Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Ewan closed his eyes, ill to his stomach. He ran his hands tiredly over his face and through his sweat-drenched hair.

  At last, Alec could rest in peace.

  And mayhap—if he dared to hope such a thing—just mayhap he had slain his last man.

  Bowing his head, he crossed himself, and then catching the neck of the nearest riderless horse, he swung himself into the saddle and galloped off after Julian and the king.

  * * *

  The night had been a sleepless one.

  One Merry had spent pacing the abbey. She’d make her way past the chapterhouse, on toward the refectory and behind it to the many-purposed outbuildings. And then after climbing the spiral staircase to the top of Cambuskenneth’s tower, she’d peer for a time at the night sky before returning to the chapterhouse and starting the entire trek anew.

  Whenever she would pass the chapel, the aged abbot would kindly invite her to join him in silent vigil before the alter. She acquiesced several times, but she was much too restless to kneel upon the cold church pavers the entire night. She must keep moving.

  Lady Kate had arrived at the abbey late in the evening, but she was of little company to Merry. The wee countess was concerned for Cameron and the others in her own right. And her unborn babe left her so weary and exhausted that she’d fallen into a fitful, uneasy sleep. It would be cruel to disturb her.

  It was nearly dawn when Merry arrived at the top of the abbey tower once more. After taking in a long, deep breath of chill night air, she saw it. A line of twinkling, bobbing torches snaking down through the hills from the north. Her heart leapt to her throat. She could only watch in horror knowing it was exactly what she had feared to see.

  The highlanders from the north had arrived to reinforce the king’s army.

  Biting her nails and feeling ill, she watched as they filed past the abbey walls, knocking their swords on their shields in time with each step. Aye, she knew that each man had his own story, most likely his own wee wife and bairn, but at that moment, she could only see enemies, hardy, muscled men that Ewan must fight if he were to come back to her alive.

  Why had it come to this?

  If only she could weep, mayhap it would provide some relief.

  But she couldn’t shed a tear. She’d refused to let the tears fall when Ewan had bid his farewell. How could she have let him ride to battle with the memory of tears upon her face?

  But now that she was free to weep in peace, the tears still wouldn’t fall.

  Soon, the army disappeared around the base of Castle Hill, and as dawn painted the sky with a hint of color, she quite suddenly made up her mind.

  She wouldn’t stay put in the abbey. She had to see what was happening. To wait for tidings till after all was done would be nigh unbearable torture.

  ‘Twould be simple enough a task to leave unhindered; no one was watching her movements. Nor, now that she thought on it, had anyone insisted she stay within the abbey walls the entire time. She squashed the twinge of conscience at that thought, knowing full well that Ruan and Ewan would be furious if they ever discovered what she had decided to do.

  But she didn’t care.

  Glancing down at her fine dress, she grimaced. Certainly, she couldn’t ride about in such clothing. She ran a hand through her short raven curls.

  Aye, ‘twas time to take up the garb of a lad once again.

  Scurrying down the tower stairs, she hurried through the silent refectory to an outbuilding stacked with washtubs. Most of them were empty, but she soon found one full of clothing to be washed. Fair reeking they were, but she didn’t care. She then fished out a brown cloak, a pair of homespun breeches, and a long shirt.

  Rolling the clothing into a bundle, she threw the cloak over her shoulders and strode to the stables. It was early, but the monks were already moving about and tending to the horses when she arrived.

  With her heart pounding, she made her way to Diabhul, but when she began to buckle his saddle, one of the monks headed her way.

  “God’s blessing to ye this morning, my child,” the white-haired man with bushy black brows greeted her. “Do ye think to leave the abbey?”

  Merry forced her lips into a calm smile and, praying she wouldn’t roast in hell for lying to a priest, turned to curtsey politely.

  “’Tis my horse, father. Diabhul needs to stretch his legs and run for a bit or he’ll be biting the others,” she explained and then paused as it struck her as oddly amusing that she was speaking of a horse named “Devil” to a priest.

  He seemed to follow her thoughts and smiled himself. “Aye, then, go with God while we pray for this wicked one’s soul, aye?” He stretched out his hand as if to pat Diabhul’s broad head but sharply drew it back as the black stallion lunged for it. Cocking a wry brow at Merry, he added, “It seems he’s rightly named, my child!”

  Making the sign of the cross, the man then shuffled off, leaving Merry torn between guilt and amusement.

  But she would confess her sins later.

  Leading Diabhul from the stables, she swung herself into the saddle and guided him through the orchards, heavy with early-summer fruit, and then to the abbey gates. Once they were through, they galloped down the road, leaving Cambuskenneth Abbey behind them.

  Merry closed her eyes, finding peace in Diabhul’s strength and the morning breezes caressing her face. Several times, she glanced over her shoulder to see if the abbot had sent a party after her, but there was no sign of pursuit.

  Scanning the roadside, she found a dense cluster of birches close by. Guiding Diabhul into them, she dismounted and swiftly slipped out of her gown and into men’s clothing once again.

  She gagged at the stench and could only hope the stink would air out as she rode. Tucking her rolled gown into her saddlebag, she remounted Diabhul and made her way toward Castle Hill, with the great castle of Stirling resting on its crown.

  It didn’t take long to reach, and she’d only ascended halfway when she spied the king’s tents clustered in the distance near the Sauchieburn.

  Merry scowled.

  She was too far away to see anything of use other than the fact the enemy’s army stood at the ready. She couldn’t even see the banners from this distance. She’d have to get a little closer.

  Biting her lip, she turned her horse around and leaving Stirling behind her, headed on a southerly course, taking to the surrounding woods. At intervals, she could see the day brightening in the gaps through the trees overhead.

  On occasion, she saw hawks soaring high in the air, or at least she prayed they were hawks and not vultures gathering to pick the bones of the dead.

  Then, smelling smoke, she broke through the trees and guided Diabhul to where a number of peasant women stood, baskets on their hips and their hands shading their eyes in order to view the battle.

  Exchanging a quick nod of solemn greeting, Merry joined them but remained seated in the saddle for a better view. From her vantage point, she was now close enough to see the king sitting on his fine gray horse, facing west.

  And then, as she watched, the highlanders raised their bows and let loose a volley of arrows as the horizon darkened with the arrival of the prince’s army.

  She’d arrived just in time.

  And it was torture. It was impossible to discern the identity of any man in the sea of faces raging before her. She could only hope that somewhere in the chaos, Ewan still lived.

  The king remained isolated, surrounded by his guards as he sat watching the battle upon his nervously pawing mount. At first, it was difficult to tell who was winning. But then the king’s banner moved further out, taking over the prince’s, and it was clear that the king had the advantage.

  Merry’s heart sank.

  But then, the second line of the prince’s army advanced from Torwood, the thunder of their hooves shaking the ground. At the head, she saw Lord Gray’s banner unfurled in the wind. Her breath caught in her throat, knowing Ewan would be somewhere close by. Locking her eyes on the waving col
ors, she followed the banner closely.

  Nothing seemed to change at first, but then there was no denying it. The men under Lord Gray’s banner inexorably pushed forward, cutting a swath through the king’s defenses and leaving only ruin in their wake.

  The king’s forces began to retreat, slowly at first, but in an ever-quickening tide. Black smoke hung in the air, billowing from the king’s tents, and then Merry saw the king himself, fleeing the grassy field and heading straight for the forest.

  Straight her way.

  The peasant women screamed and fled.

  Merry was right behind them.

  Crashing through the underbrush, she leapt Diabhul over the rivulet of Bannockburn and then steered him straight into the narrow hamlet of Milltown, which sent fowl scattering and squawking out of her path.

  When she reached the far side of the village, she sharply reined Diabhul in to scan behind her but there was nothing to be seen other than a flock of affronted hens clucking angry insults her way.

  Merry took a deep calming breath and decided that it was time to return to the abbey. Turning Diabhul’s head, she dug her heel into his side. But he’d only gone two steps before she drew him to a halt, alarmed to discover he was limping.

  Lurching from the saddle, she quickly inspected his hooves to find a particularly sharp stone embedded in his front hoof.

  “Ach, ye wee laddie,” she crooned to him under her breath. “We’ll set ye to rights, dinna fear.”

  A quick glance revealed a mill perched on the edge of the Bannockburn, only a stone’s throw away. It was a large structure with crow-stepped gables and a painted sign naming it Beaton’s Mill.

  Taking up the reins, Merry guided Diabhul forward.

  The miller’s wife met her with a smile, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with brown hair and sympathetic gray eyes. The miller wasn’t present, but she led Merry to their stable and invited her to use the man’s tools to remove Diabhul’s stone.

  Tethering the stallion to a post, Merry found a black hoof pick. And with the familiar sent of stable and horse calming her nerves, she set about tending Diabhul’s hoof. It took a bit of strength to pry the stone loose, but she finally succeeded in exposing the cut.

  “Mayhap ye should soak it afore ye go on your way?” the miller’s wife suggested when she dropped by to inspect Merry’s progress. Picking up a nearby bucket, she volunteered, “I’ll bring ye some water from the burn, lass.”

  Merry nodded her thanks, pressing her fingers into the cut to staunch the blood. It was only a small wound. He’d be sore for a wee bit, but he’d be fine soon.

  And then the hens along the road squawked in such a racket that Merry craned her head to see a lone horseman careening their way. He was resplendent in fine armor and riding a gray battle charger.

  Stunned, she could only stare in disbelief.

  It was the king. He’d lost his fine cloak and his silver shield, but there was no doubt. It was the king. As she watched, he lurched toward the mill, swaying in the saddle. And as he came upon the miller’s wife drawing water from the burn, he startled her and she screamed, dropping her bucket.

  The king’s gray horse took fright, and swerving sharply to the side, reared back and unseated its rider.

  Merry watched in horror as the king fell, crashing to the ground. Clad in full battle armor, the noise of his fall was astonishingly loud, enough so to draw the attention of the miller’s sons in the fields. The lads set off at a dead run toward their mother where she stood, her hands clasped over her mouth as she looked at the man lying unmoving at her feet.

  Slightly dazed, Merry moved to join them.

  “Who is he, ma?” one of the lads asked, a tall brawny youth with a shock of blond hair.

  “I dinna rightly know.” His mother swallowed, looking quite upset. “I thought he was a ghost, I did. Is he … dead?”

  Cautiously, Merry leaned close and lifted the visor of the king’s helmet. Placing a finger under his nose, she waited a moment.

  And then she felt it. A soft, whispering breath.

  “He lives,” she said in relief.

  The miller’s wife and her sons expelled loud thankful sighs.

  “Then let’s take him inside,” the woman said, waving at the boys to make haste. “We should remove his armor, aye? He’ll be too heavy to carry otherwise.”

  As they unbuckled his chest plate, Merry rose and surveyed the area for any signs of pursuit. ‘Twas strange that the king should end up alone. Surely, his men would be nearby to protect him?

  But the road in both directions stood vacant.

  “Carry him in now, lads, and lay him on the bed,” she heard the miller’s wife say, and turning, Merry discovered the king already divested of his armor.

  The lads hefted the unconscious man between them then, as their mother followed, shooing them onward as though herding a flock of geese. Cautiously, they moved toward the cottage, which hid behind the mill.

  “’Tis a strange day,” the woman said as Merry fell into step beside her. “I wonder who the poor man is? I feel fair awful for causing him harm.”

  Merry eyed the woman a moment, wondering if she should divulge that her sons carried the King of Scotland. But then deciding it would only upset the woman more, she kept her silence.

  Instead, recalling the prince had ordered his father not be harmed, she said, “We should send for a priest to tend his wounds.”

  “Aye,” the miller’s wife agreed at once, opening the cottage door for the lads. “I’ll send my boys for one once we get the man settled.”

  The cottage was a humble one. Made of stacked stone, it had just two rooms, a dirt floor, and a simple thatch roof. Gently, the lads lay the king upon a bed and drew a worn plaid over him as a coverlet. And then heeding their mother’s instructions, quickly left to fetch a priest.

  The king didn’t move at first, but then his eyes opened and with a groan, he lifted his head and stared at his surroundings in confusion. However, then spying the miller’s wife, he stretched out his hand in entreaty.

  “Send for a priest,” he gasped, seeming to find breathing difficult. “I would confess ere I die.”

  “Now, let’s not have talk of dying, aye?” the woman responded, rushing to his side to pat him gently upon the shoulder. “I’ve sent my sons for a priest, but not to shrive ye, my lord. But to heal ye, aye?”

  He drew his pale brows into a frown.

  “And what might I call ye, my lord?” the woman continued kindly. “I sincerely regret startling your horse, I do. Tell me, is there a message we might send on your behalf?”

  Merry drew her lips into a line, and from her place by the window saw a look of caution suffuse the king’s face. He waited a moment and then closed his eyes.

  “Aye, ‘tis as it was foretold,” he whispered through pale lips. “The Lion of Scotland shall be devoured by his whelps. Cameron was right. ‘Twas never Mar. ‘Twas my own son … because of Mar.” His voice cracked.

  “Eh?” The miller’s wife frowned in confusion, and then when the king didn’t respond, she glanced at Merry with a helpless shrug.

  Slowly, Merry came to stand at the foot of the bed.

  The king lay there, muttering to himself, and then his troubled gaze focused on them once again.

  “Alas,” he said in a voice so soft they could hardly hear it. “I was your sovereign this morning.”

  The woman’s jaw dropped open, and then wringing her hands in an utter panic, she ran out of the cottage and wailed after her sons to hurry back with the priest.

  Apprehension shivered down Merry’s spine as she stared at the now-silent monarch, and for a moment, she was fair tempted to throw up her hands herself and run after the miller’s wife.

  Instead, she curtsied deeply, even though she was still clad as a lad, and then she returned to peer out the window overlooking the stable yard and to bite her already worn nails.

  Surely, someone would come to take over the king’s care soon?


  She’d scarcely thought it when the miller’s sons could be seen, returning. One of the lads led a horse carrying a comely young man wearing the homespun brown tunic of a priest.

  The horse caught Merry’s attention first. It was a fine animal. Its nostrils flared wide, and it moved with a confident step in much the same manner as a battle charger. ‘Twas hardly a horse a priest might ride.

  And then the priest dismounted, sliding to the ground. Drawing his hood about his face, he bowed his head and strode toward the cottage. There was strength in his step, the heft of a warrior’s.

  As he ducked under the low door, Merry instinctively stepped forward.

  Immediately, the man turned her way.

  She swallowed. What was she doing? She had no right to interfere, especially when the eyes of the man staring into her own appeared calm and earnest.

  “I am Father John, lad,” he introduced himself quietly, and then his gaze flitted to the king lying on the bed.

  Lad. How easy it was to forget that she must still play the part of a lad. Clearing her throat, she stepped back and nodded at the king. “His Majesty is in need of your aid.”

  “Then I shall do what I can,” the man responded with a dip of his cleft chin.

  Brushing past her, he moved to kneel next to the bed, and first making the sign of the cross, he then placed a gentle hand upon the monarch’s shoulder.

  The king’s eyes opened at once and upon seeing the priest, he gasped. “Father, I am certain to die this day. I would confess straightway so that my sins do not follow me.”

  “Aye, my son,” the priest acknowledged kindly. “Tell me, how were ye wounded?”

  The king swallowed and replied weakly, “I was knocked from the back of my horse and crushed by the weight of mine own armor.”

  The young priest was silent a moment.

  For the briefest of moments, Merry could have sworn she saw an expression of outright contempt sweep across his face.

  But then he spoke, and his voice was only kind, comforting. “Your wounds do not appear so grievous that ye might not yet recover from them, my son.”

  The king took strength in his words. “Aye, then there is hope still?” He seized on the words desperately but then grasped at the holy man’s robe and demanded all the same, “But I would still confess my sins. I would be prepared and not die unshriven, father. The prophecy says that I shall die.”