Knight Everlasting (27 page)

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Authors: Jackie Ivie

BOOK: Knight Everlasting
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Juliana heard Aidan's grunt of surprise from the door. It covered over her own gasp, but nothing stopped the shocked look they exchanged.
“Sassenach?” Aidan finally asked.
“She has the look of one . . . and the bearing. She probably speaks the Frankish tongue. Doona' tell me you dinna' note it yourself, sweet laird.”
“Juliana?” He didn't say it warmly. It was said with every bit of how he must have felt about being deceived and tricked. Juliana swiveled toward him.
“Y-Yes?” she asked with just a hint of warble to it.
“Is this true?”
“Yes,” she replied, ignoring the unpleasant shivers running all over her arms.
Aidan looked to the ceiling while taking huge gulps of air. His men had caught up to him. They appeared to be shadowing the torch-lit area behind him with even more man-shaped darkness.
“MacDonal clan took the castle and the villages . . . but they left some of you alive? Perhaps those that had a use, or surrendered . . . or hid?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“So . . . this last massacre . . . the English killed their own? Including the woodcutter?”
She nodded.
“This is why you fought your rescue.”
She didn't answer. It wasn't really a question.
He grunted. He pulled himself to his full height and crossed his arms about his chest. In the spliced area of shadow and light he stood in, he looked massive, immovable, and frightening. Juliana's shoulders ducked slightly despite the hold she was exerting on her entire frame.
“I must ask you something, Juliana. Afore I decide what is best.”
“That does na' sound rash and reckless.” Dame Lileth spoke up from the fireplace.
Aidan put up his hand toward the woman. “Juliana, when I ask this, you must be truthful. Fully. You ken?”
“Yes,” she said.
He sucked in another breath, making his chest enlarge and moving his locked arms up with it. “Could you cleave unto a Highlander, forsaking your own kind?”
“C-C-C-Could . . . I?” she asked. She was stammering worse than anything Arran managed. Her eyes went huge as an emotion so close to glee filled her, she felt surrounded by the brightness of it. Blinded by it. Juliana suspected she glowed with it. She clasped both hands together and shoved them to her breast in an effort to contain it. A lump was completely blocking her throat and pounding huge beats from there to fill her with what had to be absolute joy. There was no way to contain it.
“Could you cleave unto a Highlander of the MacKetryck clan? Putting nae other man afore him?”
“Oh . . . Aidan.” The words didn't make much sense, since they were shoved past the obstruction in her throat and filled with the shake of tears. Juliana couldn't believe what he was asking. For him, she'd forsake heaven.
He looked stern. Unforgiving. As if he detested everything about this . . . and about her. As if he hated asking what he was asking. Juliana had to drop her eyes.
“Juliana. I ask again. And be clear. Could you cleave until a MacKetryck Highlander, putting nae . . . other man afore him?”
His voice was choked-sounding and raw. She couldn't tell what that meant, and she wasn't looking. She was too afraid.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You would forsake being English, and become Scot?”
“Yes,” Juliana whispered again.
“You vow it?”
“Yes.” How many times did she have to tell him yes?
Yes, Aidan, Yes. I love you! I'd give up heaven for you!
Juliana looked up then and wished she hadn't. His eyes looked like black stones, with the sheen of moisture atop them. His mouth was set and hard into a look of hatred. Everything about him looked filled with hatred. And he'd aged in the light cast from the woman's fire and tapers as well. Then he moved his gaze to the old woman behind her, and spoke words to her. Words that sent ice right through Juliana.
“I'll get word to Alpin to prepare.”
Alpin?
“Aidan . . . no!” Juliana's cry was barely audible, although she screeched it around and through the block in her throat. “No!”
He was turning away, shoving through the honor guard at his flank. He didn't see her sink to the floor. Only the woman behind her did.
 
 
Dame Lileth's floor was cold and hard. It had been swept recently. Juliana turned into a quivering shaking ball with her legs tucked up beneath her, and her arms wrapped as tightly as she could about her torso, while her forehead hovered just above the surface of the floor. There were deep cracks in the wood. Her tears disappeared the moment they touched.
“Doona' hold it against him so.” The old woman dropped something atop her. Juliana recognized it as a blanket made of the MacKetryck plaid. She shoved it off.
“You disavow your own promise already?” The woman was cackling from over beside her fire.
“Wh-at promise?” Juliana whispered.
“To cleave to a Highlander. You vowed it.”
Fresh tears filled her eyes and dripped onto the floor, sinking into it as if they'd never been.
“He has nae other choice. You ken?”
“Everyone . . . has choices.” Juliana tried to sound disgusted. She didn't. Her nose sent moisture into the words, and no matter how she sniffed and struggled against it, more just kept coming.
“Name them.”
“Marriage . . . to me,” she replied.
“The man will na' answer his missive. And the Campbell clan awaits that verra thing. Clan honor. Ah, lass, there is nae honor above that of clan laird. He near died earning it. You believe he'd toss it all over for you?”
No.
That truth hurt. Just about everything did, though, to one degree or another. Juliana shuddered and absorbed the pain, and watched as more tears fell onto the wood and disappeared.
“Aidan Niall would rather slit his own throat than disavow his honor.”
“Then . . . he can have me as his . . . mistress.”
“A born lady like you?”
Juliana's eyes went wide on the floor. She stiffened. “You don't know—”
“Lady Juliana D'Aubenville would never stoop to being a man's plaything,” Dame Lileth said.
“Yes . . . she would,” Juliana whispered finally.
“Well, the bairn took that choice away, too.”
Juliana caught a sobbed breath and looked at the floor in front of her nose as a tear dropped off it. The old woman was crazed. It had been mere days since she'd given herself to Aidan. Days!
“You ken the truth, lass. Just as he knows it.”
“You told Aidan this . . . lie?” Juliana wiped at her eyes.
The woman huffed out an amused sound. “He has to protect his bairn. That's why he'll wed you to Alpin. You ken? To give his bairn a name. And legitimacy.”
“I won't do it. I won't say the words.”
“As a member of Clan MacKetryck, you canna' go against the laird. You ken?”
“I'm not a member of Clan MacKetryck.”
“You will be. You just vowed to it.”
“I vowed to cleave to a Highlander named MacKetryck. I can pick any I want.”
“Lass . . . Aidan will say the words for you. You need to believe it. He is the law. He'll wed you to his brother.”
“Give me something to stop it, then! You can do that. All seers have that ability. Perhaps some tansy? In the smallest portion?”
“Nae.”
“Why not?”
“'Tis the perfect vengeance, lass. Perfect. Fulfilling. Special.”
“Against . . . Aidan?”
“All of them! His father. His uncle. The men who dinna' trust me! You ken what a year in Ketryck Castle dungeon does to a body, lass?”
Juliana shook her head.
“How about fire? You wonder what being tied and set afire does?”
Juliana shook her head again. She reached for the blanket and pulled it over her shoulders. She was cold. Tired. Her belly and back hurt, and where her heart had been was a solid block of pain.
“If it hadn't been for Dugald's defeat, I'd have perished. Lady Reina at my side.”
“So . . . Aidan saved you?”
“In a way. He gained his position back and halted the punishment the Black MacKetryck devised and ordered.”
“He . . . saved you. And this is your repayment?”
“Nae. This is.”
Dame Lileth went to her chamber door, opened it, and started whispering. As if someone was there. Juliana lifted her head from the floor, looked through the swirls of smoke the door had put into motion. She squinted her eyes, but still couldn't see who the slender, shadowed figure was. Then she heard the name . . . Lachlan. And then Alpin's name. And then hers. Fear invaded her entire frame, as insidious as any viper, chilling her as it pumped with every beat of her heart.
She was on her feet with the plaid wrapped fully about her, and still couldn't stop the shivering as Dame Lileth shut the door and came back through the haze of smoke toward her.
“What have you done?” Juliana asked, trying for an aggressive tone.
“Paid him back.” The old woman went past her toward the fire.
“I'll wed . . . Alpin,” Juliana said.
“Now . . . why would you do that?” The woman was clattering and clinking with items over by her fire.
“Call Lachlan back,” Juliana insisted. “I'll do it. I'll wed Alpin.”
“And I ask again, my lady. Why would you do that?”
“Don't hurt Aidan. Please?” Juliana's eyes were swimming with more tears.
“You love him that much?”
The woman had turned from her fire, and the glow behind her outlined her easily. Juliana nodded. Dame Lileth grunted an answer and went back to fussing with racks and things.
“Stupid man.”
“Please?” Juliana whispered.
“I canna' hurt the man more than he does himself. He really does need to learn the value of reflection. Truly. He does.”
“Please?” Juliana tried again.
Dame Lileth pretended not to hear. “I'm just setting about making a nice hot drink. I'll make enough for you, my dear. Doona' fret. 'Tis safe. I'd na' do anything to harm the bairn.”
Juliana watched through the swirls of smoke as the old woman put deed to word over by her fire. And she was humming to herself.
Humming.
Chapter 22
As the sun pierced through the cloud cover atop Buchyn Loch, Aidan watched with eyes that scratched and burned and attempted to tear up occasionally in defense. The light spread fully before him until it reached his panoramic windows. Then it glinted off his scabbard, lying atop the table at his elbow, as well as the pile of dirks he'd assembled next to it, making that hurtful to look at as well. Aidan tilted his sporran flask and dribbled the last of the whiskey into his mouth, but missed. He swiped at his cheek and chin with a desultory move, and then flipped the flask away. There was a dull thud of sound as it landed and then the sound of it rolling until it was stopped by one of his bedposts. Watching it forced him to look at the chieftain bed, still perfectly made with heavily embroidered linens and blankets of finely woven MacKetryck sett. Readied. For him. To sleep within. Or play with the perfect lass.
Aidan smirked and went back to tormenting his eyes not only with the view, but with sunlight his eyes had to squint at in order to make it bearable. He didn't know why he'd bothered drinking. There wasn't enough whiskey to dull the pain, temper the reality, put him to sleep . . . or keep him from this horrid state called pondering. Aidan put a hand to his eyes, his thumb at one, fingers to the other, and pressed, seeking relief. They were sore, probably red, and drier than anything Tavish had ever attempted to cook. The one thing they weren't was weeping.
Aidan huffed out a shaky breath.
Alpin had taken the news well. Having at least two lasses giggling from the bowels of his chamber behind him probably helped with that. The command to marry Juliana was burning a hole through Aidan's belly, and his little brother had simply asked, “Is that all?” with a massive amount of impatience and moving about in the hall. Before receiving a nod and bolting back into the arms of his waiting women. That was when Aidan had decided to get a full sporran of the best MacKetryck whiskey he could find, making certain there was plenty of it and nobody to see.
Is that all?
Aidan uncovered his eyes, put his elbows on the table, and supported his head in his hands.
“Aidan!”
The sound reverberated through his chamber and then it was accompanied by some fool pounding on his door. Disturbing him. Bothering him. Making him face it. Despite his warning to the two honor guardsmen he'd put in control of preventing that very thing. And the bolt he'd dropped in place. Both were clear signals not to do exactly what they were doing. Aidan lifted his head and looked in that direction, ignoring the ache in his neck at the movement. The pounding got worse as more of his guardsmen joined in.
By God! The castle better be under attack!
He didn't have to imagine the red. His sore eyes were cursing him with it. Aidan shoved the chair back, knocking it to the floor, grabbed for the scabbard, and strapped it on with vicious movements. Then he was checking the skeans in his belt and adding those from the table's surface. And then he was striding to the door, shoving up the bolt and opening it with such a reddish cast on the fury, the seven men standing there all backed at least a step from him.
“Aidan—”
Aidan had Tavish on his skinny buttocks with a hooked ankle, a skean to Heck's chest, and another one at Kerr's throat before anyone else said anything.
“It's Alpin!” That was Stefan, who had the sense to be out of Aidan's arms' reach.
Aidan pulled back, sucked in on the ache behind every eye blink to glare at them. “What of Alpin?” he asked slowly and distinctly.
“He's heading to the list!”
Aidan pulled in a huge breath, and watched the reddish color about everything wash out into a pinkish tone. “Being on the list is a good thing after a night spent wenching. Jesu'!” He put one foot behind the other and used the move to pivot back toward his room.
“Against Dugald!”
Aidan continued his spin, ending back facing them. He lowered his head, endured the immediate throb of his heart adding to his discomfort by thudding within his chest with increasing beats, and glared. “What?” he asked.
“Dugald challenged Alpin!”
“Aye. Afore the sun even rose!”
“To the death!”
“What the devil for? Alpin does na' have anything Dugald . . .” Aidan's voice dribbled off as it dawned on him exactly what Alpin did possess.
“For the Lady Juliana's hand.”
“Who betrayed me?” Aidan blinked around soreness a good sleep would cure and pierced each of them until Heck spoke.
“The lone mention was in Alpin's hall. With you. When you gave him the word.”
“So?”
“Was Lachlan MacGorrick anywhere about?” Heck asked.
“Jesu', Kerr!” That was Tavish.
“Me?” Kerr cried.
“He's your cousin.”
“One does na' choose their cousins,” Kerr complained.
Aidan shoved through the three closest men. The others had already made a path for him. “Move,” he commanded.
He led them down the steps, taking two at a time, before reaching the hall, and then came to a stop as he watched the scene unfolding to the dim light cast from the open door at one end, his staircase at the other, and a still burning fire. Kerr's cousin, Lachlan, was atop one of the trencher tables. He was waving his arms and chattering and instructing. He'd ordered two serfs atop the structure, and then he'd made one serf get atop the other's shoulders. And the higher one was waving a stick up into the air at wherever Lachlan pointed.
“Lachlan MacGorrick!”
All three jumped. The movement had the serf on the other's shoulders landing ungracefully on his knees, before he moved to his feet beside the other two. All three stood looking down at Aidan and his men, and looking like fools. Aidan watched them and tempered the immediate wash of anger with a deep breath and a large gulping motion.
“My . . . laird?” Lachlan asked finally.
“My tables are for dining upon. Not standing atop.” Aidan enunciated through his teeth.
“I was trying . . . to get the missive . . . down.”
The man had ever been effeminate. His squeaky tone added to it and made everything worse somehow. Aidan's heart decided to add further ache to his issues this morning, sending pinging thumps throughout his head with every beat.
“What for?” he asked.
“Some . . . body needs to answer it.”
Aidan pulled a skean from his belt, looked up, and flung it toward the first one. There was a collective gasp as they hit, and then both knives fell to the chamber floor, while the paper floated about in the dimness.
“There. It's down. Now get off my tables.”
He turned away from the scene and started toward the door. He was at a jog before he reached the step plateaus, deep worry behind the pace. Lachlan wasn't at the list watching the outcome of the contest. That was another sign of what Aidan feared. If Alpin MacKetryck fought against his uncle Dugald, the winner was a foregone conclusion.
The sound of a large crowd beckoned him toward the outer bailey, and Aidan was at a full run before reaching the archway between them. His heart was hammering loudly in his ears, reminding him of its presence and capacity for pain. It felt like a fist of immense strength and dimensions was gripped about it, squeezing along with each beat until they were at a painful level and scope.
Dawn was just passing over the wall, putting a gold tint onto the tops of heads and from there reaching the churned-up mud comprising Castle Ketryck's battle list. His ancestors had planned and constructed well. The list was long enough for a run with horses and wide enough to accommodate whatever moves a struggling mass of men might make. It had been designed to highlight the spectacle within. While both far ends were the same level of the courtyard, making for a head start atop a horse, the ground had gradually been removed and sloped down until the center was a full body jump down from the rock walls that had been built up on each side.
The sound of metal striking metal could be heard over the crowd, and Aidan felt the first slight easing of the fist wrapped about his heart. He jogged the last steps, and then came to a halt. He stepped aside so his men could make a way through to the wall. A loud roar went through the people all about him, and Aidan couldn't wait. He plucked people out of his way and shoved, and when he reached the wall, he was right in time to watch a sword going into the downed body. Before getting pulled back out, with a resultant shower of red. That was when everything went red. Bloodred, and it was coming with every agonized spurt of his heart.
“Nae!”
Aidan yelled it as he vaulted the retaining wall, landing in a crouch and then running in a half-standing stance from the moment he landed, making it look a seamless movement. He had his claymore pulled and readied as he neared, but then he slowed his pace and straightened at the same time. The body on the ground wasn't Alpin. Nor was the victorious man holding his sword in the air and pumping it his uncle, Dugald.
Aidan scanned the end tents. Dugald paced outside the farthest one. Aidan turned direction and loped his way to the other, ignoring the new calls and loud cheering making the ground thump with it as they recognized him, and what that might mean.
Aidan slapped the tent flap open and looked over the seven members of Alpin's honor guard, who were all in a semicircle facing outward. One of them moved to the side, allowing him to see his brother, in a ball on the ground . . . retching and sobbing.
“Alpin?”
Aidan was on his knee and lifting his brother's head and looking him over for the wound to cause such an event. His brother moaned and exhaled a foul breath all over Aidan.
“Aidan. Forgive me. I canna' do it. I've . . . been poisoned.”
Aidan grinned, felt the huge release of worry as well as a complete dispersion of the red that had hampered his vision. He was nearly giddy with it as he hugged his brother, shaking with the laughter, and making the other groan worse in his agony.
“I'm . . . dying. And . . . you laugh,” Alpin complained.
“What . . . did you drink last eve?”
“'Twas na' the drink. 'Twas that Sorcha.”
“Sorcha?” Aidan wrinkled his brow.
“Juliana dismissed her from your . . . bed . . . so I thought—”
“I had a woman named Sorcha?” Aidan asked.
“Long black hair. Luscious limbs.”
“Ah. Aye. Her.”
“She gave me something. I—”
Alpin rolled and was on his knees spewing nothing but bile, and Aidan looked up at his men.
Aidan pointed at a large, burly lad. “Find this Sorcha. And hold her.”
The man had a slight smile on his mouth before he nodded and moved from the tent.
“Clan Patriarch . . . Dugald MacKetryck . . . sends another warning!”
One of Dugald's men was yelling the words from just past the center of the list. On this side of center. The crowd added to it with whistles and calls.
Aidan gestured with his head to Tavish. Then, he picked up Alpin and put him back on his cot. “Get him to Lady Reina. Nae. First get him water. Cold water. And not to drink.”
“Na' to drink?” his man asked.
“Nae. To dunk his head in.”
Tavish was back. “Dugald claims the Lady Juliana's hand in wedlock from Alpin MacKetryck. By forfeit.”
“He canna' have her. I claim her.”
“You canna' stop this, my liege. If Alpin does na' meet the challenge, then Alpin forfeits.”
Never.
She was wedding Dugald over Aidan's dead body. And not before.
Aidan pulled in a huge breath. Exhaled it. And then he did it again. And again. Over and over, tightening every muscle in his body as he called on the ache that was hitting him with each increased heartbeat . . . forcing the red back into his vision. And making it stay there. Then he turned, lowered his chin, and snarled the answer.
“Send word to Dugald. For my challenge.”
And then he forwent the wait. His uncle would know what was happening. Aidan was right behind Tavish onto the list, lifting his claymore in his arms and pumping it over and over into the air, to gain the power of crowd noise that added to the charge of heartbeats hitting him, bringing alertness and readiness and anger. Massive anger. Everything went bloodred hued and perfectly focused.
It was as exciting and massive an emotion as it had been seven years earlier when they'd met on this list. With Lady Reina and Dame Lileth tied and bound to a stake. Aidan hadn't won in time to prevent the lighting of it, but that was the farthest it went. That was his uncle's trick, at the last moment, to cheat a win from him.
Dugald was at a run when he heard, gathering his own crowd noise with the way he answered. Aidan stayed where he was, his claymore high above his head, with his back to his uncle until he'd reached midfield before swiveling and starting his own charge.

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