Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  A cursory glance around their makeshift camp didn’t reveal any obvious signs of their presence. Then again, someone was about to stumble upon them, and Garrick would bet his bow that it was Warren and a small English army. But the ground hadn’t held their footprints, and the two shelters looked to be naturally-occurring.

  He quickly ducked his head into Burke’s shelter, but his cousin was still sleeping relatively soundly, so he covered the entry with a few extra branches and went to Jossalyn’s lean-to. She was curled in a ball on her side, her blonde hair splayed across his plaid, which she was using as a pillow. At any other moment, he would have lingered to drink in the sight of her, but as it was, there was no time to indulge himself. He eased his way inside the shelter, though the quarters were tight, and pulled another few needled branches behind him to cover the entry as best as he could.

  Just then, he heard the snap of a branch, closer than the whinnies had been. Someone—or a group of people on horseback—was nearly on top of them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The heavy weight of a callused hand clamped over Jossalyn’s mouth. Her eyes sprung open, panic stabbing through her.

  “Don’t make a sound,” came the low voice right next to her ear. She tried to thrash away from the man behind her who was holding his hand over her mouth, but his arm pinned her upper body, and he threw a large leg over her kicking legs.

  “It’s me, lass. It’s Garrick.” His breath tickled her cheek and neck, and despite the fact that he spoke right into her ear, she could barely hear him, he spoke so quietly.

  He eased his hand back slightly from her mouth, trying to make sure she wouldn’t scream or thrash again. She turned her head slightly so she could lock eyes with him. He shook his head in a warning, and then jerked it toward the entrance to her shelter, indicating something outside.

  She froze and felt her eyes grow wide. Burke? she mouthed silently. He jutted his head backward to where Burke was apparently still lying inside his own shelter. Then he leaned in and his lips brushed her ear, sending shivers through her.

  “Men on horseback,” he whispered. He lifted his arm and leg off her and twisted toward the entrance of the lean-to, which was covered with a few branches to obscure the view of them inside. She sat up next to him and peered out into the woods, which were darkened with the bluish-gray light of evening. The clouds were still thick overhead, further dimming the light, and rain fell heavily.

  Through the trees and underbrush, she began to see shadowy figures emerge. She felt her stomach tighten and twist. As the group moved closer, she guessed there were over a dozen of them, their armor dull in the low light. She could tell just by their armor that they were her brother’s men, but instead of riding in two tight rows side by side like she had seen them do on their way in and out of Dunbraes, they were fanned out and moving slowly across the forest.

  They were hunting them.

  She couldn’t quite suppress a shudder of terror. What would her brother and his men do when they found them? She suddenly pictured a sword sinking into Garrick, his blood seeping out of him as he crumpled to the forest floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to not only will the image away, but also push her brother and his men in a different direction.

  But they kept moving closer. When they were only fifty yards away, she unexpectedly caught sight of her brother. He still wore the same fine clothes he had been clad in when he had arrived at Dunbraes from Cumberland with word of the King’s death, though they were wet and rumpled now. There was a bandage wrapped carelessly around his right hand, where Garrick had shot him. The bandage, white except for a dark smear of blood, glowed bluish in the dim light. He and his men must have been pursuing them just as hard as they had been fleeing, though this group traveled slower since there were more of them, plus they had to pick out the signs of their trail.

  Her brother spurred his horse forward and ahead of the arc of soldiers sweeping the forest, more tense and alert all of a sudden. She watched as he turned his head this way and that, scanning the woods. He sniffed the air suspiciously and turned his horse in a slow circle.

  Jossalyn held her breath, praying they would move on but fearing the worst. She felt a movement at her side and glanced at Garrick. Ever so gradually, he was nocking an arrow into his curved bow, which he had raised in front of him. He slowly pushed the tip of the arrow through a small gap in the branches covering the opening of the shelter and drew back the bowstring.

  Panic sliced through her. If he fired, their hidden position would be revealed, and it would be Garrick against more than a dozen armed soldiers. And he would have her and Burke to worry about also. But her fear was suddenly eclipsed when she looked down the shaft of the arrow and saw who he was aiming at.

  Garrick was pointing the arrow right at her brother’s heart, and he was about to fire.

  Garrick slowed his breathing, focusing on the sound of his heartbeat as he locked his eyes on his target. Warren continued to look around suspiciously. The second Warren spotted them, he would let his arrow find its mark deep within the man’s chest. He had nine arrows in his quiver, ten if he counted the one that was currently aimed at Warren, plus his fletching dagger in his boot.

  He had left Burke’s and his swords with the horses, which he regretted now, but if all of his arrows flew true, he would be able to take out most of the men before they could reach him or Jossalyn. Once the arrows were spent, he would have to count on his skill and a lot of luck to be able to take out the remaining men, who all had armor, swords, and horses. It was a long shot, but if they were spotted, he had no alternative.

  He let all this slide through his mind like sand through his fingers as he homed in on his target. He always found this sanctuary of calm right before he let one of his arrows fly. He was totally in the present, letting sensations and thoughts wash over him as he became completely focused.

  Just as he reached this internal refuge, Jossalyn wrapped her hand around the arrow and pulled it out of line with his target.

  “No,” she breathed, her voice breaking through the silence in his head.

  The arrow’s jerk sent a slight ruffle of movement through the branches of pine needles blocking the shelter’s entrance. Warren’s head whipped around, either sensing the movement of the branches or hearing Jossalyn’s whispered plea.

  In a flash, Garrick released his bow and pulled her back against his chest. He wrapped one large hand around both of Jossalyn’s wrists, clamping the other over her mouth. It was probably too late, but he held her still, trying to quiet even their breathing. He could feel her breath hitch and knew that she, too, was staring at her brother, whose eyes scanned their area.

  Time stretched. It felt like Warren was looking right at them, his eyes boring into their shelter. Garrick again visualized taking on all these men, but this time without the element of surprise. Warren would give the signal at any moment, and all those armored soldiers would come crashing down on them. He might be able to get a few shots off, but it would come down to his six-inch fletching dagger. It would be a lost cause. He and Burke would be killed quickly, and the Bruce would never get his information in time. And Jossalyn would either be killed or dragged back with her brother, probably to be locked away, never to see the light of day or use her healing skills again.

  He tried to savor this moment, since it would likely be his last pleasant experience on earth. Jossalyn’s hair was brushing his nose, and he inhaled her scent—wildflowers, as if she had rolled in a field of them. He closed his eyes for a second and let himself drink in the image of tumbling with her through a springtime meadow in the Highlands, the sun warm on their skin and the sweet new grass cushioning them.

  He released his hold on her wrists and slowly reached for the dagger in his boot. She stayed motionless, her slim back pressed into his chest. If he had to die, at least he had known a sliver of happiness in Jossalyn’s presence. She was like a balm to his black soul, making him feel like he was a good man, or at least that he was
better than he thought himself to be. He had put her in the middle of this chaos, though. He could only pray she would be safe after he was gone.

  “Lord Warren!”

  Garrick snapped his eyes toward the voice. One of the soldiers had broken rank and was riding toward Warren. Reluctantly, Warren broke off his searching gaze and turned toward the soldier who had called him.

  “What?” he hissed irritably.

  “The men must rest, my lord,” the soldier said in a low voice. “We cannot search every inch of the forests of Scotland, at least not without getting some sleep and giving the horses a break.”

  “How dare you question my orders?” Warren wheeled his horse around so that his back was to the shelter and he was facing the soldier. “You can and will keep searching.” Then he turned to some of the men in the fanned arc and said, “You there, on the end! Quit lagging! I said a northwesterly angle!”

  The soldier at Warren’s side looked tense. “This is a fool’s errand, my lord. This rain is washing away any tracks, and there is no way we will catch up to them if we keep zigzagging like this.”

  Warren clumsily drew his sword with his bandaged hand, and then swung it at the soldier’s neck, halting just inches before making contact. “Are you calling me a fool, Samuel?”

  The soldier, whose eyes were wide as he tried to look sideways at the blade at his neck, said, “No, my lord.”

  Warren let the blade rest near the soldier’s neck for another moment, and then sheathed it with a hissed curse of pain for his hand. “If I knew exactly which angle at which they were riding, we wouldn’t have to keep cutting back and forth across this damned wilderness, Samuel,” he said, attempting coolness. “I won’t just plow north like an idiot. It’s what those bastard Scots would want me to do, so they could lay a trap and double back on us.”

  “And you’re sure they were Scots, my lord?” Samuel said carefully.

  Warren sighed exasperatedly like he was explaining something to a child. “They fought with the large broadswords of the Scots. They headed north. And they took my whore of a sister with them. She has always been overly sympathetic to the barbarians and their rebellion, and she likely aided them in their attack.”

  Garrick felt Jossalyn jerk uncontrollably at her brother’s words, but she didn’t make a sound. Christ, the bastard was cold-hearted. Warren’s words were more than insulting, though. If Warren believed that Jossalyn was sympathetic to the cause for Scottish independence, or worse, that she had something to do with his and Burke’s attack and flight, she was in more trouble than he had originally thought. She wouldn’t just be locked away at Dunbraes—she could be hanged for treason.

  “Is that clear enough for you?” Warren went on. Not waiting for an answer, he shouted to the others, “Keep moving!” He rode back to the front of the arc of soldiers, apparently letting his initial suspicion about the area drop.

  The soldiers continued their slow and weary march heading northwest. Garrick still wouldn’t let himself move a hair until they were long gone and he could no longer hear them in the distance.

  What seemed like ages later, he eased his dagger back into his boot and released Jossalyn from his hold. She scooted around to stare at him wide-eyed, her features hard to read in the growing darkness. He was sure that she was still reeling from all that her brother had said, but he suddenly felt his anger rising, and something else—betrayal.

  “You damn near got us killed,” he said in a low but heated voice.

  She inhaled sharply, caught off-guard by his anger. But she recovered and retorted, “You were about to kill my brother!”

  “Yes, I would have killed your bastard brother if he had spotted us. Would you have preferred for me to wait for him and his men to be on top of us with their swords drawn first?”

  “No, but—”

  “Why would you protect him at all? He hurts you, denies you the ability to practice healing, and has publicly proclaimed you a traitor!” he interjected. His blood was about to boil over, and he realized this was why he was so heated—because she had chosen her brother over him. Some small voice of reason in his head screamed that he was being ridiculous, that she hadn’t “chosen” her brother or him, that she likely hadn’t wanted anyone to get hurt, but he quashed the voice ruthlessly.

  “He’s my brother!” she shot back, her voice rising. “I hate him, but he is still my brother!”

  In the back of his mind, something clicked into place. Through the fog of anger, he could understand her reasoning. He loved his brothers and would protect them with his life, but even if he hated them, they were the only family he had. They were his blood, no matter what. But the haze of fury still clung to him, and no amount of reason or logic would cut through it.

  “You are too naïve to understand. Just because he is your brother doesn’t mean he shouldn’t pay for his evildoing.”

  “And just because I am not a cold-blooded killer like you doesn’t mean I’m too naïve!”

  He recoiled as if she had slapped him. Her shot had found its mark, and he guessed from her heavy breathing and hurt-filled eyes that his had too. He had in effect called her foolish and blinded by compassion, and she had called him what he feared to be most—just a killing machine. He had no heart, no happiness. His whole life could be summed up by his kills. Perhaps they were both right. He had been a fool to hope to be anything better. Even worse, he had been a moon-eyed idealist to think that she could care for him as he was.

  She, too, seemed to sense that they had both crossed a line, brushing too close to the truth, or at least too close to each of their feared flaws. She pressed her lips together and averted her eyes, despite the fact that there was barely anything else to look at but him in the cramped quarters inside the shelter. Finally, she broke the tense silence.

  “I need to check on Burke.”

  “I’ll get a fire started again and prepare some bandages. The English likely won’t cut back eastward for several hours, if not a day, and they’ll miss us to the north anyway,” he said gruffly.

  She nodded and crawled out of the shelter. He followed her out, but forced himself not to watch her as she went to Burke’s lean-to. The rain had finally let up, and the deeper darkness of night was settling in on them. At least it wouldn’t be raining on him as he slept out in the open on the sodden ground, he thought grimly.

  He got a small fire going just as Jossalyn reemerged from Burke’s shelter.

  “I think his fever has gone down a bit,” she said woodenly when she reached the meager flames.

  “And the infection?”

  “About the same, though the fact that it’s not getting worse is a good sign.”

  “We’ll stay here for the night, then,” he said as he positioned his hands near the flames, trying to soak in some of their warmth and cheer. It didn’t help the dead coldness he felt since he and Jossalyn had closed themselves off to each other, though.

  Without speaking, she turned and retreated back to her small shelter, leaving him to watch the fire as it sputtered out, unable to take hold on the soggy wood. It would be a long, cold night indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Despite the dry, soft floor of her shelter, Jossalyn lay awake, chewing on the clash she and Garrick had had earlier. As she rolled over yet again, trying to find the peace of sleep, she guiltily remembered the way Garrick had built this shelter for her when the rain had started. He hadn’t even bothered trying to make one for himself, or to make this one big enough for both of them to share. He wouldn’t push himself on her, or even hint that he would want to share the shelter with her, despite the fact that neither one of them was trying to hide their attraction.

  She knew he was right when he had said back at the creek that they couldn’t touch or kiss anymore—it would only make things more complicated and painful for both of them when she parted company with him and got herself established on her own.

  Even after everything that had happened, Jossalyn still believed she could sta
rt a new life in Scotland as a healer. She would have to lie low to avoid drawing the notice of her brother, whom she now knew would throw her to the wolves for disobeying him. Maybe, though, he would consider her lost to Scotland and give up looking for her and Garrick and Burke.

  She was just as naïve as Garrick said she was, she thought bitterly. She knew her brother too well to believe he would simply give up when he imagined his pride, his control, and his crushing grip on power were affronted. He would continue to hunt them, even though he thought so little of her.

  But another thought whispered in the back of her mind. What if her brother’s accusation about her aiding the Scottish rebellion were true? Would that be so bad?

  For as long as she could remember, she had wanted to help people. She had learned the skills of a healer so she could aid the injured, the sick, and those who needed another chance at life. And since she had moved north to Dunbraes after her parents died and her brother was assigned to hold the castle, she had known somewhere inside that she felt more at home there, among the overpowering beauty and wildness of nature and the earnest, but harried, people of the north.

  Though she could heal their bodies—or at least ease their discomfort—she couldn’t heal the deeper wounds they suffered under the late King and his hungry armies. What they needed, she couldn’t give them: freedom from oppression, invasion, and domination. But she at least understood them, for she longed for the same thing.

  She had already decided that she wanted to stay in Scotland and offer her skills to its people, probably in some remote village to avoid attention. But what if there were more that she could do to help Scotland and its people overcome their English attackers? What if she could help more directly?

  She discarded the nascent idea even as she felt excitement bubbling inside her. She would never be able to find Robert the Bruce and his army in the first place. He and his supporters were famously elusive—not only were the English hunting him, but if the rumors she heard were true, some Scots who sided with the English were looking for him too, but to no avail. She had overheard one of her brother’s messengers say that every once in a while the Bruce and his rebels would appear, strike the English, and vanish just as quickly. One English girl—woman, she told herself firmly—wasn’t just going to locate his base of operations and march in, demanding to help.