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.
