Time and tide for nae man bide (Tune Mizu and Lineralus)

Donnach of Moray was wounded, thirsty and close to collapse. But he pressed on desperately through the woods. The English had been left far behind for now, but he dared not stop.

As the trail rounded up a hill he paused to get his bearings. Through the morning mist he could dimly make out the buildings in the vale below. A holdfast, perhaps, and most likely a friendly one. Even if they could not fight the English openly he might find shelter, food, a place to rest, perhaps even a mount. He was of the Black Douglas band, after all, even if he hailed from the north.

Donnach cinched his claiomh mor tighter to his back, grimacing in pain as he did so. He hadn't the strength to wield it now, but his pride would not allow him to to discard it. Fingers numbing with cold gingerly slid a small axe from his belt as began loping towards the dwellings. As the trail petered out so did the trees. Donnach stood as upright as he dared, a stolidly built man of five-and-twenty years, eyes flint blue under a shock of brown hair, his leather jerkin and homespun cloth splattered beyond recognition with blood and mud.

He took a deep breath and paused. If the English lay ahead he would not live out this day. With a grunt of resignation he tightened the grip on his axe and continued to stagger forward. His mind drifted to an old saying,

Be happy while living, for you are a long time dead.

She ran through the mud soaked streets, her skirts flying behind her. They said he came from the wood, stumbling and half broken, starved and on the verge of death. Most folk stayed in their homes, afraid to go outside. They watched through the cracks in their shutters and doorways, curious and tempted but unwilling to assist. She was the only one.

Russet curls were loose and bounced with each step. The hem of her grey wool gown was muddy and soiled and her boots were worse. A tiny gold locket hunt around her throat on a delicate chain and it complemented her beautiful sky blue eyes perfectly, bringing out the smallest flecks of gold in her irises. Caitlyn ran right up to the stranger, unafraid. Her pale skin nearly blended in with the mist but the worry and concern over the half dead man was written plainly on her face.

“Sir…?” He was partially bent over and she feared that he was mortally wounded; ravens sent word of a battle not far from her lands and it was possible that he had come from it. Caitlyn reached out and gently touched his arm. “You’re hurt…” She whispered so gently that the wind could have easily swallowed up her words. Carefully, she took his arm, using what little strength she had to help him stand and walk.

“Come… You need sewin’ up.” The large lodge loomed several yards away but it held within it warm fires, a hot meal, and soft place for the warrior to lay his head down once Caitlyn was finished with him.

While on his mother's knee Donnach had learned of angels. Beautiful creatures who offered solace to those at death's door. In his pain and exhaustion, as his eyes touched hers, he thought for one brief moment he was dying.

But the woman was no dream. Gentle-born, to judge from the gold round her neck, which was another surprise. He nearly collapsed with relief in her arms when she touched him. Then he realized what she had spoken and a final burst of energy surged through him.

"You are English," he growled in Scottish, shoving her away roughly with the haft of his axe. He kept the blade pointed at her as he circled her warily. Blood pounded in his head and seeped anew down his hip; the wound was flowing again. But Donnach of Moray stood ramrod-straight, eyeing this woman who spoke the language of his sworn enemies.

"Where are your menfolk?" he barked in passable French. Despite the pain Donnach had the presence of mind to keep his raider's discipline. No need for her to ken he spoke English. He didn't think she was there to bait him, all the same. The southrons were cruel, but not that wily, in his opinion.

"Where?" he repeated without giving her a chance to answer. He didn't have much time. The pain would overwhelm him soon enough.

The harsh Scottish did not surprise her nor did his reaction. It was not the first time she had a weapon held against her. Yet Caitlyn’s knees still trembled and she fought to keep from running away. The man circled her like a beast did before it went for the kill, barking at her in rough French. She had an inkling that he knew English, or else how could he have known it was what she spoke, but she replied back in French, her tongue more fluent and her soft voice more accustomed to the beautiful poetry of the French language.

“They are gone… Your folk took them.” She said ‘your folk’ but was referring to the Scots as a whole. “They took every able bodied boy and man, and put them to the sword. The only men who live here now are so old they have only white hair or so young that they have none.” Caitlyn was proud that her voice did not waiver despite her shaking knees, but she’d noticed the reopened wound on his hip and took a small step forward, holding her arms out in front of her.

“Please… Let me help you. I have no desire to see another man die on my lands.”

She was a brave southron, he'd give her that. Beautifully calm while faced with death. Her French far more flowing and correct than his. Donnach found himself nodding at what she said. Not in sympathy, but just at the truth of the words. Both sides were wading knee-deep in slaughter these days.

He was about to bark another demand when his knees finally failed him. He collapsed in front of her, one hand still grasping the axe, the other trying to undo the strap that held the claiomh mor in place. It now felt as if he was carrying an armored knight on his back.

"Food. Water," he rasped, his French breaking down. "Horse if have one. Then I go. No trouble." Donnach couldn't stay in an English settlement, no matter how merciful she might be. But he didn't feel he could rise at the moment, either.

He began to move and at first, Caitlyn braced herself for the worse. However, instead of striking out at her and simply taking what he wanted he fell hard, resorting to asking. But could it really be called asking when he promised he would cause no trouble in return for her help? It sounded more like a threat but it came from a broken man and she did not believe he could carry it out. Still…

Caitlyn put her small hand on the axe and pushed it down so that she could grab a hold of him. “If I don’t sew you up you’ll die before you reach the next Scottish camp.” She hoisted one of his arms over her shoulders and then grabbed him by his belt, hauling him up. Her small frame shook under his weight but she could not leave him there to bleed out.

“Please don’t pass out till we reach the lodge…”

Donnach tried to keep his grip on his axe and found he couldn't. But when this waif of an English noblewoman lifted him to his feet a fresh jolt of pain shot through him. That unleashed a brief torrent of oaths and profanities, most in Scottish, but a few in English, that drained the last of his strength. He staggered a few steps toward the lodge then fell forward, dragging her down with him.

He was still conscious but quite unable to move now. This blasted fool of an southron lassie. Part of him wanted to kiss her for her kindness, another part of him wanted to throttle her for her foolishness, if he could lift his hands. The next Scottish camp, indeed. Her countrymen would spit him like a pig if he stayed in her lodge.

He turned his face to gaze balefully at hers. "Are you hurt?" he rasped at her, in English. And as an afterthought added, "Damned foolish English."

When he lost his footing he brought her down with him. Caitlyn landed face first into the mud but other than biting down on the inside of her cheek was unharmed. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, tossing the Scot a pained look. How was she supposed to get him inside if he couldn’t walk? “Maybe I am a fool,” she whispered harshly. “But you’re the bigger one.” A lot bigger. Physically he outmatched her but she had no choice; she had to drag him.

She didn’t want to yank on his limbs any longer, so she instead grabbed his jerkin and began to slowly drag him up the small hill to the front of the lodge. The doors were still open from where she’d run out to meet him, and though they both covered the floor in mud and muck, Caitlyn kept pulling and yanking until he was inside and lying before one of the grand hearths. The grand hall was sparsely furnished, most of it destroyed when the Scots came to deliver their brand of justice. Off in shadowy doorways were older serving women who hovered to look on, but none offered to help. Caitlyn would not make them. Their husbands and sons were murdered. It would be cruel to ask them to tend to a Scot when their loved ones lay dead in shallow graves.

“Stay there,” she murmured, heading off to the kitchens. She passed three of her serving women on the way. They acknowledged her with a slight bow of their heads but still did not help. Caitlyn drew a jug of water from a large vat and grabbed some bread, throwing it into a bowl. She took the supplies back to the Scot, gave him the bread, and then went in search for a needle and some thread. She was no healer but had done her fair share of stitching up wounds in the past several months. The redhead poured some of the water into the bowl, wetting a cloth and using it to wipe away the blood and grime from his wounds. They were deep and even if she sewed him up he could still die… “This will hurt.” She gave him another rag to bite down on, then put the needle to his flesh, her thin fingers making quick work of the deep gashes and minor cuts. She gave him water when he asked for it but otherwise said nothing to him, this time hoping he would pass out and spare himself the pain of feeling every pinch of the needle as it passed through his flesh and closed up his wounds.

By all that was holy, this English lassie planned on dragging him into the lodge. That thought soon disappeared under the fresh pain that seared through him with each jolt as she pulled him towards the hearth. Fresh oaths poured forth from him: God's Blood, God's Teeth, and Arse of the Black Pig. When she told him to stay there, he gave a weak laugh, then grimaced as he found that pained him as well.

The warmth did soothe him, but by the time she got back he was too weak to even eat the bread, and she had to help him take a drink of water. He mercifully felt nothing as she got to work on him, his mind drifting back into the past. As the world drifted Donnach began to speak softly in Scottish...

...Morven stood over him, as beautiful as the day he married her, placing a warm, damp cloth to his head.

"You took a right tumble, my love," she said, kissing him softly on the lips. "Lay back now."

Donnach chuckled and grasped her arm tenderly. "Serves me right," he said. "Shadow does have a temper on her."

"No riding and no work for a day or two," Morven added, giving a playful tug to his short beard. "I'll have you all to myself."

"Oh, you're just using my hurts as an excuse, woman..."


The pain of the needle brought him back to the present. It was all too much. A single tear fell from Donnach's eye, then everything flowed away. The war, the ambuscades, the killing, the bitter cold of the highlands all fell away. Before he lapsed completely into unconsciousness, he murmured,

"Morven."

Thank the Lord above that he’d fallen unconscious. Though he hadn’t said a word when the stitches began she’d been worried that all she was doing was adding more pain. She had already dragged him through mug to get into her lodge and heard every Scottish curse he could think of and her heart went out to him. The darkness was a blessing. He whispered one word before he left her, though; Morven. It sounded more like a name than a curse and the way he said it was almost as if he were whispering a prayer up to their Lord. It cause Caitlyn to pause just for a moment and she repeated the word softly, “Morven,” then got back to work.

Tending to the massive man alone would have taken hours. Thankfully, at last, one of her servants came to her rescue. Milly was an older woman whose husband and son were killed in the slaughter earlier on in the war. She was silent the entire time she helped Caitlyn bathe and undress him by the fire, searching for more wounds that needed stitching and then helping her with them. She was a skilled seamstress and had no qualms sticking the Scot with a needle, binding his flesh back together. When they were finished, Caitlyn thanked her, but Milly simply stared down at the Scot with hatred written all over her face. “I want him to live so he can see what they’d done to us.”

It was a horrible excuse to help, but Caitlyn took it nonetheless. Without Milly she would have never gotten him down the hall and into her chambers. It was the safest place. Should the English come calling, they would never enter a lady’s bedroom without permission and she would not give it to them. The Scot was laid out, naked, on a fine bed stuffed with goose down and then covered by four thick quilts to keep the chill off. The bed had four posts, all engraved with scenes of fox or boar hunts. The headboard was beautifully engraved with the standoff of a bear hunt, though it was currently half hidden by a shawl thrown haphazardly across it. On the far side of the room and opposite of the bed was a small hearth that Caitlyn stoked to life. A loom sat in a corner and the rest of room seemed to be full of a typical lady’s belongings; chairs arranged neatly before the hearth, leather bound books that talked of knights and their lady loves, a large wardrobe full of gowns…

Caitlyn sat by the fire, practicing her needlework as she watched over the Scot lying in her bed. He looked pale and she feared he’d lost too much blood. Only time would tell if he would live or if there would be another corpse to bury.

Donnach's sleep was deep but troubled. He dreamed of battle alongside the Black Douglas, Thomas Randolph and the rest. He saw the face of the last English man-at-arms he had hacked down, wide eyes staring at him accusingly under a river of blood. In desperation he hacked at his enemy again--and that stirred some pain that made him slowly come to.

Gradually his surroundings came into focus. Strangely, his bed seemed to be surrounded by small columns. The headboard, partly hidden by a shawl, had some engraving that he could not recognize. And the bed-- the bed was the most comfortable and warm thing he had ever laid in. Where in the name of all the saints was he?

He took in the rest of his surroundings, finally settling on the figure of the Englishwoman knitting by the fire. Had this damn fool of a southron lassie actually put him in her bedroom? He'd never known a man's room to have a loom or ladies garments. Absurdly, his mind conjured up an image of someone skewering him in this strange but comfortable bed. Then he would get blood all over the bed.

Donnach forced himself up on an elbow, wincing. "I take it this won't be your dungeon, then," he said in weak but wry English. He felt too tired to say anything in French, and he wasn't sure she spoke Scottish.

Suddenly he realized he was naked. "My sword!--" he gasped out. If he were to be taken prisoner, he wanted to surrender it to a man, preferably a knight.

Upon hearing his strangled gasp, Caitlyn turned to the Scot and saw that he was half sitting up, half still too sore and in pain to move. And he spoke English. Good. But then he rasped out something about his sword and, afraid that he would leap from the bed despite his wounds, the redhead got up from her chair, leaving her needlework behind, and came to sit down beside him.

“Right here,” she cooed softly, her slender fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword and bringing it closer to him so that he could touch it if he wished. Both it and the hand axe were propped up against the wall, waiting for their master to awaken. Caitlyn pressed the back of her spare hand against his forehead, then gently pushed him back into the soft bed. “You’ve got a fever and your wounds were serious.” She tugged the quilts back up around his shoulders. “If you leave before you’re healed, you’ll die. I don’t want another man dying on my lands.”

She got up and fetched a cloth, dipping it in a wash basin by the wall and then bringing it back to lay it over the Scot’s forehead. “There’s been enough death already.”

Donnach grasped the hilt of his sword gently, then waved it away with a brief gesture. "I thank you, my lady," he said gravely. No need for explanations about its importance. In truth he had no energy for that. But she had shown him great courtesy, southron or no.

He trembled slightly at her touch, and he scoffed at himself for that. He had thought himself made of sterner stuff. Perhaps it was just the fever. Her words moved him strangely as well. Most of the band of the Black Douglas wanted nothing more than more English corpses. And English knights like Fitz d' Arcy had sworn to kill any armed Scot they came across. But in the midst of all this, a gentlewoman who paid no attention to what side you fought for.

Donnach didn't have the words for her at first. After all, he had done a fair bit of killing himself. So he did as she bid and lay back, regarding her thoughtfully before speaking again.

"I am Donnach of Moray," he said quietly. First things first. He wondered if she knew Moray was many, many leagues away from here. "How shall I address you, my lady?"

Both sides were guilty of unspeakable atrocities. Neither Scot nor Englishman had clean hands in this fight. Caitlyn set the sword back against the wall and turned back to him, noting that the color was coming back to his face.

Donnach… “Tis good to meet you, Donnach of Moray. I am Caitlyn Pierce, Lady of Bankfoot. You may call me Caitlyn if you wish.” She wore a grim little smirk. “Titles hold little meaning these days. I couldn’t even stop the slaughter of my own people.” Sighing heavily, she stood up, smoothing out the skirt of her gown. Since rescuing him, she’d changed out of the mud soaked one and into something more suited for a gentlewoman; a soft red wool with royal blue flower embroidery around the hem of her sleeves and collar. Her curls were now barely contained in a thick braid and clearly she had also washed up after the Scot was dealt with.

“You should rest, Donnach. Shall I bring you something to eat first?”

Donnach was relieved. He was afraid she might be like English ladies he had heard stories of--women who looked down their noses on those who did not practice proper etiquette. Perhaps he had simply not met enough English ladies. This one reminded him of Morven in that she did not put on airs. Despite the grand surroundings she lived in.

"Caitlyn, then," he said gratefully. He suddenly realized he was completely naked under the covers. She meanwhile, was elegantly and tastefully dressed. He gulped back his embarrassment. It was childish to be fearful of a southron lassie, no matter how gracious she was. And he a fighter of the Black Douglas band.

"Some food would be welcome," he said, "if you are planning on having some yourself." Now why in thunder had he said that? It was not as if he were strong enough to join her at a table. And he was naked. He must truly be feverish. He would have to eat while lying abed.

Donnach moved on from that thought by asking a question that had been plaguing him "Will you not be troubled by other English for giving me food and shelter?" He was grateful, but did not wish for this gentle soul to be set upon.

The sound of him speaking her name sent a shiver down her back. Caitlyn smiled so he would not notice. No matter how nicely he spoke to her, it was likely he had little love for the English. One kind woman would not change that. Any advantage that he could have, he would take, and it was up to her to make sure that did not get one here. It played right into his last question for her, concern over her safety because of what she did for him.

Caitlyn sighed and shrugged her tired shoulders. “They are torn at this point. Half want to storm in here and kill you. The other half want you to live so that they can drag you to the hillside to look upon the graves of our menfolk. I’ve kept them at bay and will do all I can to make sure you are safe.” Funny how an Englishwoman was protecting a Scot…

“Do not let it trouble you. I have managed to keep them out so far. Relax and rest… I’ll bring supper up.” She gave him one last smile before leaving the room, locking the door behind her not because she thought he would leave, but rather because she was afraid of those that wanted his head on a pike. Though her servants bowed their heads as she passed them on her way to the kitchen, she could feel the anger rolling off of them in large, uncontrollable waves. She was denying them their vengeance…

Caitlyn had to bowls of simple porridge and a loaf of bread put on a tray, and then Milly, the same servant woman who helped her earlier, carried the tray while the redhead brought a pitcher of water and two cups back to the bedroom. Milly was quiet and did not speak to the Scot, but Caitlyn thanked her nevertheless. They were left alone again and she sat down beside him, the tray on her lap, and tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf. “Here, I think you can manage the bread by yourself.”

"I do a feel a wee bit troubled," he called after her as she left the room. He was thankful, of course. But he wouldn't put it past some maidservant to burst in with a kitchen knife. Scottish women had shown such fire, so why not the English? He hadn't the strength to wield his weapons, and in any case he had no wish to wield a claiomh mor on a lassie.

Donnach's eyes nervously followed the serving woman who returned with Caitlyn. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when she left without saying anything. He couldn't help himself and tore into the bread hungrily when it was offered. After a few quick bites he remembered his manners and began chewing more slowly.

"I thank you again," he said, but less gravely than before. She was quite pretty, obviously very kind and he owed her his life. Donnach favored her with a quick, wry smile. Then thoughts of the war intruded once more.

"If you'll forgive a direct question, did you lose a husband?" She seemed strong enough to handle such straightforwardness.

* * * *

Three leagues away, Sir Stanley Hastings received the report of his tracker. His man wasn't a local, but was competent nonetheless.

"He definitely went east, milord," the man said. "On foot. And he is wounded."

The young knight's eyes narrowed. "But that would put him..."

"Near Bankfoot, milord," the tracker said, his head bobbing up and down.

Sir Stanley swung around to the small troop of men-at-arms behind him. "To horse," he said urgently. Bankfoot, so far as he knew, had no defenders. One ferocious Scot might do anything. Especially if were wounded. Soon he and his men were galloping towards Bankfoot.

There he went again, saying his thanks. Caitlyn blushed and waved him off. She hadn’t been thanked over and over like that in a long, long time. She was spooning porridge in her mouth when he asked something incredibly personal and she made a small noise, paused, then swallowed hard, staring down into her bowl. “Aye… I did.” Her shoulders sagged and some of the light disappeared from her face. Then she remembered to whom she was speaking and immediately put a smile back on her face.

“But not to the attack that happened here. He passed earlier in the war.” Whatever small comfort that brought. Caitlyn sighed and shook her head. “He was a good man. He did right by me. I was a lucky lass that my father could find such a good match.” She ate another mouthful of porridge. “I am originally from Perth. I had family there, but when the war began, they went back to the family lands in England… And I… I chose to stay here.”

A sudden knock on the door surprised Caitlyn. “Come in…” It was Milly, the only one who dared come around the Scot.

“There is a Sir Stanley waiting for you in the main hall, m’Lady.” The old woman cast an eye at Donnach. “He looks for the Scot.”

Caitlyn paled. “Has anyone said anything?”

“I told them the knight would cut all our throats if they did, but you’d best come quick. He’s anxious to get his hands on you know who and I’m not sure how long I can hold him off.”

Caitlyn set the tray aside and started for the door, only to pause once she reached it to look back at Donnach. “Hide under the bed. I’ll try to stop him from coming in here but if I fail, they will not find you under there.” She closed the door behind her without another word and then held her head high as she went to go and greet the knight who’d come calling.

Donnach was both relieved and troubled when she answered about her husband. He hadn't fought here, after all. But he had been fighting for some time. Still, he couldn't recall killing a Lord Bankfoot. There was that.

"You chose to stay here?" he said in surprise. "I would have thought..."

Then the maidservant came in with news about the English. He had heard about Sir Stanley. Young, but a fierce fighter and a dedicated knight. Before he knew it, his would-be savior was out the door.

He cursed as he tried to make his way under the bed. He simply could not. There was too much pain. Instead, he took ahold of his sword and lay it next to him, on the bed. If any English burst in here they would find a naked, wounded Scot in bed with a claiomh mor in hand.

* * *

Out in the hall, Sir Stanley bowed politely but briskly. "I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Lady Bankfoot. We are hunting a man who fights for the Black Douglas."

The right hand of Robert the Bruce had taken three castles in as many months, slaughtering two of the garrisons. His name was a byword for Scottish cruelty and ferocity.

"Have you seen any strangers about, milady," Sir Stanley pressed.

Sir Stanley stood a good head taller than Caitlyn but she would not be intimidated despite his briskness. He was hot on Donnach’s heels and it fell to her to lead him in the opposite direction. Simply saying she hadn’t seen the Scot would be useless. She saw her servants lurking in the shadows. Even under the threat of death, they still might have said something. Their hatred ran deep.

Caitlyn let her facade crumble. A tear ran down her cheek. She quickly went to brush it away but made certain Sir Stanley saw it nevertheless. “Oh God forgive me…”

The redhead collapsed at the knight’s feet, her hands clasped over her breast as more tears flowed. “Yes… Yes a man came through here. He was wounded and I sought to take pity on him until I realized who he was… But he held a knife to me, my Lord.” She looked up at Stanley with more tears in her eyes. “He swore he would kill me if I did not give him what he wanted and I am afraid that my fear overtook me. I gave him supplies.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “Please… Please forgive me. I did not wish to betray my king but I was weak.”

She reached out and grasped his cloak. “Please… Will you stay? I fear he has not left the area and… Bankfoot has no lord or men to defend it.” Caitlyn sniffled, peering up at Stanley. “We are just women. We need a man… please, just one night? Stay here and rest. You can search for him if you’d like and I will give you supplies to continue on in the morning.”

Sir Stanley drew back briefly in surprise, then bent to help Caitlyn up. He was blushing, and now very conscious of the very pretty, if tearful face and the lithe figure he was holding. He had to clear his throat before he could speak.

"Very well, milady," he said gently. He held onto her for a few more moments before withdrawing a step. "Er... half my troop will continue to search for the Scot outside of Bankfoot. The rest of us will billet here for the night and, ah, continue our search. And we thank you for your gracious hospitality."

He turned to his serjeant and barked out some orders. Then he smiled shyly at Caitlyn. "If you will lead on, milady, I can complete my search of your grounds." He shook his head. "There is no end to the cunning of these Scots. Who knows where he may be hidden."

Back in Caitlyn's room, Donnach accidentally pushed his sword off the bed, sending to the floor with a clang. Worse, in an effort to prevent this, he actually fell off the bed himself.

"God's Blood!" the Scot cursed.

“Oh thank you… Thank you.” Caitlyn let the knight help her to her feet, clinging to her skirts and acting every bit like a frightened lass ought to with no man around to protect her. She immediately linked her arm through his. “Come. I will show you the lodge.”

The redhead led him through every room she could think of, taking great care to suggest that he and his men check the most ridiculous places where the Scot could be hiding, including inside a large wicker basket and the well in the courtyard. Store rooms were rifled through, the kitchens inspected. It was a very intense search effort on the part of the English soldiers, but it turned up no Scot. There was only one wing they had not yet checked: the lord and lady’s chambers.

Letting Sir Stanley search her departed husband’s room was easy enough, and she made quiet little remarks of how lonely Bankfoot had become since the man’s death. That left just her room. Caitlyn paused outside her door, looking up into the knight’s kind face. “It appears he is nowhere to be found… He must have run off when he heard your men approaching.”

“My Lady…” It was a young girl from the kitchens who addressed Caitlyn, staring intently at the door the redhead stood in front of. “I would be remiss if I did not remind you that his Lordship Sir Stanley has not inspected your room…” Damn. The girl was playing with fire.

“Right… Yes… Just a moment, Sir Stanley.” Caitlyn put her hand on the latch and slowly pushed the heavy oak door open, only to find her injured Scot on the floor. She paled as if she had seen a ghost and her mind whirled. Donnach could not die. Sir Stanley could not see him. For now she blocked his line of sight but the minute she heard him step into the room behind her, she spun around quickly and caught him by the shoulders. Then Caitlyn spun again until her back was pressed against the wall so that Sir Stanley faced her and not the bed. And she kissed him.

Donnach tried his best not to grunt audibly as he pulled himself towards the bed. He had gotten halfway under when he heard a serving girl reminding Caitlyn that the English should search her room. He cursed under his breath. The Lady of Bankfoot may want to keep him alive. But how many of her servants wanted him dead?

Then the door opened. Donnach froze as he saw the scared expression on Caitlyn's face. It was over, and the best he could hope for was to die bravely. A part of him very strangely felt sorry for her. Once again she would be visited by death.

What he saw next made him want to cry out and laugh all at once. He saw the English noblewoman take the young knight in her arms and kiss him. By all that was holy! The cunning and daring of the woman.

But he dared not tarry. Donnach slid himself fully under the bed and dragged his sword with him. He didn't have time to grab his axe as well.

* * *

Sir Stanley was not blind to the charms of the Lady of Bankfoot. But she remained a respectable widow in his eyes. So the kiss took him completely by surprise...

...for all of few moments. He was in a warm lodge, with a beautiful, trouble woman in his arms. The young knight returned the kiss, only to break it off when another thought occurred to him.

"Milady....I am flattered," he stammered. "But I am betrothed......" To a young woman of some considerable wealth, it might be added. Although she didn't have Caitlyn Bankfoot's looks or character.

Caitlyn was not sure if Stanley would even want to kiss her back. She was well aware that she was still young and attractive but there were two different kinds of men in this world. Men that would gladly take what she gave and others that still clung to honor and chivalry even in these troubled times of war and despair. Stanley, it seemed, was one of the latter.

He pulled back before they went too far, though he did not completely pull away. She felt his hand on her waist and looked up at him, her lips glossy and plump from the kiss.

“My Lord… I did not know…” She looked away, half ashamed for kissing a man that was betrothed and embarrassed for having kissed him at all. Still, she could not suddenly become cold and risk Donnach’s safety. The act continued on.

“I am sorry.” Caitlyn peered up into his young face like a bashful maid. “It has just been so long… I have missed having a man in my chambers and after that bastard nearly killed me… I just couldn’t stand it.” She leaned against him, reaching up to stroke his face. “Our lives are too short. I only wanted to know what it felt like to be loved again. If I have offended you Sir Stanley, know that it was only because I am a desperate woman… I need a man.” She squeezed his shoulders. “A real man.”

Sir Stanley felt the blood pounding in his head. He tried to remember his vow, tried to remember the oaths he had taken. Caitlyn Bankfoot had even apologized for her behavior. But he was far from home, with a beautiful woman in his arms who said she needed a man. An impulsive instinct in him said Kiss her again! The young knight bent to do so, only to see his serjeant approach him in the corridor and clear his throat.

"Quite, quite, milady," he said straightening up and disentangling himself. He was blushing to the roots of his hair, but his serjeant's face remained impassive. No doubt there may be gossip later. Sir Stanley pushed past Caitlyn into the room, quickly looking over the surroundings.

Under the bed, Donnach gritted his teeth and tried not to think of the pain or the cold floor. This young knight could easily kill him or overpower him. But perhaps his embarrassment would cause him to leave quickly.

The Scot was in luck. Sir Stanley was deathly afraid of the what might happen if he tarried in the room. Might she try to kiss him again? A part of him was tempted, but he had the patrol to oversee. And skulking about late at night might present its own hazards. The knight closed the door to the room and smiled wanly at Caitlyn.

"I think that concludes our search," he said. "Might you furnish guest quarters for myself and three of my men? The stables will do nicely if you have no other space."

Inside the room, Donnach breathed deeply. But he didn't dare leave his hiding post until Caitlyn came back.