Knight of Grace. Sophia James
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shook her head. How often had she told her cousins this story as she lay beside them in the hours before wakefulness became slumber, dream-time cameos where knights of honour and chivalry and faithfulness rode into Grantley demanding love. Her love, despite the itchy rash and cursed stutter. In these stories she had none of them. Even her hair was a less fiery shade of red.
Dreams?
Reality!
When Kerr dragged her into the space beside him, his hands were neither soft nor careful. When he demanded that the priest give the oath to bind them together, she heard hatred rather than love.
And when he gave her his answer two words kept repeating again and again in her head.
For ever. For ever. For ever.
A warm wash of horror flooded through her as, before God and her family as witnesses, she was married. For ever. Sealed in the eyes of the Lord and the law with an unbreakable and eternal promise.
When it was finished and her husband handed her a large goblet of wine, she drank it without taking breath and then helped herself to another, her more normal sense of optimism submerged under the heavy weight of duty.
Judith held her hand, hard clasped and shaking.
‘If he is anything like his brother, Grace…’
She did not let her finish. ‘He w-won’t be.’
‘You can tell?’
‘I can hope.’
‘We could be at Belridden in two days to get you if you needed to come home.’
‘I am married n-now, Judith. Under what law should I be able to leave my h-husband?’
They looked at each other in silence, the enormity of everything a dark shadow of truth in both their eyes.
‘This should not have been your cross to bear. It should have been mine. I am Ginny’s sister, after all; if anyone had to pay the price for Malcolm Kerr’s death, it should have been me.’
Grace looked at her new husband, their eyes meeting across the crowded room. He was as beautiful as she was plain, the pale blueness of his eyes catching her anew with the contrast of colour against his darkness of hair.
David’s knight. A man who had ruled the fields of battle from France to Scotland for a decade. She had heard the tales from various bards when they had come to Grantley with their songs and their stories. Sword, scabbard, mail and shield: Lachlan Kerr’s weapons of choice as he rode beneath the gold-and-red standard of the lion of Scotland, its border pierced by ten fleurs-de-lis.
And now her husband.
She turned his ring around the third finger on her left hand and the warmth of the metal made her smile.
A sign. Of hope? She wondered about her marriage night, about being close to such a man.
‘If you l-love me, Judith, you will promise to st-stay silent about everything, because if you do not then all of this will have been in vain.’
Judith did not look happy at all. ‘Perhaps if you told him about what he tried to do to Ginny…’
‘And ruin her r-reputation for ever?’
‘This is for ever too, Grace.’
‘I know, but I am twenty-six and Ginny is b-barely sixteen.’
‘She has not spoken since…’ Judith stopped and regrouped. ‘Perhaps she never will.’
‘T-ten months is only a l-little time. With c-care…’
A single tear traced its way down Judith’s cheek. ‘You were always the best and the bravest of us, Grace, and if Lachlan Kerr ever hurts you even a little…’
‘He won’t.’
‘You are certain?’
The pale stare of her husband caught her across the head of her cousin, beckoning her, arrogance written in every line of his face.
Grace tipped up the goblet she held and finished the draught within. This charade was for a reason and their marriage was final. There could be no going back on such a promise even had she wanted to.
‘I am c-certain,’ she returned before limping over to join him.
He barely acknowledged her as she came to stand beside him, his shoulders a good foot above her own even when she straightened. He spoke to his men of his hopes for Scotland and of his want to be again in the land of his birth before another moon waned.
So soon? He would not stay here at Grantley for one night? The shock of such an imminent departure made her breathing uneven and she felt his gaze full upon her.
‘Belridden has favours that Grantley lacks. The mountains around it, for example, are lauded for their bounty when hunting.’
Grace tried to smile, tried to understand that it was a reassurance he gave her. Bounty in hunting? All she could see in her mind’s eye was a far-off, lonely place with trails and tracks used for forage and pursuit.
The easy luxury of Grantley closed in. ‘I have n-no knowledge of h-hunting, Laird K-Kerr,’ she returned and the red-haired man next to him laughed.
Lachlan Kerr did not, however, his eyes bruised with the growing realisation of the enormous gulf that lay between them as he wiped his mouth free of wine on his sleeve before turning.
‘It is time to go.’
Even his men on the other side of the room heard his words, standing almost as one, and the colourful gowns of her cousins seemed caught in a time frame, like an etching, England swallowed up by the muted earthy tones of plaid. Judith’s wail came first as she pushed forwards, her arms encircling Grace, tears running freely down her cheeks.
‘I cannot bear to think of life without you, Grace,’ she cried, ‘the stories you tell us will be so sorely missed.’
Grace noticed the look of interest that flinted across Lachlan Kerr’s face.
‘Stories?’
‘Grace has the most wonderful imagination. She tells us tales at night.’ Bright red coated Judith’s cheeks as she registered the Laird’s attention.
‘I am c-certain that I sh-shall b-be back often.’ Her own reassurance vacillated as incredulity appeared on the face of every Scotsman. The sheer volume of wine she had consumed began to take effect, for she rarely drank very much. The room tilted and the noise in it dimmed as she felt her hand on Judith’s arm without any sense of it really being there. The goodbyes to her other cousins and to her uncle were just as unreal, the farewells far away through the haze of unreality and less difficult than they would have been were she sober.
A kiss and a hug, food pressed into her hands and her cape draped around her and then the party was outside and she was up, on a horse in front of her new husband. A hastily packed chest on a steed behind. Quick steps to another life, the angst of it all banished by too many glasses of fine Rhenish wine.
She wiped her eyes and struggled for control, for normality, but already the whirling tiredness was upon her. Leaning back against the solid warmth was comforting and she did not push away the arm that anchored her firmly into place.
The landscape swam out of focus, soft, troubled. Almost known.
‘Keep still.’ The voice was angry-close and as her eyes flew open wide the world again began to settle.
They were in the foothills of the Three Stone Burn, miles from Grantley.
And heading north.
Away from home. Away from her cousins and her uncle and the people she had known all her life.
She wriggled forwards, her muscles tight from the effort of countering the pressure from the easy canter of his horse.
His horse!
She