Tangled Hearts (24 page)

“On the narrow part,” a little voice came from beside her. She glanced down to see Margery, hidden in the folds of a shawl. Smart girl, staying close. Dory smiled. Unwilling to part with the scrap of plaid balled up in her hand, she pulled a blue ribbon from her pocket and tied it around the thin steel just below the blade. Her eyes met Ewan’s with a silent plea to be careful. Thunder rumbled overhead.

A grin broke his serious features. “Och lass, Highlanders are forged in the mountains. Keep the tears at bay.” He glanced upward, meaning rain. He nudged Gaoth to sidle close to her and reached over the fence to close the distance between them. Several gasps in the gallery made it apparent that this was not done.

“
Mo ghaol ort gu brath
,” he whispered, his gauntleted hand pulling her close for a warm kiss.

She didn’t know the Gaelic words, but the tone was the same as his oath before. As he released her the crowd erupted in cheers. With an unseen signal, Gaoth high-stepped backward until Ewan could turn him to return to the line.

James took her elbow. “We should return to our seats.” His voice was low, stern, as if the kiss had somehow been undignified. Her senses funneled through him from the touch. Interesting.

Several other combatants came forward to receive favors from the ladies, though none other had demanded a kiss. When O’Neil nudged his horse forward he rode straight toward her.

“He wouldn’t,” she whispered.

“Bloody devil,” James said beside her as the man stopped at the fence where Ewan had. He tipped his lance forward, and she had the urge to send lightning down to blow him off his mount. Instead she turned her head away, a definite slight.

The audience booed, at her or him she wasn’t sure, but laughter echoed from inside his mask. “You will wish you had shown me a kindness later today,” he yelled and rode back to the lineup.

“The devil I will,” Dory seethed and dug her fingers into the scrap.

More trumpets climbed the melodic scale, and the line of combatants paraded to the stables as the first pair was called. Two Englishman rode at each other, one hitting the other right in the chest, sending him reeling backward over his horse’s rump. He fell in a heap of metal and flesh on the ground. Despite the cheers, Dory felt a sickening in the pit of her stomach. She glanced at Jane, who held a handkerchief over her lips.

The squires ran to catch the reins of the two horses as the still-seated combatant dismounted and took up his sword. The one on the ground was given time to stand and his squire brought his sword, but it only took two challenges by the winning knight to knock him down. A trumpet was blown, halting the action.

The crowd cheered as the victor remounted and rode around the ring to the stables.

“Will he fight again?”

“Yes, after each pair has fought, the winners will face one another.”

Dory’s breath hitched in her chest as Ewan rode forward, his helmet in place. Could he even see? He was a warrior used to fighting in leather armor, not the heavy, stiff steel now cloaking every inch of his body. And his horse was used to a lighter burden. Her stomach twisted and she forced herself to breathe.

Another rider, not O’Neil, came forward to meet him. Dear Lord, please…

The horses lined up, one on each end. She saw the flutter of her blue ribbon around Ewan’s lance as he brought it level with the packed ground just steps away from where the first combatant’s blood splattered the straw.

A blast came from the horn and Gaoth leapt forward, nostrils flaring, fire in his eyes. Ewan stood, leaning forward into the momentum, as did the other knight. The distance closed too fast.
Crash
! The other knight’s lance shattered into a thousand splinters against Ewan’s chest plate. Ewan leaned backward, but kept his seat.

“Sit down,” James said and pulled her back to the bench. She hadn’t realized that she’d stood. “And don’t curse,” he whispered. His breath was as foul as she feared his heart. The hairs on Dory’s nape tickled upward at the feel of his words against her ear. She needed some distance from him.

“Perhaps you should walk about, stretch that injured knee,” Dory said, and rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms. She watched Ewan trot to the end to ride again. “Which one was it again?”

She glanced at him as he tried to remember which he’d told her.

“My right,” he said with confidence.

“Hmmm… You rubbed your left before.” She lied but liked the uncertainty in his eyes and the stain of red in his cheeks. He shifted away as if distance might hide the truth from her. Dory’s senses had told her very plainly that both his knees were healthy. He was a liar, and although his problematic knee might just be a tale to get him out of the tournament, it might be more.

Crash! Thud!

She snapped back around to the field and released her breath. The other combatant lay on the ground as his horse trotted toward the stables. The squires ran out with swords and Ewan dismounted.

Despite the earlier hit, he walked with marked strength. Her heart thudded in time with his stride. Ewan waited for the other man to stand.

“That’s Pembroke’s son, John,” James said.

“He took that fall well.”

John took two strides and struck at Ewan quickly, perhaps trying to catch him off guard. Ewan sidestepped, turned, and with a powerful kick in the back, sent the young man flying across the yard.

“Unconventional,” James murmured as John rose to charge back. James shook his head. “That’s the difference right there between a rash youth and an experienced warrior.” John swung a mace he’d grabbed from his squire. Ewan again sidestepped the spiky steel ball and brought his sword across the man’s middle. The ladies around her gasped. Fans waved at Beatrice Pembroke, who had fainted at watching her son take a mortal blow.

James didn’t move as Dory tried to breathe. The young Pembroke lay still. His father stood, walking with hands fisted toward the fence.

“Damn,” James said. “They shouldn’t let the untrained play. I think you just made a very powerful enemy.”

Dory started to rise. She could help the boy. “I need to go down there.”

James grabbed her wrist. “Let the men take care of this mess.”

“Let go of me.” She was about to utter some words he’d probably never heard from a lady’s mouth when the hushed crowd erupted in cheers.

“Good lord,” James murmured, forgetting about her wrist.

Dory took in the field. Ewan stood and offered a hand down to John Pembroke. Amazingly the man took it and Ewan helped him stand. What had looked like a fatal slash had been just enough to double the youth over. As he stood, his father reached him and pulled his helmet off. His son’s face was pale and scrunched in pain, probably from a few broken ribs. His father proceeded to speak rapidly to him, nodded stiffly to Ewan, and led John off the field. The trumpet blew for Ewan to claim his victory. He sheathed his sword and strode to Gaoth, who stood ready next to Searc.

“Damn good luck that chain mail held,” James said.

An older man in front of them turned to Dory. “Blimey if that wasn’t the skill of the Scot that saved the lad’s life. That husband of yours didn’t step into the cut, just swung, as if he knew the amount of force to win but not kill. Now that’s a gentleman.”

Dory smiled at the older man. “He is a gentleman. Thank you.”

The man doffed his hat and nodded at her. The twinkle in his eyes reminded her of Captain Bart.

Dory’s stomach squeezed as she watched Julian O’Neil knock his first opponent off and then finish him with a sword blow to the head. The man was carried off, though he wasn’t announced as being killed. O’Neil bowed to her after he raised his mittened hands in victory.

“When will this be over?” she asked.

“It can be long,” James said. “Would you prefer to return to the great hall?”

Something reflected on the far side of the joust yard, and she saw Searc’s father standing near a copse of trees talking with a few other rugged looking men. “No, I will stay out here.” Maybe she should walk over there, but then Ewan wouldn’t see her if he came back out. She didn’t want anything to pull away his concentration. “Can I go to the stables?” she asked.

“Only men are allowed and only if they have a reason to be there.”

Dory ground her teeth. “I will stay then.” She stretched her legs out and her arms. Her long sleeve rode up.

“What an unusual mark,” James said. “A dragonfly?”

Dory yanked her sleeve back into place. “’Tis just a birthmark.”

He was silent for a moment. “Your mother had one. My brother said it was on her hip. He thought it odd. I can see why.” He seemed to shiver. Revulsion?

“Feel free to leave,” she said through tight lips.

“Ah, my dear. I would never abandon you. But it would be wise not to show that to just anyone.”

“Wouldn’t want to tarnish the family name,” she said loud enough for him to hear.

So her mother had a similar mark. Had she possessed magic? If she did, how could she have let herself die after her birth? Perhaps she didn’t know how to use the power. In this repressed society there was probably little chance for her to practice using any power she might have had.

The trumpet blew, announcing the next set of combatants. Ewan’s red and gray plaid flag pulled Dory forward once again. She held her breath as she waited. Like a rock sinking into the deep ocean, her heart fell as Julian O’Neil’s Raven banner followed. Behind the armor she couldn’t see his arrogant smile or the promise of a long, prolonged death in his eyes. But the eye guard of his helmet turned toward her. Pain made her rub a hand against her bodice, barely reaching her stomach through the stays. Would it tarnish Lord Wellington’s name if she vomited all over him?

Dory wrapped the scrap of plaid around her finger tighter until the tip went numb.

“Let us step closer to the fence,” James said, “so we can better watch O’Neil’s defeat.”

The trumpeter was calling the beginning of the final round of jousts. Her heart pounded with the drums signaling that it was time for the combatants to prepare themselves.

“Ewan,” she called, which was quickly followed by James’s shush. Ewan turned Gaoth in a tight circle, his visor raised, eyes searching for her. He stopped. Totally encased in armor, his gaze spoke louder than any posture or gesture.

“I will win,” he assured her.

“You will win,” she said.

“
Mo ghaol ort gu brath.
” He spoke with such intensity, such determination that she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She nodded even without understanding the meaning of his words.

The crowd around them had stilled, several ladies with their hands to their hearts.

“Bloody hell,” a deep voice murmured behind her, a deep voice with a Scottish brogue. She looked over her shoulder at a tall warrior with dark hair pulled back. He frowned over bare crossed arms, his gaze lowering to her. “Who are ye that Ewan Brody swears to love ye forever?”

Love? He’d said love? She glanced back at the field where Ewan had taken his place opposite O’Neil.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” James asked indignantly.

“Family,” the man answered, his accent giving away his Scottish heritage. The man shouldered his way to the fence. Dory’s gaze followed Gaoth’s back leg where a small cut showed dried blood.

“Is Gaoth hurt?” she asked.

The Scot looked out. “A scratch. Why is Ewan Brody in tin? Who are ye?”

Dory’s eyes continued to follow the lines of Ewan’s form, looking for any indication that he was hurt like his mount, but the armor hid everything. She nearly shook in frustration.

“If he falls I can help him,” she whispered to the Scot who somehow knew Ewan. His grim expression didn’t fill her with confidence. “If he is family to you and he’s injured, you must get me to him.”

“No you won’t,” James retorted. “Women are not allowed on the field. What a ridiculous request.”

Dory couldn’t retort, she could hardly breathe. The horn blasted and the horses leapt forward. Hooves like thunder, lances leveled, the combatants leaned forward in their seats. She swore Gaoth practically roared… or was that Ewan?

As Ewan learned forward, his foot pressed down hard in the stirrups. A heartbeat before his point struck O’Neil’s breastplate, the stirrup strap snapped.

Ewan dropped, missing O’Neil at the same moment the bastard’s lance slammed into Ewan’s breastplate.

“No!” Dory screamed as Ewan tumbled over Gaoth’s back, hitting the ground with a crash. “Throw me over,” she hissed at the warrior.

“Lass,” he said, his voice frustratingly calm, “I’m not throwing ye anywhere unless I know who ye are.”

Dory huffed with what little breath she still had left. Sparks flashed in her eyes as she stared out at Ewan on the ground, Searc running toward him. “I’m his wife.”

Chapter Fifteen

1 October of the Year our Lord God, 1518

Dearest Kat,

John says you have left him. You are at Merrimont, are you not? You are due to deliver your burden any day now. I look forward to hearing if you’ve brought forth our healthy heir. Does James continue to hound you? He knows nothing for certain. Surely he wouldn’t do anything to hurt his brother’s child or wife. You are paranoid like Isabelle, a woman’s affliction. Although my anger for her these days is barely contained. I think she suspects our connection.

Write soon so I know you are well.

My everlasting devotion,

Rowland

Dory glanced at the Scot standing beside her. “Lift me over.”

“Don’t you dare,” James fumed. “It will embarrass Brody and our family.”

The Scot looked past her to the field. “Ewan Brody is filled with tough Highland blood. He fell off a lot of horses as a lad.” He nodded toward the field and Dory spun her gaze back to Ewan. He was sitting up to much applause. Searc ran toward Ewan.

The Scot next to her cursed in Gaelic. “What is Searc Munro doing out there?” Before Searc reached Ewan, O’Neil kicked his horse and galloped past, hooves churning up chunks of mud. Searc leapt out of the way as O’Neil charged. He would trample Ewan!

“Get up!” Dory yelled and stepped up on the bottom rung of the fence with the commoners lining the field. “Ewan, move!”

Thunder cracked around the field, drowning out screams from the audience. The wind whipped early flower buds like snow through the stands. Hats and hoods tumbled. Dory felt her own ribbons take flight around her hair, but she didn’t care, didn’t even try to control her surge of power. She felt the sharp ache of her magic barely kept inside, a knife that scratched to get out. She would stop O’Neil no matter what the consequence.

At the last instant, Ewan dropped flat onto his back and rolled sideways out of the horse’s path. He yanked the helmet form his head and unlatched the neck guard to toss them across the yard. Lawrence strode out with Ewan’s sword. Searc grabbed Ewan’s hand, helping him regain his feet. James’s squire reached them and the look Ewan gave him chilled Dory from across the yard.

“Ewan thinks the strap was cut,” the Scot said.

“Get down,” James insisted and tugged on her. One glance from the warrior beside her and he stepped back.

“Do you?” she asked the Scot as Ewan continued to disencumber himself of as much armor as he could. The shoulder plates and breast plate, the gauntlets. He threw them all toward Lawrence who was, by now, running to get away from the onslaught of metal. The audience laughed, unappreciative of the death that lurked in Ewan’s eyes. Searc handed Ewan the sword Lawrence had abandoned.

“Aye, it was cut just before he rode. He and Searc would have checked them prior for normal wear.”

Dory felt the twist of her power, pushing against her middle, waiting for her release with a breath. But O’Neil was a moving target and her logical mind bristled with warning. She’d likely kill Ewan too at such a distance and possibly everyone else, especially those encased in metal. She wanted to scream.

O’Neil charged back across the field, his sword ready to strike. Wind picked up the dust, funneling it at his face. The sound of the thunder overhead and the hooves drowned out all the extra noise around her.

A touch on her arm at her wrist, where the dragonfly mark stood, caught her attention. The Scot swore and stood behind her.

“Say Amen, now,” he ordered low. “Now.”

O’Neil had escaped the onslaught of dirt and added his own helmet to the littered field. His sweaty hair hung around his sneer as he swung at Ewan from atop his horse.

“Amen,” she whispered.

“Loud,” he gritted.

“Amen!” she shouted, cringing as Ewan blocked the downward slice. Good Lord! He had no shield. Searc had run back into the stables, probably looking for it.

“Now pray,” the Scot demanded and nudged her.

She pointed her fingers together in prayer. “God, please save Ewan.”

“He’s actually doing quite well all on his own,” the Scot said, his voice less tense though still wary. “It’s a good thing he was trained by the best.” It was a boast.

She spared him just a glance. “Are you a cousin of Ewan’s?”

“More like a brother.”

The Scot certainly looked as large as Ewan, or perhaps the Highlands built all their men like mountains.

“What is your name?”

The Scot tipped his head. “Caden Macbain of Druim.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be having a baby any day now?”

The hint of a grin relaxed his face. “My wee wife says it will be some time yet.”

Dory turned back to the field just in time to see O’Neil wield his horse around for another run at Ewan. The pirate laughed.

“Bloody bastard,” Dory whispered.

Caden leaned toward her ear. “Ye are being watched closely, lass. What is yer name?”

“Dory.”

Ewan followed O’Neil with his body and gaze. The trumpeter kept repeating his call. “The devil won’t stop, he wants him dead,” she whispered.

“I’d wager the desire is mutual.”

Dory wanted to shake the Scot for not understanding the seriousness of this. “He’s not on his horse. It isn’t fair.”

“War isn’t fair. It just is.”

Dory huffed and gripped the fence. Ewan had evaded the trampling hooves once more and fought from the ground. Caden’s heavy hand fell on her shoulder, a silent command to wait and see, but she could barely stand still. She clung to the fence with her fingers, holding her weak legs under her. What if he died? Her heart beat so fast it shook. Or was that her hands? It was all she could do to keep her magic from bringing on a monsoon. She kept it primed, ready to pierce, but knew that it was a last resort.

Again O’Neil raced toward Ewan. The trumpeter seemed to have given up. Dory glanced at the royal stand, but only Jane sat with her ladies, no king. Was he in the stables? Couldn’t he demand a halt? Or did the tyrant enjoy the unfair sport like a Caesar watching a gladiator chewed on by lions?

“The devil,” Dory said, not caring who heard her. Without obvious warning, O’Neil pushed forward toward Ewan’s unguarded back, full momentum in his swing. Ewan stood still, his sword ready, listening, waiting.

Dory stood frozen, unable to blink or turn away or gasp as the strike descended. Ewan raised his sword at the last moment on a swivel and duck that caught O’Neil under his arm where the armor gaped.

A guttural howl shot out from the field as O’Neil let his horse carry him toward the stables.

Caden snorted. “The combatant is no warrior.”

“He’s a pirate,” Dory said. “The worst kind.”

“There are different kinds?” he asked, but she didn’t answer.

Ewan jogged over and picked up his discarded helmet. “Where are ye going, O’Neil?” he yelled, his words stark as those watching hushed. “Are ye creeping away like the coward ye are?”

O’Neil turned his mount with his still-functioning hand. Ewan threw his sword to the dirt, just the helmet in his palm. “Do yer best, coward,” he taunted. “Or do ye only fight lasses and bairns?”

“Taste my blade, you bloody bilge rat!” the man cursed.

He leaned forward as Ewan tossed the helmet a foot in the air and caught it easily. Sweat and dirt caked his hair. Scrapes marked his face. O’Neil let out a fierce cry spiking a chill down Dory’s spine. He charged.

Ewan stood his ground, the helmet the only thing in his hand.

“Pick up your bloody sword,” she urged from the fence.

“Ever read the bible, lass?” Caden asked. She didn’t answer, just watched. “The story of David and the giant?”

O’Neil was three strides out when Ewan raised the helmet, pulled back, and snapped his arm, chucking the heavy metal visor at O’Neil’s head just before diving into a tumble out of the way. The projectile hit the pirate’s face.

“Aye, Ewan never misses his mark,” his almost-brother said, a dark pride in his voice.

The audience gasped as O’Neil tumbled off his charging horse. The draped stallion galloped around the ring to the stables. Ewan picked up his sword and advanced.

O’Neil’s squire ran out with his cutlass. The bastard carried it everywhere, its rubies glittering out from the hilt. It promised blood for those who refused to kiss it. She’d seen children made to kiss it.

“Strike him down before he rises,” Dory whispered.

“He won’t do that,” her Scot’s shadow said.

“He should.”

“Too much honor flows in his veins, lass.”

The clash of steel brought Dory’s gaze back around. Caden was right—Ewan had waited. Damn! Honorable often meant dead. She clenched her eyes shut.
Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die
.

She could tell that Ewan had been injured, probably internally from the slower strikes he took at O’Neil. Sweat dampened the hair at his temples, but his face remained detached, like a mask of strength.

Caden’s features were tense and one touch of his hand told her his pulse had increased. Ewan must be hurt.

O’Neil laughed flamboyantly as he danced around a more central Ewan. The fall seemed not to have harmed him overmuch, though a trickle of blood came from a cut on his brow and he continued to hold his injured right arm close. She knew he could fight with either. He wove and parried, yet at every hit Ewan’s sword rose to block him.

It seemed like Ewan was making smaller and smaller movements. His muscles bunched under the linen of his shirt, and she scanned it for blood.

“Caden?”

“He’s conserving energy, lass.” Even with the explanation, Caden looked tense.

“Can ye do more than whip up a wind?” he said in her ear.

Ewan stepped forward unexpectedly, his blade faster, catching O’Neil’s ear.

“Blast!” O’Neil yelled but couldn’t stop to investigate the damage. His right hand was useless and he fought with his left.

“Yes, but deadly strikes are not accurate.” She let some of her magic bubble out into a series of thunder.

A few ladies quit the field while others with extremely interested companions stayed, though they eyed the sky nervously.

“Ye have healing powers, too?”

She stared hard at him. “Get me to Ewan if he falls.”

His lips tightened but he gave the briefest of nods, so brief she almost wondered if he had.

Ewan stumbled, dropping and then picking up his sword in time to block O’Neil’s downward strike.

“He’s weakening,” Dory said, worry paining her words.

Caden made a noise in his throat. “He’s feigning.”

“How do you know?” she asked and watched Ewan grimace as deflected another blow.

“He’s fighting with his left arm.”

“And he’s right-handed,” she breathed.

O’Neil grunted with each strike and began to turn slower, just barely meeting Ewan’s sword. With a toss Ewan changed back to his right hand, and the battle’s tempo rose. Dory clasped her hands as Ewan beat down hard and quickly against O’Neil, cutting him here and there, almost teasing him with flashes of blade.

“Blast,” Dory whispered. “What is he waiting for?”

“A mistake.”

The more tired O’Neil became, the louder he cursed colorful oaths that made women blush and men frown. Sweat caked O’Neil’s hair, dripping down his face as he met Ewan’s offense. And then… O’Neil tripped and Ewan thrust, skewering the pirate through his armor into his side. O’Neil crumpled into the dust.

“Was it a mortal wound?” Dory asked and rose up onto the fence once more.

The trumpeter blew, stopping Ewan from striking again. Damn honor.

Ewan glanced her way, his gaze finding hers but then moving to Caden. Worry played about his eyes, perhaps for Caden’s wife. Dory felt Caden move and caught the slight shake of his head, which was enough to release Ewan’s stare to return to her. He wiped his forehead with his arm.

Ewan stood removed while four squires ran out with a blanket looped around two poles to trot O’Neil off the field to the surgeon. The trumpeter blew and the remaining audience cheered. Ewan walked toward Gaoth, who stood with Searc, waiting on the other side of the field.

A step before the horse, as if moving like lightning that wasn’t her own, an arrow shot from the sideline. Dory screamed as Ewan was lifted off the ground by the force, landing on his back, the arrow sticking from his chest.

…

He’d felt the punch of an arrow before, but never straight into his chest. He’d taken off the plate armor with its sharp edges and weight, but it wouldn’t have mattered. A long bow beat armor any time. All this flew through his mind as if time slowed. His feet kicking out in front of him as he was lifted into the air.

The landing hurt worse, the thud of his body on the hard dirt, the arrow tearing through his chest as the tip was slammed inside. He fought for consciousness as cold permeated his body, numbing him. Och, to die now… nay, not now, Dory needed him. He couldn’t abandon her. Faces appeared over his own. What were they saying?

The face of an angel appeared in the narrowing circle of sight. Her lush red lips moved, tears sat in her gray eyes. A curl slid across her flushed cheek. Och how he wanted to touch it, to brush it back from her face and catch her tears. An angel should not need to weep.