The Knight's Bride. Lyn Stone

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      “You’d shock one out of his frock, and I am in trouble enough with the church as it is,” Bruce declared.

      “Ah, well, then. Proceed wi’ what ye were about to do.” He hoped Robert only meant to make a point, frighten him a bit. God knew the rascal had a wicked twist to his mind. Then Alan recalled the blow Rob had dealt the English deBohun just before the battle when they rode out one to one. The man’s head bad bounced along the ground like a sheep’s bladder ball while the rest of him rode a ways on down the field. Laugh, the man might, but Bruce never wasted time with idle threats.

      Alan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to recall the prayer of contrition, the first bead of the rosary, his mother’s face. Nothing came to mind.

      Death held no appeal for him in the best of circumstances, but he had always faced it without fear. Determined to brazen it out to the very end, he looked up at the king and smiled. “I expect ye’ll be sorry for this.”

      “No doubt.” Bruce chuckled. Hardly a royal sound, but then he was new to the post, Alan thought.

      The sharp edge of steel pressed threateningly against Alan’s jugular for a long, nerve-racking moment. Then Bruce’s voice rang out, “I dub thee Sir Alan of Strode.” The flat of the blade bounced on his left shoulder and gently touched the damaged right. “Serve God, king, protect the weak and strive for right.” He turned the sword, holding the jeweled hilt for Alan to kiss.

      Alan tasted the metal-and-emerald surface against his lips, cool and faintly salty with sweat. He welcomed it like a lover’s lips, smacking of honeyed mead. Kiss of life, he mused, barely restraining a shudder of relief. He even prolonged the gesture, bidding for time, since his legs felt too weak to support him just now.

      It was not that he had feared dying, he told himself, for had faced death often enough in battle. But dying like this, on his knees, and for no good reason, would have troubled him a bit.

      “Ready for the buffet?” Bruce asked, clenching and unclenching his gloved right hand, grinning with new merriment. Alan could just imagine the strength waiting behind that blow. The cuff supposed to help him remember his new charge of knighthood might well render him unable to recall his own name.

      “Aye, ready.” He rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. The king’s fist connected with a solid thunk that knocked Alan backward to the ground in an ungainly sprawl.

      “Rise, Sir, and do glory to Scotland!” Bruce let out a bark of laughter. “And right that plaidie, mon. Yer own glory’s naked to th’ breeze!”

      Alan scrambled to his feet and made a sketchy bow. He was a Sir! He wished to high heaven Tav could have witnessed this farce. He glanced at the cairn under which he’d laid his friend, and then up at the clouds. A unexpected breeze fluttered through the leaves of a rowan tree. Mayhaps he had.

      “Do I do homage or some such?” he asked Bruce, uncertain of the protocol. The whole event bore no structure at all and damned little ceremony. He had witnessed a knighting only once. There was a good deal more to it than this if he remembered rightly.

      “I took your oath last year, if you recall. Knowing your penchant for truth, I don’t doubt me that will last your lifetime. Plus, you’ve killed at least a score of English in the past fortnight. We’ll let that do.”

      Bruce picked a wad of grass off Alan’s muddy elbow. “Clean yourself up a bit before you call on the lady, eh? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a bloody bog. Have you soap? And proper clothing?”

      Alan drew himself up, ignoring the noisy mirth of Bruce’s men. “Aye, I do. Ye needn’t worry I’ll disgrace ye, sire. ’Tis just that war dulls a mon’s polish.” He followed the king’s gaze as it traveled downward to Alan’s bare legs and feet.

      “It does that.” Bruce slapped him on his good shoulder and turned to mount up. “Oh, by the way, tell Lady Ellerby that I second her husband’s behest. Nay, wait. Say that I command she follow his directions to the letter. Immediately, as he instructs.”

      With a hoot of laughter, the king kicked his horse and galloped away.

      Alan shrugged and grinned. King Rob was a daftie. Always had been.

      Chapter Two

      

      

      Byelough Keep blended well into the landscape, nearly invisible. Had Tavish not given such clear directions, Alan knew he might never have found it. The cottages bore the same gray-green color as the surrounding hills of mottled stone and bracken. ’Twas just as Tavish had described a hundred times in the hours he had spent longing for the place. If not for the wisps of smoke from the evening home fires, Alan might have missed seeing it altogether.

      He urged the English warhorse onward toward the gates of Byelough, towing his own highland pony and the two wain drays loaded down with booty from the battle.

      “Who goes?” came a steely voice from the lichencovered watchtower. That tower looked nothing more than a massive tree from a distance, rising from a wall that appeared a naturally formed cliff. Ingenious. And difficult to breach, he reckoned, despite the lack of drawbridge and moat.

      “Sir Alan of Strode,” he announced gravely. “I bear word from Lord Tavish Ellerby for his lady wife. Open and bid me enter.” Alan marked the two archers poised on the battlements.

      A long silence ensued before the heavy gates swung open. Alan rode through. He noted immediately the cleanness of the small bailey. There were well-kept outbuildings and neatly clipped grass, what little there was of it. Even the bare ground looked raked and free of clutter and mud holes.

      The few people he could see appeared scrubbed to a shine and well fed. A silent stable lad took the reins as Alan dismounted, and a young, dark-haired priest met him at the steps leading into the keep itself.

      “Welcome, my son. I am Father Dennis,” the priest intoned in a voice that sounded three times as old as its owner. Alan suppressed his laughter. Son, indeed. He likely had a good five years on the holy lad. The lanky priest smiled serenely as though he divined Alan’s thoughts. “Our lady awaits within.”

      Alan nodded and followed the cleric inside, uncertain whether he should have kissed the laddie’s ring. Priests were as uncommon as clean linen where he had spent his last nineteen years. They trod the fresh, fragrant rushes toward a door at the back of the hall.

      Several servants arranging trestle tables paused to study him. He threw them a smile of approval for the looks of the place. Colorful tapestries softened the stone walls and the few tables already set up bore pristine cloths without any obvious holes or spots. A brightly painted depiction of the Ellerby device crowned a large fire hole built into the wall near the head table. And where, he wondered, were the hall’s dogs? Banished or being laundered? He chuckled inwardly at the image of hounds spitting maws full of soapwort. Dead easy, this ranked as the cleanest place he had ever been. No wonder Tav had loved it.

      Alan silently thanked the Bruce for suggesting the bath and change of clothes. Of course, given a moment or so, he surely would have thought of it himself. After scouring himself raw with the grainy soap and drying in the sun, he had prepared his knightly regalia with care. He had ripped the yellow gryphon device off the red silk surcoat and donned the garment over the confiscated English mail hauberk СКАЧАТЬ