In that moment, Christian accepted death. It was for the best. He didn’t want to return to his father’s castle, and he could not bear to live without William. Better his life end here, now. He had never fit in this world. William had the truth of it. No matter how much Christian tried to twist things, use his cleverness to make things right, in the end he himself was wrong and there was no cure for it.
Just let me die quickly,
Christian prayed.
His deepest regret was that Malcolm would get the satisfaction of having killed him, that after so many years of slipping out of his brother’s grasp, Malcolm had won.
****
CHAPTER 19
Christian did not return. Elaine went to sleep, but William stayed by the fire waiting. He waited all night in vain. When dawn finally offered him a sip of the day’s draft of light, he took off into the woods, trying to discern where Christian had gone. He would not have left them thus, with Livermore still tied next to Tristan, with his saddlebags still at the camp. Had he been hurt? Had he fallen into a ravine? Been attacked by beasts?
William was a decent tracker, and he forced himself to stop his headlong rush and use his skills. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and began scanning the brush. If he knew Christian, he would have followed a straight line using the moon. He just had to find the line and—
There, a bent pine sapling, a crushed fern. William followed the trail.
It took him half an hour to find the tree that Christian had climbed and then— several sets of footprints, evidence of a struggle. One set of footprints escaped the mess— dragging something heavy through the woods.
The gears in William’s mind froze, hanging up on what he was seeing, refusing to accept it. He looked over the ground again and again, searching for any clue that would tell him he was misinterpreting it. He found not a single drop of blood, which was good. But nevertheless, the evidence was plain. One man had jumped another and dragged him away. There was no blood, which meant he’d not been stabbed, but it could have been a blow to the head or a powerful punch to the gut. Whatever the assailant had done, it had not been instantaneous. The victim— Christian— had fought, but not for long.
William felt chilled to the bone.
Christian.
Someone had dragged him off. Had he already been dead? Or merely wounded? Had it been bandits? A hermit who lived in the woods? A madman? Perhaps it was someone who knew Christian had killed Somerfield and was out for revenge. Had Christian been recognized in the castle? Had they been followed?
No answers were forthcoming, but William began to push through the woods, following the attacker’s trail.
It is the gift of fear to be able to focus the mind, clear away the dross. And the fear of losing Christian gave this gift to William. The misty confusion that had lived in his pounding heart for days was at last crystalized until there was only one message, clear and strong.
He had to find Christian, his love, his heart, Sir Christian Brandon.
If only God would allow Christian to live, William swore to Christ, the virgin, and all the saints that he would not let Christian down again. He would never let him out of his sight, never doubt them, would face any risk just to have Christian by his side, even if legions were to come against them.
****
Malcolm yanked on Christian’s hose, frustrated at how difficult they were to shift as Christian lay on his stomach like dead weight.
“Lift!” Malcolm ordered angrily.
Christian didn’t move.
“I shall cut them from you,” Malcolm warned. “And my hands feel very clumsy today. Your skin will suffer for it.”
“Cut then,” Christian said flatly. “Cut deep.”
Malcolm spat some savory curses. He moved off Christian, no doubt to get his dagger.
That’s when Christian heard it, the slow, deliberate song of a long blade as it was pulled from its scabbard.
Time seemed to stop. For a moment, Christian heard only Malcolm’s alarmed breathing against utter silence. Then there was a scrabble of feet on rock, and the second, quicker song of sword leaving sheath, the heavy clank as blades met in the air. A sword fight.
Christian managed to roll over even as he tried to push himself back against the wall with his feet, to escape the melee, and rise up to sitting. He finally got his head raised enough to see the courtyard of the ruins clearly— and saw William, in full armor, helmet down, locked in battle with Malcolm.
Malcolm was not wearing his armor or mail, and he’d been taken by surprise. He was an excellent swordsman, strong and agile, but already William had the advantage. He was furious; Christian could see it in the line of his body and in the aggression in his attack. He was forcing Malcolm back, his blows coming fast, hard, and relentless. Malcolm countered each crushing blow, but he was barely keeping up with them. Both his hands gripped the hilt of his sword, and he stumbled backwards away from William’s onslaught, his eyes wide. And then—
A mighty, swinging blow from William’s sword pushed Malcolm’s blade strongly to the right. Before he could recover, William’s sword fell again like the hand of God from Malcolm’s left— and severed his head completely from his neck.
Christian was transfixed in disbelief as Malcolm’s face, that hateful, angry face that had tormented him since childhood, spun up into the air once, twice, his hair flying behind like a horse’s tail, before it landed with a sickening thud on the stone floor of the ruins. A second later, Malcolm’s body collapsed in a heap.
Christian stared at it in shock. He felt rather than saw William fall to his knees at his side.
“Christian! Are you all right?” William demanded, ripping off his helmet.
Christian nodded blankly.
William drew a knife and began to work at Christian’s bonds, slicing them angrily as if they were deeply offensive, first the ropes at his calves then his arms. The moment Christian was able to tug his arms free, he pushed himself off the ground and threw himself against William, arms wrapping around his shoulders.
“You came for me.”
William gripped him tightly, so tightly his armor bruised Christian’s skin, but he didn’t care.
“Were you in Hell itself, Christian. I would always come for you.” William’s voice was choked with emotion. “When I saw the tracks in the woods, that he’d dragged you to his horse, I thought…. Thanks be to God that you’re alive.”
Christian held him closer, feeling his passion for this man, for his soul, his being, his body, his heart, overwhelm him. After tasting the bitterness of death, it was a sweet, heady brew. “I love you, William. I know I cannot ask you to be something you detest, no matter how much I want to be with you. But I love you.”
William pulled away so that he could cup Christian’s face and kiss his lips sweetly. “No, you were right. If I left you— if I could even make myself do such a thing— the rest of my life would be a lie. So I guess my honor must be to you and Elaine, and to my own heart. As for the rest, we shall have to put our trust in your stratagems, Crow.”
Christian barked a laugh as something hot moistened his eyes. “I would dream up a million schemes to stay with you.”
William smiled. “Just one good one will do.”
****
EPILOGUE
The Scottish do not love the English, that is a fact. And while it is not uncommon for the British monarch to give away bits of their sacred homeland to his favorites, a thing that is not in any way
illegal
, since the king does own quite a lot of Scottish acreage, the Englishmen who move onto such land generally find that they are not welcome with open arms. By half.
And yet. There have been, in the course of time, exceptions. Scots are honest and hard-working, fierce and loyal. And it is in their nature to respect a man, once he has proven that he is the same and not a foppish puppet of King Edward II.
Take, for example, the English who lived at Glen Braemar Castle. Its acres of heavily wooded lands were rich with game. But other than the area right next to the castle itself, no man had ever been persecuted for poaching that land. In fact, Sir Christian Brandon, the lord of the place, was an excellent hunter himself. He took game to the widows in the neighboring village at least once a week, even in the deepest, most snow-covered winter. And he always donated several deer to church festivals.
They say Sir Christian could shoot a deer with his arrows even when they were in full run, even in half light. Come to think on it, perhaps that is why poachers were not a huge problem for Glen Braemar Castle.
Sir Christian’s wife, Lady Elaine, tended to the sick and unfortunate. Her compassion was legendary. Once, when she saw a woman in the village with a battered face, she attacked the woman’s husband so fiercely, it took both Lady Elaine’s husband and her brother, Sir William, to pull her off. It might have ended badly, except the woman stammered that her husband had not touched her and, well, the husband was too cowardly to fight both Sir Christian and Sir William— which was not especially cowardly, given their reputations.
Not long after that, the woman left her husband and went into service at the castle. No one in the village complained. The brutish husband moved away and was never heard from again.
The family became accepted in the community over time, English or not. It was, after all, a boon to have two such fine knights in the area, and they were not selfish with their skills. Sir William taught the local youth at swordplay and Sir Christian taught archery.
When the English attacked in 1301, Sir Christian Brandon and Sir William Corbet fought alongside Sir William Wallace— and acquitted themselves admirably.
And if even that did not cement their acceptance as Scots, because Scots can be
quite
hard-headed, then the two bonny lasses who were the daughters of Lady Elaine, both with long golden hair and blue eyes, who were wooed and wed by local Scottish nobleman, certainly did.
The three of them now rest together in the small graveyard of Glen Braemar Castle. Lady Elaine was the first to go, succumbing to a fever in her fifty-sixth year. Her body had never been strong. Sir Christian and Sir William lived another twenty years, Sir William going first at the ripe age of seventy-three and Sir Christian following on only a month later.
And if there had, on occasion, been a rumor that surfaced now and again, like a piece of flotsam on the wild seas, that handsome Sir William had never wed because he was hopelessly in love with his sister’s husband— a tragic, romantic, and shocking tale of the sort young maidens love to whisper— well, no one of consequence had ever taken it very seriously.
May they rest in peace.
THE END
Author Bio
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, an organic farmer, and a profound sleeper, Eli is happily embarking on yet another incarnation as a m/m romance author.
As an avid reader of such, she is tickled pink when an author manages to combine literary merit, vast stores of humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that, most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, three bulldogs, three cows and six chickens. All of them (except for the husband) are female, hence explaining the naked men that have taken up residence in her latest fiction writing.
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