Page 12 of My Warrior
Squires removed the horses from the great hall, but when the last of the departing hooves had soiled Blackhaugh’s rushes, there were still a score of English knights left. They murmured among themselves in the sudden silence like shy cousins awaiting introduction.
Finally, the new steward cautiously crept near. He was a young man, tall, brown-haired, and fair of face, with a strong jaw and gray-green eyes that marked him plainly as Lord Holden’s brother, even if the Wolf’s ruthlessness was missing from his countenance.
“My lady,” he said in a low, gentle voice, “I am training for a position in the church. If you have no priest available, I’d be happy to bless the bodies and—“
“Do not dare to touch them! Do not dare to utter a single word over them, English pig, or it will be your last!”
The youth looked stricken by her remarks, but there was no room in Cambria’s grieving heart for remorse. She wanted English hands on as little as possible of Blackhaugh, including its dead.
The wind rose in a mood that warned of a spring squall, tangling Cambria’s hair and whipping her shift around her ankles like sea foam. She paused in her labors, shoving the spade hard into the soil and leaning upon it. By the look of the gray gathering clouds, the storm would start before the veiled sun sank below the hills. But she’d be finished by nightfall. She’d rather dig the grave herself than let those English dogs desecrate her father’s burial with their presence.
It was a travesty. The laird deserved a tomb in the chapel and an effigy with the hawk of the Gavin carved at its feet. He deserved a month of mourning and visits from the lairds of the neighboring clans. He had died a warrior’s death, and he deserved at least to be buried with his sword.
As if her bitterness was heard in the heavens, the sky flashed and cracked with current, and all around the grass-swept knoll, the clouds darkened like a flock of ravens come to feed. A gale lifted her hair and fluttered the woolen plaid covering the laird’s body. Then fine drops of rain began to fall, slowly at first, staining the sod like tears.
She wiped her brow on a muddy sleeve, and then resumed digging. She ignored the blisters on her hands, the wind flaying her legs, the rain soaking her shift. The storm rose around her, but she continued gouging away at the soil until the hole was deep enough that no animal would disturb it. Then she gently dragged her father to the edge, tipping his body into the grave.
She gave him all the benedictions she knew, falling to her knees and calling on saints and ancient gods alike, pleading with the angry heavens to take and keep the laird of Gavin well. Then she stood, with the storm raging all about her, while the lightning wounded the purple clouds and thunder shook the earth, and she raised her hands to the sky.
“Father,” she whispered fervently, though the sound was lost in the maelstrom, “I swear upon the clan of Gavin, I will avenge your death.”
The wind roared through the trees, carrying her oath of vengeance across the land that was no longer Gavin’s.
By April, the Border hills burst forth torrents of water like tears from the earth. But the spring bulbs paid no heed to their sorrow, blossoming joyfully with their heady perfume. The land was new and green once again, its old wounds forgotten and life reborn.
Sir Garth de Ware had tamed the denizens of Blackhaugh to his rule like a falconer gentling a tiercel, with patience and persistence. The ladies had begun to gaze longingly at the tall, comely knight. The young lads followed at his heels. Even old Malcolm seemed to have attached himself to the young Englishman, conferring with him on matters of the castle’s defense and provisions.
Only Cambria remained steadfast in her hatred of the invaders, a hatred that consumed every moment of every day. It seemed only she remembered the treachery the enemy had dealt. She had cuts that had mended badly and scarred, and until her vengeance was fulfilled, she’d carry the volatile seeds of abhorrence with her.
The naïve Sir Garth hadn’t an inkling of the dark purpose in her heart, of course. He presumed that she was like most of the other women of his acquaintance, docile and sweet, and so he’d given her completely free run of the castle and its lands. He assumed she was collecting herbs and gossip.
In fact, she spent every waking moment orchestrating revenge.
As she watched from the haven of her bedchamber, the sun bid a lingering farewell over the hills, turning the sky the colors of a ripening peach.
She pounded her fist on the embrasure in frustration. Another day gone, and still she’d found no champion to do battle with Lord Holden de Ware. It seemed everyone had heard of the Wolf’s legendary swordsmanship.
She hung her head. She’d tried pleading, cajoling, flattering, and shaming them. But thus far none of the seasoned knights of her own or neighboring castles would undertake her mission of retribution. They believed her father had indeed succumbed to the hotheaded pride for which he was famed, that he had turned on the enemy at the last moment and made a rash mistake in underestimating the power of the English.
But Cambria couldn’t accept that. She’d glimpsed the dream of peace in her father’s eyes. He’d had no fight left in him.
What was she to do? She’d promised her father revenge, sworn it upon his grave. Now it seemed a Herculean feat. Was there no one to take up her cause? No champion for her vengeance? No man of courage and honor and chivalry in all of Scotland?
Lord Holden de Ware casually sipped at his mead as the sun peeked through the elms and between the merlons of the wall walk at Bowden. He sighed heavily and watched with indifference as two sparrows made chase in the air. It should prove a glorious day, he tried to persuade himself, breathing in a deep lungful of crisp air. The Border forces had been defused weeks ago. Rested now from that ordeal, he knew he should be happily enjoying the comforts due the lord of the manor. But he was unaccustomed to peace. His spirit was restless.
He set his flagon down on a crenel of the battlement, yawning and stretching his stiff muscles. Perhaps it was time to leave Bowden in the hands of a steward and make a visit to his other prize, Blackhaugh. He wished to see how his little brother fared.
When he thought of Blackhaugh Castle, however, it wasn’t Garth’s face that came to mind. He was haunted once again by the image of that fascinating Scotswoman, the elfish lass who’d rendered him unable to eventhinkof dallying with the many perfectly willing wenches at Bowden. She’d worked a charm on him—that had to be the answer—and it was ruining his hard-earned reputation as a virile lover.
Perhaps he’d just swive the wench while he was at Blackhaugh and be done with it. He closed his eyes, picturing once again her tempting mouth, that luxurious mane of chestnut hair, her creamy bosom. Just as he began to imagine what he’d like to do with her, his attention was caught by a metallic flash from the field below.
A single knight on horseback galloped through the meadow. Holden watched silently for a moment at the rider’s approach, unable to discern whether he was friend or foe.
“Ho, fellow knight,” he called down, “what are you about this morning?”
The knight made no response. Holden raised a brow at his lack of courtesy and studied the rider carefully. He appeared to be alone. He bore no crest upon his plain blue tabard, and his helm was likewise unadorned.
Again Holden called down. “Hola, Sir Knight, by what name are you known?”
