By Honor Bound Part 1

By Honor Bound.

by Flora Speer.

PART I.

A.D. 1039-1040.

DUNCAN'S WARS.

... That most disloyal traitor ... Macbeth, William Shakespeare I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honor more.

To Lucasta, Sir Richard Lovelace.

Autumn 1039. Laggan Castle.

The hors.e.m.e.n came toward evening. They rode northward from the pa.s.s through the mountains, and then across the purple-heathered splendour of the autumn hillsides. Dougal, who had been placed in charge of the household guard when Elen's father took most of the men south to fight with King Duncan, hurried down from his post atop the wooden watchtower and sought out Elen to give her the news.

"Can you tell me who they are?" she asked.

"No, lady, but there are not enough of them to be a danger. I promised my lord I would protect you with my life, and that I can easily do against these few men. Though my master be gone now, I will keep my word until I join him in heaven."

"Thank you, Dougal." Elen touched the grizzled old soldier's arm and tried to smile at him.

It was not easy to smile. It had been only a few days since they had news of the death of Colin, Thane of Laggan, who was to Elen not the famous warrior and trusted councillor of the king, but her beloved father.

They had had too little time together. Once she had grown old enough to leave her wet-nurse, Colin had placed his motherless child in a convent to be raised by the nuns. She had come home to Laggan less than a year ago, a shy, quiet girl of fifteen, and had a.s.sumed her duties as mistress of the fortified lakeside castle that was her father's stronghold.

Now that her father was gone, Elen knew what her fate must be. She was heiress to Colin's vast wealth. The lands he held in thanage from King Duncan and the t.i.tle of Thane of Laggan would pa.s.s through her to her future husband, and on that husband's death, to her eldest son. She would not be permitted to remain unmarried for long.

Though her father, had he lived, would never have forced her to wed a man she disliked, Elen was aware that n.o.ble marriages were not arranged for reasons of affection. More practical concerns dominated such unions, and without her father's loving care for her welfare, she might be made to marry someone she found unlikeable.

She sighed deeply at the unwelcome thought, and went to give orders to the kitchen maids. If the riders proved to be friendly and there were to be guests at Laggan, she must have food and drink aplenty waiting for them.

She had entertained a faint hope that the hors.e.m.e.n might have been sent by her cousin, Macbeth of Moray, for it was he who had sent her the news of her father's death, along with a letter suggesting that Elen should leave Laggan and go to live with Macbeth and his wife until she married.

The riders were not Macbeth's men. They had been sent by King Duncan. Elen met them in the great hall, where Dougal and his well-armed guards watched over her with wary eyes.

The tall leader of the hors.e.m.e.n strode into her home with an air of supreme confidence, pulling off his heavy leather gauntlets as he approached her. He nodded curtly at Dougal.

"We are here in peace," he said. His voice was low-pitched and pleasing to the ear.

"Then you are most welcome," Elen replied, tilting her head upward toward his great height. She was tall for a woman, and there were men she could face at an equal level, but the man before her was a near giant, with broad, heavily muscled shoulders draped in a short, sky-blue mantle that was fastened with an ornate gold brooch. Beneath the hem of his mantle the edge of a dark brown tunic was visible, and below that, long narrow breeches stretched over muscular thighs and calves until they disappeared into soft leather boots bearing silver spurs.

Elen's strict schooling had left her no free time for romantic dreams. She knew little of men, having in her sheltered, secluded life met only male servants and a few of her father's friends who came to visit at Laggan and who were all enough older than Elen to seem ancient to her. She had never seen so fine a specimen of manhood as this one. Had she had romantic dreams, they would have taken a similar shape. Even in her innocence, Elen recognized virile, exhilarating masculinity when it stood before her.

"There is meat and ale, and a place to sleep for all of you," she said in a bemused voice.

"I thank you, lady."

Brilliant blue eyes looked down at her with unconcealed curiosity. He doffed his leather helmet, revealing his crisp, closely cropped auburn curls. Under a magnificent mustache, a wide smile displayed strong white teeth. His clean-shaven jaw was square, with a cleft in the center. He was not more than three or four years older than she was, Elen noted-no older than twenty at most-and yet he had the bearing of an experienced warrior.

Elen made herself pay attention to his words, and found they cooled the warmth that had flooded over her under his too-intent gaze.

"I bring you greetings from King Duncan," the young soldier said, his deep voice now husky with emotion, "and our king's message of consolation at the death of your father. Colin of Laggan was a brave fighter, one of our best. We will miss him. We need all of our strength to fight the Danes."

"You were not fighting the Danes when my father died," Elen replied crisply. "How went the siege at Durham?"

"Not well, lady." He looked somber. Then his smile flashed again. "I forget my manners. I am Patric mac Keith of Bute. I am commanded by King Duncan to conduct you safely to Dunferm-line, where you will dwell under his protection. You are a king's ward now, until you marry."

Elen bowed her head to the inevitable.

"As was my father before me, I am the king's servant to command," she said.

She washed her face in clear water, then combed out her long, straight black hair, letting it flow freely over her shoulders to her waist, as was the custom for an unmarried maiden. She smoothed her dark blue woolen dress with nervous hands. Elen did not believe she was beautiful. She was too tall and thin, and much too pale for beauty. She had been told that often enough at the convent.

"And a good thing, too," Sister Devorgilla had said sternly. "Vanity is a sin, Elen. Rejoice that you have nothing to be vain about, and think instead of your immortal soul."

Still, she wished there were something about her that he might find lovely. Giving in to sinful vanity, she stared into the scratched bronze hand mirror that had once been her mother's. She saw only a blurred image in its imperfect surface.

"I wish I had a silver mirror," she murmured, "and a red silk dress."She squinted into the mirror again."It wouldn't help," she sighed.Patric mac Keith warmed his hands at the fire in the center of the great hall, watching the smoke curllazily up and out of the holes in the gable ends of the roof.

The girl had shaken him. He had seen lovely women before, the acknowledged beauties at Duncan'scourt, all rosy-pink, with gold hair and plump figures. They giggled and chattered ceaselessly aboutclothes and men. And there were the ordinary women, the youthful serving wenches and farmers'daughters, many of them beautiful and only too willing to accept the advances of a handsome youngwarrior of n.o.ble family. He had enjoyed as many of them as possible, for a fighting man's life was usuallyshort, and Patric was determined to make the most of whatever time he had. Elen of Laggan wasdifferent from the talkative females he had known before. There was a deep quiet about her that offeredcomfort to his battle-weary spirit.

She was beautiful in her own unique way. She had eyes as mysterious as the night sky, eyes of so deep a blue that they were almost black, fringed with thick dark lashes. Her pale, translucent skin stretched over delicate bones, punctuated by those incredible eyes and her winged dark brows, and the softest, most sweetly curved mouth he had ever seen. He had handled a piece of coral once, shown to him by a traveler from Rome. Elen's

mouth was the same rich color. Her figure was slender, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s a soft curve beneath her woolen robe, and her hands were long and slim, the delicate blue veins showing through the skin. She was fragile, lovely, a fairy creature who would shatter if handled too roughly.

That there was some as yet untried inner strength in her Patric dimly recognized, but his tired mind would not let him think on it. He was only grateful that her physical appearance had pushed the horrors of a foolish war out of his thoughts for a time. That brief respite was worth the long ride north. "My lord?"

She stood before him, dark eyes questioning, coral lips parted in a gentle smile. Patric felt himself drowning in that smile.

She offered him a silver cup of honey-scented mead.

"You were far away, my lord," she said, her voice like music from the finest harp.

"Not so far. I was dreaming." He took the cup and emptied it, his eyes still fixed on her lovely face. Patric was wise enough to know he had finally met the one woman who could put all the others out of his mind forever.

Elen motioned to a servant to refill his cup. "Will you sit? The meat is ready." She indicated a carved wooden guest's chair next to the high seat at the middle of the dining table. She took her place next to him on a low bench, leaving the high seat empty, for it was the rightful place of the Thane of Laggan. Members of her household mingled with Patric's men as they crowded about the table, devouring game birds and dark bread and cheeses, mead and ale, apples and nuts and clotted cream.

"Are there no other guests?" Patric glanced around the dark, smoky room, seeing no one but servants, a few men-at-arms, and his own men.

"Our friends are fighting for King Duncan. Nearly every man in Lagganshire went with my father," Elentold him proudly. "But I have been well guarded. Dougal would protect me with his life, if need be."

Patric digested the hint of warning contained in her words, and reminded himself the mistress of Laggan Castle did not know him well enough to trust him completely. Given time, he could teach her to know, and to trust.

"Are you not lonely?" he asked, wondering if her heart were already fixed on someone else.

"My duties keep me busy.""You evade my question."She lowered her eyes, shyness overcoming her, and Patric was enchanted by this further evidence of herinnocence.

"I-I have much work to do," Elen stammered. She wished she could think of something clever to say,something to make him laugh. He would think her a fool, stuttering and blushing, so unlike the polishedand beautiful ladies he must meet at Duncan's court. She was not even a very good hostess, for althoughthere was sufficient food and drink, there was nothing else to offer a guest.

"We lack entertainment," Elen said. "The harper went to war with my father, and we heard he was killedby my father's side." Her voice broke at mention of her father, but she recovered herself and asked, "Will you, or one of your men, sing or tell us a story?"

"Unlike King Duncan, I have no skill at music, lady, and my men are all rough soldiers," he replied.

"Then tell us a story," Elen urged. "Tell us of all that

the siege of Durham."

"Are you sure you want to hear such a tale?" He met her steady eyes in surprise. So, this innocent, fragile beauty did not flinch from hard truths. Good.

"Were you there?" Elen asked."Aye.""Then tell me." She drew a deep breath. "Tell me how my father died."The room quieted, as those about them awaited to hear what Patric would say. In the shadows, theservants edged silently closer to listen. Across the table from Elen, old Dougal drained his cup and calledfor more, then settled down to hear the tale.

"Eadulf, the Earl of Northumbria, had harried the Britons of c.u.mbria to the west, and had sent his men toraid the southern borders of Alba," Patric began. "King Duncan decided to put an end to Eadulf. Heraised an army and invaded Northumbria."

"A great mistake, considering Eadulf's strength," Dougal observed, glaring into his ale. "The king is a rash young man."

"So said many of his councillors." Patric nodded at the elderly soldier. "You, and they, were proven right. The campaign was a disaster. I say this with no disloyalty to Duncan, for he now admits as much himself.

"We attacked Durham. We had a great army of both foot soldiers and hors.e.m.e.n, but we were badlybeaten. Your father was slain early in the battle, lady," Patric said to Elen. "It was quick and relativelypainless. Others were not so fortunate. Most of our hors.e.m.e.n got away, but the foot soldiers were killed,every man of them, and their heads were placed on stakes in the marketplace at Durham. I was told theEnglish washed the face and combed the hair and beard of each man. I did not see it myself, for I was ordered to retreat with the king's party. We withdrew over the border into Alba."

"Him and his d.a.m.ned English!" Dougal exclaimed. "Duncan is more English than Scots. He even has an English queen. We need a Scottish king, someone who will pay attention to the needs of Alba, and not go looking for glory in another land."

"Be quiet, Dougal," Elen warned, but Patric chuckled.

"You are not the only man in Alba who says such things," he told the old warrior. "There was a nearrevolt among Duncan's lords after our defeat. Although all is peaceful now, I think the peace is only onthe surface." Patric turned to Elen. "You are kin to the Mormaer of Moray, are you not, lady?"

"Macbeth is my cousin," Elen acknowledged. "So is his wife. Duncan is also my cousin. We all have the same great-grandfather."

"You are well situated, whatever happens."

"What do you mean by that?" She blushed a little under his close regard, but did not lower her eyes.

"Only that it is well to have kin on both sides of a quarrel. If there is a quarrel. Which there is not, at the moment. For the future, who knows?"

"That sounds like a riddle, my lord," Dougal said.

"Let us hope it remains a riddle unasked and unanswered," Patric told him. "And now, lady, with your permission, I will seek my bed. It was a long journey from the border and I am weary. We will speak tomorrow about plans for your trip to Dunfermline."

He was gone from the hall, leaving an astonished Elen to stare after him. A manservant from among Patric's troop rose to follow him.