By Honor Bound Part 31

"You always council patience," Siward said irritably. "Have you never in your life been rash and impetuous?"

"Often, when I was young, but the years have taught me to wait. Time is on Malcolm's side, my lord. He is only twenty-four. Macbeth is fifty this year, and Lulach, his heir, is weak."

"Time," Siward huffed, "Is what I have no more of, my friend. How shameful it is that I could not havedied in one of my battles. But I have lived on, to die at last in my bed, like a cow in its stall." He struggledto sit up.

"I will not have it," he cried. "I will meet death as a warrior should. You, there, aid me." He motioned to an attendant, then began to gasp and

choke.

"My lord, you should rest," Patric cautioned.

"Time enough to rest when I am in my grave. Help me to stand. Help me, I say!"

The old note of command was back in his voice. Siward's attendants dragged him to his feet. He flunghis right arm over Patric's shoulder to keep himself erect."Bring me my armor," Siward ordered. "Put.i.t on me."With Patric supporting him, the attendants buckled on Siward's breast plate and then the heavy leatherbelt with his huge broadsword.

"My helmet and s.h.i.+eld." Siward swayed alarmingly, but Patric held him upright while his helmet was placed on his head. Siward took his heavy s.h.i.+eld upon his left arm.

"Give me my axe," he said, and a servant handed him his gilded battleaxe. He let go of Patric's shoulder to take the axe in his right hand.

"Now stand back," Siward commanded. "This battle I must fight alone."

The men in Siward's chamber backed away from him. Patric was near to tears with admiration as the mighty warrior stood alone. Siward's once-strong arm lifted his huge battleaxe with great effort. Higher and higher it rose.

"Ahhh--!" With a loud cry, Macbeth's implacable enemy, the great Earl of Northumbria, fell dead.

Patric rode from York to Dunedin as soon as Siward had been buried. He knew there would be conflict over the succession to Siward's rich earldom. He was glad to be away from it. Northumbria was no longer his concern. Malcolm was.

He had time to think as his horse galloped northward on the road the ancient Romans had built when they ruled Britain. At first his thoughts wee mostly of Malcolm. The spoiled, savage little boy Patric had first met at Duncan's court had grown into a pleasure-seeking, quarrelsome warrior who wenched and fought and drank even harder than his roughest soldiers did. At twenty-four, Malcolm was a hostile, immature man.

When Patric, frustrated and angered beyond endurance by some wild escapade of Malcolm's, had expressed doubt that he was worth the sacrifices necessary to put him on the throne of Alba, Siward had a.s.sured him that heavy responsibility would steady Malcolm. Worse men had proven themselves great leaders when their time came.

He devoutly hoped Siward had been correct in his a.s.sessment of Malcolm's character. Patric had lost much of his youthful idealism during the hard years of exile. He wanted to believe Malcolm was worth the price he himself had had to pay to keep his promise to Malcolm's father.

Elen. In the two years since he had seen her in Fife, she had been often in his thoughts. Too often. He could see her still, if he closed his eyes, her raven-black hair wound about her head and fastened with gold pins, her pale skin luminous in the candlelight. He could hear her voice, filled with contempt for him.

Whatever she thought of him, he loved her, would always love her. It was because of her that he had never married. He had said it was because a homeless, penniless exile needed no wife or heirs. His only possessions were his horse and his clothes. Everything else he got he spent in Malcolm's cause. What woman would want such a life? Siward had once called him mad, and Patric had laughed and said perhaps he was. In his heart he knew it was because he wanted only Elen. There had been women aplenty, when he needed them to Satisfy his healthy l.u.s.t, but he had cared for none of them.

He came at last to the wall the Romans had built to keep out the warlike northern tribes and rode past it with scarcely a glance. He stopped for a night at a filthy inn, and in the morning, after breaking his fast with stale bread and dry cheese and sour ale, he rode on, into the hills of southern Alba. It was Malcolm' s land now.

It was right that the eldest son of a king should succeed his father. Once this rule was established, Patric believed there would be an end to the a.s.sa.s.sinations and treachery that had plagued Alba for generations under the old Law of Tanistry.

It was only a matter of time until Malcolm was installed at Scone as king of all Alba. When that happened, when Patric had finally discharged his oath to King Duncan, he would be free to live his own life. He did not know what he would do then. He wanted to be sure Fionna, his only blood kin, was reunited with her beloved Conal. He could protect Elen, and her lands and family. Malcolm owed him much, and Patric would have no hesitation about requesting a favor from him. Elen would be safe to live at Laggan with her husband, that brave and honorable Talcoran to whom she was so loyal.

And then what? Perhaps he would be killed in battle and all his worries ended. That, thought Patric as he rode through the gates of Dunedin, might well be the simplest solution of all.

Early June to August 10 1057.

Thorfinn the Mighty had died.

"Malcolm knows Macbeth has lost a great ally," Talcoran said. "That is why he has chosen this time to invade again. I will leave Laggan the day after tomorrow, to join Macbeth and his army."

"Father, you must let me go with you this time. I'm sixteen years old now. You can't refuse me again."Colin mac Talcoran stood tall and slender before his father, the dark blue eyes that were so like Elen'ss.h.i.+ning with youthful enthusiasm.

"Yes," Talcoran said, nodding agreement "You will be my aide. You and Drust."

"No," Elen protested. "Talcoran, he is our only child. Let him stay here with me."

"Will you coddle him and make him a weakling, as Gruach has done to Lulach all these years? My son will be an honest warrior like his father."

"Please. If anything were to happen to him, I'd die. Talcoran, I beg you."

"Nothing will happen to me." Colin laughed "Mother, you worry too much."

"Talcoran-"

"Be done with this whimpering, woman. Would you unman him? Where's your spirit?"

"Lost with my other children. You and he are all I have."

They quarreled again that evening.

"You are a poor mother," he snarled at her. "You would make your son a coward. He goes with me, and that's the end of it."

He did not come to their bed on his last night at home, but sat drinking in the great hall with his men. When she would have apologized and made peace with him the next day before he left, he stormed at her, making her angry again.

"Guard Laggan well until I return," he said. "And keep a close watch on Fionna. It is possible that if Malcolm's army reaches far enough north, Conal will try to rescue her. See that you have a care for my honor if you are forced to deal with him."

He mounted his horse and rode off without kissing her good-bye. Colin gave her a hasty peck on the cheek and followed his father.

Elen retained her anger for only a day before it became remorse. She would make everything up to Talcoran when he came home. After Malcolm was finally defeated she could rid herself of the guilt of years and tell Talcoran what she had kept from him for so long, that she had once met Patric at Conal's home in Fife. He would be angry with her at first, but then he would understand, and he would trust her once more. They would be happy again, safe at Laggan, together.

The messenger tracked mud and rain water across the stone floor of the great hall.

"You are not from my Lord Talcoran," Elen said, taking the letter from his hands.

"No, lady, I am sent by the king.""More instructions about the lady Fionna, no doubt. There is a pitcher of ale on the table. Help yourself."

Elen broke the wax seal and began to I read. There was silence except for the gurgle of pouring liquid asthe messenger filled a cup. ;"No!"Elen's shriek echoed through the hall. The messenger started and dropped his cup of ale. Fionna and Briga ran from the stillroom, Ava nearly flew down the stone steps from Elen's bedchamber, Nechtanappeared with three men-at-arms.Elen lay senseless on the floor, a piece of parchment beside her outstretched hand."Seize that man!" Nechtan ordered. "If you have harmed my mistress, you will die most painfully."Briga hurried to Elen's inert form and knelt to touch her with skillful hands.

"She has fainted," Briga said, glaring at the messenger. "What did you do to her?""It wasn't the man. It was the letter." Fionna had picked up the crumpled parchment and begun to readit. She cried out in pain.

"What is that cursed thing?" growled Nechtan, who could not read and had a superst.i.tious dread of the

written word."It is from Macbeth. Talcoran has been slain in battle, and his son, fighting bravely at his father's side,was also killed. Talcoran's aide, Drust, was sorely wounded trying to save them, but he will live. Theretreat by Macbeth's army was so rapid that their dead had to be left behind, to be buried at Malcolm'smercy."

Fionna's face was wet with tears. She put a comforting arm around Ava, who was weeping

uncontrollably.

"Dear Talcoran. Our dear, honest friend."

On the cold stone floor, Elen moaned and turned her head, eyelids fluttering. Fionna took

charge.

"Nechtan, have your men carry your mistress to her bedchamber. Ava, attend to her. See that she's kept

warm. Briga, make up your strongest soothing potion. Elen will need it. Someone send for the priest.Elen will want prayers said for both men's souls, and for Drust's recovery, too.""Lady, you are a prisoner here," Nechtan challenged her. "You will be locked in your room until we have orders from the king about you."

"Don't you dare!" Briga inserted herself between Nechtan and Fionna. "This lady may be a prisoner, but

she is a friend to our mistress. We will follow her orders until our own lady regains her senses. If you are overly harsh with her, I can guarantee you will be punished for it."

Nechtan's eyes fell before Briga's determined fierceness. He motioned to his men to lift Elen and take

her upstairs.

"Thank you, Briga," Fionna said. "Once again you have served your mistress well. Ava, stop that crying and go undress your lady and put her into bed."

It was Fionna who ran Laggan for the next week, while Elen was immobilized by grief and guilt.

"We parted in anger," she said over and over again, the unstoppable tears pouring down her cheeks. "I would have explained when he came home. Talcoran, my love. And Colin, my baby, my brave, foolish little boy. How can they both be gone, lying in some unmarked grave far from home? Oh, Talcoran . . . Colin . . . Talcoran . . ."

Nothing Fionna or the others said or did could ease her pain, and as the days went slowly by, Fionnabegan to fear for her friend's sanity.Patric mac Keith picked his way through thejumbled debris and the bodies scattered acrossthe silent battlefield. He and the two men-at-armswith him were looking for any fallen warriors theycould recognize as having belonged to Malcolm'sforces. Malcolm wanted his own men sorted outand given decent burial. It was a grisly search, but.i.t had to be done, and done soon. Squinting, Patricslanted his dirt-streaked face upward for amoment, scanning the painfully brilliant blue skyfor the carrion birds he knew would be circlingabove the field, waiting patiently for the living to abandon it.

"There's no one left here to interest us," one of the men-at-arms said. "Our people will have all been retrieved by now."

"I suppose you're right." Patric had turned to go, relieved to be finished with a task he hated, when hisattention was caught by a proud youthful face, beautiful even in the stillness of death. Something about itcaught at his heart. He stepped closer. The sightless eyes were a peculiar midnight blue, fringed by thickdark lashes. They had been turned in the last moments of life upon the black-clad warrior who lay halfacross the lad with his left arm outflung over the boy's shoulders, as if to protect him from the fatal blow.Patric drew in his breath in a long exclamation of sorrow at the loss of the bright promise he saw in thatyoung face. As he gazed he was suddenly overcome by a sense of deep foreboding. Stooping down, hepulled the warrior's body away from the boy and turned the older man gently onto his back.

"Oh, G.o.d," Patric groaned, "no, not him.""These are Macbeth's men," the man-at-arms said, "and not our concern. Let the crows feast on them.""The crows have feasted enough since we came to Alba. I knew this man. He was a brave warrior and a worthy opponent." Patric stood, facing the two men with him, and both stepped back a pace at the blazein his eyes. "Find a cart, one big enough to carry two bodies. And select six of my men who are willing toundertake a long journey."

"Journey? Now? But Malcolm wants the entire army to advance northward," objected the first

man-at-arms."I'll find what you want, my lord," offered the second, who was more observant and had noted the painin Patric's blue eyes. "Six of your own men-at-arms, to escort him home again and see him decentlyburied. That is what you want, isn't it, and the boy with him?"

"Aye." Patric turned away, not wanting them to see his face. "I'll wait here for you, to give the men

instructions."

"I'd be willing to lead them on the journey myself," said the second man. Patric nodded, and they left him.

"Ah, Elen," he whispered, wiping away the unmanly tears that came despite his effort to stop them. "For