CHAPTER TEN #3
Suddenly worried that his carnal lusts had gotten the better of him—his manroot now in a woefully swollen state—Galen took several deep, steadying breaths.
Since he still had to wait two more nights before he could couple with his wife, his current objective was to court Laoghaire so as to tame her.
Yesterday he overwhelmed her with his pent-up desires and with a disastrous result.
Today he was determined to attain a better outcome.
“As you can see, the eastern fields are being sown with oats,” he remarked, gesturing toward a group of villeins who were busily engaged in casting seed onto newly furrowed ground.
“To be harvested in the summer?” Laoghaire inquired, her gaze focused on the field in question.
“Yea, and with a second crop to be planted in the spring.” Galen chortled softly before adding, “As lord of this demesne, it is my duty to ensure that there are oatcakes aplenty for my Highland bride.” He’d been informed that during his recent absence, Laoghaire had each day insisted on breaking her morning fast with oatcakes slathered in honey rather than the more traditional bread and cheese.
“I hope that ye intend to plant barley as well, for I prefer to take my oatcakes with a tankard of ale,” Laoghaire retorted, her lips quivering with mirth.
At seeing that animated spark on his lady wife’s face, Galen drew in a quick breath, staggered by the transformation.
Since her arrival at Castle Airlie, Laoghaire had shown only three emotions: disdain, anger, and the sadness that he’d glimpsed on her face last night when he caught sight of her on the battlements.
And while those three emotions served to widen the chasm between them, her unexpected vivaciousness had the opposite effect.
The breach is narrowing, he realized, delighted with the progress he’d made thus far. Forsooth, playing the lovesick swain is not nearly as difficult as I had imagined.
“There is something that I do not understand,” Laoghaire said in a conversational tone of voice. “How is it that an English knight came to be a Scottish nobleman?”
The unexpected question hung between them for several moments, Galen taken aback by his wife’s inquiry.
Granted, she had on several occasions questioned his loyalty to Robert the Bruce, and made more than a few scathing remarks regarding his Norman heritage.
But beyond that, Laoghaire had shown no interest in the details of his life.
Galen didn’t know whether he was pleased or displeased with her sudden interest.
“While it is true that I was born in Hampshire, I was not originally destined to become a knight,” he told her in an impassive tone of voice, the chronicle of his life a dark one, indeed. “Because I was the younger son, I was meant to take the cowl.”
“You! A priest!” Laoghaire sputtered in wide-eyed astonishment. “I can more easily imagine yer destrier walking upright than I can envision ye draped in an alb and chasuble.”
“Then, it should not surprise you to know that even though I was sent to the monastery as an oblate when I was ten years of age, my tenure there did not last more than six months.” And given the calamitous events that took place within the confines of those godforsaken stone walls, it proved to be five months too many.
Unaware that she was churning murky waters, Laoghaire grinned cheekily and said, “Kicked ye out, did they?”
“Something like that,” he murmured, acutely aware that the passage of years had done little to diminish the pain of those torturous six months, his childhood marred by devastating events over which he had no control.
“Regardless of whether an offense had been committed, the prior believed that sin must be beaten out of a child. And because of that, I was routinely flogged.”
The revelation caused Laoghaire to gasp softly. “But ye were only a wee lad. ’Twas a dearth of Christian love in that place, I think.”
“Yea, that is the right of it,” he readily agreed, having never before spoken to anyone of that wretched period of his life.
Even now, after all this time, I am still haunted by what transpired within those stone walls.
His mount, sensing his bleak mood, pulled at the bit, and Galen tightened his grip on the reins.
Having confessed enough of the sordid tale, he said, “Since I was not suited to the priesthood, I was fostered to my maternal uncle, Louis de Charnay, who was a count in Normandy. I spent most of my youth in Lisieux, first as a page, and then a squire.”
“But why were ye sent so far from yer home?”
“I had little choice in the matter,” Galen answered with a shrug. “And besides, my older brother, Hector, was one of my uncle’s knights, so I was not without a close kinsman.”
What he didn’t mention was that the near proximity to his much-admired brother was a form of salvation, Sir Hector de Ogilvy le chevalier parfait.
The perfect knight. Indeed, when Galen first arrived in Lisieux, he had withdrawn so completely within himself after the months of continual beatings he’d been forced to endure at St. Sulpice that he could barely speak or look a person in the eye.
Had it not been for Hector’s fierce brotherly protection, Galen might never have survived the emotional trauma that he’d been made to suffer at the monastery.
“Is that how it is done in England, to send one’s sons across the waters to France?” Laoghaire asked.
Galen shook his head. “Nay, ’tis uncommon. However—” he paused, wondering how much of his family history to reveal—“because my father was branded a traitor to the English crown, there was no future to be had in England for me or my siblings,” he said at last, opting for the truth.
“‘A traitor to the English crown.’” As Laoghaire slowly repeated those words, Galen had the distinct impression that his wife was seeing him through new eyes, his stock having just improved.
“The Scots are not the only ones who have a fierce hatred of the Plantagenets,” he told her.
Bringing his palfrey to a halt, Galen waited until Laoghaire reined in beside him before he said, “In the decade before I was born, my father, along with a group of English barons, took up arms in open rebellion against King Henry. Not only had he blatantly defied Magna Carta by demanding unlawful taxes, but he set his armed mercenaries loose on the populace to rape and pillage at will. As a result of those dire offenses, the English barons wanted to create a permanent council of nobles to manage the affairs of the country. But Henry would have none of it.”
“Their demands do not seem so unreasonable,” Laoghaire remarked in a noticeably subdued tone of voice.
“The king was of a very different mind. And because of Henry’s unwillingness to negotiate with the barons, the country was thrown into civil war. My father, and the barons with whom he was allied, dreamt of a different England, but . . .” Galen’s voice drifted into silence.
“’Twas not to be,” Laoghaire said quietly, having astutely guessed at the outcome.
“Although the barons managed to seize Henry, they did not reckon on the fierce might of his son, Prince Edward, who was in command of a vast royal army.”
“The same Edward who is now king of England?”
Pushing out a heavy breath, Galen confirmed with a nod.
“In the end, Longshanks’s army slaughtered the barons’ forces at Evesham.
Many of the barons were literally butchered on the field of battle, their heads mounted on the ends of royal spears.
Those that survived were later rounded up and executed as traitors. ”
“And what of yer father? How did he manage to escape Edward’s wrath?”
Feeling a sudden tightness in his throat, Galen unhooked a costrel of wine from his saddle. After removing the stopper, he offered it to Laoghaire. When she declined with a shake of the head, he raised the flask to his lips and drank deeply from it.
It wasn’t until he’d shoved the leather stopper back into the costrel that Galen said, “Because his older brother Hugh was a close companion of Prince Edward’s, my father was saved from the hangman’s noose.
However, he was stripped of his title, castles, and all of his demesnes.
” And stripped of his pride and dignity as well, William de Ogilvy destined to spend the rest of his life a deeply embittered man.
In turn, William’s sons were made pariahs in their own homeland, men without a country.
Although Laoghaire sat rigidly upon her mount, her blue eyes gleamed with some unspoken emotion, one which looked very much like compassion. “I take it that ye have no love for Longshanks.”
“None whatsoever,” he answered in a flat voice. “And because of that, I look forward to finally gaining retribution for the grievances committed against my father.”
Several moments passed, and in that silent interval Galen watched as Laoghaire gnawed on her lower lip, making him think that she was conflicted about something.
“I was wrong to question yer loyalty to the Bruce,” she said at last.
Those unsolicited words of atonement affected Galen more than he cared to admit. “While I may not be a native son, I am as loyal to King Robert as any of your plaid-swathed kinsmen,” he assured her.
“I believe that ye are,” Laoghaire concurred with a vigorous nod. “So, was it in Normandy that ye became a knight?”
Admittedly relieved by the change of subject, Galen was quick to disavow her of the notion. “I was dubbed in the Holy Land on the field of battle.”
Laoghaire’s mouth slackened and her eyes went owl-like, the lady clearly impressed. “I’ve never met anyone who fought in the Holy Land. Did ye go there to save yer black soul?”
Upon hearing that, Galen gave vent to a harsh snort of self-deprecating laughter, suddenly feeling like the backend of a monk’s donkey. I was obviously mistaken about my lady wife being impressed with my martial accomplishments.
“It would take more than slaying a few Saracens to absolve me of all my sins,” he jeered, if for no other reason than he preferred the sentiment to come from his lips rather than hers.
Then, surmising that he had her avid attention, Galen elaborated by saying, “When I was eighteen years of age, I accompanied my uncle, the count of Lisieux, when he went on crusade. Because I was still a squire, my battlefield duties did not extend beyond bearing my uncle’s shield.
It was just before the fall of Acre and the fighting was—” Galen stopped abruptly.
Assailed by long-forgotten memories of the killing fields of the Holy Land, he could see in his mind’s eye the blood-soaked sand strewn with riven shields and fallen warriors .
. . the field littered with lances, swords, and helms .
. . riderless horses frantically rearing .
. . the cries of the wounded . . . the moans of the dying.
“The fighting was akin to hell on earth,” he said, picking up where he’d left off.
“And then, to my horror, my uncle was felled by a Saracen wielding a massive blood-drenched scimitar. Without thinking, I ran onto the field, pried my uncle’s sword from his lifeless hand and charged forward.
On that day, I slew many men and I sought revenge for many things,” he said candidly, refusing to gild the truth, as was the wont of some knights to make the carnage of war seem more chivalrous.
Laoghaire stared intently at him, as though she were attempting to peer into his very soul. “How could one so young be so bloodthirsty?”
The question was one that he’d been asked numerous times before.
Had he ever been inclined to answer, he would have replied, “I have but one enemy, and I see his face with every swing of the sword and thrust of the lance. ’Tis the face of the prior of St. Sulpice, the depraved priest who for months on end beat me without mercy. ”
Then, as now, Galen preferred not to answer, some things best kept to oneself. And so, with a shrug of the shoulder, he affected a blasé air and replied, “I cannot rightly say.”
Mercifully, Laoghaire did not press him further.
Instead, she continued to stare at him, her frank gaze inciting a strange tumult within him.
Were their marriage different, Galen might very well have pulled her from the jennet, laid her upon the green grass, and made love to her.
If for no other reason than to assuage the old pains and to quell the old memories.
God help me, but I have need of her, he realized as his eyes fastened onto her mouth, the plump, rosy lips beckoning him to kiss her, to lave her lips with his tongue, to explore every delectable, moist crevice.
No, not yet. ’Tis too soon for that.
“You have forbidden me from kissing your lips. Does the prohibition extend to your hand, as well?” he asked, hoping that Laoghaire would not object.
The question incited a visibly startled reaction, Laoghaire gasping softly as she gaped at him. She opened her mouth to speak, only to clamp her lips together in the very next instant.
Galen made no move to prod or persuade her. He certainly wasn’t going to force the issue, for he knew that to do so would only arouse Laoghaire’s enmity. Instead, he waited patiently, silently, hoping . . .
Just when he’d resigned himself to rejection, Laoghaire shyly extended her right hand to him.
Galen’s heart began to pound forcefully as he gently took hold of his lady wife’s hand. Raising it to his lips, he placed a kiss on the soft skin just above her knuckles. While he held Laoghaire’s gaze, Galen momentarily lost himself in the depths of her indigo blue eyes.
Have I ever looked upon a woman so extraordinarily beautiful?
“I am glad that we took this ride together because . . . ye are not such a stranger to me now,” Laoghaire said in a soft, lilting voice.
Galen made no reply, at a loss for words.
Still holding Laoghaire’s hand, he caught a faint whiff of primrose and found it intoxicating. To a knight who’d been dubbed on the battlefield amidst the carnage of his slain enemies, the notion of courtly love had no basis in reality.
So, why does this feel so real?