The Handfasting

  THE HANDFASTING

  The Prequel Novella to

  The Knights of de Ware

  by

  THE HANDFASTING

  Copyright © 2015 by Glynnis Campbell

  Excerpt from MY CHAMPION

  Copyright © 2000, 2012 by Glynnis Campbell

  Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

  P.O. Box 341144

  Arleta, California 91331

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-24-3

  Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net

  Cover design by Richard Campbell

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  More Books by Glynnis Campbell

  About Glynnis Campbell

  Contact Information

  From the Jewels

  Sneak Peek at MY CHAMPION

  Dedication

  For all the people who weren’t born perfect

  and all those wise enough to

  see their value anyway

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to:

  Suzan Tisdale and Kathryn Le Veque

  for nudging me to do a holiday novella

  My BFF Lauren Royal

  For convincing me to find a way to matchmake

  my two legendary families

  Birthe Hansen for OT brainstorming

  Kit Harington and Emma Watson

  for inspiration

  Chapter 1

  The Highlands

  Yuletide 1199

  Ysenda hated Yuletide.

  All around her, the clan celebrated with feasting and cheering. Lively merrymaking filled the great hall. Laughter and music echoed from the rafters.

  Yet she frowned into her half-drained wooden cup.

  Her loathing had nothing to do with the supper. Who could complain about the sumptuous food gracing the table each night of Yule? Tonight there were succulent boar’s head, smoked mutton, roast venison, rabbit pottage, cockles, hazelnuts, cheese, and endless cups of winter ale.

  She didn’t even mind the drunken revelry that inevitably followed. Raucous songs chased away the gloom. Lusty lads grabbed at giggling lasses. The music of pipes, harp, and tambors filled the air. Boisterous dancing encouraged the return of the sun after the solstice.

  The boughs of holly decking the hall looked admittedly festive. So did the ivy draping the great hearth. Mistletoe hung in all the doorways for good luck. Luminous tallow candles set about the room made the rough wood beams of the keep look warm and welcoming.

  For once, despite being crowded elbow-to-elbow into the keep, no one in the clan was bickering. Everyone was freshly-scrubbed, smiling, and dressed in their best finery.

  Even Ysenda had made an effort. She’d bathed in lavender-scented water. She’d washed her long linen leine until it was as white as the snow outside. Atop that, she wore her best gown of soft gray wool. Flowing around her waist and across her breast was an arisaid of pale gray plaid, pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch. Her normally unruly chestnut hair was harnessed by two narrow braids at the crown, tied at the back with a ribbon, and lightly scented with more lavender.

  She felt bonnie…almost as bonnie as her sister.

  “Caimbeul!” From across the hall, over the top of his bellowing friends, one of the many piss-drunk ruffians snagged a squirming lass by the arm and called out to Ysenda’s older brother. “Caimbeul! Why don’t ye come dance with Tilda here?”

  Ysenda stiffened as Tilda pulled away with a horrified blush. Everyone laughed.

  That was why she hated Yuletide.

  Beside her, Caimbeul grinned at their jest. But Ysenda knew he was dying inside. He wanted so much to fit in, to be like them.

  Most of the time, he could pretend he was. Most of the time, Ysenda forgot he was different. When the two of them were alone, he seemed as well-made and fit as any man.

  It was only when they were forced to make a public appearance, like at Yuletide—seated beside their sister and father as if nothing were wrong—that his difference was made painfully clear.

  Once the crowd gathered and the ale was flowing, the taunts and the laughter began. And to Ysenda’s dishonor, their father, Laird Gille, did nothing to prevent the mockery.

  Why would he? The laird had disowned his deformed son at first sight. Indeed, the only reason he’d let the boy live was because Caimbeul had been six months old when the laird came home from his travels to lay eyes upon him. Ysenda’s fierce mother, descended from the infamous Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, had threatened the laird’s life if he touched one hair on her precious son’s head.

  Beside her, Caimbeul sighed and lowered his half-eaten oatcake. Ysenda followed his gaze. A group of wee lads played beside the hearth. In imitation of their older brothers, they were making fun of Caimbeul’s distinctive hobble.

  Her grip tightened on her eating dagger as she muttered, “Those sheep-swivin’ brats. What do they think they’re doin’?”

  He gave her a sad, forgiving chuckle. “They’re only bairns, Ysenda. They don’t know any better.”

  “Oh, I’d be glad to teach them,” she said between her teeth. “Maybe I’ll spit them and roast them slowly o’er the Yuletide fire.”

  That made him smile. “Ach, ye sound like our ma.”

  “’Tis disrespectful,” she insisted. “Ye’re the son o’ the laird.”

  In fact, he was the only son of the laird. The firstborn. He should be the heir to the clan. But he might as well be invisible. His presence was expected at holiday feasts when the extended clan filled the hall. He was allowed to sit beside Ysenda when the laird flanked himself with his daughters. But Laird Gille paid him no heed. There might as well have been a mile-high wall between Caimbeul and his father.

  Still, it was insensitive of Ysenda to remind him of that. She instantly regretted her words.

  To make amends and lighten the mood again, she gave Caimbeul a conspiratorial wink. Then, when their father wasn’t looking, she used her dagger to steal a slice of roast boar from the laird’s trencher, dropping it onto Caimbeul’s.

  Caimbeul grinned and dug in.

  Ysenda couldn’t help but grin back. How anyone could overlook the gentle humor in Caimbeul’s soft brown eyes—his kindness, his loyalty, his sweet nature—she didn’t know. She supposed most people never saw past his crippled frame.

  Calling him Caimbeul, which meant crooked mouth, had been polite. To be honest, it seemed there wasn’t a bone in his body that was straight. His back was hunched. His spine was shaped like a slithering snake. His hips were twisted. And one shoulder was higher than the other. With each passing year, his deformity had gotten worse, as if the cruel claws of a dragon slowly closed around him, leaving his body more warped and useless.

  Most people assumed his brain was likewise twisted. But Ysenda knew better. He mig
ht suffer from neglect. But he was bright, and he possessed a wry wit.

  Sadly, their father had deemed it a waste to teach him anything. He said the lad would die young anyway, so an education was pointless.

  To make matters worse, when Caimbeul was twelve years of age, their warring mother was killed, mortally wounded by a sword. While she lay dying, she made Ysenda swear to look after her older brother. It was no small task for a wee lass of nine. But Ysenda promised she would.

  Once their mother was buried, however, things changed. The laird, ashamed of his son’s infirmity, banished the lad from the keep. He was sent to live in a wee thatch-roofed cottage in the farthest corner of the bailey.

  Looking back, Ysenda had to admit that had probably been for the best. For when the laird was in his cups and Caimbeul was underfoot, their father tended to use his fists, taking out his frustration and rage on the lad.

  At the time, however, Ysenda had felt her brother’s exile was unfair. And since she’d made that promise to her mother, she couldn’t let him go alone. So, heartbroken at the thought of losing both her mother and the older brother she adored, Ysenda stubbornly packed up her things, left the keep, and moved in with Caimbeul.

  Her father scarcely noticed her leaving. His attention was fixed on Cathalin, the one daughter who offered him hope. Cathalin was his middle child, the bonnie one, the one who would marry and inherit the lairdship.

  Ysenda had done everything she could for Caimbeul. She’d taught him what she knew of reading, writing, and keeping accounts. She’d challenged him to learn about the running of the household and every man’s part in it. She’d bribed visiting scholars to tutor him in history and philosophy.

  Caimbeul may not have been blessed with a powerful body. But there was much power in knowledge.

  And on those occasions when he needed physical defending, it was Ysenda who came to his rescue. She used the fighting skills her mother had taught her. Many a young lad earned a black eye or a bruised shin from daring to mock Ysenda’s beloved brother. A few even learned their lesson at the point of her sword.

  Caimbeul nudged her with his bony elbow as she slipped him another slice of stolen meat. “Hey.” He nodded toward the door with a broad grin. “I think ye’ve got an admirer.”

  Ysenda glanced up. A tall, dark, handsome man was staring at her. He wasn’t dressed like a Highlander. Instead of a leine and brat, he wore a long surcoat of deep blue covered by a brown tabard that was belted at the hips. By his brown hooded cloak, he appeared to have just come in from the cold. Snowflakes dusted his broad shoulders and his hood.

  A hint of a smile touched the man’s lips, alarming her. But that wasn’t what made her most uneasy.

  The truth was she’d never seen him before.

  Ysenda was certain she knew every lad, lass, and bairn in the clan, as well as most of the neighboring clans. She would have remembered this one’s face. He was striking, built like a warrior. His hair was the color of coal. His gaze was intense and steady enough to pierce iron.

  What was a stranger doing inside the keep?

  He lowered his gaze then, and she scanned the room.

  He wasn’t alone. Half a dozen unfamiliar men were scattered around the hall.

  Who were they? And how the devil had they gotten in?

  Sir Noёl de Ware loved Yuletide.

  It wasn’t only because the holiday happened to mark his own birth as well as the Christ child’s. He loved everything about the season. He loved the crèches in the church and the caroles in the hall. He loved feasting on roast goose and drinking spiced wine. Most of all, he loved snuggling up in the wintry weather with a warm woman by a crackling fire.

  Which was why he was unhappy.

  Instead of enjoying the holiday season in France, he was stuck here in the frozen Highlands, tracking down a reluctant bride.

  King Philip had promised him a wife—the most beautiful lass in Scotland, if rumor was to be believed. Descended from the magnificent Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, she was the heir to a fine Scots holding.

  But she’d been delaying him with letters and excuses for weeks now.

  She was ill.

  She was visiting kin.

  The mountain was impassable.

  The river was too high.

  She was grieving over a lost kitten.

  Meanwhile, he’d been stuck in the Lowlands, awaiting word that he could come for her.

  Finally, he’d lost patience. He was weary of waiting for the lass to decide that he merited her company.

  Part of the King’s reason for awarding him a Highland bride was to assure the continuing alliance between Scotland and France. King Philip had recently made peace with Scotland’s enemy, England. This had naturally caused a rumble of discontent among the Scots. The fact that this particular Highland bride was delaying their marriage strained not only Noёl’s patience. It strained the peace between their countries.

  So, as archaic as it seemed, Noёl decided he’d have to formally demand his bride.

  Of course, he was no fool. The Scots might be allies of the French. But Highlanders were a different breed—wild and unpredictable. He couldn’t afford to be caught with his braies down in the frozen north. He’d brought only a handful of men with him. He was ill equipped to wage war.

  So he decided to use his brains instead of his brawn.

  He chose to come at Yuletide. At Yuletide, the castle gates would be open in welcome. The keep would be teeming with people. Ale would be flowing. Spirits would be high. Nobody would be troubled by a few stray faces among the clan.

  Once they were safely inside, Noёl would announce to the laird that he hadn’t been able to endure one more day without his betrothed. With any luck, the romantic gesture would soften his bride’s heart. At the very least, with her entire clan as witness, it would make it difficult for her to refuse him.

  So far, things had gone to plan. Even now, he and his men were dispersing peacefully through the crowded hall. They’d left their armor and swords outside the gates. There was no need to appear hostile. Still, as a precaution, they’d kept their daggers close at hand.

  He scanned the hall and decided that the lass seated at the laird’s right hand must be his betrothed.

  She was as lovely as he’d heard. Her skin was fashionably pale. Her cheeks were fashionably rosy. Her russet hair was swept up in an amazing labyrinth that must have taken hours to braid. Her chin had a proud tilt. Her stained lips were set in a knowing half-smile. The sweeping neckline of her gown revealed firm, round breasts. Her eyes smoked with subtle, sly desire as she sipped at her ale. She would definitely turn heads, even in France, which was filled with beauties.

  Then Noёl’s gaze drifted to the lass seated on the laird’s left side. And his heart tripped.

  He must have been mistaken. Granted, the first lass was undeniably pretty. But the lass on the left was a maid to take a man’s breath away. The rumors were true. He’d never seen a more beautiful female…anywhere.

  Her skin glowed with health. Her long auburn hair, shining in the candlelight, fell in simple, gentle waves over her shoulders. She had large, captivating eyes, a pointed chin, and a sweet mouth. The soft wool of her muted gray gown seemed to swirl around her petite body like Highland mist.

  As he observed her, the lass stole a slice of meat from her father’s trencher. Then, with a crafty grin, she passed it to the man beside her.

  The corner of Noёl’s lip twitched in amusement. It appeared his bride had a streak of mischief in her. That pleased him.

  Indeed, as he watched the wayward lass continuing to steal more food right from under her father’s nose, an interesting possibility occurred to him.

  Noёl had always expected to have a marriage of political convenience. Like all French nobles, he served as a chess piece for King Philip. Alliances were often established through strategic marriages. Love had little to do with it. He was just as likely to be wed to a withered beldame or a mere child as to a lovely maid hi
s own age.

  Learning that his bride was renowned for her beauty had been a welcome surprise. But the idea that he might actually grow to like this plucky new wife of his? That was quite intriguing.

  He kept gazing at her until he caught her eye.

  But instead of returning his friendly smile, her grin faded, and she regarded him with suspicion.

  Not wishing to make a bad first impression, he quickly averted his eyes. When he next looked up, she’d left her spot at the table and was making her determined way toward him.

  He straightened and tossed back the hood of his cloak, prepared to say whatever it took to ensure that he didn’t leave the Highlands without a bride. Nothing could prepare him, however, for her bluntness. Or for her big, luminous, soul-searching gray eyes.

  “Who are ye?” she muttered under her breath in her Gaelic tongue as the merrymaking continued around them. “And what are ye doin’ here?”

  Noёl was taken aback by her fearless and forthright manner. The lass certainly wasted no words. Nor did she seem to be intimidated by the fact that he towered over her by nearly a foot.

  “I asked ye a question,” she said impatiently.

  He fought back a smile. What a brazen lass she was. Noёl knew how to speak her language, of course. But it was important that his wife know how to speak French. For over a hundred years, since the Norman conquest, most of the English and Lowland Scots had spoken French, and he planned to take her home to France. So he replied in his native tongue.