Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  The circle of men all nodded and began dispersing. Garrick came to Jossalyn’s side and sat on a stool next to her.

  “Will we really be attacked?” She tried to keep the edge of fear from her voice but didn’t succeed. She wanted to be brave, but the thought of being in the middle of a battle terrified her. She knew all the men in the camp, most of all Garrick, were capable and skilled warriors. Even still, she hated the idea of them clashing with men who were bent on killing them.

  He ran a soothing hand over her back. “The scouts will give us plenty of warning if it comes to that, lass. More likely, they’ll be able to detect the movements of a large group in the area, and we will be able to meet them on our own terms.”

  “And you think they might be Scotsmen? Why would your own countrymen fight against the cause for freedom?”

  Garrick shook his head slightly. “Some have found it more profitable to remain aligned with the English. Others dislike the Bruce and his tactics. He didn’t exactly make friends when he killed the Red Comyn last year.” A rueful but tired smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps having the entire English army to battle wasn’t enough of a challenge for him.”

  Just then, the Bruce sighed and muttered something. Both Garrick and Jossalyn jerked, suddenly alert, their eyes locked on the Bruce. He muttered and rolled his head from side to side a little. It was almost as if Garrick’s sarcastic comment had penetrated into the Bruce’s mind and roused him somehow. His eyelids cracked open slowly.

  Garrick seized the Bruce’s hand. “Robert, can you hear me?”

  The Bruce blinked a few times, then croaked out a whispered “Aye.”

  Relief flooded through Jossalyn. She grabbed a cup of water that sat on the table nearby and handed it to Garrick, who gently lifted the King’s head and gave him a few sips.

  When he was settled back onto his pillow, the Bruce said, “What happened?” This time is voice was a bit stronger.

  Garrick launched into an explanation of the poisoning, Jossalyn’s life-saving operation and her antidote to the poison, the cook’s flight, Garrick and the others’ pursuit of him, and their most recent suspicions that an attack could be mounting against them. As Garrick spoke, the Bruce went from dazed to shocked to serious.

  “We must be ready for this attack,” he said, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. “We must—” He suddenly closed his eyes and swallowed, looking nauseated.

  Jossalyn gently pushed him back down to lie flat on the bed. “You are still weak, sire. You may be through the worst of it, but you have a long way to go to recover your strength.”

  “But I must be able to lead my men!” he said, frustrated. “I cannot ask them to go to battle for me when I cannot stand at their side and lead by example.”

  “Instead of snapping at the lass for the fact that you are still recovering, I should think you owe her thanks for saving your life,” Garrick said with one raised eyebrow.

  At first, Jossalyn was shocked that Garrick would speak to his King in such a way, but then the Bruce gave a faint chuckle.

  When the chuckle died down, he sighed. “I owe you my life, Lady Jossalyn,” he said, all the bluster and intensity leaving him for a moment, to be replaced by earnest humbleness. “I thank you. But I warn you that you’ll find me an exceedingly difficult patient. I want to be able to stand in front of my men and lead them into battle, if it comes to that.”

  “Then we’ll just have to work together to get your strength up again,” Jossalyn replied with a smile.

  “You’re a lucky man to have this woman as your bride, Garrick,” the Bruce said, some of the old twinkle returning to his eyes.

  Garrick’s eyes widened. “Then…you give us your blessing?”

  “Of course, man! How could I deny it to one of my most trusted warriors and advisors and the woman who saved my life? I’ll do the ceremony myself if my healer will allow me.” He turned his shrewd gaze on Jossalyn.

  “I’m—I’m sure we can find a way,” she stumbled, overwhelmed by the surge of excitement inside her. They would officially be wed—and soon, as long as she thought the Bruce was well enough to preside over a ceremony. Her heart hitched, and she sought out Garrick’s gaze. His eyes mirrored her excitement and joy, and she thought she would burst with happiness at that moment.

  “Then we’d better get started on my strength-building right away,” the Bruce said, interrupting their moment. “I’ll start with some food—I’m famished.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Robert the Bruce was glaring at her. The King of Scotland was giving her a sour look as if she had just taken away his favorite toy. Jossalyn had to repress a smile at the thought.

  “My suffering amuses you, lass?” he grumbled.

  Apparently, she hadn’t repressed it as well as she imagined. “No, sire,” she said, trying to straighten her face.

  “For the hundredth time, lass, call me Robert!”

  She nodded, though she didn’t think she would ever get used to the idea of calling the King by his familiar name.

  He tried to push himself off his bed and onto his feet once again, but like the ten times before, he only made it halfway before collapsing back down onto the mattress.

  “That’s enough for today, I think,” she said.

  He tried to stand again, but she put a gentle hand on his shoulder to stop him. Even her light touch was enough to force him back down. Though he had been awake for a week, his strength was slow in returning. And no wonder. It was a miracle he was even alive. Being unconscious for a week and bedridden for another was a blessing, but the Bruce was impatient to be up and about again.

  The rumors about an impending battle didn’t help matters, of course. Though the scouts had yet to substantiate the speculations, the mood around the camp was serious and tense.

  Garrick had been training with the men harder than ever before, putting them through their paces and running seemingly endless archery drills. Though the men were showing great improvements when it came to shooting on the move, among obstacles like trees and shrubs, and from different positions, Garrick kept on them, demanding their full dedication.

  In fact, she had barely seen him this past week except at mealtimes and after the sun had set, when he would drag himself, exhausted, into their tent. Despite the fact that he didn’t speak much about it, she sensed that, like the others around the camp, he was tense and on edge for the battle that seemed to be looming in all of their minds. Though the enemy hadn’t shown himself yet, he was a palpable presence in the camp.

  Just as she was settling the Bruce back onto a stack of pillows and reaching for a bowl of stew for him, she heard a piercing whistle. She froze mid-motion, her insides chilling as she heard the whistle echoed again and again all around them. Suddenly, the Bruce was alert, his sharp eyes darting around the room.

  The canvas flap at the other end of the shelter was ripped back, and Garrick burst inside. She gasped and jerked to her feet.

  The Bruce simply said, “Speak,” as if he were waiting for such a startling interruption.

  “It’s the Comyns. Along with a smattering of men from other clans, they are moving in toward us. We are believed to outnumber them, but we only have a preliminary report from the scouts.”

  The Bruce’s eyes scanned the carpet at Garrick’s feet in thought. “We should move now, while they are still positioning themselves,” he said quietly.

  “I agree. The men are preparing themselves.”

  Jossalyn felt her stomach drop to the floor. The moment had come. They were going into battle. Garrick could be wounded or—or killed. She made herself finish the thought, and it sent panic stabbing through her.

  As if sensing her distress, Garrick shifted his eyes to hers, and though he stayed rooted in place, his gaze communicated silently his understanding of the grave situation.

  “I must be with the men,” the Bruce said in a pained voice as he tried to push himself up off the bed.

  “Nay, Rob
ert. You aren’t well enough,” Garrick said, striding to his side.

  “Damn you, man! Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do!” Even as he ground out the words through gritted teeth, the Bruce fell back onto the pillows. He pounded a fist into the mattress in frustration.

  “Garrick, I need to be out there,” he said, this time his voice low with desperation. “I’m not so great a fool to think I can fight, but I am the King and leader of this rebellion. I need to let the men know that I stand with them in spirit, that their King is still strong and very much alive.”

  Jossalyn exchanged a look with Garrick, shaking her head slightly. Though the entire camp knew the Bruce had survived the attempt on his life, very few had actually seen him due to his enfeebled condition. There was no way he would be able to stand in front of his men, let alone walk out of his tent under his own power.

  A light flashed into Garrick’s eyes, though. “I have an idea.”

  An hour later, all the able-bodied warriors in the camp had gathered in the practice field, which was serving as their launch point for the battle. As Garrick looked out at the sea of men, who were bristling with weapons and covered in a variety of plaid colors, he felt his chest squeeze. Partly it was the heat of the anticipated battle seeping into his blood. These men were prepared, well-trained, and determined. Though he didn’t relish the thought of killing, and dreaded the fact that some of their own would surely fall, the adrenaline of the fight was coursing through him, and he was ready for it.

  But another source of the squeeze in his chest was the fear of leaving Jossalyn at the camp. The rebels absolutely couldn’t be bested today, for if they were, their enemies would do their worst to the few who would remain back at camp. And though he had never feared death, he realized now that he was terrified at the idea of leaving Jossalyn if he died. The thought of living without her was worse than any fate he could imagine. He had realized, as he had prepared himself to depart for battle, that if she felt the same way about him, she was likely twisting in pain and fear inside at the thought of losing him.

  As if summoned from his mind, he caught a glimpse of her moving toward him from behind the sea of warriors in front of his gaze. She was walking next to a litter carried by two burly soldiers. Inside the litter lay Robert the Bruce. A few of the men at the back of the crown began to notice the small group, which included their King reclined in the litter, and parted for them. A murmur ran through the gathered crowd as the Bruce was carried to the front of the group where Garrick stood.

  When they reached the front, the two men carrying the litter halted, and Garrick and Jossalyn helped prop up the Bruce so that he was sitting upright. A hush fell over those gathered.

  “Scotsmen!” the Bruce began in a loud, clear voice. “We stand at the precipice of either a gory end or a victorious beginning. Now is the day—now is the hour—to battle for our lives and our freedom. Edward would have kept us in chains, slaves to do with as he pleased. And Edward II will prove himself Longshanks’s son, in name and in deed.”

  The crowd rumbled in response.

  “Who among you will die the death of a traitor today?”

  The men exploded with shouts of, “Not I!”

  “Who among you will die the death of a coward today?”

  Again, the crown shouted their denial heartily.

  “Now, who among you will fight and die for Scotland, for your King, and for your freedom?”

  A cacophony erupted. The shouts of the men’s ayes mixed with the rumble of their feet stamping the ground and the clang of their weapons beating against their shields.

  “Today, you will stand as freemen, and you may fall, but you will fall as freemen also. Your freedom is in every stroke of your sword, every arrow you let fly, every swing of your mace or axe. No tyrant or usurper can stand against us. Let us take our freedom, or die trying!”

  The response of the men was deafening. A whistle was sent up, and the warriors bellowed their battle cries, and then began marching southwest toward where the Comyns were gathering.

  As the men moved out of the field, the Bruce collapsed backward into the litter, completely spent. Garrick lifted his limp arm and clasped it in his hand, locking eyes with him. The Bruce gave him a little nod in response.

  Then Garrick turned to Angus, who was waiting a few paces away. “Guard the King with your life,” Garrick said to him solemnly. He leaned in slightly and said more softly, “And Jossalyn.”

  Angus clasped arms with him firmly. “Aye, I will, Garrick.”

  It was time. The moment he hoped he would never have to face had arrived. He had to say goodbye to Jossalyn, potentially for the last time. Their eyes met, and he feared he would come undone before he could say everything he wanted to. Her eyes shimmered with tears, and he felt like he would drown in their emerald-green depths. She was trying to keep her emotions in check, but her rosy lower lip was beginning to quiver.

  He closed the distance between them in one long stride, slamming their bodies together in a hard embrace. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, locking away the intoxicating scent of wildflowers and sunshine in his mind forever.

  “I love you, Jossalyn,” he whispered into her hair.

  “I love you too, Garrick,” she choked out.

  Suddenly, he forgot everything that he wanted to say to her. He could only think of how much he loved her at the moment, how much he admired and respected her, how humbled and honored he was to be the recipient of her love.

  Pulling back from her was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he forced himself to do it. He turned before he could see the tears streaming down her beautiful face, for he feared he wouldn’t be able to leave if he didn’t go now. Though his feet felt like they were made of lead, he kept one moving in front of the other as he caught up to the tail end of the swarm of warriors headed to battle.

  He willed himself not to look back, instead holding the image of her in happier times in his mind. After several minutes, though, he cracked. He turned to look behind his shoulder, but she was already out of view. He spun back around, ready to face the battle ahead.

  Chapter Forty

  Once she had gotten the King settled in his bed, fed him some soup, collected a few herbs and roots along the outskirts of the camp, and tidied both her own and the Bruce’s tent, there was nothing for Jossalyn to do but wait. And pace. And worry.

  The King had fallen into an exhausted stupor after overextending himself to give the rousing speech to his men. Except for eating, he mostly slept, leaving Jossalyn alone with her thoughts and fears. Angus was like her silent shadow, pacing outside the Bruce’s tent or trailing a few yards behind her when she moved around the camp.

  The midday sun sloped toward the west, and the afternoon stretched into evening, then darkness fell, and still there was no word or sign of what was happening on the battlefield several miles away. Jossalyn tried to tell herself that no news didn’t mean bad news, that Garrick and the men were well prepared, and that their new stealth tactics would serve them well. But despite the tight rein she was keeping on her thoughts, every once in a while, the image of Garrick lying broken and bleeding somewhere in the forest flashed into her mind, unbidden.

  She tried to sleep briefly. The camp was quiet, the few remaining women and the non-warrior men who helped run the camp having hunkered down for the night to wait, but despite her fatigue, she couldn’t quite manage to crawl into the cot she shared with Garrick. His clean, masculine scent lingered on the pillow and in the blanket, and it made her heart ache. So she lit a candle and went back to the Bruce’s tent, plunking herself down in one of his upholstered chairs as the minutes passed painfully slowly.

  When the predawn sky finally began to lighten, Jossalyn roused herself from her torpor and the swirling thoughts that consumed her and went out to one of the camp fires. She stoked the fire, and then hung a pot of water over the flames to boil. She wasn’t even sure why she was doing it, but at least it was something to do. B
y the time she was done, the sun was just inching its way over the horizon.

  Suddenly, her ears pricked. Were those voices in the distance? She shot a look at Angus, who stood a few yards away. He was also alert all of a sudden, his eyes fixed on the southwest end of the camp. A whistle went up from afar in that direction, a noise that Jossalyn was becoming familiar with. Angus recognized it as well.

  “They return, lass!” he said, his voice urgent, though he didn’t say how many of them were out there or if they were victorious. For all they knew, based on the whistle, only one of the rebels had escaped and had made his way back to camp. Jossalyn’s heart squeezed, dread and anticipation mingling sickeningly in her stomach.

  Just then, she caught a glimpse of a flash of red through the tents and the outlying forest. Her breath caught as she strained to see whose plaid she had spotted. Other colors began to emerge from the forest behind the red one. More and more of the men were materializing from the forest. But Jossalyn’s eyes were locked on the splash of red at their front. She finally got a clear line of sight. Before she knew what she was doing, she was sprinting as hard as she could toward the red-clad figure.

  Garrick was alive and running toward her too.

  As soon as he spotted her, he had broken into a run ahead of the others. As the distance between them finally closed, she launched herself into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. He held her so tight she didn’t think she would be able to breath, but she didn’t care. He was saying something to her, words of love and reassurance, but she didn’t register them. All she was aware of was his arms squeezing her hard, his body enveloping hers.

  She opened her eyes, blinking past the tears, and noticed a smear of red on his neck a few inches from her face. Suddenly realizing that he might be injured, she pulled back and scanned him, worry creasing her brow.

  “Are you hurt?” There was dried blood on his neck and hands, and his shirt underneath the studded leather vest he wore was dirty and blood-smeared as well.