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 and chausses.

      Chain mail had necessitated the wearing of a padded gambeson and a heavy loincloth, as well. Both of which he despised. Even his hair felt too confined, its dark auburn hank bound at the back of his neck by a remnant of the torn yellow silk. Altogether discomforting, was this grand chivalric posturing. But necessary.

      As soon as he established the fact that he was a knight to these people of Byelough Keep, he would change back into his breacan and be damned to them all if they thought him common.

      Being a baron’s son had never counted for much in his life, but he did feel pride in his newly earned title of Sir. The least he could do was make a good first impression.

      “This way,” the priest said, beckoning Alan toward the sturdy oak portal at the back of the hall. “Milady’s solar,” he explained.

      “Sir Alan of Strode, the lady Honor,” Father Dennis announced in his low-pitched voice. “He comes from your lord husband, milady.”

      Alan’s stomach clenched with apprehension as the lady raised her gaze from her needlework. Eyes the color of a dove’s breast regarded him with bright curiosity. Her dark brows rose like graceful wings. The small, straight nose quivered slightly as her rose petal mouth stretched into a blinding, white smile. He stood entranced, just as he had expected to. Tavish was ever an apt one for description, and Lady Honor proved no exaggeration. Alan thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Perfect.

      “You are well come, good sir. Pray, how fares my husband?” She rose from behind the large embroidery frame and came to meet him, holding out her hands.

      Her heavy, voluminous overgown hid her form. It caused her to appear a wee bit stout despite the daintiness of her face, neck and hands. Nonetheless, her movements proved graceful as a doe’s. Alan released a sigh of pure pleasure in the mere seeing of her.

      “My lord husband has been detained?” she asked, her soft speech as welcoming as her smile. He supposed the speaking of French most of her life had mellowed it so, though she spoke the more gutteral English with hardly any accent. He recalled her father was a Scot, a baron and a highly educated man. Living at the French court a goodly part of her life would have exposed her to many languages. Tavish had boasted of her accomplishments. A woman of vast charm and keen wits, he had said.

      Alan cradled her soft palms, raising her fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, reluctant to release her. She smelled as heaven must, of rose water and absolute cleanliness. The woman radiated gentleness and contentment; a contentment he must now destroy. God’s own truth, how he hated this task.

      Placing her palms together, he encased them in his own and shook his head sadly. “Because I stood his friend and comrade-at-arms, Tavish bade me bring ye all his love, Lady Honor. His last thoughts were of ye.”

      “No!” she cried, snatching her hands from his. A fiery epithet scorched the air between them. A French word, if memory served him, and one that ought not be uttered in the presence of a priest. Surely he had misheard, but that and others like it were the only French he knew.

      He watched her, in awe of the change. She paced frantically, kicking her heavy skirts forward. Her palms slammed against the needlework frame, scattering skeins of silk thread the length of the room. Then she marched smartly back to where he stood and cracked her palm against his newly shaved cheek.

      Alan stood fast, hurting for her as he saw her fury dissolve into grief.

      The young priest hovered uncertainly as Alan took the lady in his arms, cradling her lightly against him, muttering softly in