by Cathy MacRae
* * *
Kinnon sat beside the early morning fire, deep in thought. The camp had plunged into grief at the death of Bertrand du Guesclin, and the silence was unbroken except for the crackle of the flames as they woke to new life.
He recited the names for his commander that he’d heard among the men, recalling their pride in serving Bertrand. The Eagle of Brittany, The Black Dog of Brocéliande, a Breton knight and French military genius. He won many a battle against much larger armies, and was ransomed by the king thrice—each time for a staggering amount. But he never quailed, never questioned, always persevered. Where would we be were it not for him? Where will we be next year? Next month? Tomorrow?
A wave of voices rushed through the camp. Men scrambled for their weapons, and the guard on Bertrand’s tent snapped to attention. Kinnon followed the stares and caught the rising excitement. Within moments, a riding party, bedecked in splendid finery, rode into camp.
A man next to Kinnon nudged him sharply in the side. “’Tis the English commandant!”
“Why is he here?” Kinnon asked.
“The maréchal went to the castle gate two days ago and demanded the commander surrender and evacuate the town as agreed.”
Kinnon’s eyes widened as he urged him on. “Though he knew Bertrand was dying?”
The man bent closer, clearly enjoying himself. “Aye. De Ros replied that though his agreement was with Bertrand, he would keep his word even after his death.” He nudged Kinnon again. “But he would surrender to no one but the constable.”
Men rode past, approaching the tent where Bertrand’s body lay. The sides of the tent were rolled back, and Kinnon could see quite clearly as De Ros and his knights dismounted and proceeded to Bertrand’s bedside. De Ros knelt and placed the keys of the castle at Bertrand’s feet. After several long moments of reverent silence, the stately procession remounted and rode away.
* * *
Kinnon stared at Hervé in disbelief. Of all the dishonest, conniving, back-handed… Just because ye have wormed yer way into the maréchal’s good graces—’tis clear the man’s head is muddled with grief.
He spat in the dirt. No-good arse-kisser. I shouldnae have to answer to ye.
But he did. Like Bertrand, Maréchal de Sancerre saw Herve’s skill with languages as a blessing amid a group of men of different origins. Unlike Bertrand, Kinnon feared the maréchal was blind to Hervé faults.
Kinnon recalled the look of shock on Hervé’s face when they met inside the maréchal’s tent. Aye, I remember yer kindness when ye left me for dead, ye wee bastard. He bristled to realize he would be dead were it not for Lucienne’s care… Damn you, Hervé!
“I will join the procession as far as Paris, but there my duty ends. I will help see that Bertrand is protected for the sake of his kindness to me, but I no longer belong to this army.”
Hervé’s nose twitched as though facing a foul odor. “You are subject to the regulations of this army until your duty is done. And that means you answer to me.”
“I answer to no man who leaves his comrades for dead on the field,” Kinnon snarled. He pivoted on his walking staff and took a step to the door of the tent before spinning back around. “And I want my glaive back.”
“You will rebuild your weapons cache at your own expense,” Hervé replied. He quickly dropped his gaze, shuffling papers on his camp desk.
“Ye took mine, and I want it back.” Kinnon closed the distance between them.
“Any weapon taken from the field of battle is the property of the one who possesses it. If you cannot maintain your own weapons, mayhap its loss will improve your vigilance.” Hervé lifted his chin to stare down his thin nose, but his chin quivered.
“I want mine returned to me,” Kinnon reiterated, his voice softly threatening.
Hervé’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I will call the guards.” His bluff rang hollow as his voice tightened into the next octave.
“Dinnae bother. Ye likely sold it. ’Twas meant for a man’s hand, after all.” With a disgusted blow of breath, Kinnon stalked to the doorway, cursing his wounded leg at the hitch in his gait.
“And do not leave this camp!” Hervé called after him. “I forbid it!”
Arrogant, know-it-all Frenchie needs to find another Scotsman to do his bidding. I have things to attend to before I help escort Bertrand’s body home. His nose twitched instinctively at the potentially noisome duty. ’Tis an honor to be a part of his escort, but a curse if the body isnae embalmed correctly. I hope the cirurgian is good at his job.
He hobbled down the worn path between the tents, scarcely heeding the activities around him. A horse idled in its harness beneath a tree, and Kinnon approached the lad sprawled in the wagon seat. “I will bring this back soon.”
He tossed his staff in the back of the wagon and swung himself into the seat with a grimace. The lad jerked to attention, his mouth open in protest. Kinnon waved him down. “Dinnae gawk at me, lad. I have an important errand to attend to.”
The lad dropped to the ground, his hand on the horse’s rump. “But, sir, no one is to leave the camp. ’Tis le capitaine Hervé’s order!”
Kinnon shook out the reins and the horse pulled away. “Hervé can take his orders and…” His voice disappeared beneath the clop of the horse’s hooves.
Chapter 14
Jean-Baptiste bounded from the yard, barking as he ran. For once, it didn’t alarm Kinnon—for some reason the dog sounded more welcoming than aggressive. A tall, slender form followed in the dog’s wake, her dark hair pulled back in its customary thick braid. A smile lit Melisende’s face and Kinnon hesitated on the wagon seat, drinking in her silent greeting.
“Kinnon!” A burst of excited sunshine broke past Melisende, arms waving madly in greeting. Lucienne’s golden curls bounced across her shoulders as she bolted toward the wagon.
Kinnon eased from the driver’s seat, dodging Jean-Baptiste’s exuberant reception as he danced around Kinnon’s feet, leaping and barking. The poor horse shied at the commotion and Kinnon shoved the dog away. “Be gone, ye mangy beast! Ye willnae frighten off my horse.”
Jean-Baptiste took the scolding well, calming long enough to sniff the air around Kinnon and his horse. With a satisfied woof, he bounded away.
Kinnon reached for his walking staff, turning back just in time to catch Lucienne as she flung herself into his arms. He staggered back against the wagon. “Easy, lass! Ye nearly knocked me off my feet.”
She buried her face in his neck, arms wrapped tight about him. “You came back,” she whispered forcefully. “Melisende said we must be patient, but you came back.”
“Aye. I told ye I would.” He gently disentangled himself, motioning to his wounded leg. “Can we go somewhere and sit?”
“Come this way, monsieur,” Melisende called, waving him to the back of the house where a pair of mended chairs overlooked the tumble-down barns. Tucked in the shadow of nearby trees, it was a comfortable, cozy spot.
Her fingers wound through his, Lucienne guided Kinnon to one of the chairs. He started to lower himself to the ground next to it, but she pulled him up with a cry of protest. “Non! Sit here!”
Feeling definitely unchivalrous, he settled in the chair. Melisende took the other, and Lucienne curled at Kinnon’s feet, staring up at him, her face aglow with happiness.
“How are things at the encampment?” Melisende asked.
Kinnon winced. “I have had a hard time believing Bertrand is dead. But I was able to speak to him before he passed.”
Melisende nodded slowly. “I was afraid it was true. What of the village? Did De Ros surrender before Bertrand died?”
“Ye may not believe it, but De Ros and his knights rode from the castle the day after Bertrand died to lay the keys of the city at his feet.”
Her eyebrows shot upward. “Vraiment? That is a tribute to le Constable, indeed.”
“Aye. Many men, nobles and commoners alike, sought Bertrand’s blessing. ’Twas a sight l
ike none I have seen.”
“What will happen now? Are you freed from service?”
Kinnon frowned. “Nae. I have been asked to join the entourage bearing Bertrand’s body back to Brittany. ’Tis my understanding the group will be made up of different representatives of the men who fought with Bertrand. And I am the only Scot they have at the moment.”
Lucienne wrinkled her nose. “I would not like the job of carting a dead body across France!”
“He will be embalmed, Lucie. And ’tis only several days’ march to Dinan—which is where I will leave the company,” Kinnon reassured her.
Melisende shook her head. “’Twill be closer to a fortnight, mark my words. Every town and priest along the way will insist on blessing the body. ’Twill not be a simple thing to escort the remains of such a great man.”
“I hadnae thought of that,” Kinnon admitted, absently rubbing the back of his neck. “I want to be sure the two of ye are taken care of whilst I am away.”
Melisende’s lips tilted upward. “Who is to look after us, monsieur? We have been on our own for some time now. I think we can manage.”
Kinnon banked his irritation. “I dinnae mean to belittle yer efforts. But there will be more lawless men in the area for a bit as they make their way from the village. ’Twill be more dangerous than ever, and I cannae be here to help ye.” His fingers dropped to his wounded leg, massaging the perpetual ache there. “Not that I am any help to ye at the moment.”
Neither woman replied to his comment, and the silence lengthened. He shifted uncomfortably against the complaining throb in his leg. Melisende tapped Lucienne’s shoulder. “Run inside and fetch the stool for Kinnon’s leg. And gather mugs for drink. ’Tis an unseemly hot day.”
Lucienne’s lower lip slipped out in a pout. She unfolded to stand before them, hands fisted on her hips. “I do not like being left out,” she scolded. When neither Kinnon nor Melisende answered her, she whirled and stomped off into the house.
Melisende rose. “Would a short walk improve your leg?”
“Mayhap.” Kinnon stood and together they strolled to the small rocky area they had visited a couple of weeks earlier. He eyed the surroundings, checking for snakes, before he lowered himself clumsily to the ground.
“I am sorry your wound pains you.” Melisende’s clear blue eyes met his.
“’Twill take time to completely heal. Yer sister saved my life. I had been left for dead.” Too late he realized his face was pulled in a ferocious scowl at the memory, and he jerked his lips upward, attempting to grin.
Melisende was taken aback by the darkness that stole over Kinnon’s features and the harshness that jerked his eyebrows together and narrowed his eyes. But his struggle to change his frown to a smile amused her and she gave a short laugh. “We have both had a trying week, n’est-ce pas?”
Kinnon jerked a startled look in her direction. “Ye could say that.” He drew a deep breath. “I am sorry ye were detained in town. Ye must have worried about yer sister.”
“You could say that,” she tossed back at him, arching an eyebrow. She wondered at his return when he clearly had much on his mind and a sad duty to fulfill. He owed them nothing more for their brief war-time friendship. Her skin warmed. Could he…? Non. It is absurd. We have had one serious conversation and ’tis likely he was lonely and had no other person to discuss his concerns with. He has not returned today because of me—has he?
She forced a slight smile, hoping to encourage Kinnon. He gazed into the distance.
“I must be away home.”
His voice sounded forced, tight—faltering. His gaze dropped to his hands as they twisted with uncertainty.
Melisende’s heart ached and she ventured a gentle touch on his wrist in sympathy. Warmth where their skin touched bloomed, sending tingles of awareness along her fingers and higher. His arm twitched and they locked gazes.
“I wish circumstances were different,” he murmured.
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
He gave her a wry grin. “At least say my name.”
Her face warmed and she curled her fingers, breaking contact with his arm. “Kinnon.”
Kinnon smiled, and the gentleness of it took her breath away.
“I dinnae want this to be the last time I see ye.” His eyes clouded, his smile faded.
“You wish to return home.” Melisende forced her voice past the quaver that threatened.
“I am a laird’s son. I should follow him—lead my clan.”
His voice revealed a struggle with such a possibility.
“I do not understand. Do you not wish to be their leader?” she asked.
“I no longer know. Fighting the English should have made me stronger, harder.” He dropped his gaze. “It has made me question much.”
Unreasonable hope that he would stay in France surged in her, but she shoved it back. It was not right for her to wish him to give up his birthright. “You will make a great laird. What you have experienced—”
“What I have experienced,” Kinnon flared, “is a mob of men raping and pillaging where they will, justifying it as payment for fighting for the people. Yet the people starve and are driven from their homes, their families torn apart by death and things beyond their control.” He sobered. “Bertrand’s last words were to respect the Church, and protect the poor, the women and children.”
She tilted her head. “Is that not every soldier’s duty?”
“Every soldier,” he mocked, his voice bitter, “routinely blasphemes the Church, and would take the last crust of bread from any unable to fend for themselves.” He lifted bleak eyes to hers. “And many have left children fatherless, their mothers reduced to selling themselves for a few coins that their families might not starve.”
Melisende’s heart twisted, but she knew he spoke the truth. “You could ensure great justice for your people.”
Kinnon’s face softened. “Ye surprise me, Melisende. Every time I speak to ye, ye lift my heart. Ye see me as so much better than I see myself.”
It relieved her to see the anger lift and she smiled. “It is because you are a good man, Kinnon. If I see you differently than you see yourself, please keep in mind you may not be correct.”
“I hope our paths cross again.” He took her hands in his. “I want our paths to cross.”
Melisende’s heart tripped. In the distance, Lucienne’s voice shrilled, forestalling whatever else Kinnon would have said.
He released her hands and stood. “I must get back to camp. There is a command that no one leave without permission.”
“And I suppose you did not receive permission?” A touch of humor rose as Melisende considered him. He is unlikely to ask first. I like that. She sobered. It will never be my choice to like him or not. Wish it or not, we will not likely meet again.
“I was commanded to remain,” he answered with a shrug. “But there was nothing I needed to do to prepare for the trip, and you and Luci are important to me.”
Loud warning barking sounded from the house and Lucienne’s lilting cry filtered into their sanctuary. “Meli? Kinnon? There are militaires demanding to see Kinnon. Oh!”
She stumbled against a rock and fell. Kinnon caught her before she landed on the pebbly ground. She wrapped her arms about his waist and leaned close. Something in Melisende’s heart clutched tight, almost painful, as Lucienne looked up adoringly into Kinnon’s eyes.
Irate shouts punctuated the air amid Jean-Baptiste’s barks and growls. Horses squealed. Kinnon set Lucienne aside and grabbed his walking staff. She reached out to him, but Melisende pulled her back. “Do not get in the middle of this, Lucienne.”
“But they want to take him away!” the girl wailed.
“Oh, no!” Melisende gathered her skirt and hurried after him, overtaking him easily as he reached the yard.
Three armored men sat their horses as they plunged about, clearly agitated by Jean-Baptiste. The dog bristled, snapping at any horse that moved from the tightly guarded g
roup.
“Jean-Baptiste, hold!” Kinnon commanded. The dog twitched an ear in his direction but did not back down.
Melisende paused at Kinnon’s side. “Jean-Baptist, assis!”
The dog sat, though clearly not satisfied with the order.
A man urged his horse forward, but it stopped at a fierce look from Jean-Baptiste. “Call off your dog or I will order it killed.”
“He is worth the lot of ye, and likely yer fool of a commander as well,” Kinnon drawled as he leaned upon his staff.
“An arrow through his chest will not improve his worth,” the man noted.
Kinnon’s eyebrows lifted. “Agreed.”
Melisende started forward, alarmed at the brutal warning. Kinnon placed a hand on her shoulder in restraint. She halted and called to Jean-Baptiste. The big dog stalked to her side and sat, hackles still up, eyes watchful. Melisende laced her fingers through his collar.
Kinnon motioned to the men with one hand. “Why are ye here, frightening these women?”
The man peered down his nose at Melisende. “They are not our concern. We are to take you back to camp.”
“I am about to leave. Ye may be about yer business,” Kinnon replied agreeably.
The leader arched his brow. “Mayhap I did not finish my sentence. We are to take you back—in chains”
Melisende sucked in a breath of alarm and gripped Kinnon’s sleeve. He patted her hand reassuringly.
“There is nae need,” he told the man. “I said I was leaving.”
“You disobeyed a direct order. Hervé has ordered you imprisoned.”
Kinnon snorted. “Hervé would like nothing better than to do away with me. He has tried once.” He turned to Melisende. “Do not be alarmed. Hervé doesnae like me, but he willnae cause lasting harm.”
Melisende stared at him, frightened by the look on the soldiers’ faces. “They mean to imprison you!”
“Not much I can do about it at this point. Too many of them to argue with.” He gave her a grim smile. “Dinnae fash about me. Take care of Luci. It may be longer than I expected, but Hervé will have more important things on his mind than one disobedient Scotsman.” He reached into his sporran and drew out several gold coins, shoving them into her hand. “Here. Ye may need these.” He gave her an impish grin. “They werenae stolen from widows or orphans. I will be back. We havenae finished our conversation.”
