robbie eyed the bundled herbs and spelling goods with new esteem.

 

“And how did the cailleach learn that I am . . . er . . .
was
to wed? How did these things find their way here? The Isle of Doon lies far to the south and I’ve heard the crone seldom leaves its shores.”

 

Sir Marmaduke held up a hand, washed down his bannock with a long swallow of frothy heather ale.

 

“’Tis said there is naught under the Hebridean skies that old Devorgilla is not aware of,” he said, setting down the ale cup. “All the more reason to pay close heed to her attentions when she bestows them.”

 

“But how did—”

 

“No mumbled magical nonsense sent those . . .
charms
a-sailing through the night and onto this high table, you can be sure,” his father said, sending a hot glance at Sir Marmaduke as if to quell any rebuttals he might wish to make. “They came here delivered by fair and gentle hands. Your Aunt Caterine arrived from Doon late last night, and it was she who brought these healing herbs and suchlike from Devorgilla—the cailleach told Lady Caterine she knew that your bride-to-be is in need of special healing.”

 

“Lady Caterine is here?” Robbie ignored the reference to his betrothed.

 

He glanced round the table, thinking he might have missed Lady Caterine, but his stepmother’s sister and Sir Marmaduke’s lady wife proved as glaringly absent as all the other womenfolk of the castle.

 

“Where is she then? And my stepmother?”

 

“They are in the herbarium, sorting through yet more such
gifts
old Devorgilla sent along to us.” Duncan indicated the spelling goods with a not quite but almost derisive wave of his hand. “If I heard aright the cailleach explained to Lady Caterine which herbs and potions would best heal your bride-to-be’s wheezing and ease her coughs—if such seizures can even be cured.”

 

“If?”
Sir Marmaduke looked down the table. “You would be well cautious not to doubt, my friend. I do not.”

 

Leaning sideways to catch the light of a nearby torch, the Sassunach ran a finger down the scar seaming his once-handsome face. At one time angrily red and puckered, now naught but a faded silvery line marred his noble visage.

 

A remnant of a troubled time, beginning at his left temple and ending at the right corner of his mouth—the scar’s worst legacy, its taking of his left eye.

 

Clearly at peace with his face, and his life, Sir Marmaduke gave his old friend his best comradely smile.

 

“Even you, with all your blusters and airs, cannot deny the improved appearance of my scar in recent years?” He placed the flat of his hand on the table, leaned forward to stare at Duncan. “To be sure, your lady wife’s so kindly proffered jars of ragwort ointment have helped, but it was Devorgilla’s special potion that truly made the difference.”