He could not lie, not to Nicholas, not to Scotia, and now Scotia would likely never speak to him again. He knew that in her eyes, he had betrayed his promise to her. But she was not ready for battle. If they had been able to finish their argument she might have understood why she was not ready, and she might not have pressed him into a corner where he had to deny her what she so badly desired.
She was smart. She learned quickly when the motivation was strong. He had no doubt she would understand what she needed to do, and would master it. And when she did, he would go to Nicholas and change his recommendation.
But he could do none of that if she refused to listen to him.
So he would have to make her listen—if he had time.
“When do we leave the Glen of Caves?” he asked Nicholas.
“Most of the warriors who have remained here will leave at dawn. We’ll want more watches now that the English are nearly here. We’ll have to set the lads to watching the passes.” He looked at his wife. “Rowan, I think ’tis best if the Guardians remain here for now.”
“Aye,” she replied. “We will use the time to continue our studies and prepare what defenses we can, but we will have to move closer to the battle eventually, love. We will not be able to assist from here.”
Nicholas nodded. “That means Malcolm and I remain here as Protectors. Kenneth, Uilliam, you take command of the warriors in Glen Lairig. You ken the land far better than I do, and you ken the men and their particular strengths well. You can continue the preparations until we travel to meet you.”
“So I am to go with them?” Duncan asked, hoping that would give him enough time to make Scotia understand what she had yet to master.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes and was quiet, then finally nodded as if he’d made a decision. “Nay. I think ’tis best if you remain here and continue to keep watch over Scotia. ’Twould not do to have her take it into her head to join us on the battlefield despite our conversation here. You are the only one who has been able to keep her . . . contained. I am sorry. You would be a great asset in the coming battle, but we cannot let her create chaos when control is what we are after.”
Duncan fought to breathe. Not part of the battle? “But . . .”
“Nay, Duncan. No ‘but.’ We need you to keep Scotia safely away from the fray. The lass never means to bring harm to others, but it has happened, and we cannot risk the distraction she would be.”
Duncan knew he would make the same decision if he were in Nicholas’s place, but that did not mean he liked it any better. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of the lesson Scotia needed to learn.
Take an order, and execute it as directed.
LORD SHERWOOD PULLED up his courser as the two scouts he had sent out days ago pounded toward him on their palfreys down the pitiful excuse for a road he and his detachment traveled toward Glen Lairig. He shouted at the column of men not to stop as he pulled his horse out of the flow to await the scouts.
Information had been all but impossible to gain as they made their way across the rolling landscape and into the first of the mountains. Even those few Scots they had managed to capture alive during the nightly skirmishes had given not even a hint of how many MacAlpins there were, what their defenses were, or if they were indeed in Glen Lairig as King Edward thought. The first two scouts he’d sent to spy on the secretive clan had never returned, and he could only assume they were dead, either by the hand of one of the clans that harried the detachment each night or by the MacAlpins themselves. At least these two had survived.
“What news?” he demanded as the two bedraggled men stopped beside him.
“We found the castle, m’lord,” the older of the two said, “but it has been abandoned.”
Sherwood blinked. “Abandoned?”
“Aye, and with good reason.”
The two scouts looked at each other, and the younger one swallowed, then took up the report.
“Abandoned. One whole side of the curtain wall, the north wall, has collapsed, though from its position at the top of a steep embankment that leads down to the lake we do not think it was caused by a siege engine, or even by battering rams. The embankment gives no room for such an attack.”
“So it just fell?” Lord Sherwood asked. This man needed to get to the point.
“That is the only explanation we could arrive at.”
“And the rest of the wall?”
“It stands and for all appearances seems sound. There is a small tower that stands unscathed, and outbuildings that will provide shelter for your soldiers.”
“But?”
“But the only other building—the great hall by the size of it—is nothing but a burned-out shell. There are no useful supplies left.”
“So these rats of the Highlands abandoned their ruined castle and took everything of use with them.” Lord Sherwood could feel a twitch in his left cheek just where his jaws met. “Where. Did. They. Go?” He let each word drop like stones between him and the scouts.
The two men looked at each other again, and the story once more passed to the older one.
“We could not find them, m’lord. There was at least one watcher, perched up in a tree not far from the castle, and there must have been more, for the moment he spied us he started to cry warning, so Bryn shot him to keep him quiet. We looked for others but found none.”
“So they have not gone far if they still post watchers on the castle,” Lord Sherwood said, thinking out loud.
“’Tis likely, but we found no trace of them in any numbers.”
Before Lord Sherwood could frame another question the younger one cleared his throat. Sherwood glared at him but nodded for him to speak.
“M’lord, we did find out what happened to the last soldiers sent against the MacAlpins.”
When the man stopped, Sherwood just glared at him.
“There is a large meadow with one of those standing stones, marked with carvings, in the center of it. ’Tis clear there was a recent battle there, and we found graves in the wood nearby. It did not take much effort to determine the bodies were English.” His face turned a pale green and he swallowed several times before he could continue. The older scout kept his gaze focused somewhere between his horse’s ears, but looked almost as disturbed as the other. “Twelve in all,” he finally added. “Is that not the number that was sent?”
Lord Sherwood nodded. “Any Scots in those graves?”
“Nay,” the younger one replied, his color once more returned to its more normal pale appearance. “It seems unlikely they would have buried their dead next to English, though.”
He agreed. “Could you tell aught of their numbers, or their battle style?” He was getting rather desperate for information that would help him. Everything except the dead watcher seemed to weigh in the MacAlpins’ favor.
Once more the narrative shifted to the older scout. “It was hard to tell exactly, but it looked like they were probably evenly matched, or nearly so. The English appeared to have taken the high ground around the stone. There are ropes still looped about the bottom of the stone as if they held someone prisoner. The Scots came from the wood near where we found the graves, but the odd thing was that the English didn’t hold their ground.”
“What?”
Both scouts nodded, and the older one continued. “They abandoned their position, or were driven from it, though we could not tell of anything or anyone that might have done that. They engaged the Scots near the Scots’ position.”
Sherwood tried to calculate how much time had passed since those soldiers had been sent in to do the job he had now been given—a fortnight at least. Long enough for the MacAlpins to regroup, to plan, to lay traps as he and his men had encountered many times along this godforsaken road.
“Is there any way we can salvage the castle?” he asked, his mind working furiously with what they had told him, looking for anything that might help him plan what looked to be more than a quickly fought battle.
The older looked once
more at the younger.
“Aye, m’lord. Someone had started erecting a palisade of small trees to close the gap where the fallen section of wall is. If we put everyone but those required to keep watch to felling trees and setting them, I do not think it would take more than three days to finish that and secure the castle for our use.”
He realized the two were a good match for the job he had set them. The elder scout seemed well versed in battles and the younger in the finer points of castle defenses.
“What are your names?” he asked.
“Adam of Hoveringham,” the elder said.
“Bryn of Beaumaris.”
“Did you gain your knowledge of curtain walls at Beaumaris, Bryn?”
“I did, m’lord. My father was a mason there, but I was a good shot, so I was trained as an archer.”
“Very well,” Lord Sherwood said. “This is not the information I desired, but we will use it to our advantage.”
“M’lord?” Adam said.
“Aye?”
“There is more. The road is blocked in several places starting just another mile or two further along. We were able to make it back to you in one night, even though we kept off the road whenever possible, but the road is hemmed in on both sides by dense forest or steep slopes most of the way into Glen Lairig, and the risk of ambush is high. It will require clearing as we go and will still be hard going with the supply carts.”
The tic in Sherwood’s cheek returned, making him clench his jaw even tighter. The Highlanders were in for a surprise if they thought such tactics would slow him down. He shouted for his captains as he pivoted his horse and raced for the front of the column of soldiers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SCOTIA STOOD IN the darkest reaches of the main cave. Her lungs strove to pull in air, but still she could not breathe. She swallowed again and again, but her throat would not open. Her hands fisted so hard her nails cut into her flesh. She wanted to run, to leave, to put this betrayal behind her forever, to leave behind the disgrace that Duncan had served up to her.
If she never saw him again, that alone would make her happy.
She found herself at the mouth of the cave, not even aware of how she came to be there, so she turned and hurried back to the dank dark where no one could see her, where no one could deepen her humiliation.
She had trusted Duncan, she had begun to have soft feelings for the man, and she had fully expected him to keep his word to her, but when the time came for her to step up and join the warriors, he denied her.
He denied her even when he admitted she had skill, learned quickly, and had a gift that would help the MacAlpins fight the English. But he still denied that she was prepared to fight beside the clan’s warriors.
How. Dare. He.
Once more she found herself at the mouth of the cave and discovered that the sun had set behind the western bens. Night would soon be upon her. Night, where she would be trapped here in this cave with women, weans, and bairns who fussed through the dark hours; where she would be surrounded by people who already shunned her, but who now would also think her so much less than she was. Neither a warrior, nor a Guardian. Just a bothersome, stubborn, troublemaking lass.
’Twas beyond bearing, and ’twas all Duncan’s doing.
She was a warrior with a gift of knowing, and while it might not be a Guardian gift it was still of value in this fight, yet she was not allowed to go to battle.
She was not allowed . . .
Scotia was a MacAlpin, born of a long line of powerful, independent women with gifts beyond measure and understanding. She was the one who owed vengeance to the English for the deaths of her mum and Myles. Justice must be had, and ’twas clear now she would never receive Duncan’s help, nor Nicholas’s permission to join the battle.
She retreated to the back of the cave one more time, but this time she grabbed a plaid and arranged it under her blankets so it looked like she was sleeping, donned the trews and tunic she’d kept hidden for just this sort of need, then grabbed another plaid and wrapped it about her, pulling an edge of it over her head like a hood. She returned to the mouth of the cave and peered out to see where everyone might be, especially Duncan. She could not let him see her leave the cave site, though he would determine she had done that sooner or later and follow her. Why had she let herself believe he had started to feel something for her besides his duty to keep her out of trouble?
She was a fool. Her humiliation doubled, writhing about her gut and strangling her heart. She pulled those feelings close and held on to them tightly. She would never fall for such a ruse again. She would never fall for Duncan.
She caught sight of him, a Duncan-shaped shadow in the gathering gloom. He still sat on the log in the council circle though it would appear that everyone else had retired to the evening meal at the cook circle. Good. He would not see her, and ’twas easy enough to fool the others. She had always been able to slip past them.
She stepped out of the cave, keeping to the darker shadows, moving at a pace with everyone else so she would not look out of place. With luck anyone who saw her bundled in her plaid would think her just one of the many women in this camp, and by the time her absence was discovered even Duncan would not be able to find her, no matter how good a tracker he was. This time she would use her gift against him. She would know where he was at all times.
And soon everyone would know exactly how good a warrior she was, how much of an asset she would be in their fight. Soon she would be vindicated. She would avenge the deaths of her mum, Myles, and now Brodie, all by herself if necessary.
Her decision made, she calmed her thoughts and the pounding of her heart, and waited for her opportunity, the perfect moment to melt into the wood and once more take her fate into her own hands, armed with knowledge and knowing.
DUNCAN HAD MOVED just inside the main cave sometime in the middle of the short summer night when rain had begun to fall. He sat there still, waiting for the first hint of dawn, sleeping little. He scrubbed his face with his hands, then drew his plaid about him more tightly, as if it could shield him from the coldness in his heart and his mind.
He had been right about Scotia, though he took no joy in that. Her reaction to the truth was not unexpected, but he had hoped she would choose to respond to it with more thought. If he had only had the opportunity to finish the lesson he was trying to teach her this morn.
But he had not, and her reaction only proved what he had suspected—that for all the lessons she had learned, she had failed to grasp the most important one: thinking before acting. He had seen it in the way she did not understand his anger that she had not followed his instructions to stay hidden exactly as he had stated them. He shook his head. He knew she was a self-centered lass, spoiled and used to the attentions of all around her. She was used to being indulged, to getting what she wanted with a smile, or a fluttering of her inky eyelashes, or, when that failed, with temper and willfulness.
But she wanted to be a warrior, and he knew this was a lesson all warriors must learn, though most learned it easier than Scotia did. Too bad she was not as adept at this as she was with all her other lessons.
As the night sky began to give way to the first hints of dawn he rose, settled his sword at his hip, his dagger already in place. He prepared himself for more anger from her, perhaps even tears if she thought manipulating his feelings for her ’twould help her cause. ’Twas an uncharitable thought, but a true one. At least it had been true until the last few weeks. He rubbed the heel of his hand against the center of his chest, trying to ease the ache that pulsed there. He had surely killed whatever feelings had been growing between them, but he could not dwell on that. No matter how much he rued the loss of her smiles and soft touches, no matter how much he yearned to take her into his arms and lose himself in her kisses or watch her lose herself to passion, no matter what she did or how she reacted, he owed it to her to complete her training. Only then could he keep his promise to send her into battle.
Duncan wa
ited no longer, making his way deeper into the cave to rouse Scotia.
It did not take him long to discover her ruse. He berated himself silently, doing his best not to wake the bairns and weans sleeping with their mothers as he strode back to the cave mouth. He should have known Scotia would not meekly take to her bed in her anger and disappointment. He should have known she would see his denial of her readiness to go into battle as a betrayal of their agreement. But her changed behavior this last fortnight had lulled him into thinking she really had transformed herself, that she would stay in the caves, honoring her promise not to leave them without him in spite of her ire.
He had let his hope that she really had learned to think like a warrior instead of a spoiled, hard-headed wean, his pride in her skills, and his growing attraction to the woman he thought she had become cloud his clear-eyed understanding of her.
He stopped for a moment, wishing he had Scotia’s gift of knowing so he could find her as easily as she found him, but he did not. He had to depend upon his tracking skills and an understanding of his quarry. There had been no moon last night, no light to travel by unless she’d taken a lantern with her. Of course if she’d taken a lantern the light would have drawn someone’s attention, unless she waited until she was well away from the cave site and then lit it. ’Twas what he would have done, but when she was riled, she did not think clearly, as evidenced by her disappearance, and if she had not thought of taking light, she would not have gotten far in the night.
Light or none, the one thing he was certain of was that she would not have gone anywhere without her weapons.
AS SOON AS there was light enough to show the difference between the dark shadows of the trees and underbrush, and the clear spaces between them, Scotia crept out from the thick bushes she had sheltered under all night, brushing pine needles and bracken from her trews before settling her targe on her arm. Quickly she resumed the task she had set herself the night before: getting out of the glen and joining the battle without Duncan stopping her.
Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) Page 15
