Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  Cade took him by the shoulders as if he was a child. He looked into his friend’s troubled face, hoping desperately that he could help him somehow.

  “Rowan, listen to me. Really listen, laddie. You got us home. You got us back from Trill when we were all too bloody shattered to think straight. If you hadn’t been able to struggle on after Trill… Rowan, it was only your keeping going that kept the rest of us going. Those of us who were there knew how badly hurt you were when we stitched you up, we thought you’d…” he closed his eyes for a brief moment at the memory, “We thought you’d die, Rowan, truly. But we saw how determined you were to get us home in spite of ourselves and I think we decided that if you could keep going, so could we.” He shook his head. “And then when we got back to bloody Messton… they’d all given up, and truly I felt like doing the same when I saw them all still sitting there. You must have too, but… well, you’re strong and you’re damned tough in spite of your pretty face, as well as bloody stubborn. You wouldn’t stay there and you wouldn’t let us stay there, and you wouldn’t leave anyone behind either. You got us home, Rowan. And you got more of us home than you had any right to. But all the men knew that Den Siddon wasn’t your home anymore after Zara and the baby died like that. We knew why you didn’t stay here… why you couldn’t stay here. We knew you’d keep going if you could. I would have too, if I’d been you and I’d thought I could get home. You daft bugger.”

  “Daft for keeping going, or for fretting over it, or just generally daft?”

  “All of them as it’s turned out.”

  “Aye… I truly am, aren’t I?” Rowan smiled slightly. “Thanks, Cade.’

  Cade nodded.

  “Sit yourself down, Rowan,” he said, “I’ll get us both a drink courtesy of the Men’s Mess and you can tell me about going back to the Champions’ Trophy again.”

  Rowan smiled at him again.

  “Aye. Well, I will if I’m good enough. Now that truly is daft,” he said.

  “I don’t know about that, Rowan. I saw you and Stefan today… you gave him a good run for his money, even rusty as you are, and he’s a damned good swordsman. It was pretty even. But all you need’s a bit more match practice and you’ll wipe the floor with him. And being the defending Champion you don’t even have to qualify, my friend.” Cade laughed. “You could lose every bout between now and the competition and they’d still have to let you go in it. In fact I think I might just have to have a small wager on you before all the lads do the same and lower the odds.”

  Rowan laughed.

  “And you think I’m daft…”

  **********

  Rowan had been wandering around the garrison as Fess toiled away at the mountain of reports in his office. Rather you than me, Fess lad, he thought. It’s amazing how much paperwork can accumulate when you’re away for a bit, and no other bugger ever seems to do it for you. Telli’s probably just been pushing it around his desk until you came back. He smiled; more at peace with himself at last though his return had been emotional and difficult at times. He’d been puzzled by the way the troopers still sprang to attention and saluted him as he went by, but he thought it best to simply acknowledge it as he always had and go on his way or he’d be spending all of his time arguing about it. He was to meet Fess in the Officers’ Mess and he was still thinking about it as he ran up the worn steps.

  He stepped lightly through the double doors into the familiar oak-panelled room and the officers rose to their feet as one, placing right fist to heart in the correct Wirran way. Except of course it wasn’t correct, as Rowan well knew.

  Surely none of these silly ratbags could mistake his comfortable forester’s leathers for anything vaguely military, could they? No. They couldn’t. And Fess and Telli weren’t standing behind him, were they? No. They weren’t. They were over there at the Captain’s Table, standing to attention with right fists to hearts the same as all the rest, with silly grins on their faces. Idiots. He shook his head a little, mystified anew, but returned the salute smartly and strode over to Fess, to sort this nonsense out once and for all.

  Fess nearly laughed at the sight of Rowan’s astounded face as the men stood for him. He couldn’t help grinning as Rowan paused for a moment, his thoughts written so plainly across his face that Fess thought Telli, standing beside him, would choke himself.

  “He’s got no bloody idea at all, has he?” Telli managed, his face red with barely suppressed hilarity.

  Fess grinned even more as he saw Rowan coming towards him with that familiar look that said so clearly that he’d had enough of this and it would stop. Now. Well, the poor lad probably was feeling a bit frazzled after an entire day of it, Fess thought cheerfully. After all, he’d been a civilian, quietly rattling around in the Siannen forests and minding his own business for quite a while now.

  “No, Telli. Absolutely none,” he said happily.

  “Fess, why don’t these daft buggers know they shouldn’t be saluting a damned civilian?” Rowan said amid the clatter of everyone sitting down again.

  Fess laughed and shook his head.

  “Rowan, you bloody idiot… they’re not saluting a damned civilian, they’re saluting the man who earned the Star of Yaarl.”

  Rowan stared at him, startled.

  “Oh.” Was all he could find to say.

  **********

  6. “Red Rowan’s coming for us!”

  Rowan was standing quietly at the Memorial again a couple of days later. He raised his head as he heard footsteps coming toward him. Around one of the great granite slabs stepped Thom Blunt and Bryn Harssen.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, Sir… er, Rowan… we didn’t mean to intrude…” Bryn said quickly.

  “You’re not intruding. I just wanted to have another look at it,” Rowan replied, “’Tis impressive, isn’t it? But simple and dignified as well. It can’t have been easy to please everyone, but they’ve done a wonderful job with it.”

  Bryn nodded. He thought the Memorial was simply stunning.

  “Rowan… we… Thom and I, we never thanked you for saving us at Messton…” he said quietly.

  Rowan smiled sadly for a moment and shook his head.

  “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, “You lads should never have been there in the first place. Wouldn’t have been, if I’d had my way.”

  Thom and Bryn looked puzzled.

  “What do you mean?” Thom asked, before Bryn could ask the same.

  “I didn’t think it was right to send all of you young lads. You were barely in your third year of training, barely Cadets at all. It wasn’t right to put you up against seasoned fighters like that, and there were some damned brutal buggers among them,” Rowan shook his head again, “I didn’t think many of you would survive, and I was right as it turned out, but the bloody Commandant thought otherwise, the useless old bastard.”

  “Aye, well, we wouldn’t have agreed with you at the time, but you were right,” Thom said, “We were…”

  “… overwhelmed and bloody terrified,” Bryn finished for him.

  Rowan nodded soberly.

  “Aye, well, we all were really. But perhaps it was a bit easier for the rest of us to cope, being a bit older and a bit more experienced.”

  Bryn looked at him thoughtfully. Rowan hadn’t been all that much older than Bryn was now and if he’d been overwhelmed and terrified at Messton, he’d certainly hidden it well. He’d led from the front all day, been inspirational on the field, and he’d saved Bryn’s life as well as many others.

  **********

  Bryn and Thom had been among a group of Wirrans who’d lost their horses and found themselves on foot, hopelessly outnumbered and fighting desperately for their lives as Rollo’s men surged around them. Above the dreadful noise of battle, Thom had heard a sudden thunder of many hooves, seen a bloodied grey stallion leading a charge towards them, and seen a very determined looking man with no helmet carving a path through the men of Plait. He’d stared without recognition at the fellow’s battered
, bloodied face, unable to see the emblem on his chest as it was obscured by his right arm that was thrust, oddly, through a Captain’s red sash. Then Thom saw the long braid of hair flying behind him and he’d known who it had to be. For a moment he didn’t understand what was happening as the man at his side shouted “Red Rowan! Red Rowan’s coming for us! Get ready, lads!” Suddenly Rollo’s men were trying desperately to get away from the dreadful, lethal warrior and his horse as they galloped through and over them.

  “Get up behind the others, lads, quick as you can. Mica and I’ll hold them here,” a soft, hoarse voice shouted.

  In the swirling melee of men and horses, Thom felt someone grab his arm. He panicked and tried to pull away, felt a fist thump his helmet, and he looked up to see Fess Aaronson.

  “Quickly, Thom, get up here behind me! Don’t bloody mess about!” Fess shouted at him.

  He felt himself hauled up onto the horse as somebody behind him half lifted him, and then Fess kicked the horse into a gallop again. Thom had held on for dear life as they charged out of the press of men with several others and headed for a small rise of ground where quite a few Wirran troopers were watching anxiously. He looked around him as best he could, saw some of the others who’d been fighting beside him clinging onto their comrades who’d risked their own lives to save them, but he couldn’t see Bryn.

  They regrouped on the rise. No, Bryn wasn’t there. And neither was Rowan.

  Suddenly, several of Rollo’s men were screaming, trying desperately to get away, but in the press of men they couldn’t move far. Mica simply galloped straight at them, fierce and unstoppable. He snapped at a man’s face and the poor fellow leapt back, terrified, and Mica sped through the gap carrying a double burden. They cantered towards the little knoll where the others were gathered. None of Rollo’s men seemed inclined to try and stop them, much less come after them.

  **********

  Bryn had been knocked down by a passing horse; he’d lost his sabre and he struggled to his feet to find that most of the rescuers had already gone. So bloody fast, he thought, appalled. He looked around him wildly. Rowan and Mica were keeping Rollo’s men at bay with dreadful efficiency as the last of the little troop galloped off. Bryn couldn’t believe that a horse could, or would, fight like that, but Mica was certainly doing his share of killing Plaitens too. Bryn shuddered as he realised this was in fact the ‘advanced battle training’ the Captain spoke of, the lovely graceful movements he’d so admired when he’d seen man and horse practising at the garrison. He’d always thought it looked like dancing, but… it seemed horribly different with man and horse covered in blood, most of it not their own.

  “Sir! Sir! Help me! Over here!” he yelled frantically. “Captain Red, don’t leave me!”

  Incredibly, Rowan heard him over the shouts and screams of the battle. He turned his head, saw the terrified unarmed lad with the emblem of Den Siddon on his chest standing there and urged Mica towards him. It didn’t matter where he was from, Rowan couldn’t simply leave him there. The grey stallion leapt forward and reared, lashing out at the man who’d been about to run the Wirran lad through. The Plaiten fell back screaming as Rowan shouted at Bryn, “Get on as best you can, lad, I can’t help you,” but he kicked his foot free of the stirrup as he despatched two others who’d found the courage to run towards them while he seemed distracted.

  Almost sobbing in terror, Bryn somehow scrambled onto Mica’s back and grabbed hold of the back of the saddle as Rowan fended off more of Rollo’s men. Mica kicked out hard at someone behind them, almost unseating poor Bryn. The man shrieked horribly as he fell.

  “Hold on tight, laddie, it’ll be a rough ride,” Rowan said as Mica sprang towards a wall of Rollo’s men. Bryn shut his eyes tightly and didn’t open them again until they’d got clear. He’d never know how they’d managed it, but they had.

  “Are you all right, laddie? Not hurt?” Rowan said over his shoulder, his voice rough and husky from the day’s unaccustomed shouting.

  “Aye, Sir… I… I think I’m all right…” Bryn said shakily, shocked at the blood running down Rowan’s battered face and in his hair. “But… but Thom…”

  “He’s all right, I saw Fess grab him and they got away safely,” Rowan turned a bit more, “Ah, ‘tis you, young Bryn. I couldn’t see who I’d got.” He looked at the lad’s pale face quickly. He hadn’t wanted the Cadets to be here at all, but the Commandant had overruled him. He was surprised that any of them were still alive. “Thom’s fine, Bryn, and so are you. You’ve done well,” he smiled suddenly, “And now you can say you’re the only man other than me who’s ever ridden Mica.”

  “Truly, Sir?” Bryn managed. There were always a few recruits who tried to ride the Captain’s famously unrideable grey stallion, and Bryn had been one of them. As he’d done with all the rest, Mica had thrown him off easily, looked down his nose at him and snorted in his face, and then trotted back to his box.

  “Aye, truly. But I’d advise you not to outstay your welcome, he’s likely to buck you off when we stop. Can you grab that loose horse there, I haven’t got a spare hand…”

  Bryn realised suddenly that the chainmail on Rowan’s right arm was torn from shoulder to elbow and dripping with blood and the arm seemed useless, supported by his sash. He’d lost his gauntlet too, and that hand was a gory-looking mess. Rowan was simply guiding Mica with his knees as he wielded his sabre in his left hand. It was little wonder he’d been unable to help Bryn to mount the horse and you couldn’t really blame him for swearing as Bryn bumped against the injured arm. Bryn fought down sudden nausea and grabbed the reins of a riderless bay mare as Mica slowed a little.

  “Good lad,” Rowan said softly, “Hold on now, we’re nearly there. There’s Thom looking for you, just there beside Fess…”

  “Rowan! Are you all right?” Fess shouted as they came up to him.

  “Aye, more or less. And so’s young Bryn here… now, did we get everyone?”

  “Almost, Rowan… one of the lads was pulled off the horse and killed as we were leaving…”

  “Dammit. But we got most of them?” Rowan said quietly.

  Fess nodded.

  “Aye, we did,” he said. They’d managed to save almost twenty men from certain death.

  “Good.” Rowan looked around at his troopers. Some were busily trying to catch loose horses for the others. It wasn’t easy. “You’ve done well, lads, very well. Good work. But let me help you with that…” He whistled softly and the wary, skittish horses crowded around him and stood quietly. The troopers grinned at him as they sorted themselves out with mounts. They’d follow this man anywhere he wanted them to go, too, and be proud to do it.

  “And Bryn… I want you and Thom to go back to the healers’ tents now, please,” Rowan said as Bryn slid from Mica’s back, “And stay there.”

  “But… but, Sir, I’m all right… we’re both all right…” Bryn protested as Thom ran over to hug him.

  “Good. I’d like it to stay that way. Go around over there, lads, where there’s not much happening,” Rowan looked down at their pale shocked faces and trembling hands, “You’ve done your bit, and you’ve done it well. You’re a credit to Den Siddon and I’m proud of you both, but I don’t want to see you out here again. So, grab a couple of these sabres that’re laying about, you might need them, and go. Now. ‘Tisn’t a suggestion, lads.”

  “No, Sir… er… um…aye, Sir. By your command, Sir,” they said together. They saluted hastily and picked up a sabre each, then Bryn mounted the bay mare, pulled his friend up behind him, and they trotted off to the healers’ tent as ordered.

  “They shouldn’t even bloody be here, Fess,” Rowan said sadly as he watched them go, “What the hell was the old bastard thinking?”

  **********

  By the end of the battle almost all of the survivors had been following Rowan and he didn’t think there’d been many youngsters among them.

  He didn’t have the heart to count the exact numbers on t
he Memorial, but he thought there’d been about two hundred or so Cadets in total and he was fairly sure that the Den Siddon lads had been the only ones to survive. And that was only through sheer luck and, yes, perhaps because they’d been fitter and stronger than the others; even so, only seven of Den Siddon’s sixty Cadets had survived the battle, and two had died on the trek home.

  Rowan sighed and looked at Thom and Bryn again.

  “’Twas a bloody nightmare, lads, wasn’t it?” he said bleakly.

  “I didn’t believe anything could be so terrible…” Thom said, “It was just…” he shook his head.

  “And we weren’t even there after the first night. We missed all the rest of it … all the waiting for help at Messton… and the trek home… thanks to you, Rowan,” Bryn said quietly. He simply didn’t think he’d have been able to survive all of that. Not with any sanity left anyway.

  “There’s no need to thank me, Bryn, truly.” Rowan shook his head slowly. “I’d have sent more of you young lads home with Fess if I could have, but you two were the only ones I could find who could still stay on a horse…”

  “Just as well you taught us properly then, Rowan,” Thom said.

  Rowan smiled at him.

  “Aye, it was, wasn’t it? Now, tell me how you two ratbags have both managed to end up back here at Den Siddon…”

  **********

  7. “You never stop.”

  Rowan decided not to stay in the Captain’s Cottage with Fess and Bella and their brood. With four children and another on the way, he thought Bella really wouldn’t need him to be rattling around underfoot too.