Love Above All

by Speer, Flora

  Murdoch’s only response was a mouthful of spittle that landed just short of Royce’s boot. Royce jerked his head and his men dragged Murdoch away.

  “Keep Murdoch separate from his remaining men,” Royce instructed Sir William, who had come running up to ask about the disposition of prisoners. There weren’t many prisoners. Unlike their leaders, most of the Scots had fought bravely to the death. “William, please tell me Colum is among the dead. Life will be much happier for Janet if he is.”

  “I’m sorry to say, he’s still alive. Cadwallon has him trussed up like a suckling pig at Christmastime. It seems he tried to run Cadwallon through from behind, and Cadwallon did not react kindly to the attempt.”

  “I can’t say I blame him for taking offense.” Royce shook his head in disgust at Colum’s cowardly act. “Where is Janet? Was she hurt?”

  “The Dungalash ladies are an amazing breed of women,” William said. “Janet snatched a dirk from one of those Scottish lunatics and when she saw Cadwallon threatened, she used it to stab Colum in his right shoulder. From the front, I should add. Unlike her betrothed, Janet is no coward. Colum will not be wielding a blade again for quite a while. If ever.”

  “Where is Braedon?” As Royce asked the question he was surveying the battlefield, counting his men, reviewing the numbers of wounded and dead on both sides.

  “Braedon and the cook are seeing to the wounded. Janet is caring for her sister. As for Quentin—”

  “I know where Quentin is,” Royce interrupted, thinking he should have killed Gillemore instead of letting him live after the Scot was defeated. Having given his word of honor to cause no trouble to his captors, Gillemore seized his first opportunity to break his word. He stole a knife from the youthful squire who was set to guard him. After inflicting a serious stab wound on the squire, Gillemore promptly disappeared from the scene. “As soon as Quentin’s wound was washed and bandaged, I ordered him to recover the few men who escaped. There’s nothing he can do to help Fionna, and he was getting in the way and annoying Janet while she was trying to sew up Fionna’s wounds. That’s why Quentin is presently on one of the spare horses, tracking Gillemore and the remainder of those cursed Scots.”

  “With only half a dozen men-at-arms to help him,” William added, “and it’s growing dark.”

  “Quentin will return when he captures Gillemore,” Royce said. “Though, from the mood he was in when I insisted he leave us, I won’t be surprised if he kills every remaining Scot with his bare hands.”

  “I can’t say I blame him for wanting to get away from Janet’s sharp tongue,” William said. “To listen to her, you’d think Quentin was the man who tried to kill Fionna.”

  In a way, he was, Royce thought. Quentin was the intended victim, and Fionna was in the way. If I know Quentin, the guilt will live with him for the rest of his life.

  With a sigh Royce set thoughts of his friend’s distress aside until later. For the moment, there was work to do.

  “We can’t stay here,” Royce said to William. “There’s a suitable field a short distance ahead that one of the scouts located shortly before we were attacked. We’ll camp there tonight, under heavy guard in case Gillemore or some of his friends should manage to slip past Quentin and decide to return in hope of setting Murdoch or Colum free. I want extra guards to watch those two.

  “Have the baggage wagons taken to the field and unloaded as quickly as possible,” Royce continued his orders. “Then bring the wagons back to carry the wounded. By that time we should know who can walk or ride, and who needs to be carried.”

  “I’ll see to it.” William started toward the wagons and the servants who waited with them. Then he turned back. “Royce, will Fionna live?”

  “I don’t know,” Royce answered. “And, frankly, I’m afraid to ask Janet for her opinion on the subject.”

  Chapter 16

  Quentin and the men-at-arms who had gone with him reached Royce’s camp near sunrise, bringing with them Gillemore and a handful of bedraggled Scottish warriors. By that time Quentin had calmed his raging emotions enough to accept Royce’s wisdom in sending him away from Fionna to capture the fleeing Scots. But a busy night of searching, coming immediately after an exhausting battle, did nothing to ease either Quentin’s anger at Murdoch, or his worry over Fionna’s condition.

  After dragging Murdoch off her bleeding body, Quentin had held her in his arms, refusing to put her down. The fearful possibility that Fionna might die had reduced him to tears for the first time in his adult life. Janet’s frantic screams at him to get away, that he’d done enough damage, left him consumed with guilt. Only Royce’s firm insistence had finally convinced him to hand Fionna over to Janet’s care and to allow Braedon to tend to the wound on his thigh.

  Quentin was not seriously hurt, but the slight, lingering discomfort in his thigh served to remind him that he continued to live, that he was able to stand and walk and to mount his horse and ride, only because of Fionna’s quick action.

  As he rode into the camp he looked toward the blue tent where he knew Fionna was lying. The instant he dismounted and handed the prisoners over to Royce, he was going to enter that tent and neither Janet nor Royce was going to prevent him from staying at Fionna’s side until he was certain she was going to recover. Since the moment he had left her, he had been praying for her life to be spared.

  Royce’s people were already astir. Quentin could see that at least some of them were preparing to ride. The sight of saddled and bridled horses and men in chainmail brought a chill to his heart. If Fionna was too badly wounded to ride, why was Royce preparing to move on? What had happened during his absence? Had all of his prayers fallen on deaf heavenly ears?

  Janet came out of the tent. Pale of face, with dark shadows under her eyes, she stared at Quentin with an expression of cold distaste.

  “How is Fionna?” Quentin asked the moment he saw her.

  “She is asleep, so don’t you dare waken her, or you’ll answer to me,” Janet warned.

  “Will she live?” Quentin almost fell off his horse in his haste to get to Fionna. He was so weary he could barely stand, but he pulled himself together long enough to tell one of the men-at-arms who rode with him to take the prisoners to Royce. Then Quentin approached Janet, using his superior height allied with the angry frown and the glare that usually intimidated even the bravest of men. Janet was not to be intimidated. She stood toe to toe with him and glared right back.

  “No thanks to you,” Janet said in a voice like a slashing steel blade, “my sister will survive.”

  “Thanks be to God!” Shaking with relief, Quentin closed his eyes for a moment while he tried to to compose himself before continuing the inevitable duel of words with Janet. “How bad are her wounds?”

  “Not bad enough to kill her,” Janet snapped.

  “So you just said. Tell me exactly what Murdoch did to her.”

  “The details of my sister’s injury,” Janet informed him, “are not your concern.”

  “The devil they aren’t! Fionna deliberately risked her life to save me – from your brother, I might add. I have a right to know how badly she was injured.”

  “Why?” asked Janet. “Do you plan to marry her?”

  “That decision, little girl,” Quentin said, choosing to insult her and shake a finger under her nose, rather than strangling her as he longed to do, “is not your concern. Now, answer me at once, or I’ll learn for myself what I want to know.” He used his intimidating frown on her again and, to his surprise, Janet backed down and supplied the answer he wanted.

  “Fionna has a cut on her left side. Murdoch’s blade may have nicked a rib,” Janet said. “The wound is clean and so far shows no sign of festering.”

  “That’s good.” Quentin took a deep breath, intending to insist that she allow him to see Fionna at once. Before he could speak, Janet continued. From the anger he saw in her eyes Quentin had the feeling she was almost pleased to tell him something she was sure would upset him, eve
n though she definitely was not happy about what she was saying. Quentin knew Janet would never rejoice in any harm done to Fionna. Dissimilar in so many ways, the sisters were alike in their unbounded love for each other.

  “Murdoch’s blade also slashed the inside of Fionna’s left arm, just above the elbow. That wound is far more serious than the other.”

  “Why didn’t you say so at once?” Quentin asked.

  “I sewed the wound edges together,” Janet said, as if she was speaking of sewing a dress, “and I’ve been bathing it with wine all night. Even if it heals well, she’s likely to have trouble using the arm for a long time to come, perhaps for the rest of her life.”

  Janet sniffled and scrubbed at her eyes with her fists, like a child trying not to cry. For the first time since meeting her, Quentin understood how she used her shrewish tongue and the appearance of anger to hide her fears from others. He should have seen through Janet’s pretenses sooner, for he sometimes employed the same tactics himself. Struck with sympathy for a girl he’d disliked until that moment, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He expected her to shrug off the touch. Instead, Janet laid her head on his chest. Her shoulders shook with silent tears.

  “You are overtired,” Quentin said, patting her tangled red curls. “I’m sure you never left Fionna’s side all night. Let me see her for a moment. Then I’ll make my report to Royce and come right back here. I will stay with Fionna while you rest.”

  “My cot is in there, next to hers,” Janet said, cold dislike for him returning to her face and voice. She straightened her back and moved away from him to stand by the tent entrance as if to guard it and keep him out. “I will not leave my sister to your care. If I sleep, I will sleep by her side.”

  Quentin’s sympathy vanished in a heartbeat. This was the Janet he knew and disliked, the prickly, snappish girl who never spoke a pleasant word if she could think of something irritating to say. Fortunately, while he was still contemplating his chances of success if he charged past her and into the tent to reach Fionna’s side, Cadwallon appeared.

  “Royce wants to see both of you,” Cadwallon said.

  “I cannot leave Fionna,” Janet responded, glaring at him as if he were an enemy.

  “I think you will want to leave when I tell you that Royce is considering what to do with the captured Scots,” Cadwallon said. “He’d like to hear your opinion, Janet. It’s your chance to speak in Fionna’s behalf, since she is unable to speak for herself.”

  “Will he listen to anything I say?” Janet sounded as if she didn’t believe it.

  “I think he will,” Cadwallon said. “Suppose I ask Royce to post a man-at-arms at the tent entrance? We’ll tell him not to enter, lest he disturb Fionna, but if he hears a sound from within, he’s to call you at once. Will that arrangement satisfy your concerns?”

  “I suppose so,” Janet said reluctantly. “I do want to speak against Murdoch for what he has done. Very well, Cadwallon, find a trustworthy man-at-arms.”

  “While Cadwallon does that,” Quentin said, “I am going to see Fionna.”

  “No!” Janet cried. “You may not go in there.”

  But Quentin was not to be denied any longer. He pushed Janet aside and stepped into the tent.

  Fionna was either asleep as Janet claimed, or she was unconscious. It could have been either, for her cheeks were flushed as if she suffered from a fever. Her face was chalk white, except for the flushing and the bruise from Murdoch’s sword along her left temple. Her eyes were sunken above her jutting cheekbones, and Quentin noted the dark, purplish shadows on her lids. When he took her hand, it was hot and dry, though she did not move restlessly, as victims of high fever often did. Fionna lay perfectly still, scarcely breathing, and it was her stillness that terrified Quentin.

  He went to his knees beside the cot and lifted her fingers to his lips. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her brow. Still she did not move.

  “Leave her alone.” Janet’s hissed words came from close behind him. “Don’t disturb her.”

  “Janet,” Cadwallon called softly, sticking his head inside the tent, “the man-at-arms is here. And Royce is waiting for us.”

  “I expect Quentin to leave before I do,” Janet said.

  Quentin was too worried about Fionna’s condition to argue. He longed to remain with her, yet duty required him to be at Royce’s side when the Scots heard their punishment. He pressed another kiss on her pale brow before he preceded Janet out of the tent.

  Royce had ordered all of the surviving Scots brought to the center of the camp. They assembled in a ragged group, with Murdoch, Gillemore, and Colum standing in the front row and plenty of well-armed guards surrounding them. Most of them wore bandages, though as far as Quentin could tell, none of them were seriously injured.

  “Thank you for coming,” Royce said to Janet. He held out his hand to draw her to his side while he addressed the prisoners.

  “First,” Royce said to the Scots, “I want to assure you that your dead are being decently buried at the edge of this camp. I will supply a wagon to carry your wounded who are too hurt to ride.”

  A faint murmur of surprise rose from Murdoch’s followers and Janet turned toward Royce with a disapproving frown. But for once she kept quiet, merely compressing her lips and waiting to hear what Royce would say next.

  “The fittest punishment I can devise for you,” Royce went on, “is to send you to King Alexander and let him decide your fates. You will travel first to Carlisle, with my own men-at-arms to protect you along the way, for you will be tied too tightly to protect yourselves. At Carlisle, Lord Walter will, at my written request, add his guards to mine in order to ensure that you arrive safely at Edinburgh.”

  “Safely?” Murdoch snarled at him. “You mean, you want to be sure we won’t be freed from this unjust captivity by like-minded Scotsmen.”

  “We both know how dangerous these borderlands are for travelers,” Royce said, smiling at Murdoch with a sweetness that was belied by his sarcastic tone. “I wouldn’t want anything dire to happen to you before you can face your king.”

  “Wee Alex is not my king,” Murdoch responded.

  “I suggest you discuss your disloyalty with him,” Royce said, his smile vanishing. “You will leave at once.”

  “No!” Janet cried. Simmering with undisguised outrage, she faced Royce. “Why did you bother to ask me to be present when you had already made up your mind what to do with these felons?”

  “Actually, the decision is not mine to make,” Royce said. “You must understand that the situation is rather delicate. Alexander’s brother, David, is ruler of the land where we now are, but he is at the moment at the English court, with King Henry. While yesterday’s attack was made on David’s territory, most of the crimes that concern us – the attempt on Fionna’s life, the unauthorized capture and deportation of an English spy, the plot to kill Quentin in hope of creating violent hostilities between England and Scotland, and the earlier attack near Abercorn – were all committed on Scottish soil. Therefore, I am duty bound to send your brothers and their accomplices to Alexander for judgment. I asked you to join us, Lady Janet, so you might have the opportunity to voice your opinion directly to these men.”

  “They are traitors and murderers!” Janet declared with bitter forcefulness. “They all deserve to be executed.”

  “You stupid girl!” Murdoch yelled at her. “You and your cursed sister are more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Quentin had remained quiet to this point but upon hearing Murdoch’s heartless words he was compelled to speak.

  “Fionna lies just a few paces away, fighting for her life,” Quentin said. “Your sword wounded your own sister, possibly to her death.” He choked on that last word and fell silent again.

  “I hope she does die,” Murdoch declared. “The wench should have died weeks ago, in Liddel Water.”

  “Are we to understand that you freely admit to attempted murder upon your sister?” Royce asked, not troub
ling to hide his disgust.

  “If Fionna had died as she was supposed to do,” Murdoch said, glancing at Quentin, “this cursed Norman ambassador would be dead, too, and the rest of your kind would soon be removed from Scottish soil.”

  “Aye,” said Colum, showing his broken-toothed grin. “If only Fionna were dead, I’d be beddin’ fair Janet, happily beatin’ the wench into proper submission and silencin’ her adder’s tongue.”

  “One more word out of you,” Cadwallon warned, stepping toward Colum with a hand on his sword hilt, “and you won’t live to leave this camp.”

  “You hear from their own mouths the kind of men they are,” Janet cried. “They’d gladly see all of us dead. It’s why they followed us so far. False kindred! Traitors! Would-be murderers of your own blood! You are no longer my brothers. I renounce kinship with you, for myself and in Fionna’s name. Royce, if you want my opinion, rather than send them to King Alexander, I’d prefer to see them drawn and quartered today, before my eyes.”

  “Aye, do it, Norman!” Murdoch shouted at Royce. “I’ll endure any punishment you decree, so long as I don’t have to listen to this raving madwoman’s voice for one more moment.”

  “Enough!” Royce exclaimed. Turning to the fully armed knight who stood near him, he continued, “Sir William, conduct the prisoners to Carlisle, and from there to Edinburgh. When you have done so, report to me at Wortham Castle.”

  “Gladly, my lord.” Sir William began to issue orders for Murdoch and his men. All of them, still with their hands firmly bound behind their backs, were to be mounted on horses that were tied together in a string to prevent any of them from escaping. With Royce’s men-at-arms to guard them, they rode out of the camp. As Sir William left he sent a jaunty wave in Royce’s direction. None of the Scots looked back.

  “When I consider how gently rebellion is treated under King Alexander’s rule,” Royce remarked dryly as he gazed after the departing men, “I fear the worst that will happen to them is that they will be admonished mildly and then, assuming they are willing to repeat their original oaths of fealty, they will be granted large estates in hope of ensuring their future loyalty to the Scottish crown.”