But they might also cross paths with Uilliam, and, Duncan realized, if he had not wandered about quite so much before Uilliam caught up with him, he might have crossed paths with the soldiers long before now. He had been so consumed by thoughts of Scotia he had not bothered to take more than the basic care in hiding his tracks or paying attention to what was around him.
He weighed the need to warn Uilliam against the need to learn if more of these small groups had detached themselves from the main force. Uilliam was a seasoned warrior and knew the enemy was amongst them. He would be vigilant, and there were plenty of MacAlpins and their allies at the Story Stone meadow to keep the Guardians and Scotia safe.
Duncan loped down the trail left by the main English detachment, leaving Uilliam to fend for himself.
Twice more Duncan found side paths with small groups of English veering off—one to north, and another to the south, but this time he followed the southbound group. It did not take long for him to be certain that this group would come upon the Story Stone meadow with ease, and he could not let that happen. Not only would it put the Guardians in peril but, if the soldiers understood what they saw and lived to report back, the MacAlpins’ advantage—that they had not one but possibly three powerful Guardians—would be lost, and they could not afford that.
Duncan raced down the trail of the soldiers without care that he would give himself away in his haste. He must draw their attention before they arrived at the meadow. He must distract them, hold them, loudly and long enough for his kinsmen to hear and find them. He could not let them reach the meadow, but he needed to let them get close to the outer ring of warriors to ensure they would hear him. He ran full out, his lungs working like the bellows in a blacksmith’s forge, until he caught the flash of a helm through the foliage.
“Halt!” he yelled, as loudly as he could. “Do not take another step. You are surrounded, and we will not hesitate to kill each and every one of you!” he yelled again. He settled his targe on his left arm and pulled his sword free of its scabbard as he put everything out of his mind but stopping these soldiers from finding the meadow and the Guardians. He dared not think of what might happen if they saw the Guardians at work.
AT THE THOUGHT of Duncan it was as if Scotia’s gift was yanked away from her, dragging her attention so hard and so fast she felt as nauseous as she had once when she had been out on the loch in a small boat during a summer storm, tossed and pitched about on the waves until she could do naught but lean over the side into the tempest and empty her stomach.
Just as she felt sure she would do that same thing, the sensation stopped, and she knew Duncan was in peril.
She knew the English soldiers were upon him, but she might as well be blind and helpless, for though she knew exactly where he was, she could not see exactly what his peril was. If only she had Jeanette’s second sight . . .
And suddenly she could see him, Duncan, fighting for his life with five English men-at-arms. She could see his mouth opening, as if he called out to someone, but she could not hear him. She could feel Jeanette’s surprise and her dismay at what they were seeing, as if they were one.
And then there were MacAlpins converging on the scene, three, four, five. She could feel Duncan’s relief and knew, though she could not hear, that he directed the fight, even as he battled for his own life.
Then suddenly the soldier he fought missed a block to Duncan’s thrust and crumpled to the ground. She could see Duncan yell something to his kinsmen, then he took off at a run. Suddenly there was a long shafted arrow that shot past his head, so close it seemed impossible that it had not hit him. He spun around, raising his shield to protect himself at the same time, but he was not quick enough. A second arrow hit the edge of his shield and sank itself into his shoulder. He stumbled backward, fell, and did not move again.
Scotia screamed, Jeanette’s voice entwined with hers, though she knew not if it was out loud or only in her head. Duncan was down. He was hurt. The archer was running toward him, another arrow already nocked, and still Duncan did not move. She had to do something. She had to do something now! At the same moment, Scotia felt a new power surge through her, an almost painful sizzle under her skin, and she knew Rowan was also there, lending her gift to Scotia. Scotia lashed out with a burst of Rowan’s ability to move things, and knocked away the archer who was almost upon Duncan, sending him flying until he landed hard on his back and lay still. Quickly she/they threw up a small protective barrier over Duncan in case there were more English soldiers close at hand.
Scotia yelled for Nicholas and Malcolm, though she never broke her connection to the Targe and its Guardians, but she did not ken if she spoke the words or only thought she did. She yelled again and heard Jeanette’s voice nearby.
“What are you saying, Scotia? We cannot understand you!”
Scotia never took her “eye” off Duncan. If she were to help him, she must calm herself enough to tell the chief where he was and that there were still English soldiers battling with MacAlpins. She drew on all that Duncan had taught her to calm her mind, slow her heart, to think clearly, but the need to get him immediate help thwarted her efforts. Nonetheless, she tried again to tell the chief where Duncan was and what was happening, but before she could tell if he understood her this time, another knowing slammed into her.
Uilliam was also fighting for his life with another small knot of English soldiers. Without a moment’s hesitation she forced Jeanette’s vision to her will once more, grabbed Rowan’s gift defensively, and one by one, with great precision and guided by the tactics she had learned from Duncan—the pain in her chest at the thought that he was lying hurt, perhaps dead, made her stomach roil again, but she forced her mind back to Uilliam—she protected Uilliam while flinging away the soldiers, one by one, until he was the only man standing. The look on his face was one of both consternation and wonder, and she was just glad he was alive.
She abruptly pulled herself free of the Targe and found Rowan and Jeanette sitting limply by her. Rowan looked stunned. Jeanette’s pale eyes were just as astonished.
Scotia looked up at Nicholas and told him everything she had seen and everything they had done, as quickly as she could.
“We must get to Duncan, Nicholas,” she commanded. “I do not ken if he is alive or”—her voice was so thick in her throat she almost couldn’t get the last word out—“dead.” She tried to rise but found her legs less than dependable. “We cannot let him die!” She knew her voice was rising, growing more strident as Nicholas and Malcolm pulled Rowan and Jeanette to their feet, just as Scotia’s legs finally responded to her command. She reached for her sword, drawing it from her scabbard. Rowan bent to retrieve the Targe and sack, tying it securely to her belt, while Jeanette dumped the water from her cup and put it in a sack she had made for it.
“Hurry,” Malcolm said, pushing the three women back to the wood, but in the opposite direction from where Duncan lay.
Scotia was confused for a moment, then realized they were not going after Duncan. “Nicholas!” she screamed, “We must help Duncan!”
Jeanette grabbed her sister by her shoulders. “You are a Guardian, Scotia. First the Guardians must be taken to safety. You ken this. ’Tis the way it has always been. Duncan will live or die, but he kens it, too, and would be the first to get you to safety before he found his own.”
Scotia looked over her shoulder, back to where she knew he lay. She knew Jeanette was right, though she did not like it. She knew Duncan would tell her that the sooner she did as she was told, and found safety, the sooner the warriors could retrieve him, find Uilliam, and chase down the English.
She nodded, both to Duncan’s voice in her head and Jeanette’s words.
“Let us hurry,” she said. “But,” she said to Nicholas, letting the knowledge that she was a Guardian, just as Duncan had said she would be, lend weight and expediency to her voice, “I expect you to send someone for him as soon as we are safely away. He is alive,” she managed to say, “but
has not moved since the arrow found him and he fell to the ground. Find him, please, Nicholas, bring him back safely,” she said. “I could not bear it if he lost his life because of me.”
Nicholas nodded and Malcolm gave a grunt of agreement, then pushed the women to a run as they fled the Story Stone meadow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AS SOON AS the Guardians were clear of the Story Stone meadow the small group slowed and made their way with great care away from the open area. Scotia wanted to take the rear of the group, watching for anyone who might follow them but also minding any tracks the others left that were too easy to find, but Malcolm had insisted she walk ahead of him.
“You are a Guardian, Scotia,” he said. “’Tis my place as Protector of the Guardians to keep you safe.”
“More like you mean to keep me from returning to find Duncan. I give you all my word I will not do that.” Though that was exactly what she wanted most to do. “I understand the Guardians must be protected, but you ken I can protect myself, aye?” she said.
“That remains to be seen, but it is seeming more and more likely,” Malcolm answered.
She sighed. She might be a Guardian now, but that did not mean she would be trusted. If she was lucky, she might win the trust of her clan in time.
“’Tis my right as a Guardian to be concerned with protecting all of us, aye? We are too easy to track traveling this way. We need to split up,” she whispered.
“We are not splitting up,” Nicholas said quietly over his shoulder, and she was impressed once again with the man’s talents. Hearing like that would serve a spy well. “We will be at the rendezvous camp soon. For now, we need to be quiet, and step as lightly as we can. The Guardians—all three of you—must be kept safe so you can create the Highland Targe, if you can. That is what is most important right now.”
Scotia did not respond, but she agreed with him. She only hoped that between the three of them they could figure out how to raise a shield that would protect this route into the Highlands from England’s greedy king.
It was not long before they came to a place where Nicholas gave the owl call, and it was answered. They moved silently onward into a dense part of the forest where the trees grew close together, their crowns blocking out all evidence that the sky still existed over them. The air was damp, cool, and carried the sharp scents of pine and balsam. Green, furry moss grew on the north side of most of the larger trees, and the ground beneath was spongy with a thick carpet of last year’s leaves and pine needles.
As they moved deeper into the narrow fold of the mountain, it grew darker and colder beneath the trees until at last they reached the far end, where the rudiments of a camp had been left for just this moment.
“No fires,” Nicholas said as they gathered around the cache. “We will wait here for the others, but we cannot linger here even so long as the night. Love,” he said to Rowan, “can the three of you raise the Targe?”
Rowan looked at Jeanette, then Scotia, but neither of them knew the answer any better than she did.
“I dinna ken, but—”
The same tawny owl call interrupted her. Nicholas signaled for the women to take cover as he and Malcolm drew their swords and stood behind two large trees. Scotia drew her sword as well, and only then realized she had left her shield at the standing stone. She motioned for her sister and cousin to move further up the side of the tiny glen where there was a little undergrowth to hide in, but she remained behind a tree, close enough to Malcolm and Nicholas to fight with them if necessary.
The first people she saw were Uilliam and Jock. Uilliam had Duncan over his shoulder, and it took Scotia every ounce of her stubborn will to stay where she was until her chief and his champion, her Protectors, called for the Guardians.
“What are you waiting for?” Jeanette strode past Scotia, heading for Uilliam and Duncan. Scotia lost no time following her.
“More of the lads are behind us,” Uilliam said with a grunt as Jock helped him lay Duncan on the ground. Scotia dropped to her knees and took Duncan’s cold hand in her own. Blood stained his left shoulder, wet and red, even in the dim light of the forest. Dread made her shiver.
“Does he yet live?” she asked Jeanette as her sister ripped Duncan’s sleeve away, revealing the wound.
“Aye,” Jeanette said. She glanced up at Uilliam. “What happened to the arrow?”
“I took it out of his shoulder so I could carry him without causing further damage,” he said to Jeanette, “but I had not time, nor anything to bind it with. How did you ken ’twas an arrow?”
“I saw it,” she said without emotion as she rifled through her healer’s sack and laid out a needle, thread, a smaller bag of moss, and a rolled-up strip of linen on a stone near her knee.
Scotia smoothed Duncan’s hair away from his face, noting how soft it was, softer than her own, but he did not stir. “Why does he not wake?”
“He must have hit his head as he fell,” Jeanette said. “He has a gash just here.” She turned his head to reveal a small cut and a large lump not far behind his left ear. “Come sit here, sister.” She indicated for Scotia to sit where she could cradle his head in her lap, then handed her a pad of moss. “Hold this to the cut to help it stop bleeding.”
Scotia did just as she was told without a moment’s thought or hesitation, letting the weight of Duncan’s head rest in her lap as she pressed the moss to his injury with one hand, and continued to smooth his hair away in long slow strokes with the other.
“Will he die?” Her voice trembled just a little. Jeanette reached out and cupped her sister’s cheek with one hand.
“The wounds do not look terrible, but there is always a risk of fever and festering.” As if that reminded her of something, Jeanette pulled her healer bag back to her and rummaged through it again, finally pulling out a small glass jar with a piece of waxed leather covering the mouth and tied in place with a piece of deer sinew. “When this is all over I must travel to visit Morven. She never taught me how to make this salve, and it does seem to prevent festering.” She slathered the pungent ointment into and around Duncan’s shoulder wound, then had Scotia lift his head enough for her to slather some on that wound as well.
“Aye,” Rowan said, scratching at what Scotia knew was a scar on her ribs from when Jeanette had used this same salve on her after the curtain wall fell. “But it smells terrible and stained my kirtles.”
“But you had not the slightest hint of fever or fester,” Jeanette said, a little smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she recovered the jar. “You should be grateful for the stinky stuff.”
Rowan’s teasing complaints and Jeanette’s hint of a smile lifted Scotia’s fears, at least a little. They would never tease if they thought Duncan was dying.
Jeanette then turned her attention back to threading the needle and using a little more moss to blot away the blood that had slowed but not stopped.
“Malcolm,” Uilliam said, “when I got to Duncan, Jock here and the rest of your kin were fighting back the English who were still trying to get to Duncan. Our lads joined in, so Jock and I could get him away.” Scotia looked up from Duncan’s face and saw that Uilliam’s eyes were focused on Jeanette as she took the first stitch. “You set up a barrier around him, did you not, lassie? The English were gathered around him when we arrived, but could not get near enough to touch him. I had no trouble.”
“Well, I guess that proves your belief that those of ill intent will not be able to pass through a Guardian barrier,” Scotia said.
“Aye, but”—Jeanette shook her head and glanced up at Uilliam—“’twas not me who set up that barrier, well, not me exactly.”
“Rowan?” Uilliam asked.
“’Twas all three of us,” Scotia answered him.
“Then you are . . .”
“I am a Guardian, aye.”
“I knew you would be.” Duncan’s hoarse voice surprised them all.
Scotia looked down at him. “You are alive.” She felt her lip
tremble. “Thank God, you are alive.” The joy that filled her was unlike anything she had ever felt before, as if the bright light of the sun burst within her, sending light into every dark crevice, every dark thought, every dark emotion, filling her with the love she had for this man. She would have hugged him, but she was not sure he would allow that. She satisfied her need by brushing his hair away from his face again, then ran the back of her fingers down his cheek before he could stop her. “How do you feel?”
“Thirsty.” It was not what she was hoping to hear, but she took it as a good sign.
Rowan handed her a waterskin, and she helped Duncan drink a little, though ’twas hard to do while prone.
It wasn’t until she set aside the skin that she remembered the others standing around them. Jeanette tied off her last stitch, snipped the end of the thread, and started to bind some moss over the wound.
“Are you finished?” Scotia asked, knowing that as soon as he could, Duncan would likely move away from her, as he’d done so dramatically last night, and this morning as they traveled to the meadow.
“I am,” Jeanette said.
“I think I will lie here a little longer,” Duncan said. “Can I speak to Scotia alone?”
No one replied, they just moved away from the couple. Scotia held her breath, not sure what was coming next, but all he did was to lean his head a little into her stroking fingers. Relief flowed through her at the small gesture that he did not mean to push her away, and she could not stop the water that gathered in her eyes.
She leaned down so he could see her face and judge the truth of what she said. “I thought I had lost you,” she whispered. “I thought I had lost you before I could ever atone for the way I threw your care, your friendship, and your love away. I did not ken if you were dead or alive, so I did what I could to keep you safe, then I carried on, as you taught me.”
Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) Page 21
