Medieval 01 - Untamed

over her skin, she flew to him.
    â€œSmall falcon,” Dominic whispered, catching her close.
    It was all he could say.
    The feeling in Meg’s eyes stunned Dominic. Uncaring of the watching people, he closed his arms around his wife and held her, sensing the wild emotions that shook her. When her body was finally still, he slowly released her.
    â€œIt will be all right,” Dominic said softly. “No matter who wins, you will be cared for. You are the key to Blackthorne Keep.”
    Meg simply looked at her husband with tears of fear and anger shivering on the brink of overflowing.
    â€œOne will kill,” she whispered tightly. “One will die. How can that be all right?”
    â€œBlackthorne Keep will survive.”
    Meg closed her eyes. Two tears slid like liquid moonlight down her cheeks. She tried to speak but could not. Her eyes opened. With fingers that trembled slightly, she traced the hard lines of Dominic’s face as though memorizing him.
    â€œThe land always survives,” Meg said in a low voice. “It is only people who live and die. And love.”
    Her hands went to her neck. With a quick movement she removed the golden chain holding her mother’s ancient cross. Meg kissed the cross and pressed it into Dominic’s gauntleted palm.
    â€œGod keep you,” she whispered.
    Dominic took off his gauntlet and held the cross in his naked hand. The warmth of the metal was that of life itself, for the cross had lain between Meg’s breasts. He kissed the cross and slipped the chain around his own neck.
    Unhappily Duncan watched the girl who had once been his betrothed and the man fate had made his enemy.
    â€œMeggie, I would not have stolen you and forced adultery upon you,” Duncan said into the silence. “You believe that, don’t you?”
    â€œAye,” she said.
    â€œWell, that is something.”
    â€œHere is something else,” Meg said.
    The tone of her voice made the knights turn and look narrowly at her. She looked back at them, taking particular measure of the men who stood close to Duncan. Her face was pale but for the untamed green fire of her eyes.
    â€œIf any of you draw sword before the combat is declared finished,” Meg said distinctly, “you will know what it is to face the wrath of a Glendruid healer.”
    Duncan smiled sadly. “Ah, Meggie, you cannot kill and well you know it.”
    â€œAye.” Then she smiled slowly, savagely. “There are things worse than death, Duncan of Maxwell. See that your men don’t discover them in their dreams and live them upon waking.”
    When Meg turned away from Duncan, the priest dropped his well-gnawed bone and crossed himself hastily. All of the men looked uneasy except Dominic. He had attention only for the girl who burned like spring unleashed, forcing life to grow from dead ground. In his mind her words echoed, words that he was only now beginning to understand.
    The wounds of winter are starkly revealed before they are healed by spring, and only the most hardy of living things survive renewal .
    Healing is not for the faint of heart .
    In a silence that was emphasized rather than broken by the priest’s stumbling words, Duncan andDominic were shriven and final rites administered. When each warrior was prepared to meet his God, the priest’s words stopped.
    Simon took Dominic’s helm from Jameson, fitted it over his brother’s head, and removed his mantle. Though not a word was said by either man, Meg’s heart ached for the emotion that shimmered unspoken between the brothers.
    When she looked at Duncan, she saw not an enemy but the hazel eyes and reckless smile that had lifted her spirits so often in her childhood. Tears overflowed, blurring the features of the man who was in her heart the brother she had never known.
    When Meg could see again, Dominic was watching her and Duncan with eyes like hammered silver. She ached to go to her husband, to hold him once more and be held in turn, but it was too late.
    The war horn blew, transfixing the people in the meadow. The sliding notes were like a hellhound baying at a bloody moon. In the silence that followed the last echoing note, two war-horses were led to opposite sides of the meadow. Crusader’s black bulk was matched by the powerful brown body of Duncan’s stallion.
    Without a word, the Sword and the Scots Hammer turned and went to their chargers. Both men mounted in the same