My Highland Bride: Kingdoms of Meria Book 2 Page 2

  We look back toward the tents, Father now nowhere in sight.

  “Likely three mugs into his ale.” He points to a bright red tent. “Lord Beine.”

  “Ah, I hadn’t seen the crest before.”

  A friend of father’s, the Highland lord is notoriously short-tempered. I’ve never seen evidence of it myself, but one story places his temper as the catalyst for a battle that saw nearly half of his men killed.

  The kind of friend one would not wish to make an enemy of, I suppose.

  “What news from the North? Did you stay long in Murwood End? What is it like?”

  Warin slings his arm around me as we walk toward our newly erected tents.

  “The kind of news Father will not like,” he says. “They say the king’s Curia commander and Stokerton both paid Murwood End a visit at the same time.”

  I shield my eyes from the sun as we walk.

  “A coincidence?”

  Warin shrugs. “Perhaps. But after the Oryan sunk, calls for a counter-attack have only increased. It seems even the North is not immune to our fight.”

  “Our” fight, the never-ending border war with Meria.

  “We’ve had more than one visitor over the past weeks, each asking for Father’s support.” I look up at my brother, who doesn’t look surprised.

  “He cannot avoid taking a stand forever.”

  I laugh. “Have you met our father?”

  Warin steps over a puddle of mud, my skirts already worse for the wear, courtesy of yesterday’s rains.

  “I have. But even he may not be able to avoid the capital’s troubles this time.”

  We shall find out soon enough. The very man in question emerges from Lord Beine’s tent. Seeing Warin, he raises his hand to wave just as his companion looks to the west. Suddenly, it seems everyone is doing so. I crane my neck but can see nothing for a time.

  Then I realize what everyone stares at as the queen’s bright blue and silver banners come into view.

  3

  Erik

  “Why do you not simply ask for an audience?” Gille asks, stretching out his legs as we sit in front of the tents.

  After a day of wandering through the makeshift market and watching knights showcase their skill, as only one hundred men will be chosen for the melee, I am as impatient as Gille to speak to Lord Moray. I also know the man much better than my companion does.

  Lord Gille Elliot, a Highlander whose family exerts considerable influence and whom I’ve come to rely on since being appointed second commander. Some might think him soft on account of his fondness for the finer things in life, but it was a mistake to assume so. A skilled tracker and fighter, he is one of Cettina’s most valuable men.

  As for Moray, I need to listen and learn first. The man must be approached with a fair measure of caution, or this journey will prove fruitless, and I am determined to find success here.

  It is the least I can do after causing many of Cettina’s current troubles.

  “My lord?” We look toward the flap of the smallest of our three tents. Bradyn emerges with my mail in hand. “I’ve forgotten to bring sand for polishing.”

  Gille gives me a look, but I ignore it. If the boy is to learn, he won’t do so back at Breywood without me.

  “There’s a barrel there”—I point toward the edge of camp—“for just that purpose.”

  Gille stretches out his legs, the canvas chair he sits on a luxury he insisted on bringing since we brought a wagon for the tents. For a man who wields a poleaxe like no other, he enjoys his comforts. Most of the men around us sit on the ground or, if they’re lucky, a flat rock.

  He’s privileged, aye, but not soft. Gille Elliott is most unique.

  “Aye, lord,” Bradyn says, gamely shuffling off to the barrel.

  The boy leaves us, and I cut off my companion before he can utter a word.

  “His parents were killed. He has no one.”

  Gille scratches the back of his neck as he does whenever he has no good response.

  “He will learn,” I continue.

  We both watch as the boy sidles up to other pages and squires crowding around the barrel of sand.

  “Get in there,” I mutter, as if he can hear me. “You bear the queen’s crest.”

  “He won’t do it,” Gille says. “The boy is much too shy.”

  A temperament that will not serve him, or me, if he is to become a knight and serve the queen.

  “Get in there,” I urge him again.

  Gille laughs at my silent coaching, but Bradyn squares his shoulders and edges his way toward the rim of the barrel. I beam at Gille as if the boy were my own.

  “He’s a long way from knighthood,” he comments, “and a Highlander he’ll never be.”

  I shrug. “Highlander. Lowlander. Voyager. Southerner. What does it matter?”

  As two groups of men greet each other, their mood jubilant, so different from the tense atmosphere in the capital, Gille looks at me as if I’d just admitted to secretly being a Shadow Warrior.

  “Have you never met a Merian you respected? A Voyager whom you trust? A Lowlander you might marry?”

  I know the truth of that last one. Gille is unable to deny it.

  “Of course. But that is a far cry from claiming it does not matter. You may wish it were not so, but you’ve been at the capital long enough to know otherwise.”

  Silence descends between us for a moment. He’s right, and we both know it.

  “So will you speak with him today?” he asks again.

  I look toward the other edge of the camp, where Moray’s flag billows in the wind. It’s the only fully black one on the field, which makes it easy to distinguish.

  He attends with his daughter and son, I’ve learned, though the son arrived separately. They say he has been traveling the Isle, though for what purpose none could say for certain. I’ve also learned Moray has not changed much in the time I’ve been away from home.

  As always, he cares for one thing above all else.

  His family.

  Not the queen. Or the church. Or even his fellow Highlanders, whom he holds so dear. Nay, his highest loyalty is to the wife he married for love, the son he indulges, and the daughter he dotes on, even more so after losing poor Fara.

  That was a dark day, for certain.

  I was serving the queen as her personal guard when word of the poor girl’s fate reached me in a letter from my mother. The fissure between our families meant I hadn’t seen Moray or his girls for many years, but I felt their loss keenly. Fara’s funeral marked the first time my father had spoken to Moray since the obstinate Highland lord had refused to support us in a battle that saw too many of our own men killed.

  My father vowed never to forgive his neighbor for failing to send men to the Battle of Hendrelds Hill, and likely he never would. What started as a feud between two Highland families escalated when the king became involved, sending his own men to aid Lord Lemet’s claim of land against Lord Carlsham. My father refused to battle against the king, even though he’d been an ally of both families and previously refused to enter the fight. As Moray had done.

  Some said if Moray had sent men, Carlsham would have been quickly overwhelmed and surrendered. Instead, the battle became Edingham’s bloodiest internal fight in our history, the fissures on both sides felt to this day.

  Yet I was tasked with gaining support from that very man. If I thought being sent to Murwood End to gather support from the Voyagers in an attack on Meria was difficult, this would be even more so.

  And it likely would have the same outcome.

  “I will offer to fight for him,” I say, proud of the solution I’d decided on this morn.

  Each year a random draw saw two leaders chosen. All previous champions of the tourney had been guaranteed to fight on the side of their choice. All others would display their prowess in a series of activities, which would result in them being chosen for one side or the other . . . or eliminated from the competition altogether.

 
; Some men had made their fortunes at such events, captured knights on both sides being ransomed for horses and riches and additional fees for recovered weapons.

  “Aye.”

  And like him, I am one of only a handful of men who has been crowned champion of this tourney more than once. There is a reason for it, and Moray would do well to have me on his side. He may not agree with my father or the queen, but he very much likes to win.

  I suspect negotiations will go easier if we fight, at least for one day, for the same cause.

  “I believe the queen was jesting when she told you to return as champion. Do you think she meant for us to stay here until the end of the tourney?”

  It would be a sennight until the melee. A sennight away from the capital, not knowing what was happening back home.

  “It does not matter. My charge was to get Moray’s support, and I will do that any way I’m able.”

  “Including fighting in the melee?”

  “Aye.”

  I would do that, and more, to win back Cettina’s confidence. When the queen named me as second commander, my father had never been so proud. And then “the Hilla affair,” its fallout, and the princess’s disgrace. All because of me and my poor instincts.

  Aye, I would do anything to find success here.

  I stand.

  “To Moray,” I say. “’Tis time to get this done.”

  4

  Reyne

  Rubbing my temples, I return to my father’s tent, now empty as the men have all gone off to the jousting field. Thankfully, I thought to bring a pouch of peppermint. I only hope it will work better this time than it did the last.

  I find the satchel easily among my things. Heading back outside, I look toward the circle of rocks with the cold wood gathered inside, wishing there were still a fire so that I might boil some water. I could chew the peppermint, but I’ve found drinking it works better.

  Though I’ve never started a fire on my own before, I’ve watched the men do it on this journey and am sure I can manage it easily. After retrieving a knife from the tent, I pick up a rock and bend down in front of the pile of wood, striking the knife repeatedly against the metal as I’ve seen Father’s men do.

  I see sparks but nothing more.

  “You’ve missed a few steps there, my lady.”

  I shoot up and spin around toward the voice.

  Forgetting my poor attempts at making a fire, I stare at the stranger before me. He is, quite easily, the most handsome man I’ve ever met.

  He is even taller than my father and brother. And wider in the shoulders. A Highlander, aye. But his hair is shorter, more like a Southerner. Or a man of court, likely one who arrived under the queen’s banner.

  I don’t know him, but there is something vaguely familiar about the man.

  “I . . .” Words fail me before they return in a rush. “I’ve never started a fire before.”

  The queen’s man takes a step toward me. I should be afraid to find myself alone with him. I promised Father not to go anywhere without an escort, but when I could not find any of his men unoccupied, I decided to return to the tent on my own.

  “I can see that.”

  His smile demands a response. Although embarrassed to have been caught as such by a noble guardsman, I manage to collect myself. I toss the rock back onto the pile and slip the knife into the fold in my gown. His eyes fall to the pouchof herbs still clutched in my hand.

  “Peppermint?”

  My eyes widen. How could he know such a thing?

  “Aye.”

  It is a wonder I can speak at all. I’ve asked my mother, many times, to tell me the story of how she met Father. Always she tells me this: the moment he stepped into the hall, she was struck silent by the sight of him. Even now, she finds him the most handsome man in existence. The guardsman reaches for my hand. “May I see it?”

  He wants to see my peppermint?

  “Did you pick it in early bloom but when no more new leaves were being formed?”

  I take a stem out and attempt to hand it to him but am mortified to realize my fingers are trembling. Does he notice as I drop it into his hand? Surely he does.

  “What do you use it for?” he asks, examining it.

  Since it feels odd to confess a headache to a stranger, I grapple for an appropriate answer. But it seems I’ve taken too long.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Lady Reyne.”

  “How do you know my name?” I ask, startled.

  He gives me the look of one who knows me, but I am assured we have not met. I would remember such a man clearly.

  Standing back and bowing so very properly, still grinning, he introduces himself.

  “Erik Stokerton, at your service, my lady.”

  I gasp. Could this be the very same Erik Stokerton who once marched into our hall claiming he was no longer the son of Bern but would prefer to be a Moray instead? My excitement of having a new brother was quickly squashed when my father promptly set the tall, skinny neighbor’s son on his horse and rode him immediately home, explaining that he could not choose a new father simply because he disliked the number of hours he was made to sit with his tutor.

  That was before the Battle of Hendrelds Hill, of course, after which I never saw Erik again.

  “You are not a queen’s guardsman,” I accuse, even though Erik had not specifically claimed to be. I’d drawn that conclusion all on my own.

  “Nay,” he says cheekily, “I am not.”

  He is the queen’s second commander, the youngest in the Curia’s history. Former champion of this tourney. Edingham’s most famous warrior, he fought a contingent of Merians so fiercely he was hailed by Cettina’s father, King Malcom, on the battlefield, brought immediately to court, and named as personal guard to the princess.

  This cannot be the same boy I knew. And yet his smile is the same. Erik’s smile always reached his eyes, even as a boy.

  “’Tis really you.”

  He hands back my peppermint.

  “Shall I be offended you did not recognize me when I knew who you were right away?”

  I gesture toward our tents. “You had an advantage, Erik.” I immediately correct myself, “Lord Stokerton.”

  “You will not use my given name because our fathers are two stubborn old goats?”

  A truth if I’ve ever heard one.

  “I will not use your given name because you are a Curia commander and ’twould not be proper to do so.”

  “Come here, Reyne.”

  We are much too close now, considering he is no longer a boy but an immensely handsome man, but I do as he asks anyway.

  As bold now as he was then, he snatches the pouch from me and tosses it to the ground.

  “What are you about?”

  And then he takes my hands. Gasping, I attempt to pull away. But he holds them steady, turning both over so my palms face upward. As if that were not improper enough, he starts massaging my hands, focusing on the area between the thumb and forefinger.

  “Close your eyes,” he bids.

  I do it, unable to believe this gorgeous stranger is not a stranger at all but Erik Stokerton, the queen’s commander. And, if the rumors are true, her lover as well.

  “I assume the peppermint is for a headache?” Erik asks, still massaging my hands in that very strange spot.

  “Aye.” I’ve had them since childhood but am surprised he remembered, and even more surprised he so quickly connected the peppermint to my ailment.

  “If we were successful in starting a fire to boil water, it would not have helped much. You must choose stems with more leaves and, as I mentioned, be sure to pick them in early bloom. The ones you have would not prove very potent.”

  As he continues his ministrations, I actually begin to feel a bit better.

  “This is a more effective treatment if the pain is not substantial.”

  His fingers are rough, not surprising for a warrior’s hand, but they’re also gentle. Suddenly remembering where we are,
and the possibility one of the men could come along at any time, I open my eyes.

  Surely I misinterpret the look he is giving me. This is a man in love with a queen, a woman whose beauty none deny even if they do not care for her.

  “Does your head feel any better?”

  I swallow and nod, not trusting my voice to answer.

  Dropping my hands, he nods. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. And would be even more glad to hear my name from your lips. We were, after all, nearly siblings once.”

  Again, his smile is infectious.

  “Very well, Erik. Though not so nearly, I fear. My father was not very pleased with your pronouncement.”

  He laughs. “You should have seen my own father if you think yours was angry.”

  Spying a hulking figure approaching us from a distance, I take a step back, away from Erik.

  “Since we speak of angry fathers, you should know one is headed this way.”

  But Erik does not flinch. He does not even look off toward the game fields.

  “Good, as he is the reason I’m here.”

  Of course, I know he had not come just to greet me, but his words sting nonetheless. Still, my father’s face comes into view. He is staring at Erik and, as usual when the name Stokerton is raised, he does not look very pleased.

  To think I’d just gotten rid of my headache. It seems another might not be far behind it.

  5

  Erik

  As I wait for Moray, his daughter distances herself from me. A pity, as I rather enjoyed standing so close to her.

  Though I had the advantage of knowing I was surrounded by Moray tents, I would have recognized her anywhere. Once, as a boy, I asked my father why Lord Moray’s son did not have that vivid red hair, bright enough to be spied from across a crowded hall, like he and his daughter. I don’t recall his answer, but it would be impossible to forget that color. Or the flashing eyes that accompanied it. They’d taunted me into trouble every time my family visited Blackwell Castle. She’d always reminded me of a flame, dashing and dancing, dangerous and powerful.