7
“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 fore-sight. 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 D—” 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.”