The Striker (3 page)

When the time came next year for her son to leave her care—God give her strength to face that day!—Sir John would see to his placement and not her father. Being a squire to an English knight was vastly preferable to being fostered by a man so completely under her father's influence, even one who was a childhood friend. Her son's safety came above everything else.

“Chess pieces are not poppets, my love.” She pulled out the board etched with grid lines and the lovingly carved and painted wooden pieces. Some of the paint had begun to flake off on the edges, and the carefully painted faces had faded with use. She'd taught Eachann to play when he was three. He played against himself mostly, as despite prodigious efforts otherwise, she'd never had the patience for it. But he did. Her son was brilliant, and she was fiercely proud of him. “It's the game of kings,” she said with a bittersweet smile. “Your father played.”

That surprised him. She rarely mentioned his father, for various reasons, including that the memories pained her and mention of him drew her family's ire. They all tried to pretend that the “traitorous bastard” never existed around Eachann, but if the eager look on the boy's face was any indication, perhaps they had been wrong in that.

“He did?” Eachann asked.

She nodded. “It was he who taught me to play. Your grandfather never learned, which is why he . . .” She thought of how to put it. “Which is why he doesn't understand how useful it can be to a warrior.”

He looked at her as if she were crazed. “How?”

She grinned. “Well, you could throw the board like a discus, or use the pieces in a slingshot.”

He rolled his eyes. She couldn't get anything past him, even though he was only five. He always knew when she was teasing. “Don't be ridiculous, Mother. It wouldn't make a good weapon.”

His expression was so reminiscent of his father's she had to laugh so she didn't cry. If anyone needed proof that mannerisms were inherited, Eachann was it. “All right, you have me. I was teasing. Did you read the rest of the folio Father Christopher found for you?”

They'd been reading it together, but he'd grown impatient waiting for her. Like with chess, her son had quickly outpaced her hard-wrought reading skills.

He nodded.

She continued. “King Leonidas was a great swordsman, but that's not what made him a great leader, and what held off so many Persians at Thermopylae. It was his mind. He planned and strategized, using the terrain to his advantage.”

A broad smile lit up Eachann's small face. “Just like you plan and strategize in chess.”

Margaret nodded. “That was what your father did so exceptionally. He was one of the smartest men I ever knew. In the same way that you can look at the chessboard and ‘see' what to do, he could look at an army on the battleground and see what to do. He could defeat the enemy before he even picked up a sword.”

Though Eachann's father had favored a battle-axe like his illustrious grandfather for whom he'd been named: Gillean-na-Tuardhe, “Gill Eoin (the servant of Saint John) of the Battle-axe.” He'd been good with it, too. But she didn't want to mention that. In spite of her son's auspicious name, harkening to one of the greatest warriors of ancient times, Hector of Troy, Eachann was small and had yet to show any skill—or love—of weaponry. Her father had begun to notice, which was another reason she had to get her son away. She wouldn't mind if Eachann never picked up a weapon and buried himself in books for the rest of his life. But Dugald MacDowell would not see his grandson as anything but a fierce warrior. Another MacDowell to devote his life to a war that would never end.

But she wouldn't let that happen. The constant conflict that had dominated her life—that had torn apart her life—would not be her son's.

She stood up. “Why don't you put your game in the chest, while I go to tell Grandfather we are ready.”

He gave her a nod and hopped off the bed. She was almost to the door before she felt a pair of tiny arms wrap around her legs. “I love you, Mother.”

Tears filled her eyes as she returned the hug with a hard squeeze. “And I love you, sweetheart.”

Certainty filled her heart. She
was
doing the right thing.

Three hours later, Margaret had to remind herself of it. As she stood outside the church door, her father, son, and six of her eight brothers gathered on her left, and Sir John on her right, flanked by what seemed like the entire garrison of Barnard Castle, it didn't feel right at all. Indeed, it felt very,
very
wrong.

Were it not for the firm arm under her hand holding her up, she might have collapsed; her legs had the strength of jelly.

Sir John must have sensed something. He covered her hand resting in the crook of his elbow with his. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

She had to tilt her head back to look at him. He was tall—although not as tall as her first husband had been—and the top of her head barely reached his chin. He was just as handsome though. Maybe even more so, if you preferred smooth perfection to sharp and chiseled. And Sir John liked to smile. He did so often. Unlike her first husband. Wresting a smile from him had been her constant challenge. But when she'd succeeded, it had felt like she'd been rewarded a king's ransom. Sir John's life also didn't revolve around battle—thinking about battle, planning about battle, talking about battle. Sir John had many other interests, including—novelly—
her
. He talked to her, shared his thoughts with her, and didn't treat her like a mistake.

Then why did this feel like one? Why did the very proper wedding, with the seemingly perfect man, feel so different from the improper one, with the wrong man that had come before it?

Because you don't love him
.

But she would. By all that was good and holy in heaven, she would! This time it would grow, rather than wither on the bone of neglect to die. She was being given a second chance at happiness, and she would take it, blast it!

She drew a deep breath and smiled—this time for real. “I was too excited to eat anything this morning. I'm afraid it's catching up with me. But I'm fine. Or will be, as soon as we get to the feast.”

Sir John returned her smile, she thought with a tinge of relief. “Then we must not delay another moment.” He leaned down and whispered closer to her ear. “I don't want my bride fainting
before
the wedding night.”

Her eyes shot to his. She caught the mischievous twinkle and laughed. “So I'm expected to faint afterward?”

“I would consider it the highest compliment if you would. It is every groom's hope to so overcome his bride on the wedding night that she swoons.” He nodded to indicate the soldiers behind him. “How else am I to impress the men over a tankard of ale?”

“You are horrible.” But she said it with a smile. This was why she was marrying him. This is why they would be happy. He made her laugh in a way she hadn't laughed in a long time. His humor was just as wicked as hers had been. Once.

Following the direction of his gaze, she scanned the large group of mail-clad soldiers. “Is that what you talk about when you are all together? Aren't you breaking some secret male code by telling me this?”

He grinned. “Probably. But I trust you not to betray me.”

Not to betray me
 . . .

A chill ran down her spine. Her gaze snagged on something in the crowd. Her skin prickled, and the hair at the back of her neck stood up for a long heartbeat before the sensation passed.

It must have been Sir John's words, unknowingly stirring memories. Unknowingly stirring guilt.

Tell no one of my presence
 . . .

Pain that not even six years could dull stabbed her heart. God, how could she have been so foolish? The only good thing about her husband dying was that she didn't have to live with the knowledge of how much he would have despised her for betraying him.

“Margaret?” Sir John's voice shook her from the memories. “They are waiting for us.”

The priest and her father, who had been talking, were both now staring at her, the priest questioningly, her father with a dark frown. Ignoring them both, she turned to Sir John. “Then let us begin.”

Side by side, they stood before the church door and publicly repeated the vows that would bind them together.

If memories of another exchange of vows tried to intrude, she refused to let them. Of course it was different this time. This time she was doing it right. The banns. The public exchange of vows outside the church door. The only thing they wouldn't have was the mass afterward. As she was a widow, it was not permitted.

If she secretly didn't mind missing a long mass, she was wise enough not to admit it.
Now
. She wasn't the wild, irreverent “heathen” from “the God Forsaken” corner of Galloway anymore. She would never give Sir John a reason to be ashamed of or embarrassed by her.

When the priest asked if there was anyone who objected or knew of a reason why these two could not be joined, her heart stopped. The silence seemed to stretch intolerably. Surely that was long enough to wait—

“I do.”

The voice rang out loud and clear, yet for one confused moment, she thought she'd imagined it. The uncomfortable murmuring of the crowd, and the heads turned in the direction of the voice, however, told her she hadn't.

Sir John swore. “If this is some kind of joke, someone is going to regret it.”

“You there,” the priest said loudly. “Step forward if you have something to say.”

The crowd parted, revealing a soldier—an exceptionally tall and powerfully built soldier. Strangely, the visor of his helm was flipped down.

He took a few steps forward, and Margaret froze. Stricken, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the powerful stride that seemed so familiar. Only one man walked with that kind of impatience—as if he was waiting for the world to catch up to him.

No . . . no . . . it can't be
.

All eyes were on the soldier wearing the blue and white surcoat of the Conyers's arms. She sensed the movement of a few other soldiers, circling around the crowd in the churchyard, but paid them no mind. Like everyone else, her gaze was riveted on the man striding purposefully forward.

He stopped a few feet away.

He stood motionlessly, his head turned in her direction. It was ridiculous—fanciful—his eyes were hidden in the shadow of the steel helm, but somehow she could feel them burning into her. Condemning. Accusing.
Despising
.

Her legs could no longer hold her up; they started to wobble.

“What is the meaning of this, Conyers?” her father said angrily, apparently blaming Sir John for the conduct of one of his men.

“Speak,” the priest said impatiently to the man. “Is there an impediment of which you are aware?”

The soldier flipped up his visor, and for one agonizing, heart-wrenching moment his midnight-blue eyes met hers. Eyes she could never forget. Pain seared through her in a devastating blast. White-hot, it sucked every last bit of air from her lungs. Her head started to spin. She barely heard the words that would shock the crowd to the core.

“Aye, there's an impediment.” Oh God, that voice. She'd dreamed of that voice so many nights. A low, gravelly voice with the lilt of the Gael.
Oh God, Maggie, that feels so good. I'm going to . . .
“The lass is already married.”

“To whom?” the priest demanded furiously, obviously believing the man was playing some kind of game.

But he wasn't.

Eoin is alive
.

“To me.”

Margaret was already falling as he spoke. Unfortunately, Sir John wasn't going to get his wish: the bride would faint before the wedding night after all.

Stirling Castle, Scotland, late September 1305