Forbidden (8 page)

“Not I,” she said. “Why do you think that?”

Duncan shook his head, baffled. “I don't know.”

Without hesitation. Amber lifted her hand to his cheek.

“Try to remember when you first saw the pendant,” she whispered.

Duncan went still. Pieces of memory tumbled in his mind, but they had no more form and substance than bright leaves torn from their moorings by a wild autumn wind.

Concerned Glendruid eyes.

A golden flash of amber.

A kiss brushed against his cheek.

God be with you.

“I was so certain a lass gave me the talisman…”

Duncan's voice trailed off into a muffled curse. His fist hit the pommel of the saddle with enough force to startle the horse.

“To be so teased and taunted by shadows is worse than no memory at all!” he said savagely.

Amber snatched her hand back from Duncan's skin. His rage was like a brand waved close to her flesh, hinting at the searing pain that waited for her if she continued touching him while he was so enraged.

Erik looked sharply at Amber.

“What is it?” he demanded.

She simply shook her head.

“Amber?” Duncan asked.

“A woman gave you the talisman” Amber said unhappily. “A woman with eyes of Glendruid green.”

The word went through the knights like a fitful breeze through the marsh.

Glendruid.

“He has been bewitched!” Alfred said fearfully, crossing himself.

Amber opened her mouth to deny it, but Erik was faster.

“Aye, like enough,” Erik said smoothly. “It would explain much. But Amber is certain that whatever spell Duncan was under in the past, he is free of compulsion now. Isn't he. Amber?”

“Aye,” she said quickly. “He is not the devil's tool, or he couldn't wear the amber talisman at all.”

“Show them,” Erik ordered.

Without a word, Duncan unlaced his shirt and pulled out the amber pendant.

“There is a cross on one side in the form of a knight's prayer to God for safekeeping,” Erik said. “Look at it, Alfred. Know that Duncan belongs to God rather than to Satan.”

Alfred urged his horse forward until he could see the pendant dangling from Duncan's big fist. The incised letters of the prayer clearly formed a cross with a double bar. Slowly, painfully, Alfred spelled out the first words of the prayer.

“As you say, lord. Tis a common prayer.”

“The runes on the other side are also a prayer for protection,” Amber said.

Alfred shrugged. “The Church didn't teach me runes, lass. But I know you. If you say there is no evil in the runes, I believe it.”

“Exactly,” Erik said. “So greet Duncan as your equal. Don't fear him for what he has gone through. It is his future that matters, and that future lies with me.”

There was silence while Erik looked from knight to knight. All knights save Simon nodded, accepting Duncan as Erik already had. Simon simply shrugged as though it were no great matter to him either way.

Amber let out a long, soundless sigh. She knew that rumors of a strange man under her care had rippled through the countryside in the past twelve days. Still, Erik had taken a great risk in springing Duncan's lost past on his knights so baldly. They might easily have turned against Duncan and driven him out as a tool of dark sorcery.

As though hearing Amber's fretful thoughts, Erik winked at her, silently reminding her that he was quite skillful at predicting how men would react.

“Let us see what we have in the way of fighting men,” Erik said. “Alfred, have you tested Simon's skill yourself?”

“No, lord.”

Erik turned to Duncan. “Would you like to hold sword in hand again?”

“Aye!”

“Nay!” Amber said just as quickly. “You are still healing from the sickness that—”

“Leave off,” Erik interrupted curtly. “ 'Tis no true battle I'm proposing, but merely an exercise.”

“But—”

“My knights and I must know the mettle of the men who will fight by our sides,” he said, ignoring her attempt to interrupt.

A look at Erik's topaz eyes told Amber that arguments would be futile. Yet she spoke again anyway.

“Duncan has no sword.”

With a casual grace that spoke of skill and strength combined, Erik drew his own sword and offered it to Duncan.

“Use mine,” Erik said.

It wasn't a request.

“It would be an honor,” Duncan said. The instant Duncan grasped the sword, a subtle change came over him. It was as though a veil had been lifted, revealing the warrior poised beneath the richly dressed exterior of the man. The weapon gleamed and sliced through the air with wicked sounds as Duncan tried the blade's balance and reach.

Erik watched Duncan and wanted to laugh aloud with sheer pleasure. Amber had been right. Duncan was indeed a warrior among warriors, first among equals.

“A fine weapon,” Duncan said after a minute. “Quite the finest I've ever held. I shall try to do it honor.”

“Simon?” Erik asked blandly.

“I have my own sword, sir.”

“Then out with it, man. Tis past time to hear the music of steel on steel!”

Simon's blade-thin smile made Amber bite her lip anxiously. While Donald and Malcolm weren't as skilled as some of Erik's other knights, they were courageous, strong, dogged fighters. And Simon had defeated both of them with ease.

“No blood, no broken bones,” Erik said abruptly. “I simply want to see what manner of fighter you both are. Do you understand me?”

Duncan and Simon nodded.

“Shall we fight here?” Simon asked.

“Down there. And afoot,” Erik added “Duncan's horse is no match for yours.”

The battleground Erik had chosen was a meadow whose autumn stubble had been softened by rain. Beneath the thickening clouds, mist flickered like silver flames.

Together, Duncan and Simon dismounted, cast mantles over their saddles, and walked to the meadow. The smell of sun-cured, rain-drenched stubble permeated the air. When they reached a relatively level, mud-free stretch of ground, they turned and faced each other.

“I ask forgiveness for any wound I might give,” Simon said, “and offer the same for any I receive.”

“Aye,” Duncan said. “I ask and offer the same.”

Simon smiled and unsheathed his sword with a feline grace and speed that was as startling as the black finish on the blade.

“You are very quick,” Duncan said.

“And you are very strong.” Simon smiled oddly. “ 'Tis a battle I'm accustomed to.”

“Are you? Not many men are as strong as I.”

“My brother is. That is one of the two advantages I have over you today.”

“What is the other?” Duncan asked, raising his blade to meet Simon's.

“Knowledge.”

The blades kissed ritually with a muted metal cry, then slid away. Both men began circling and feinting, testing for weakness in the other.

Without warning, Simon made a catlike leap forward and sent the flat of his blade whistling toward Duncan. It was the same lightning attack that had felled Donald and Malcolm.

At the last possible instant, Duncan twisted and brought up his borrowed sword. Steel met steel with a horrible clash. Then Duncan whipped his blade back as though it weighed no more than a breath, leaving Simon only air to lean on.

Most other men would have gone to their knees at the sudden loss of balance. Simon managed to catch himself and simultaneously twist under Duncan's descending blade, delivering a blow to Duncan's legs at the same time with the flat of his sword.

Very few men could have remained standing after such an attack. Duncan was one of them. He grunted and pivoted on one foot, turning with the force of the attack. The turn took much of the power from the blow.

Before Simon could follow his advantage, Duncan made a backhanded slash with his heavy broadsword. The move was unexpected, for it required a sheer strength of arm and shoulder that was rarely found.

Simon slipped the attack with a cat's grace. Sword met sword with a force that clashed up and down the meadow. For long moments the swords stayed crossed, each man straining for the advantage.

Finally, inevitably, Simon gave way to Duncan's greater strength. One half step backward, then two, then more. Duncan followed eagerly. Too eagerly.

Simon twisted aside, leaving Duncan off-balance. He went down on one knee and then lunged quickly to the left, barely avoiding Simon's attack. Duncan scrambled upright just in time to lift his sword to meet Simon's attack. Steel clashed and screamed. The heavy blades crossed and held as though chained together.

For a brief time both men stood braced, breathing hard, their breath rising in silver plumes above the crossed swords. With each breath they took came the sharp fragrance of harvest past, wet earth, and cured grass.

“It smells like Blackthorne Keep's best hay meadow, doesn't it?” Simon asked casually. Blackthorne.

The word went into Duncan like a dagger, slicing through shadows to the truth beneath. But before he could see that truth, the shadows flowed together over the wound, healing the tear in the darkness as though it had never existed.

Disoriented, Duncan shook his head.

It was all the advantage Simon needed. He twisted aside with the speed of lightning, unlocking the swords and delivering a blow to Duncan's body that knocked the breath from him. An instant later, Simon tripped Duncan and sent him to the cold ground.

Swiftly Simon knelt close to his fallen opponent. He bent over Duncan and spoke urgently, knowing it would be a very short time before the others came running to the stubble field to see how Duncan fared.

“Can you hear me?” Simon asked.

Duncan nodded, for he had no breath to speak.

“Is what the witch said true?” Simon demanded. “You have no memory of any time before you came here?”

Painfully, Duncan nodded.

Simon turned away, concealing his savage expression.

Pray God that Sven returns soon. I've found what we were seeking.

But he is still lost.

Cursed hell-witch. To steal a man's mind.

And smile!

“A man of your skill should not go unarmed,” Simon said. “Surely there is a weapon in all this armory that Sir Erik could spare?”

Duncan rubbed his midriff ruefully. It still ached from the blow Simon had given him yesterday.

“Right now I feel about as skilled as a green squire,” Duncan said.

Simon laughed.

After a moment, so did Duncan. He felt a kinship with the blond knight that was as unexpected as it was strong.

“I had the advantage in our battle,” Simon said. “I've spent a lifetime battling a man of your strength. You've had little practice against a man of my quickness. Except, perhaps Sir Erik? There is a lean grace about the man that makes me wary.”

“I've never seen Erik fight. Or if I have, I don't remember it,” Duncan added broodingly.

“If you haven't seen him fight since you awakened in the Disputed Lands, you haven't seen him fight at all,” Simon said beneath his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing of importance,” Simon said.

He looked around the armory, cataloging the weapons with reluctant admiration for Erik's foresight. The young lord would be a formidable enemy, if it came to that.

And Simon suspected that it would.

The sound of people walking toward the armory drifted like smoke through the half-finished stone keep. First came a man's deep voice, then a woman's musical laughter. Erik and Amber.

Duncan turned toward the doorway with an eagerness that made Simon both furious and deadly cold.

Hell-witch.

Duncan comes to her lure like a starving hound to a meal of garbage.

“There you are,” Erik said to Simon. “Alfred said you were likely here, seeing to the repair of your arms.”

“Just appreciating the skill of your armorer,” Simon said, watching Amber run to Duncan. “Not since the Saracens have I seen such work.”

“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” Erik said.

“The repairs made to my hauberk?”

“No. Saracen arms. Something you said yesterday about their archers intrigued me.”

With an effort of will, Simon forced himself to concentrate on Erik rather than on the girl who looked so innocent yet who was so deeply steeped in evil that she could steal a man's mind with neither hesitation nor regret.

“What was that, lord?” Simon asked.

“Did their warriors truly shoot from horseback at a gallop?”

“Yes.”

“Accurately? At good distance?”

“Aye,” Simon said. “And as quickly as hail falling.”

Erik looked into the darkness of Simon's eyes and had no doubt that whatever memories of war lay there were much of the reason for the man's bleak, chilling competence.

“How did they manage?” Erik asked. “A crossbow has to be armed by a man standing on the ground.”

“The Saracen used a single bow. It was half the length of our longer English bows, yet shot arrows with a force like that of a crossbow.”

“How can that be?”

“It was a question that —” Simon covered his error by clearing his throat and quickly speaking again. “It was a question my brother and I often argued.”

“What did you decide?”

“The Saracen curved and recurved their bows in such a way as to double or redouble their power without the penalty of heaviness that the crossbow bears.”

“How?” Erik asked.

“We don't know. Every time we tried to make one for ourselves, we broke the bow.”

“God's teeth, what I wouldn't give for a handful of Saracen bows!” Erik said.

“You'll need Saracen archers, too,” Simon said dryly. “There is a trick to using the bow that non-Saracen warriors have trouble mastering. In the end, honest Christian swords and pikes carried the day.”

“Still, think what an advantage those bows would be.”

“Treachery is better.”

Startled, Erik stared at Simon.

So did Duncan.

“My brother,” Simon said, “often told me that there is no better way to take a well-defended position than by treachery.”

“A shrewd man, your brother,” Erik muttered. “Did he survive the Holy War?”

“Aye.”

 “Is he what you are seeking in the Disputed Lands?”

Simon's expression changed.

“Forgive me, lord,” Simon said softly. “What I seek in these lands is a matter between me and God.”

For the space of a breath, Erik paused. Then he smiled faintly and turned back to the hauberk that had recently been hung in the armory.

“A fine hauberk,” Erik said.

“Your armorer repaired the chain mail so deftly that it is better than when new,” Simon said.

“My armorer's skill is famed throughout the Disputed Lands,” Erik said matter-of-factly.

“Justly so. Will he make Duncan a sword and dagger, and a chain-mail hauberk and hood to take into battle?”

“He will have to,” Erik said in a dry tone. 'There isn't a hauberk already made in all of the islands that will fit Duncan's breadth of shoulder."

“There is one,” Duncan said absently.

“Oh?”

“Dominic le Sabre's,” Duncan said.

Amber looked intently at him, but said nothing, for she feared the consequences if his memory returned.

Simon stared with equal intensity at Duncan, yet asked no questions for the same reason.

Erik, however, didn't fear Duncan's memory returning.

“Then you have seen the infamous Norman?” Erik asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

Duncan opened his mouth to answer before he realized that he didn't know.

“I don't know,” he said in a clipped voice. “I simply know that I have.”

Erik shot a quick glance at Amber. She looked back at him in silence.

“Is your memory returning?” Erik asked.

Simon and Amber held their breath.

“Fragments. No more,” Duncan said.

“What does that mean?”

Duncan shrugged, winced at the discomfort to his bruised body, and prodded his chest with impatient fingers.

A pity that she isn't here to take the ache with her clever balms and lotions.

Then Duncan heard his own thoughts and froze, wondering who “she” was.

Green eyes.

The smell of Glendruid herbs.

Water warmed for bathing.

The scent of her soap.

“Duncan?” Erik pressed. “Are your memories returning?”

“Have you ever seen the moon's reflection in a still pond?” Duncan asked with buried savagery.

“Yes.”

“Throw a bucket of stones in the pond and look at the moon's reflection again. That's what I have of my memory.”

The bitterness in Duncan's voice made Amber long to touch him, to soothe him, to give him a sensual ease that would balance the ache of loss.

“So I remember that I have seen the Glendruid Wolf,” Duncan said, “but I don't remember when or where or how or why, or even what he looked like!”

“Glendruid Wolf,” Erik murmured. “So he is truly called that. I had heard rumors…”

“What rumors?” Amber asked, anxious to change the subject.

“That the English king's Sword has become the Glendruid Wolf,” Erik said. Amber looked baffled.

“One of Cassandra's prophecies was accurate. Again,” Erik said.

“Which one?”

“Two wolves circling, one ancient, one not,” Erik said. “Two wolves testing each other while the land held its breath and waited…”

“For what?” Simon asked.

“Death. Or life.”

“You didn't tell me,” Amber said quickly.

“You were having enough trouble with your own prophecy,” he said dryly.

“Which wolf won?” Simon asked.

“Cassandra's prophecies aren't like that,” Erik said. “She sees future crossroads, not which road is taken.”

With a shudder. Amber turned away. She didn't want to hear about Cassandra's prophecies.

“Duncan?” she said.

He made a questioning sound, only half listening. One of the weapons hanging on the armory wall had caught his attention.

“Will you go with me to the Whispering Fen?” Amber asked. “Cassandra asked me to see if the geese have arrived.”

Then Amber realized which weapon Duncan was staring at. Her heart turned over with raw fear. Quickly she stepped in front of him and put her hand on his cheek.

Bright pleasure leaped.

Dark memories writhed.

“Duncan,” Amber said in a low voice.

He blinked and focused on Amber rather than on the weapon whose length of thick chain and heavy, bristling ball had made memories swirl and seethe in darkness.

“Aye, lass?”

Amber's lips trembled slightly, pleasure and pain in one. Her pleasure. His pain that was also hers.

“Go with me to Whispering Fen,” Amber said softly. “You have had enough of battles.”

Duncan looked past her bright golden hair to the gray steel chain draped along the wall.

“Aye,” he said. “But have they had enough of me?”

Duncan reached over Amber's shoulder and took the weapon from its rest with an ease that belied the weapon's weight.

“I'll take this with me,” he said. Amber's teeth sank into her lower lip as she saw what lay in Duncan's hands.

Simon saw it as well. Quietly he began preparing for the battle that would come if the pond of Duncan's memory stilled long enough for the fragments of light to flow into a true image of the past.

Erik simply stared. He didn't realize he had drawn his own sword until he felt its cold, familiar weight in his hand.

“The hammer,” Erik said in a neutral voice. “Why did you choose that from all the weapons in the armory?”

Surprised, Duncan looked at the weapon that felt so right in his hands.

“I have no sword,” Duncan said simply. “So?”

“There is no better battle weapon than the hammer for a man with no sword.”

Slowly both Simon and Erik nodded.

“May I borrow it?” Duncan asked. “Or is it the special favorite of one of your knights?”

“No,” Erik said in a soft voice. “You may keep it.”

“Thank you, lord. Daggers are fine for close fighting or slicing roasts, but a man needs a weapon with reach for serious fighting.”

“Are you planning to fight soon?” Erik probed.

Grinning, Duncan let the chain slip and rattle through his fingers, testing the hammer's weight and length.

“If I came upon some outlaws bent upon an early grave,” Duncan said, “I would hate to disappoint them for lack of a weapon.”

Simon laughed outright.

Erik smiled like the wolf he was reputed to be.

All three men looked at one another in silent recognition—and appreciation—of the hot fighting blood that ran through each of them.

Abruptly Erik clapped both Duncan and Simon on the shoulder as though they were brothers by blood as well as by inclination.

“With men like you at my side, I wouldn't fear taking on the Glendruid Wolf himself,” Erik said.

Simon's smile faded. “The Scots Hammer tried. And failed.”

For a moment Duncan became so still that it seemed as though his very heart had stopped beating. Amber's had. Then it lurched and beat frantically-

“Duncan?” she asked, nakedly pleading. “Won't you come now with me to the fen?”

He didn't answer for the space of one breath, two breaths, three…

Then he made a low sound. His fingers clenched on the hammer until it seemed that steel must give way before flesh.

“Aye, lass,” Duncan said in a low voice. “I will go with you.”

“It may storm before sunset,” Erik warned.

Smiling gently, Duncan touched a lock of Amber's hair.

“With Amber nearby,” he said, “I never lack for sunlight.”

She smiled in return, though her lips trembled with a fear for him that was so great she was afraid she would scream.

“Won't you leave that behind?” Amber asked, pointing to the hammer.

“Nay. Now I can defend you.”

“It isn't necessary. There are no outlaws this dose to Sea Home.”

Ignoring the others in the room, Duncan leaned down until his lips all but brushed Amber's hair. He inhaled her scent deeply and looked into her anxious golden eyes.

“I won't take a chance with you, precious Amber,” he murmured. “If someone cut you, I fear I would bleed.”

Though the words were very soft, Simon heard them. He looked at Amber with an anger that was difficult to conceal.

Cursed hell-witch. To steal a man's mind and smile!

“Duncan,” Amber whispered.

The sound was as much a sigh as a name. She took his hard hand between hers, ignoring the cold weight of chain.

“Let us hurry, my dark warrior. I have already packed a supper and sent word for two horses to be made ready.”

“Three,” corrected Erik.

“Are you going?” Amber asked, surprised.

“No. Egbert is.”

“Ah. Egbert. Of course. Well, we shall just ignore him.”

Duncan shifted carefully and then looked over his shoulder, not wanting to cause the nervous horse any alarm. They had crept away from the picnic, leaving Egbert asleep with his own horse and Duncan's grazing nearby. Amber had insisted that they take only her horse when they stole away to the fen.

The trail out of Sea Home's gentle fields had quickly become rugged, especially for a horse carrying double. There were places they had ridden over that had made Duncan blink. At first glance the way looked impassable. But a few steps aside from the obvious path, another look, and there was always a surprisingly easy course to follow.

It was enough to make a man nervous. Apparently the horse wasn't happy about it, either. Or perhaps the animal was simply uneasy about carrying two riders.

“No sign of him,” Duncan said, looking forward once again.

“Poor Egbert,” Amber said, but she sounded more amused than alarmed. “Erik will be quite put out.”

“ 'Poor Egbert is asleep on the other side of that ridge,” Duncan muttered. “He lies at ease in a field warmed by a sun that doesn't know summer has fled. Is that such a harsh fate?”

“Only if Erik discovers it.”

“If the squire is half as clever as he is lazy, he won't tell Erik that he fell asleep.”

“If Egbert were that clever, he wouldn't be that lazy.”

Duncan gave a crack of laughter and tightened his right arm around Amber's supple waist. His left arm held the reins. Amber's hands rested on his arms as though she enjoyed the simple warmth of his body.