Medieval 01 - Untamed

turned away from his view of the great hall and confronted his brother.
    â€œYou heard John,” Dominic said coldly. “There is ‘affection’ between my wife and that Scots spawn of the Devil. Sweet Jesus, she could be carrying his bastard right now!”
    â€œAye,” Simon agreed reluctantly. “That is why I ask again: What will you do?”
    â€œI will bide my time before I plant my seed within my fair Glendruid bride.”
    â€œI’d think you would hurry to it,” Simon muttered. “Sounds as though it will be a tiresome process, getting the wench with child.”
    â€œWhen—or if —my wife’s monthly bleeding commences,” Dominic said distinctly, “I will know thereafter who is the father of any babe she carries.”
    Simon’s eyes widened in comprehension.
    â€œUntil that first bleeding passes,” Dominic continued, “I will reconnoiter the legendary walled fortress that is my Glendruid wife. I will discover her truths, ferret out her lies, find her secrets, weigh herweaknesses; and then I will lay siege as I have so many times before.”
    â€œSuccessfully.”
    â€œYea and believe it,” Dominic said flatly. “It will bring me great pleasure to have the Glendruid witch on her knees in front of me. Affection between them . God’s blood!”
    Simon smiled rather savagely, feeling better than he had since John had hurled his dying curse at Dominic.
    â€œAlmost I feel sorry for the maid,” Simon said.
    The lift of Dominic’s black, angular eyebrow was the only question he asked, or needed to.
    â€œShe knows not what demon she has summoned by challenging you,” Simon explained.
    With a shrug, Dominic went back to staring out at the great hall where every knight in the keep had heard his new lord cursed by the old lord.
    A dying curse. Not a thing to think upon with ease, even for a man as formidable as Dominic le Sabre.
    â€œDominic?”
    He glanced aside at Simon.
    â€œWhat if she is breeding Duncan’s bastard?” Simon asked bluntly.
    Dominic shrugged. “The babe will be fostered in Normandy. And then…”
    Simon waited, watching his brother with hard black eyes.
    â€œAnd then I will teach my wife that, Glendruid witch or no, she will be faithful to me henceforth. If I find otherwise, she will pray to God to release her from the living hell I will make of her life.”
    â€œBut what of the Glendruid curse?”
    â€œWhat of it?” Dominic retorted bitterly.
    â€œThe people believe in it, whether or not you do. If you mock her openly…” Simon’s voice died.
    â€œIf the witch won’t give me a son, I will lay waste to the crops and flocks with my own hand,” Dominic said harshly. “Land and wealth serve only to mock a man who has no heirs to accept the fruits of his life’s labor.”
    Again Dominic’s fist descended on the table with a force that made the thick wood shudder.
    â€œGod’s blood, but I have been savagely used. To come so close to my dream and then to see it all turn to ashes! ”
    In the taut silence that followed Dominic’s words, the normal sounds of the keep seemed unnaturally loud. The creak of water being drawn from the well just below, the servants calling back and forth about the best place to store a bench or a platter, or who had neglected the hearth fire and the candles guttering sullenly in their holders. Surrounding all sounds were the thousand sighs of raindrops seeking the earth, a liquid whispering so familiar none noted it save when it stopped.
    The fluid sighing reminded Dominic of Meg’s breath flowing out at his touch.
    Abruptly he straightened and strode away from the room. He took the winding, right-hand turning of the stairs two at a time, heading for Meg’s quarters. As Dominic attacked the stairs, he spoke carefully chosen verses of Ecclesiastes to himself, reminding himself that other men had gone before him into life’s small battles and large wars, and had emerged holding wisdom in both hands.
    Repeating the verses had become a ritual that rarely failed to school the rage that boiled within Dominic. His self-control had been learned at cruel cost in a sultan’s prison. The discipline was all that had kept him from going mad. He had learned to accept the cold directions of his intellect rather than the hot violence of the Viking blood that ran through him