Tatiana March (7 page)

“I’m taking the battle out to Erskine,” he told Lady Brenna.

Pebbles scattering, Lady Brenna jerked up to her feet. “What do you mean?”

Olaf had removed his gauntlets while he watched her count. Curling his hands around her upper arms, he pulled her close and held her steady while he captured her gaze and spoke with the fervor of a man taking a desperate gamble. “We’ll attack. They’ll outnumber us fourfold, and they are more experienced soldiers, but in the confusion of a battlefield, valor and courage can mean just as much as skill and strength. The men of Kilgarren will be fighting for their homes, for their families. They’ll fight with their hearts, and that will make each of them worth at least four of the enemy.”

Lady Brenna grew stiff in his hold. “You’re asking to be slaughtered.”

“No.” Olaf fell silent. He couldn’t deny the truth in her words, but he had a plan. A plan he couldn’t share with her because she would try to talk him out of it. If he could find a way of luring Erskine into a single combat, perhaps by taunting him, insulting his pride...that could give them a chance. And even if he lost, a single combat would spare the lives of his men, allowing them to surrender with their honor intact.

Lady Brenna spoke. “If you ride out to Erskine, I shall ride out by your side.”

“No.” He stared at her, his fingers tightening over her arms. “I want you to live.” There was an implacable edge of authority in his voice. “You haven’t had your woman’s flux. You may be carrying my child. I want you to live. I want our child to live.”

Her lashes fluttered down. “Starvation and terror can stop a woman’s flux.”

“Instinct tells me that you are with child.” He gave her a shake, the force of it harder than he had intended as regret tore through him. “Live. Give life to our child.” He exhaled a harsh breath. “I told you once that I wished to know love before I died. You have given me that. If I die, I go to my death with a heart that is no longer full of bitterness. I have memories to take with me. But death will be easier if I know the life I’ve left behind is safe.”

“I’m your equal. I want to fight with you.”

“No.” Olaf released his hold on her arms and pressed his fingers on Lady Brenna’s lips to silence her. “If a woman carries a child, she is responsible for a life beyond her own. You promised to obey me. You will do as I tell you.”

“But it was—”

He cut her off with an impatient sound. “I want to hear no argument. You made a promise, and I expect you to honor your word like a true knight would. Kilgarren is your greatest love, your birthright. If I fail to return from the battle and you marry Erskine before our son is born, one day he’ll rule Kilgarren. My son. Our son. Knowing that the life we created together will inherit your beloved home must carry you through the years as Erskine’s wife.” Olaf closed his mind to the pain of thinking of Brenna with another man. “And if life with him is too hard to bear, you know what to do,” he added quietly. “No one dared to speak openly when they suspected you of poisoning your brother. They’ll do no more if you end the days of a cruel husband.”

“I couldn’t...” Lady Brenna spoke in a whisper. “Not without you....”

“If I die, you’ll have to,” Olaf said bluntly. “I demand that you protect our son.”

He didn’t dare to kiss her. It might weaken his resolve, might make him want to postpone his daring plan for challenging Erskine. Instead of pursuing a slim chance of victory, he might be tempted to snatch just one more day, one more hour, one more minute with her, and the longer he waited, the weaker his men would be from starvation and frostbite.

Olaf touched his fingers one more time to Lady Brenna’s soft lips. He longed to hear the words, have her tell him that she loved him, but he knew that if she spoke the words, they would make it harder for him to leave her. He let his gaze rest on her face for a moment, memorizing her features as he spoke. “I shall go up on the roof and tell Robert that I’m riding out to Erskine. Then I’ll gather the men and we will engage in battle.”

Lady Brenna lifted her hands to his chest. Her nails scraped against his breastplate as she made the instinctive feminine gesture of clinging to him, of seeking to fist her hands in his clothing. He took her wrists and gently eased her away.

“There is a chance,” he told her softly. “I’m more skilled than Erskine. I have a better horse, a better sword. I have more to fight for, more to live for.” Olaf paused. He’d reassured her with hope. Now he had to strip some of it away from her. “But if I die,” he said, “you must surrender. There is no other way.”

Then he released her, turned away, and went to meet his fate.

* * *

Brenna pressed her ear to the hole in the floor, listening to the muffled voices in the great hall below. She’d offered to share the laird’s private rooms to avoid overcrowding after the villagers took shelter in the castle, but people preferred to huddle together for warmth.

Alistair was speaking. “Our grandfather was a Norseman, and no Viking runs from battle. We are coming with you.” A trail of heavy footsteps stomped across the floor.

“Aye. Aye.” The villagers spoke with raised voices, each striving to be heard over the others. Brenna heard the banging sounds as the trapdoor was unbolted, and the clanking of weapons as the men took to arms, and then the creaking of timber as they climbed down the ladder to the stables and prepared to spill out to the battlefield.

She couldn’t bear to watch.

She couldn’t bear
not
to watch.

Her heart pounding, an icy fear curling in her belly, she hurried up to the roof. Robert stood facing the enemy encampment, bitter at being left behind but embracing his role as the sole remaining protector of the women and children. The skies were clear, and the crisp air reminded Brenna of the winter hunts while her father remained alive.

Now she was the hunted, not the hunter.

“He is right.” Robert spoke without turning to look at her. “It is better to go into battle than to sit around, waiting for life to slowly drain from your body, breath by breath. In a fight there is a chance. Starvation will always kill you in the end.”

Brenna joined him at the crenellated wall, standing in front of a lower section to get a full view of the moors outside. Three men spearheaded the march out toward the enemy, Olaf riding on Thor at the center, Alistair and Ian on foot on either side of him. Behind them, the villagers followed in a loose formation, brandishing their weapons. The measured pace of their advance added a militant, threatening quality to their approach, even though they were only twenty men against a crowd of nearly a hundred.

Her husband wore no helm. Did he wish for a swift death? Did he long to feel the cold, fresh wind on his face as he perished? Or did he believe that agility and speed and unfettered vision would give him a greater chance in the combat he faced today? Brenna wished to know the answer, but doubted that she ever would.

The pale winter sun fell on Laird Olaf, gilding his hair, making his armor sparkle. Memories of her first glimpse of his face flooded Brenna’s mind. Like an angel in a church painting. A man who had taught her to fight, who had treated her as his equal. She loved him, but she’d never given him the words.

What was Kilgarren but earth and grass, a bog of peat and a pile of stones? The land would be there for eternity, whether she dwelled upon the soil or not. Erskine might rule for a while, but death would take him, the way it took everything. Another man would rule in his place, and another one after that.

She would be forgotten but Kilgarren would remain.

She had but one life to live. One love to love.

And that love was now riding out to meet his death.

Not daring to say anything to Robert, lest he try to stop her, Brenna retreated down the ladder. At the great hall, she paused to address the women and children huddled together for warmth. “Do not fear,” she called out to them. “Take your orders from my steward. I must join my husband.”

She hurried to the ground floor and spent a few precious moments tying a bridle on the workhorse. Then she urged the horse out through the entrance, climbed up on a stone bench and flung herself onto Ramsey’s back, praying to God that Laird Erskine remained true to his ugly nature and would pause to gloat over his victory before killing his enemies.

Pride soared in her heart at the sight that met her when she approached the battle lines. On one side, three warriors stood still, one on horseback, two on foot. Their calm pose spoke of endless courage. The villagers with their primitive weapons had halted and stood twenty paces farther back. On the enemy side, she counted five knights in full armor, and a greater tally of men-at-arms than she had pebbles on her desk. Despite the hopeless odds, her husband held his head high. With no standard-bearer to carry his colors, he had tied the Kilgarren banner to his left arm.

Black, white and green fluttered in the freezing January wind.

Olaf raised his sword. Ian and Alistair beside him did the same.

“Kilgarren!” Their roar filled the air, three men sounding like a hundred.

Brenna was riding hard. Ramsey’s hooves thundered on the hard earth, but the workhorse was not bred for speed. She reached the villagers and rode through the loose ranks they’d formed. Some carried bows and arrows, some brandished clubs and spears and battle-axes, even lengths of firewood.

“Kilgarren!” Their cry echoed behind her.

“Kilgarren!” Olaf shouted ahead of her, urging Thor into motion.

“No,” Brenna screamed. Despite the plodding pace of the workhorse, the advantage of gathered speed took her past her husband. She banked Ramsey hard. If Erskine’s men refused to halt their attack, she would be caught between the battle lines, the first to die. Hampered by the heavy chain mail, Brenna slid down from the horse in an awkward twist and thudded to a jarring stop on the frozen ground.

She sank down on her knees before Erskine. “I will surrender Kilgarren to you, provided you promise not to shed a single drop of blood.”

His snarling reply echoed inside his steel helm. “I can’t make you my wife unless I make you a widow first.”

Brenna lifted her chin. “I’ve offered to cede Kilgarren to you. Why would you want marriage? I am young. I shall outlive you by many years. Do you wish to blight your life with a wife who will hate you while you live, and do her best to blacken your name after you are dead?”

Laird Erskine lifted the visor of his modern burgonet helmet on its hinges. “I confess that is not a tempting prospect, but I’ll take my chances. Get out of the way, woman.” He waved his men forward, and a dozen soldiers formed a semicircle in front of her.

Brenna scrambled up to her feet and raised her sword. “If you refuse my offer, I’ll fight you alongside my husband. You’ll have to kill me to get Kilgarren.”

“Step aside, wife.” Laird Olaf’s voice came behind her, clear and calm.

She turned to look at him. His hair whipped in the breeze, and there was a fierce glitter of pride, mixed with anger, in his pale green eyes. His scowl reminded Brenna that her greatest duty was to protect the new life she may be carrying, but it also served as a warning that she was interfering with his battle strategy.

In silence, Brenna lowered her sword. She retreated, keeping her eyes on the enemy, not turning but walking backward with careful steps, taking care not to catch her heavy boots on the snowy clumps of grass that might make her stumble and fall.

Laird Olaf spoke again. “My wife is right. It should be clear to you—as clear as it is to me—that we can’t afford bloodshed. Whoever wins Kilgarren needs every warrior they have to defend the shore. The king will be displeased if the men slaughter one another and cut down their number. And without warriors to stand with him, the winner’s rule will be short, as some other challenger will come and conquer the lands.”

“What do you suggest?” Erskine asked.

“Single combat. You and I. Fight to the death. The men on both sides are free to swear allegiance to the winner or leave to seek their future elsewhere.” Laird Olaf paused, and then added in a harsh, strained voice. “If you defeat me, Lady Brenna will be yours.”

Erskine lowered the visor to close his helm. His harsh laugh boomed inside the steel sphere. “I accept your gift of handing Kilgarren and her mistress to me without a battle. Come and meet your death.” Brandishing his sword, he sent his horse into a sudden surge forward.

“You have no helm,” Brenna cried to Laird Olaf. “I’ll get it for you.”

“No,” her husband replied.

Her heart beat so hard it shook her entire body as her earlier thoughts whirled through her mind. This was what Laird Olaf had planned all along. Not a clash with an army too powerful to beat, but a fight between two men, one to live, one to die. Either he was seeking a quick, clean end with an enemy sword slicing across his neck, or he believed that the lack of helm would provide an advantage in the combat with Erskine.

To learn the answer—and her future—she had to stand aside and watch.

Chapter Seven

Olaf saw Erskine charge. That instant sealed his fate. The fate of Kilgarren. The fate of Lady Brenna. If Erskine had dismounted and insisted on a combat on foot, the odds would have favored the larger man, with greater reach and power. On horseback, Olaf had the advantage. He doubted Erskine had any idea of what a horse like Thor could do.

The lack of helm, although it exposed a weakness, gave Olaf unimpeded vision and the ability to turn his head quickly, following the movements of the enemy. He waited for Erskine to get close. Then he urged Thor up on his hind legs. The front legs of the bay stallion beat the air, kicking, connecting with the opponent’s horse.

Erskine’s coal-black gelding whinnied in panic, prancing out of control, so that for an instant Erskine lost sight of Olaf through the narrow slits in his visor. Olaf took aim. His sword had a sharp tip, and he jabbed it between the breastplate and the spaulder that protected Erskine’s right shoulder and upper arm. Blood seeped onto Olaf’s blade. It was a minor injury, but it might be enough to rob the huge knight’s blows of some of their strength.

Before Erskine could recover his bearings, Thor edged closer again and bit the other mount on the neck. The crowd had fallen into silence, and the terrified whinnying of Erskine’s horse, mixed with the thud of hooves and the creaking of leather and the clanking of swords, saturated the freezing air with the violent sounds of war.

Olaf had expected a long, bloody battle, but Erskine’s black gelding, not used to being attacked by another animal, bolted and threw his rider. The burly knight fell to the ground, the crash of steel drowning out his roar of pain. Olaf gave Thor a command. His front quarters rising and falling, the horse leaped forward to stomp on the fallen enemy, hooves pounding against plate armor with a hollow clatter.

Erskine writhed, slipping on the thin layer of snow, attempting to scramble up to his feet. He managed to roll over to his side, propping his weight on his left arm. As Thor came down again, Erskine rammed his sword up into the horse’s gleaming neck. Thor made no sound at all, instantly folding his forelegs to allow the rider on his back to slide safely to the ground.

An icy fury filled Olaf as he saw the crimson stream of blood spurting onto Thor’s shiny coat. He might have offered to spare Erskine’s life, even though they had agreed on a fight to the death, but the loss of Thor, a valuable destrier, his faithful companion in countless battles, stripped him of any inclination to mercy.

Moving fast, keeping the advantage of better vision and more agile movement, Olaf circled Erskine, who had managed to haul himself up to a crouching position. As Olaf waited to secure accurate aim to thrust his sword through the slits in Erskine’s helmet, something tangled in the sabatons protecting his feet.

Olaf stumbled forward, falling to the frozen earth.

In front of him, the burly knight raised his sword with both hands.

From behind Olaf came a squeal of fury and the surge of a brown horse charging with the last of his strength. One front hoof slammed into Erskine’s head, dislodging on the visor on his helm and sending the huge man toppling onto his back. Up and down, up and down, the horse’s hoofs flew as Thor reared high and came down again, using his entire weight to crush the enemy skull trapped inside the open-fronted helmet.

The smell of blood permeated the air. When finally the body on the ground stopped twitching, the horse stilled, steam rising from his nostrils into the freezing air, the sounds of his rasping breath cutting through the horrified silence of the crowd. With a sharp whinny of victory, Thor fell down on his buckling legs and slowly pitched over to lie on his side.

Olaf struggled up to his feet and went to the horse. Despite the heavy plate armor that limited his movements, he squatted down to stroke Thor’s long nose, soothing him. He whispered words of gratitude, words of praise to the faithful animal, crooning softly until the last spark of life went out in Thor’s dark, moist eyes.

Rising up again, Olaf stood with his head high, the blood-streaked battle standard flapping on his left arm. He lifted his sword toward the sky. “Kilgarren,” he said. Not a shout but a word spoken quietly, with certitude and permanence.

He faced Erskine’s men and let his gaze drift over the rows of them. Young and old, the soldiers were only marginally better equipped than his own. The first sank down on one knee. Then another. Soon the ground thudded with the sound of men demonstrating their respect and obedience as the conquered enemy army surrendered to his command.

Only then did Olaf turn back and search the ranks of his own men for Lady Brenna.

Clumsy in her big boots, she ran up to him and threw herself into his arms.

He clutched her close and let her shed his tears for Thor.

* * *

Lady Brenna had been to Castle Erskine before, and she’d always told herself a separate kitchen wing was impractical. Surely, rushes on the floor just created a mess, and tapestries on the wall gathered dust and cobwebs. Seven bedchambers were more than anyone would ever need, and garderobe shafts were a luxury easily done without.

But now she was willing to admit that she’d been wrong.

They had left Robert in charge of Kilgarren Castle. Brenna had a feeling that the steward might marry Martha, once he worked up the courage to ask. Ian and Alistair had followed their laird and had taken over the armory and the training of troops, leaving Laird Olaf free to focus on being the leader of his people.

Today marked their first week in their new home. Brenna had disrobed and was lying on her stomach in the darkness of the canopied bed as her husband leaned over her, lazily stroking her back.

“Who were those two men who rode up today?” she asked.

She’d been talking to the seamstress when the strangers arrived. Erskine was a widow, and his wife had left a chest full of gowns in satin and velvet and fine wool. Brenna had never been interested in fashion before, but then, she’d never been in love before.

“They were messengers from the King’s Arrow.”

“The King’s Arrow?” Brenna craned her neck to stare at her husband over her shoulder. “What does he want with us?”

“I sent him a letter,” Laird Olaf replied. “The King’s Arrow has the Stenholm estates now, and I asked him for something I’d left behind in the days of my youth. Those two men brought it.”

“What is it?” Curious now, Brenna tried to twist around to face him.

Stenholm pressed his palm to her back to halt her motion. “Guess,” he said.

As Brenna pondered the possibilities, something smooth rolled between her shoulder blades. Muffling her startled cry against the pillows, she suppressed a shiver of pleasure.

“What was that?” she asked.

Laird Olaf didn’t reply.

Instead, she felt cool metal inching along her buttocks, then pooling in the tiny dimple at the base of her spine. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

He pulled aside the heavy velvet curtains to allow the glow of light from the fireplace to shine over them and slipped a sheet of parchment on the pillow in front of her.

“Read,” he ordered.

Arching her spine, Brenna braced up on her elbows and studied the text. “One long chain of pearls,” she read. The smooth, cool object rippled down her back again, then rolled up to her neck and slithered down her shoulder to form a lustrous heap over the pillow.

“Read the next line,” Laird Olaf prompted.

Her eyes returned to the finely crafted letters. “Gold bracelet set with rubies.”

The angled facets of the metal made a slow, rolling journey across her buttocks and up her back. Reaching over her, Laird Olaf clipped the bracelet around her right arm. The rubies glinted like plump red berries in the firelight.

“A gold bracelet set with emeralds,” Brenna read out.

Her husband traced the piece of jewelry across her waist, turning the gold circle like a wheel, the stones making a slow trail from left to right and back again. Then he clipped the bracelet around her left arm.

Brenna read the rest of the list, item by item. Laird Olaf teased her senses with each piece before adorning her body with it. By the time they finished, she had three rings on her fingers, a bracelet on each arm, brooches clipped in her hair and a gold chain wrapped around each ankle.

“They were my mother’s jewels,” Laird Olaf said. “I’ve been told she liked emeralds best. Her eyes were green like mine.” He took the parchment from Brenna and folded it away. “I didn’t ask for them, but my brother’s widow sent them anyway.” He paused, and she could hear the pride in his voice. “They are my bridal gift to you. The list of them shall be attached to the marriage contract.”

“I have no need for jewels,” Brenna told him softly.

“In that case, I have something that might please you better.” Laird Olaf swung out of bed, strolled across the floor and opened the door to retrieve a big jute sack from the corridor outside. The sack rattled and clunked as he carried it toward her.

On the bed, Brenna stretched out her arms and inspected the stones that reflected the flames, like a rainbow fallen to earth and broken into pieces. She had to admit that perhaps feminine trinkets were worth getting excited over after all.

“Stand up,” Laird Olaf ordered. “And close your eyes.”

Brenna obeyed. A flat, cold plane of steel pressed against her bare breasts. With a cry of delight, she blinked her eyes open and gripped the breastplate. Laird Olaf spun her around, pressed the backplate in place and fastened the straps to join the two. Falling to her knees, Brenna began to pull more pieces of armor out of the heavy jute sack.

“Is it complete?” she asked, inspecting the fine metalwork.

“Every single piece.” Laird Olaf replied. “Try on the greaves to see if they fit.”

Brenna extended one leg, then the other. Finally, she could be a real knight.

* * *

Olaf watched his wife prance about the room dressed in nothing but a steel cuirass around her torso and a pair of greaves on her lower legs. She’d wanted to try on the full suit but he had convinced her that without the barrier of padded clothing underneath, the metal might scrape her skin. The contrast of the steel armor and the feminine curves of her naked body made his blood run hotter than a cauldron of boiling tar.

He reached for his sword by the bedpost and tossed Lady Brenna hers.

“Draw your blade,” he ordered.

She stared at him. “Here? Now?”

He didn’t speak, merely pulled his weapon from the scabbard and assumed a fighting stance. His wife did the same. Olaf ended the game quickly, clashing their blades a few times before imprisoning the tip of Lady Brenna’s sword against the floor.

“Do you surrender?” he asked. “Do you accept that I’m your husband, your master, and you must obey my every command?”

Lady Brenna sucked in a sharp breath, but her eyes sparkled, and in them Olaf could see the thrill of being dominated without needing to fear that she might be hurt. “Yes,” she replied in a breathless murmur. “I surrender.”

“Do you promise to obey me?”

“Yes.”

Olaf put his sword away. “Turn around.”

Lady Brenna spun away from him. Where armor didn’t cover her, her bare skin glowed pale in the firelight. Gold and gemstones glinted around her wrists and ankles. Brooches adorned her hair, clipping the wild curls into disarray. Her slender thighs rose from the steel greaves that protected her lower legs. He’d never seen a more arousing sight.

“Bend over.” He voice was so thick he barely managed to force out the words. She obeyed, bracing her arms on the edge of the bed and thrusting out her backside, her hips wiggling in invitation.

“Do you know what I’m about to do?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Olaf slipped his fingers between her thighs and met a valley of slick, throbbing heat. Lady Brenna moaned and arched her spine, the brooches in her hair clinking against the steel backplate. Unable to wait a second longer, he curled his hands over her hips and entered her in one smooth thrust. Instantly, she tightened around him and let out a soft, throaty moan that inflamed his lust.

He leaned forward and slipped one arm beneath her waist to hold her steady while he rocked in and out of her. They were perfectly matched for height, as if measured for each other. “Tell me if the armor hurts,” he rasped as he kept going, taking her with slow, deep strokes that were too glorious to last longer than a few frantic seconds.

When he spurted his seed into her, it felt as if his entire body had shattered. For a moment, they almost collapsed on the bed. Then, on the edges of his consciousness, Olaf remembered the armor that might chafe his wife’s skin if she fell. Seeking support from the bedpost, he adjusted his arm around her waist to steady her.

“My lady knight,” he murmured into her ear. “I know you love your new suit of armor, but you need to take it off so we can get into bed and get some sleep.”

He helped her remove the pieces of steel plate, and together they settled beneath the covers. Lady Brenna retreated to one side of the bed, the way she always did. Olaf waited. Usually, his wife fell asleep at once, away from him. Later, as the chill of the night penetrated the room, she would snuggle up to him, seeking his warmth.

“Husband?” she prompted him now, surprising him.

“Yes,” Olaf replied into the darkness.

“Do all men ask their wives for obedience?”

“No.” He suppressed a smile. “They expect to get it without asking.”

“Oh.” The covers rustled as Lady Brenna eased closer. “And the wives, what can they expect to receive in return...without asking?”

“Nothing but the husband’s name and the protection it brings.”

“I see.” The bedclothes rustled and shifted again. A small, cool foot rubbed against the inside of his leg. “Do wives have a right to demand promises?”

Olaf tensed, full of hope. “What do you want me to promise?”

“That you’ll never leave me. Never leave Kilgarren. That you’ll always stay.”

A sense of peace flooded him, as powerful as the physical satisfaction of their fevered coupling. “I promise that I’ll always protect you. Fight for you. Sometimes, fighting for you might mean that I have to ride away. If the king sends for me, I must go. But I promise you two things, my lady knight. I promise that I’ll keep teaching you, so that if I must go, you’ll know how to defend your home while I’m away. And I promise that I’ll always come back, just as soon as the king releases me.”