The Knight's Broken Promise

He was a large man, not taller than any Scotsman, but maybe thicker, and his chest was so broad it was surely carved from the side of mountains. She could not discern his face in the moonlight, but she could see his hair was long, wild and he had let his beard grow unkempt.

His hair and beard puzzled her, for it was very un-English and this man grew his as if he were the lowliest of serfs with no comb. But an English serf would not be this far north and all alone.

Carefully, she felt along his sides for a pouch or weapons. He smelled of cedar, leather and open air. Only the fine, soft weave of his clothing gave beneath her fingers. His body, warm through his tunic, was hard, unforgiving. She frowned at the fanciful word. A body could not be unforgiving.

Feeling along his front, her palms suddenly dampened, tingled, and she stopped at his hips. She wanted to continue her exploring, but she realised it wasn’t to find weapons.

What was wrong with her? She had three older brothers. This man could be no different. But he feels different. She squashed that thought. Foolishness again. If her hands felt strange or hot, it was because she was scared he’d awaken. Aye. Plain nervousness was all she felt.

Willing her hands to obey, she moved them around his waist. Did his breathing change? No. His eyes were still closed. Taking a steadying breath, she felt the flat ripples of his waist, the knot of his hip bones. She stilled her breathing as she slid her hands down each bulging cord of his legs. At a strap near his boots she felt the hard hilt of a dagger. Pulling it out, she felt the weight and heavily carved decoration on the handle.

‘Nae a peasant, are you?’ Setting the dagger aside, she felt along his broad arms and immediately felt the cold steel of an unsheathed sword at his side. Her skin prickled with anger.

‘Even if you hadn’t spoken, I’d know you’re English for the liar you are. Peace! Hah! What man comes in peace when his sword is drawn?’

With trembling fingers she unwrapped his fingers from his sword. Wobbling at its weight, she set it on the other side of the room and grabbed the rope hanging at her waist. It wasn’t long enough to tie his hands and feet, but it was mostly his hands she was worried about.

Her heart thumped hard against her chest. She was worried about other parts of him, too. She was not so naive to think this man was safe. His muscled body, his ability to speak English and Gaelic, were testament to a soldier’s training.

Without a doubt, he would have a foul temper when he woke. But what choice did she have? She had hid in the hut. It wasn’t her fault the brastling man had entered. She’d had to swing the cauldron and protect herself.

But now what? He was sure to awaken soon. He was English, but she didn’t know if he’d burned the village. She couldn’t take any chances. It wasn’t just her own life she had to worry about.

‘Think, Gaira, think!’ She had his weapons. They might give her some control. Quickly finishing the knot, she scrambled back into the scant shadows to wait.

* * *

‘What do you mean she’s not at her brother’s?’ Busby of Ayrshire spat on the ground. The glob hit square in the centre of the old leather shoe worn by his messenger.

‘She’s not on Colquhoun lands, my laird,’ the messenger stuttered. ‘Her brothers were most surprised to see me.’

Busby rubbed his meaty hands down the front of his rough brown tunic. The only satisfaction in this bit of news? His cowering messenger was afraid. He liked it when they were afraid.

‘Did you explain to that whoreson Bram if he dinna produce his sister to me within a sennight, our bargain was off?’

‘Aye. We were given leave to search the castle.’

Busby took a step forward. ‘Did you tell them for this bit of inconvenience, I demand the further compensation of five sheep? And I wouldn’t have taken her had I known she was so bothersome? And if they want war between our clans they’ll have it?’

‘Aye, my laird.’ The messenger bent his body to look up. ‘I told them all, every bit of it. It dinna make nae difference. We searched everywhere and there was nae sign of her.’

The wench had been missing for three days while he waited for the messenger to bring her back or bring him news. The fact he had neither fuelled his fury.

‘Tell me their response,’ Busby demanded.

The messenger shifted his feet and almost imperceptibly took a step back. ‘They were not pleased.’

‘What. Do. You. Mean?’

The messenger took a full step back. Busby let him. It did not matter. The messenger was still within his reach.

‘They were most displeased. I, er, feared for my life. They said something about losing their sister and, if anything should happen to her, it’s on your head.’

‘What?’ he roared, and clenched one hand around the man’s thin neck.

A croaking sound escaped the man’s mouth and Busby eased his grip. ‘They told me they’d search the area from here to Campbell land first, but you should go south.’

He released the man, who scrambled back. ‘Go south? What for?’

‘There’s a younger sister,’ the messenger wheezed. ‘Married and living in Doonhill.’

‘That is days south of here! Prepare my horse. I’ll not be wasting any more time.’

The messenger started to shake. ‘Which horse for you, my laird?’

‘What do you mean which one? My horse, you knapweed. ’T is the only good horse in this wreck of a land!’

The messenger gnawed the inside of his cheek. ‘She took it.’

‘She what!’

‘Took it,’ he stuttered. ‘’Tis also missing.’

Busby took a ferocious step forward. He desperately wanted to wrap his hands again on the messenger’s throat and squeeze until he could release some of the raging frustration he felt, but instead, he turned his anger inward, let it cool. Only one person deserved his full wrath and he had every intention of delivering it to Gaira of Clan Colquhoun.

* * *

Pain throbbing through his temple woke Robert from blackness. He opened his eyes and saw shafts of moonlight through wisps of a burnt roof. He started to sit up.

‘Move too fast, English dede-doer, and I’ll throw this dagger at your loopie nobill part!’

He stilled. The voice came from the corner of the hut. A woman took a step forward.

Highlighted from the moon above her, she stood dressed in a tunic and leggings too large even for her tall and thin frame. Her hair was plaited in sections and swung like tiny ropes over her breasts. Her stance was wide-legged and crouched and she waved a dagger in front of her. He peered closer. His dagger.

‘You threw a cauldron at me,’ he accused in Gaelic.

‘Swung it, more like, and I reckon you deserve a lot more than that! You had your sword drawn and you stink like an English knight.’

Moving his arms, he felt the ties of rope around his wrists, but his legs were free and, using them as leverage, he sat up. The grip on her dagger tightened and he moved slower. He knew from his battles that those afraid were just as dangerous as those angry. From the pain ringing in his head, he knew she was both.

‘The hut was dark. It would have been foolish not to have my sword drawn.’

‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’ she scoffed.

The conversation was not going well.

She was angry, a Scot and a woman. He was English and in a Scottish village that Englishmen had massacred. She held a dagger and his wrists were tied. The odds were not in his favour.