The Knight's Bride. Lyn Stone
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his own humble flask of good Scots spirits. “See how much more of this ye can hold, Tav. Ye’ll still hurt, but ye won’t care.”
Tavish pushed it away. “Only numbs me from the chin up. Have you a quill in there?” he asked, his voice choked with pain.
Alan poked deeper into the hidebound pouch. “Aye,” he answered as cheerfully as he could manage, “parch and ink as well. Ye’ve a mind to write, then?”
Tavish nodded slightly and exhaled the words, “To Honor. Help me sit.”
A half hour later, Tavish Ellerby made a final, stronger scribble and let the feather fall from his hand. “Done.” His weary eyes rested a moment under their grime-crusted lids before he met Alan’s steady gaze. “See if you...agree.”
“To this?” Alan asked, biting his bottom lip. He touched the page of slanting marks that meant nothing to him.
“Orders for my lady,” Tavish explained through gritted teeth. His white-knuckled hands clutched the moth-chewed blanket as his breathing grew labored and irregular. “Good plan, eh?”
Alan followed the wavering lines of lampblack ink and came to rest on the larger, ornate loops at the bottom. “Well writ, Tav.” He tapped the parchment with the back of his fingers and smiled. “’Tis braw advice. She’ll be minding ye, too, if I’ve aught to say to it.” His friend’s peace of mind justified Alan’s small pretense. And the Lady Honor would take comfort in her husband’s last thoughts and wishes, no matter what they were.
Though he could see Saint Ninian’s roof from here, Alan knew that moving Tavish would only hasten death. He hated to tell Lady Honor that her husband breathed his last neath a gnarled old oak at the edge of the battlefield. But no lie would make it finer. Dead was dead. And if ever a soul made heaven without benefit of a final blessing, it would be that of Tavish Ellerby.
Everything south of Stirling lay in ashes. He prayed Tavish’s keep, nestled in the Cheviot Hills, lay out of both armies’ paths. What the English had not laid waste to in the last few weeks, Robert Bruce had, in order to keep his enemies shelterless and hungry. Now many Scots would suffer the same, even though they had won the battle.
Tavish reached out, fingers weak and trembling as they grasped Alan’s forearm. “You will take me on home? Lay me under a cairn by the Tweed? Do not...let Honor see me first. Not like this. Promise?”
“Aye, I will. Got yer leg, by God, and I’ll take that, too.”
Weak laughter trickled out like the dregs from a wineskin. “Put me back together, will you?” The eyes closed again and Tavish shuddered. “Alan, tell her. Tell my Honor...that ’tis for the best, my dying. Say how much I... cared.”
“She’ll be knowing that, Tav. I’ll sing it like a bard, I swear. Sweet things she’ll be weeping over long after she’s grown old and...Tav? Tavish?”
Alan drew in a deep, ragged breath and expelled it. Stinging wetness seeped down his cheeks. “Ah, Tav, lad. Would that yer Honor coulda seen ye smile just so.”
He looked long into the blank, blue eyes before he closed the lids at last.
Chapter One
Byelough Keep
June 28, 1314
“I saw murder in his eye, my lady. Lord Hume will never let the marriage stand if he finds you. God alone can help you if the comte de Trouville becomes involved.”
Lady Honor Ellerby fought her rush of alarm at the messenger’s words. She must remain calm, think what next to do.
Could her father possibly find her here in this littleknown border keep? Would he remember her friendliness toward Tavish Ellerby when they had met at the French court? If so, he would guess where she had flown. Since nearly a year had passed, Honor had begun to hope he would have given up the search. She should have known better, since she was his only heir.
He could force her to return home with him unless Tavish could hold out against Hume’s forces. Her marriage was very probably invalid. After all, she had stolen and altered the documents her father had prepared, which named the comte de Trouville as her intended bridegroom. The very thought of that man caused her to shiver, even now.
Trouville had come to her father’s house in Paris, not three days after the death of his second wife, and demanded Honor’s hand. After spending nigh to a week locked away with no food and little water, Honor had reluctantly signed the contracts her father provided. In her mind, that certainly constituted force and was not legal. But since when must relatives of the king adhere to law? If the comte had gotten away with murder, what penalty need he fear for a mere marriage by force? Since wit was her only weapon of defense, Honor had devised a way out of the match.
Tavish would never have married her unless he believed her father approved, so she had brought her father’s copies of the signed contracts with her, minus, of course, the comte de Trouville’s name. A careful scraping of the parchment had eliminated that, as well as the listed property her father was to receive from the comte in the exchange for her. Honor had inserted some nonsense about her own happiness being sufficient to satisfy her sire. Then she had sold her jewels to provide the mentioned dowry.
Neatly done, if she did say so, but a dangerous ruse for all that. Consequences could be deadly if her father and the powerful comte regained control of her life.
She should have confessed her misdeed to Tavish once he had come to care for her, but she had needed to wait until she was absolutely certain he would fight to keep her. Then he had left so suddenly to join Bruce’s forces near Stirling. Hopefully, there would be time to make amends for her deception and soothe Tavish’s anger on his return. She must do so before her father arrived. And he would likely be here, sooner or later, if Melior had the right of things.
“His lordship is truly furious, Lady Honor. They do say at first he thought you had been stolen. Your lady mother tried to foster that belief, and for a while, succeeded. Then he finally discovered the betrothal and marriage contracts were missing, and that your jewels and clothing were gone.”
Melior continued, “Not long after I returned from showing you the way here, he began to question the prolonged absence of Father Dennis. When he decided that you had run away, his rage knew no bounds.”
The musician continued, “Even had I not promised to come and warn you did he guess what happened, I could not have remained there a moment longer. He strikes out at everything and everyone in his path, even after all this time!” Melior declared with a shudder.
“When has he not?” Honor asked wryly, though she could recall such a time when she was very young. Her father had once been a fair, if not doting, parent. Some unaccountable and violent madness had overtaken him once she reached an age to wed.
Seven long years she had matched her will to his in selling her off. She meant to have a kind and loving husband, and he had chosen only irksome court toadies. A good dozen suitors Honor had sent running, employing every device possible from outrageous insults to feigning madness. But the comte de Trouville would not be put off by her. And her father had starved her into submission that time. Temporarily.
“How long before Father finds me, by your reckoning?” she asked Melior.
“He has already surmised whom you wed, but he dares not abandon his place at court until he has completed his business there. Once that is accomplished, who can say how long his search will take? Not long, I should think. You know his resources as well as I.”
“You do not believe he has informed the comte de Trouville?”
“Not as yet, unless he did so after I left. He has stalled your betrothed with some tale of a prolonged illness you had contracted. Said he had sent you to the countryside to recover. Afterward, he vowed to your mother