Read Knight Everlasting Online
Authors: Jackie Ivie
Knight Everlasting (6 page)
“Aidan! Are you going to take all day? The lad's groaning away still.” The tent flap moved and a strange man stuck his head in, nodding at her before turning his attention to his laird. “Powerful groans,” he finished.
“Where is he hurt?” Juliana stood, holding her covering with one hand while pulling the cloak out from beneath her with the other one. No one offered to help her toss it over her shoulders, but she wouldn't have accepted if they had.
“The lad's a bit . . . bruised,” Aidan supplied.
“There is na' much you can do for bruising. Have you tried cold water?”
“Aye,” the man at the door replied.
“Does it need to be wrapped then?” Juliana asked.
Both men chuckled, sobered, and then guffawed again. Stopped. And then looked embarrassed. Totally embarrassed. Juliana folded her arms and regarded them.
“Nae. We've . . . na' tried wrapping it,” Aidan finally replied.
“Then what do you expect of me?” she asked.
The man at the door answered her. “Well . . . you see . . . ahem. It's na' so much that he needs the bruising attended to, as he needs the fact he's injured attended to.”
“Where is he injured?” Juliana asked.
Both men cleared their throats. Neither one replied. She noticed that neither of them would meet her eye either. Both seemed to be blushing now. Juliana raised her eyebrows.
“Oh,” she finally said.
The man at the door grunted. “Name's Tavish,” he supplied. “And we were thinking if Arran had a bit of sympathetic . . . female about . . .”
“He'd stifle the groans?” she finished.
“I think he'll appreciate the company.” The man at the door was openly grinning. Juliana nearly returned it.
“Well then, cease delaying me. Take me to him.”
The thin man pulled his head out of the door and opened it. MacKetryck preceded her out of the tent, but he was waiting when she exited. He wasn't the only one. There were another three men standing about, looking like they'd just come to their feet. Juliana watched as they doffed tams and straightened kilt bands, and nodded at her. She turned away quickly.
“Come. We'll do introductions later. I'll see you to Arran.”
He didn't wait to see if anyone agreed, but she already knew he expected complete obedience from his clan. And her. She wouldn't argue it anyway. She didn't want introductions either.
She heard Arran before she saw him. He was in the large tent closest to the horses. He lay on a cot facing the side of the tent and he was rocking in place while voicing soft heartrending groans. Either they'd lied about the extent of his injury, it was more severe than they'd known, or Arran was the weak sort. Juliana didn't know anything about wounds to a man's groin, but her heart immediately pulsed at the agonized sound as Aidan lifted the door flap.
“Arran, lad! Look!”
The young man rolled his head toward them. His face was lined with pain, but there wasn't a tear in sight. She'd guessed him as a young lad yesterday. Now, she knew the truth. He wasn't much younger than her seventeen years. He was as handsome as his older brother, too.
“I've brought you a visitor.”
“I-I-I doona' wishâ” His voice stopped when he saw her.
“This is Juliana.”
“Na' her. Aidan! Why-why-why did you-you-you have to bring a-a
girl
?” He put such contempt on the last word that Juliana stopped, went to her full height, crossed her arms, and raised her brows.
girl
?” He put such contempt on the last word that Juliana stopped, went to her full height, crossed her arms, and raised her brows.
“Now, Arran. This is na' just any lass. This is the one I rescued.”
“I-I-I already ken . . . who she is.” She watched Arran ease onto his back and lift into a semisit when he got there, scowling as he punched a roll of blanket into a back support to lean on, and catching his breath as he did it. He sounded slightly less pained, though.
“She wished to thank you firsthand for the fresh meat. How could I tell her nay? She's my responsibility now. I doona' take those lightly.”
“Thank you-you-you . . . for visiting,” Arran remarked and turned his head dismissively. He hadn't put much groan to the words. It was clear he wanted time with his self-pity. And he didn't want her. Juliana knew she wasn't wanted. Aidan must be immune.
“I'll have a joint of meat carved and brought in for you two. Gregor is handling the cooking. 'Twas a nice-sized boar you got, Arran. Nice-sized. Fit for bragging. Especially with the way you took it.”
“I'm ru-ru-ruined, and you wish t-t-to-to brag?” the lad asked.
“What? I'll be crowing over how you took such an animal with only a skean and little warning. That's what I'm for bragging.”
The lad smiled a bit with the praise.
“As to the other . . . the ruined part? I believe we'll just pass on that. Fair?”
The lad nodded after a moment. Juliana silently agreed. She didn't want to discuss anything of his injury. She didn't even know what to say over it.
“Then why-why-why did you bring her?”
“Juliana wanted a bit of companionship.”
“What's wrong with yours?” his brother asked.
“Plenty.”
Juliana and Aidan said it in unison, and that surprise was added with the wide-eyed locked gaze that followed it. His left eyebrow was lifted again, and the man was too handsome for such an expression. She felt burned. Scorched. Sweat beads broke out near her hairline with the force of it. Then Arran coughed and Juliana looked away. There wasn't anything she could say. Looking at Arran was far safer, and her presence might be doing some good after all. The young man had moved into a full sit, propped against the bed roll, and had only the slightest grimace on his face as he finished.
“She does-does na' seem to-to-to fancy you much, Aidan,” he remarked.
“True.”
“Why?” He was asking Juliana.
“I'm auld,” Aidan answered.
Arran looked skeptical. It was probably the match to Juliana's expression. “You've ten years on me. That's na' auld.”
“To a young lass, it is. Trust me. I'll leave you two now and see what's taking Gregor so long.”
“What am I to-to do with her?” the lad asked.
Aidan was hiding a grin. Juliana didn't find anything amusing.
“Talk. Visit. Eat.”
Watch. Guard. Detain.
Her mind gave her the words as she stood mutely considering the entirety of Aidan MacKetryck's trick. She couldn't believe she'd been so witless and walked right into it. Juliana put every bit of ire she felt to the look she gave him. He smiled broader. And then he winked.
“You'll call out for anything, Arran?” he asked.
“But Aidan! Wh-Wh-What does a lass . . . t-t-talk of?”
Juliana spied a trunk, the match in size to the one she'd bumped her nose into earlier, and walked over to it. She had it pulled into position next to Arran's cot and was preparing to perch atop it before she spoke again. She ignored Aidan . . . completely and totally.
“I'm certain you'll find something. Lasses like flattery. You could try that.”
“A-A-Aidan.” The young man was embarrassed. It was in his voice and on his flushed face. Juliana glanced at him and then away. The emotion did nothing to hamper his comeliness. It probably increased it, if she was a young woman with nothing more on her mind than keeping an injured, handsome lad company for the day.
She settled onto the trunk, although it was too short and her knees were near her chest. “Oh. We're going to have a very nice talk, Arran. For most of the day, while I wait for my clothing to finish drying . . . and you to tire,” Juliana informed him.
“And our dead to arrive. So we can bury them,” Aidan added.
Juliana gasped. His voice held more than just words. It held raw emotion. She did her best to pretend she hadn't heard it, although the trill of gooseflesh down her spine was impossible to ignore.
“I'll be-be-be up by then, A-A-Aidan. Swear,” Arran told him.
“I ken as much. In the meantime, enjoy your rest. And your company.”
“So . . . wh-wh-what do you w-w-want to talk of?” Arran's stutter was even more pronounced when he looked at her through the talking. It took a while to get the sentence out. Juliana calmly waited, with her head cocked and her hands folded atop her knees, giving him her full attention.
“Oh . . . we're going to talk of your eldest brother,” she replied. “What else?”
Arran was looking over her shoulder at his brother. She didn't have to check. She knew.
Chapter 6
Juliana attended the burial and consecration, despite every effort at avoiding it. She hadn't much choice, since her captor seemed to know everywhere she was, and when. Even now he hovered at her side, making certain of her attendance. She wasn't singled out, since she'd heard him order them all there, but it felt like it.
Usually in the aftermath of battle, the dead were buried where they fell. Or the bodies were burned. Or left to rot. Or displayed as a warning.
Juliana sighed. Nothing was usual about this. Thanks to her talk with Arran, she knew the difference. And she knew why.
Arran MacKetryck had been a font of information without asking for any of it. Once he got some food and three tankards of ale into him anyway. He'd spent the morn and into the afternoon regaling her with stories, and he'd lost most of his stuttering as well.
Juliana now knew MacKetryck land was north of Inverness, well away from any wars and conflicts over the Scot throne. They didn't worry over who claimed kingship since the Norman line died away. Could be John Balliol for all they cared, although the rebellion had faltered, leaving Dunbar Castle, Edinburgh Castle, Stirling Castle, and Perth Castles in English hands; could be Robert Bruce, although he'd lost the great cause five years earlier in the vote for Balliol. The fact that it was now King Edward taking, and killing in the taking, was just further reason to avoid the Sassenach.
Arran rarely heard of such doings. In the Highlands, land and property were a fluid affair and always fought over. One man claiming total rule meant little. Proving the rule was what mattered. Aside from which, the best challenge and win was over another Highland clan. Always. Anything else was of little value. This included English-held properties, with the effeminate, overpowdered, and frilled lords and sheriffs that owned them. English landowners were detested. As were any Lowlanders that welcomed them.
So it was with Clan MacKetryck.
They hailed from the farthest reaches north, from a bastion called Castle Ketryck. It was named after some forebearer, who'd killed a Viking king in order to possess it. Arran didn't remember the Viking king's name and Juliana had stopped him from yelling for Aidan to get the information. It didn't matter. All that mattered to her was time passing.
According to Arran, the name “Ketryck” had been changed sometime in the past to the surname “MacKetryck,” since the “Mac” stood for “son of.” Juliana hadn't known that. She didn't know much about Highlanders at all. With her upbringing, it wasn't possible to come into contact with one of them long enough to learn any of this.
As the only daughter of Baron D'Aubenville, and heiress to all his holdings, Juliana had been well above any contact with them. Previously.
So Juliana nodded and frowned and listened or pretended to listen, and all the while she felt the time passing. A weight of time. A solid thickness of time. A whole span of time that no one could gain back. Her father would be awake in his grave if he knew where his daughter was and with whom.
If
they'd put him in a grave after displaying him atop Fyfen Castle gatehouse.
they'd put him in a grave after displaying him atop Fyfen Castle gatehouse.
Juliana swallowed to kill the bitterness of her thoughts and went back to listening and nodding . . . and waiting.
According to Arran, Castle Ketryck had been started by Norsemen, using gray stone that matched the rock it perched atop. The MacKetrycks had enlarged and fortified it in the centuries since then. Their castle was now the finest ever built, strong. It was impregnable. Insurmountable. Inescapable.
Or Arran was one for faery tales.
Juliana didn't discount it, since his description made her own holdings small and insignificant . . . or what would again be her holdings if the English had won . . . and if she could get back there before much more time passed. And if her betrothal to Sir Percy Dane still stood. And if the D'Aubenville steward posing as a woodcutter had escaped the carnage. And if a thousand other things could be handled . . . once she escaped Aidan MacKetryck's captivity and could attend to them.
Despite the tension from practicing patience until she was ready to scream, Juliana had found the information Arran gave her interesting. Unbelievable, but interesting. And it did help pass the time.
Throughout the large meal of roast hog, fried gruel, and fresh berries that was served with full, foamy tankards of ale, Arran had regaled her with stories about their home. He'd told her how Castle Ketryck had a solid stone curtain wall that took more than seven hundred steps to walk along on each side. Juliana had looked unconvinced. That would make an almost endless barbican. It would rival Stirling and Edinburgh Castles, if not exceed them. It might even be larger than Caerlaverock Castle, and that one still held out against Edward's forces. Arran told her Ketryck Castle's barbican was more than three arm spans wide, too, and he didn't mean his arm span. He meant Aidan's, and his voice had warmed considerably while telling her that.
Hero worship of his brother? She had to contend with that, too?
Juliana had worked at controlling any argument or answer to anything Arran told her. She wanted him sleepy, not awake with anger. Besides, she didn't care if he claimed a castle larger than those King Edward had just constructed in Wales. Nor did she care what size Aidan MacKetryck's arms were, or how long. Or how strong. Or anything else about the man proclaiming himself her rescuer. Aidan's image had been planted at Arran's words, however. That was bothersome and made her feel odd. It heightened her senses, making everything more alert, and she was slightly breathless as well. Despite everything, she'd nearly sighed.
Arran hadn't noticed. He'd been too involved with tales of the walkway all along the top of this curtain wall, connecting all eight towers, each five stories in height . . . and possessing its own stairway. Juliana almost argued that before she bit her own tongue.
Tales. That was all they were.
Arran's voice had slowed occasionally and he'd yawned more than once by then, so Juliana just let him keep talking, while she kept waiting.
He'd described an improbable gatehouse next. It supposedly arched over an entry that was six stories high. On sunny mornings, the shadow cast by this gatehouse stretched across the drawbridge and a good walking distance into the heather as well. Arran must have noted Juliana's incredulous look at all this, because he'd simply folded his arms, said she'd soon see, and she could then tell for herself.
Castle Ketryck sat on a bit of headland overlooking a lake they called Buchyn Loch. This loch emptied into the North Sea and had water so deep and so blue and so cold, and so full of fish, it was no wonder the first lairds of Ketryck had fought wars to gain and keep it. They hadn't stopped there. The MacKetryck clan was rich in lands and holdings, but they had a thirst for more that seemed inbred. Arran boasted to her that they'd already gained so much land and reputation they'd had to go south for more. That was why they'd been at Castle Fyfen. They'd heard it had been taken by the Clan MacDonal, putting the land under Scot control.
And that was why Aidan had sent his men back for their dead.
Juliana had perked up a bit at that information and she'd sat forward slightly on her trunk.
It seemed that Arran's big brother was a superstitious sort. Aidan believed that a Highlander buried in Scot-held soil had a just death and rested with his maker, while a Highlander left in any other dirt was cursed to roam the darkest mists of the glens, dales, and forests, searching out and haunting those who'd allowed such a deed . . . to exact their vengeance. Aidan MacKetryck wasn't taking any chances.
That wasn't the lone thing he believed. He had amulets in his possession to ward off more curses than the one he'd received at birth. Aidan truly believed that despite everything he did, this particular curse followed him, and wouldn't release him until he reached the grave. Juliana had laughed aloud at that, making it a hearty sound on purpose. She'd guessed Aidan hovered outside the tent, listening. So she made certain he thought her completely captivated and entertained by his brother.
Perhaps then he'd relax his vigil, it would accompany Arran's rest, and all this passage of time would serve a purpose, and Juliana could escape. Aside from which, she didn't want to know any more about this clan. And she didn't want to get fond of them! When she returned home, she wanted to forget everyone and everything that had happened since that horrid night that started it all.
Everything.
Aidan MacKetryck hadn't been about when Arran had finally slept, breathing thickly and rhythmically, even as she'd passed her hand over his face twice to make certain of it. It had been fairly simple to sneak to her assigned tent, dress back in her own clothing, and then slip back to Arran without getting spotted. It had also been easy to leave again, although the second time she'd been in a slight crouch and moving toward the horses.
And then that whip-thin Tavish fellow had loomed right in front of her, frightening her into a squeal before shaking his head and blocking her. She hadn't needed an escort back to the tent where Arran was still sleeping either, but she'd gotten one. And the next time as well. Only that time it had been Aidan stopping her. Just as he did the time after that.
Juliana gritted her teeth now and pulled in a breath. He might as well have her tied to him, as closely as he watched her! And there was simply no reason for it. He'd saved her. What of it? She was no man's responsibility after that. His claim to keep her safe was too much! And for how long? And what reason? The man had more than enough wenches at his beck and call already, according to Arran. He didn't need another one.
Juliana glanced over at where Aidan MacKetryck was standing. Solemn. Head bent against the onslaught of new rain, while body after body was lowered into the hole they'd dug. The cloud cover hadn't dissipated throughout the day, so the rain wasn't a surprise. Juliana huddled in her own shift, underdress, and boots, covered over by her cloak, learning the wet warmth of it again, and watched as they started shoveling mud atop the mass grave, covering over their dead . . . as well as the body of the woodcutter.
And that was when the first physical stab of despair came.
The lass had some explaining to do.
Aidan tapped his sporran bag, which held a signet ring they'd cut from around the woodcutter's throat when they'd found him. It was MacKetryck property now, until he decided to give it to her. That wasn't happening until he found out what it meant and whose it was. He didn't recognize the crest of entwined serpent tails, but simple woodcutters didn't usually wear gold objects, nor did they have hands raw from woodworking. A woodcutter had calluses, not blisters. So if the corpse they'd brought was a woodcutter, it was a newly learned trade. He looked more like a scribe. Or a taxman. Or a clergyman who'd lost faith and forsaken his vows . . . perhaps on the promise of a bonny lass's hand.
Aidan hoped she wouldn't try talking her way out of giving an explanation. He added to that. He hoped she'd finally realize the futility of trying to escape him. There was nothing to go back to. Not anymore. The English had not only burned and destroyed both the village Liddlesday, and Biggstown-by-the-Dale, leaving nothing more than a church foundation to mark where the last had been, but they were fully in control of Fyfen Castle as well. The battlements were reportedly strung with MacDonal clansmen, since these Sassenach hadn't left one soul living.
Not even the piper.
Aidan sighed heavily, made the sign of the cross, and did his best to ignore where Juliana was standing beside him, her bent head reaching his shoulder. It was a position of abject grief. It matched the cry she'd given when they lay the woodcutter's body out beside the MacKetryck clansmen. It also matched her fervent hugging and grasping and checking of the body and the pale drawn face she'd turned to him when she'd finished.
He couldn't see her face now and was glad of it, although that annoyed him. She had her hands clasped before her, holding her cloak closed at the waist. Demure. Grief-stricken. Quiet.
She bothered him. Endlessly. He swore he could tell where she was and what she was up to simply by a feeling he got. As if he sensed her in some fashion. That was worrisome, and he was spent with wasting any more time pondering. He'd given the orders. They had tonight to fill their bellies and rest up before they started for Castle Ketryck. At first light.
Other books
Straight Back by Menon, David
The Doll by Boleslaw Prus
Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents by Cross, Kate
Heroes, Rogues, & Lovers: Testosterone and Behavior by James McBride Dabbs, Mary Godwin Dabbs
Max by C.J Duggan
HIM by Brittney Cohen-Schlesinger
A Bad Boy for Christmas by Kelly Hunter
The Secrets of Mia Danvers by Robyn Dehart
Exposed by Rage by Sherrel Lee
For the Love of Pete by Julia Harper