Loyal and True

by Laura Strickland

  In the rain.

  She stared into his eyes earnestly. “What if the guard had seen you? There are always men on patrol at night.”

  A strange expression—not quite a smile—crossed his face. “The guard did see me. He came by several times. The first time he wanted to kick me, but he didn’t quite dare.”

  Barta looked around wildly, wondering who had been assigned watch last night. None of the men would be anxious to take True on after yesterday’s display of strength and ferocity.

  Before she could say so, True slid his fingers from her elbow to her hand, which he grasped palm to palm, just like yesterday. After one instant she placed her other hand in his also, and he drew her closer. For many heartbeats, they gazed into one another’s eyes.

  Then he said very low, “I care nothing for the guard, your father, or what the tribesfolk may think—only about being in your company.”

  Barta had to swallow before she could speak. “It should not be so. We barely know one another.” But she spoke a lie; she shouldn’t know him, yet she did. Could this be part of the magic her mother insisted had befallen him?

  True did not seem as troubled as she by the whys and wherefores. He appeared to have embraced their connection whole.

  “My heart says it should be.” He raised their joined hands and tapped his chest above the heart.

  “I know,” she whispered in return. “But we can’t have you lying outside in the rain.” For one thing, her father would never condone it.

  She needed a hut of her own for just the two of them. But she would not get a place of her own until she wed. She loved no man of the tribe sufficiently well for that. And anyway, what husband would let her bring another young man in?

  A wild idea burgeoned in her mind. If she handfasted with True—stood before her father and the tribe’s shaman joined just as they were now—might they then always be together?

  “Master Pith says he used to have a companion, a young man who helped look after him, but the fellow was killed in a raid not long since.”

  “Yes. That is why I thought it well for you to live with him. But if you will not stay there…”

  “I will if you ask it.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Anything you ask. Just, last night…”

  “I understand.”

  Barta caught a movement from the corner of her eye and turned her head. A man approached at a purposeful plod. Murgen—it must have been he who drew guard duty for at least part of last night.

  His gaze skipped over them, lingering on their joined hands. “I figured our new warrior for mad, sleeping out in the wet. But now you insist on standing in the rain also, Barta?”

  “We are but talking.”

  “Looks like more than that to me. You might wish to shift; people will soon be astir.”

  “Yes. Thank you for…” For not interfering with True, she wanted to say, but it didn’t seem appropriate.

  Murgen shrugged. “He deserves some leeway after that victory yesterday. If he wishes to sleep in the rain, who am I to object?”

  “I am grateful.”

  Murgen nodded and moved off. Barta tugged at True’s hands. “Come.”

  They ran off into the trees with the soft rain falling all around them while leaves spiraled down like bright drops of gold. The smoke from the settlement fell behind, and fierce joy filled Barta’s heart. This felt somehow familiar, running with him, and the way he altered his gait to keep pace at her side.

  He felt familiar.

  How could that be? Was it mere imagining?

  At last she dragged him to a halt, her heart racing, their hands still joined. She saw joy that matched her own shining in his eyes—simple happiness.

  “I love to run,” he said. “Let us do that again.”

  “It is not safe to go much farther. Beyond the trees there is a meadow, and beyond that…” She stopped speaking abruptly, Loyal all at once filling her mind. Ghosts lingered in that place. She swallowed hastily and went on, “The Gaels, our enemies, may keep watch. It is not safe.” Her fingers tightened on his. “The battle that crippled my father took place on just such a morning as this, soft with rain—he was on his way home with a hunting party and they cut through an open space. The attackers came out of the mist. He was run down by one of their vile chariots.”

  She paused again as memory possessed her. “Our men got him away—somehow—and carried him home with the rain all running down his face and body. When it dripped off him it had turned red with blood.”

  True looked away from her at last and gazed toward the meadow, his nostrils flaring as if he scented the wind. “This is a very big land. It seems there should be enough for all men to share without slaughtering one another.”

  “But we were here first. Since the time of our ancestors’ first memories, we have held and loved this land. Our forefathers’ bones mingle with the very rock. The Gaels came from across the water and built their kingdom in the west, where it festered like a sickness, spread and spread. They will not share, will not be satisfied till they take all. Who would let another man walk into his home and steal his very hearth?”

  True appeared to contemplate that but made no answer.

  “Come,” she bade once more, “we can at least run back to Pith’s. Do you want your breakfast?”

  He searched her eyes seriously for a moment before he laughed, a low rumble of sound from his chest. “Oh yes, Mistress, I always do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “The westerners have shifted their lines, ponies, chariots and all, some distance closer to us.” Brude imparted the unwelcome news in a low voice, his head inclined toward that of his tribeschief. His dark eyes looked troubled and angry.

  They had met together at nightfall around the fire in the chief’s hut, Brude and his small band of companions having just returned from a scouting foray. They kept their voices down in an effort to guard the news—for now—from the others in the room.

  True sat at Barta’s side in one of the places at the fire, even though Brude had given him a scathing look when he came in. Within reach of his hand, Barta listened avidly and spoke before Radoc could.

  “You see, Father—I was not completely wrong when I sought to wound them. Now they have once more acted on their aggression.”

  Radoc glared at her. “You were wrong, for you did not weigh the cost. Six men dead, do you forget? And your good hound.”

  True felt pain spear through Barta in response to her father’s words. “How could I forget?”

  “Then hush and listen. We know very well the Gaels are aggressors and never satisfied with what they have taken. Even a fool understands that. It does not mean we take mad chances.”

  He switched his gaze back to Brude. “Where are they located now?”

  “Just this side of where Barta made her raid.”

  The others gathered around the fire, including Wick, grunted unhappily.

  “Far too near,” Wick declared.

  Brude nodded. “Any closer and we’ll be able to smell their stink.” He leveled his gaze on Radoc. “What are your orders, Chief?”

  Radoc pondered it, a scowl heavy on his brow. “As I see it, we have three choices: attack them, fall back, or wait and do nothing for now.”

  Despair flooded Barta—True could feel that also. She said, “I say fight. This is a good settlement, and winter approaches. Do we truly wish to abandon another piece of our land to them?”

  “No,” Radoc answered starkly, “but potential losses must be weighed.”

  “We fall back and back,” Brude protested, “giving them our land a length at a time. Where will it end? With our backs to the eastern sea?”

  Radoc fixed his young warrior with a hard stare. “Would you rather be overrun and see our children enslaved? Or our women”—he nodded at Barta—“used by those rutting boars?”

  Urgast, one of Brude’s company, said slowly, “Already it is autumn. Surely they will leave off their campaign come winter. They always have, in th
e past.”

  “But they will seize all the territory they can before then.”

  “Not more than they think they can hold,” Gant put in grimly. “We are able to raid them in winter and have done so in the past with some success.”

  “We are able to raid them now,” Barta said impetuously, and True’s gaze flew to her. “Which is just what I sought to do…”

  “With damaging consequences.” Radoc verbally slapped her down. “Any such decisions, Daughter, will be made jointly among us, do you understand? No more haring off on your own.”

  “Yes, Father.” Barta’s eyes fell, but True sensed no meekness in her.

  “Can you not approach the chief of your tribe and ask him to join with us?” Radoc looked at True. “If we are to make a bold stand before winter, before the Gaels take another step onto our land, we will need more men.”

  Arrested, True returned his look but did not speak.

  Radoc continued, “I feel if we can make a stand here and now, drive the Gaels back some distance, we will then have the winter to arrange for more allies and recover our strength. For we know very well that in spring they will come at us again. Surely if Master True returns home and pleads the benefits to all Caledonii of an alliance, his chief will agree to join with us.”

  Ah, now what was he to say? Had the Lady foreseen this? If so, she had failed to prepare him.

  “My tribe also struggles to hold their border in the north.”

  “Along the Moray?”

  “Yes.”

  Wick looked at Radoc. “Perhaps, Father, it is time we moved north and joined them there.”

  “You mean surrender? Give up our ancestral lands to the invaders?”

  Wick’s expression twisted. “It is a bitter draught to swallow, Father. I am no more eager than you to abandon the graves of our ancestors. But that is perhaps better than joining our bones with theirs before another year passes.”

  Radoc pushed himself up with a roar. “I never believed I would hear my own son express a wish to run.”

  Wick leaped to his feet. “It is not the desire to run but to survive. With each defeat, with the loss of every warrior, we become weaker.”

  Radoc raised himself into a half crouch—the best he could achieve—using the brawn of his arms. “What we hold may yet be wrested from us, but I refuse to surrender it to those vermin.”

  Wick flashed in return, “Stay here and die then! It is all your stubbornness will win you.”

  He crashed from the hut, and for a terrible moment Radoc sat like a man struck. In the past, as True well remembered, Master Wick had sometimes disagreed with his father, yet he had never before defied him openly.

  Essa approached the hearth and leaned close to Radoc. “What is this, husband?”

  “Our son challenges me!”

  Essa glanced at the other members of Wick’s party. “It is not like Wick to prove defiant.”

  “He thinks himself ready to make my decisions.” Radoc too glared at the young warriors. “Perhaps you all do.”

  Without a word, the men got to their feet and filed from the hut.

  Radoc took it like a blow to the face; he reared back and fury filled his eyes. True, watching carefully, saw Essa place her fingers on her husband’s shoulder.

  “The two of you are bound to disagree, my love. He will give it some thought before returning and bending his knee to you as he always has before.”

  “You think so? I think the day will come when he will go his own way. I feel it here, in my heart.” Radoc turned his burning eyes on Barta. “And you, Daughter, with all your impetuosity—which of us will you follow then?”

  “You know my loyalty is yours, Father,” Barta replied. But her fingers twitched in True’s like a bird trapped in a snare, and he knew she did not feel as certain as she would have Radoc believe.

  ****

  “What is this? Mistress, what are you about?”

  Morning had come once again. True had spent the night at Pith’s hut but had gone looking for Barta at once after helping the old man up and giving him his breakfast. He had not found her at Radoc’s hut—neither had Master Wick come home—and had searched the settlement for her, at last following his instincts and locating her near the edge of the trees, kneeling.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder when he spoke but did not rise. Her fingers fluttered over the objects on the ground in front of her and her distress rushed at him.

  “It is a kind of memorial, this.”

  True looked farther and felt as if he’d been kicked in the heart. He recognized these objects: an old leather ball he’d chased more times than any hound had a right to wish; a rug; and a braided leather lead. All had once belonged to him—when he ran on four paws.

  “Ah.” The non-word slipped between his lips helplessly.

  She caressed the lead with soft strokes. “These things belonged to one who meant all the world to me.”

  True quivered where he stood. “A fallen warrior?”

  “Yes—though he was not a man but a hound, the finest hound that ever ran beside a woman. Dead now. Gone.”

  Not gone, True thought, but said only, “Why do you make yourself sad mourning over his belongings?”

  “Because his death was my fault. And I could not bring his body home.” Two slow tears ran down her cheeks. “I do not know, even, what happened to his body. Did the westerners take it? Did wolves come and drag it away before I could? But then, why only his? Our other dead lay waiting for us to collect them.”

  True hunkered down on his heels beside her. “Why do you worry for his flesh? That was not him. Surely his truth lay in his spirit.”

  That made her look at him. “Yes, and what a spirit, bright as the sun. That was his mother’s name, you know: Bright.”

  “Yes.”

  “Constant he was, and so full of joy. All he ever needed in order to feel glad was my company.”

  “And why does that grieve you? You were together a long time.”

  “Not long enough. I ache for him here, inside.” She pressed her hands to her heart. “There is a yawning empty place I don’t think I can ever fill.”

  “This hound of yours…”

  “Loyal. His name matched his heart.”

  “Loyal would not wish to see you mourning over his things.”

  “Likely not.” She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. “But what am I to do with this grief? And the guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  Again she stared into True’s face, her eyes awash with tears. “I have told you, it was my fault. I called for the raid that night against the advice of my brother and others of the warriors. I persuaded good friends to steal away behind their backs. I thought we could slap the Gaels hard, show them why they should intrude no farther.”

  Her fingers closed convulsively on the lead. “Now they have taken the land anyway. My friends—and Loyal—died for naught.”

  True dropped his gaze, unable to meet the grief he saw in her eyes—unable to think of words that might comfort her.

  She went on wretchedly, “There is no going back and changing any of it. Wick and Father are both angry, and with good reason. I should have lost my own life during that battle as punishment for my foolishness. Instead, Loyal and the others paid the price. How am I ever to forgive myself?”

  True searched his thoughts and struggled to express them through the difficult medium of language. In the past he would have thrust his head beneath her hand; words seemed so much harder to him.

  “Would he not forgive you, this Loyal?”

  Her gaze flew to his. For an instant they connected spirit to spirit so strongly he felt sure she must recognize him. The promise he’d extracted from the Lady returned to him—if Barta guessed who he was, he could tell her all.

  But Barta said only, “He would.”

  “Then I do believe it would grieve him to see you weeping now.”

  She smiled wanly, pain bright in her eyes. “I do not weep
often, I assure you—warriors rarely weep. And yes, Loyal hated it when I did. He would lick the tears from my face.”

  True reached out and brushed the moisture from her cheek with his thumb. When he touched her, sensation once more rushed through him—warmth, delight, and that wondrous feeling of belonging. The pieces of his life so recently scattered came together for a few precious moments.

  She leaned closer to him, still gazing into his eyes. “And what am I to do with this gaping hole where my heart used to be?”

  “Get another hound?” he suggested.

  “Never. No other can ever fill his place.”

  “Then, Mistress, you must wait for your grief to subside.”

  She shuddered, and more tears came. Following pure instinct now, he drew her into his arms and let his lips follow their tracks. She tasted of salt and bliss. He closed his eyes for an instant, love flooding him. He needed only this.

  But what of Barta?

  She tensed for one brief instant and went still in his arms. He distinctly felt something break inside her before she leaned against his shoulder and turned her face. Her lips met his.

  And what wonder was this? A sharpening of sensation, immediate and bright—emotion like none he’d ever tasted. A staggering wave of desire.

  Toward his mistress? No, no, and no. He belonged to her, but not that way.

  She quivered in his arms, pressed her lips more closely against his, and parted them. Her flavor surged upon him, like that he’d tasted in the past yet a hundred times stronger and beyond pleasing.

  Shock caused him to withdraw. Once more they stared into one another’s eyes. True felt the silver cord that had always joined them flare and tighten.

  “Ah,” Barta breathed. Only that one word, but True understood. His world had once more altered impossibly.

  Chapter Twelve

  “A word with you, Barta, if you do not mind.”

  The request sounded obliging, the tone harsh and abrupt. Barta, caught behind her father’s hut at first light, whirled from her washing to find Brude standing directly behind her.