Jennifer August

by Knight of the Mist

  Stirling laid back down, Snow snuggling against her. She stared at the twinkling points of light in the sky until her eyelids drooped and she finally fell to sleep, images of Quinn filling her dreams.

  The next two days passed much the same, Stirling shadowing Quinn’s army and Snow pilfering food from their cooksite when they camped.

  “We will return home soon,” she told Snow as they sat on their concealed rise, looking at Calvin’s stone fortress. Guards prowled the battlement walls and smoke drifted from various vents in the roof, but she could not see within the bailey proper.

  Quinn had made camp well back of the keep and to her disappointment ordered no fires. She’d become accustomed to Snow’s nightly gift of roasted venison or whatever animal Temple’s men captured that day.

  Snow nudged her shoulder and she scooted away from the crest of the hill, sinking into the obscurity of the trees as Temple, Quinn and Sir John crept by, faces darkened and clothing black. She wished she was close enough to hear their muted conversation, curious about her husband’s battle tactics, but found no safe concealment.

  Snow disappeared into the thicket and she returned to Bluefire to brush the horse down, desperate for a diversion from the interminable waiting. Her only thought when she began this fool’s errand had been to boost the morale of her knights, but now, as imminent war harkened, the image of Quinn, wounded and at Calvin’s mercy battered her. With each stroke of the brush her mind conjured a more hideous and gruesome fate for her husband, until ‘twas all she could do not to run to his side. Only the knowledge that he would surely kill her forestalled her flight.

  “Goddamn it, Stirling, why can you not just obey me?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Quinn caught Stirling’s scream against his palm, furious with her half-witted actions, and glared into her wide golden eyes. “What have you done, you little idiot?” he ground out.

  She mumbled into his palm, her words indistinguishable, the repentant tone clear.

  “I do not care how or why. You will return to Falcon Fire today.” He released her and grabbed the horse’s reins then spun on his heel and stalked toward his camp. Her hurried pace quickly caught up with him.

  “My lord, I can explain,” she whispered, tugging on his sleeve.

  Quinn stared at her incredulously. “There is no explanation, no reasonable argument you could offer that would calm me Stirling. Walk, do not speak.”

  Quinn fought the urge to comfort her when her face crumpled at his harsh words. Her actions were ridiculous, absurd, not to mention dangerous. She’s lucky I do not take her over my knee.

  Her head came up and her back stiffened and he nearly groaned aloud, recognizing the signs of her willfulness about to resurface.

  “I mean it, lady-wife, not one word shall you speak. When we reach camp, you will be sent home like the disobedient child you act.”

  “Disobedient child? I am sworn to protect my people, and ‘tis what I am here to do. And you shall not stop me.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Your oath means naught. ‘Twas an absurd notion created by a woman’s brain to battle boredom, nothing more.”

  She stamped her foot, the iron boot crushing the brittle tree limbs on the ground. “You are wrong, Sir Norman. ‘Tis what they fight for, what they look for.”

  “You will not --”

  “Have you changed tactics, my lord?” Temple’s sarcastic brogue cut through their heated words. “‘Twill be simple enough for Calvin’s men to find us if you continue this caterwauling.”

  “Enough Temple,” Quinn ordered, stepping in front of Stirling. He held no desire for the Scot to discover his mistress attired in chainmail and armed for battle. “Return to the encampment, I shall join you shortly.”

  “And Lady Stirling? Will she accompany you as well?”

  Quinn glared at the grinning man, wondering how long he’d followed him. “Aye, she will.”

  Stirling stepped around him, holding her gauntlet-covered hand out to Temple, who promptly clasped it and bent low. “‘Tis ravishing you are, no matter your dress, my lady.”

  Stirling tossed him a triumphant look over her shoulder. “Aye, though I will not be with you long as your lord is bent on sending me back to Falcon Fire.”

  Temple snapped straight, pinning Quinn with a disbelieving stare. “Impossible. We’ve not the manpower for such an escort.”

  “‘Tis not a request. Find one,” Quinn growled and tramped between them, pulling Bluefire behind him.

  “He is very unreasonable, Temple, surely you have learned that by now.” Stirling’s pert words stung like bees, edging Quinn’s temper higher.

  “Guard your tongue, lady-wife, or suffer the results.”

  “I do not fear you, my lord.”

  “You should.”

  Temple cleared his throat and plucked the horse’s reins from Quinn’s unresisting grip. “I will take the wee beasty to camp and feed it while you discuss this.” His grin turned to a serious glower when he looked at Quinn. “We’ve not much time, so be quick about it.”

  “Wait Temple,” Stirling said. “Keep him on the outskirts of the camp and let no one see him. Especially the men of Falcon Fire.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Quinn stared after him, choosing his words carefully. His willful wife must be treated with diplomacy if he was to convince her to return home. How ironic, he thought, that something he never believed existed, a woman’s honor, now put her life in danger.

  “I shall not go away even if you ignore me, Sir Norman,” she challenged, hands on hips, brow smugly lifted. “You surprise me. ‘Tis a tactic generally employed by women.”

  Overlooking her jibe, he hooked his hand around her upper arm and tugged her toward the encampment. “You can not stay, I will not allow it.” He never had grasped the finer points of diplomacy, he admitted.

  “I will.”

  “‘Struth must I gag and bind you to gain your cooperation?” he muttered in frustration.

  “You would not dare.”

  Quinn smiled at the pleasing thought. “Do not tempt me further.”

  They strode to the edge of camp when she dug in her heels and refused to go further. “They cannot see ‘tis me in this armor, my lord.”

  “I’ve no time for games, Stirling. In less than two hours we march on Thornhatch.”

  “‘Tis no game, why can you not see that?” Her eyelids dropped and she bit her bottom lip. “For generations the knight has shown himself to the warriors of Falcon Fire when times were bleak, wars were fought and lords died. It can be no different now. They need me.”

  “Nay. They have become a well trained unit of soldiers who no longer need superstition to win a battle.”

  Her shoulders fell. “Please my lord, I will return to the keep, but do not allow them to see me thus.”

  He looked at her skeptically. Another ruse? “I have your word?”

  “Aye.”

  “Stay here.”

  “My lord, a question first.” She gripped his arm. “How did you discover me? What did I do wrong?”

  “‘Twas not you, ‘twas your thieving mongrel we caught pilfering our supplies.”

  She gave him a quirky half-grin. “‘Tis good to know you would not have found me otherwise.”

  Quinn shook his head at her cockiness. Yet another lesson to be unlearned, curse her father’s liberal soul. “I will be back in a moment.”

  “Where is the escort, Temple?” Quinn demanded when he found him squatting among a group of men, throwing the dice. The Scot stood leisurely, scooping up his winnings before answering.

  “‘Tis too dangerous to attempt, my lord.” Temple pulled Quinn away from the group of knights and lowered his voice. “Think with your head, not your heart. I, too, would have the bonny lass safe at Falcon Fire, but we canna spare the men to see her there.”

  “She requires but one, two at the most.”

  “Curse your stubbornness lad, I’ll no risk my men for your p
eace of mind. ‘Tis obvious the lass can defend herself. Secure her oath to remain here and flee at the first sign of trouble, but do not take away any of the knights in your service. We will need every sword.”

  Quinn glared at the rebellious Scot. “She has infected you as well.”

  Temple grinned and winked. “Aye, lord, praise God. She’s a rare woman, one to treasure, not smother.”

  Quinn raked a hand through his hair. Temple was right, they could not spare the men to see her home. His army was powerful, but small, a well-trained unit that worked as one. To break the link between them could prove disastrous. “All right then, Temple, she stays. But no one can know of her presence. She thinks if her knights see her in the battle armor ‘twill shatter their confidence.”

  “Aye, lord, but I would know the story behind this when we return home.”

  Quinn sighed heavily. “Done.”

  ###

  Stirling chewed her lip as Temple and his Scots stealthily approached Thornhatch’s walls, quickly swarming up and over them. Neither of the two guards pacing the battlement raised the alarm. Each paid the price for their neglect, going down quietly at the hands of the silent warriors. Still no cries issued from the bailey as the wooden gate swung open allowing Quinn and his mounted regiment to slip inside. Her heat skipped as his broad shouldered form disappeared from view.

  “Come back to me, my love,” she whispered, winging a prayer to God for Quinn’s safekeeping. ‘Twas a certainty she could no longer live without this Norman invader who’d claimed her as his own.

  The strident cry of a battle horn split the air and she stiffened. Curse her promise. ‘Twas nearly impossible to wait amongst the trees while he fought Calvin’s force inside.

  “‘Twill be quick and effortless, Stirling,” Quinn had assured her. “He’ll not expect an attack and certainly not one within his own walls. The arrogant fool posts but two guards.”

  Skeptical, knowing Calvin’s devious mind, Stirling tried to argue, but Quinn’s mind was set, the battle plans drawn. Snow paced in front of her with long, loping strides. Head hung low to the ground, the dog’s prowling reminded her of a lion stalking prey. Her gaze shot to the keep as the warring armies spilled from the bailey, fighting in the valley below her. Bluefire snorted and stamped his feet. Stirling grabbed the reins and soothed him, eyes riveted on the battlefield.

  “Where are all of Calvin’s men?” she asked. Snow offered no answer. The two armies appeared evenly matched, but she knew Calvin commanded a greater number of men than fought. And those wielding weapons against Quinn’s regiment did not even wear the colors of Thornhatch, clad instead, in mismatched, dark armor sporting blank shields and no banners. Mercenaries. Vicious men who fought for profit, guarded Calvin’s keep.

  Even as she watched, Quinn’s small battalion faltered, the knights falling back to form a tight circle. The mercenaries attacked from all sides and though Falcon Fire’s men battled back, she could see their spirit decline.

  “‘Tis time,” she whispered and donned her helm. Looping the strap of her shield over a low hanging branch, she struggled onto the horses waiting back. With no assistance, no mounting box, ‘twas a time-consuming and difficult feat, but she persisted, finally gaining the saddle. She grabbed the shield from the tree, secured the heavy buckler to her forearm and urged Bluefire from the cover of trees. They broke through the foliage and Stirling pulled back on the reins, poised on the edge of the hill, praying the men would take note. None did. Not one of her men hailed the Knight, nor did they appear to see her. Snow burst from the thicket and ran past the horse, racing down the hill into the middle of the fray.

  Stirling saw no other way to gain their attention and nudged her horse to follow in the hound’s wake. The sun winked overhead as they galloped closer to the crash of armor and clang of swords. Angling the shield toward the rays, she spread the silver light over the battling crowd. A soldier bearing her standard stood in his stirrups and pointed in her direction. Bluefire slowed at her signal, prancing sideways, as both Quinn’s men and her own looked. Even the mercenaries paused in their brutal assault, their heads turning to her. The brief respite lasted only a few seconds, but ‘twas long enough to rejuvenate Falcon Fire’s regiment and they resumed the battle with vigor.

  Seeking Quinn’s broad form and black steed, she paced the horse along the lines, but could not find him. Her gaze swept over them again, lighting on two mercenaries charging her. Startled, she whirled Bluefire away, urging the horse back up the hill, but they closed the distance too quickly and surrounded her.

  Throwing her shield up, she blocked a slashing blow even as she pulled her own sword and fought off another. She was not prepared for this. Panic seized her as they continued their onslaught and she desperately sought a way out. She held no desire to kill again. Each time she turned her horse, they responded, continually flanking her. Her arms grew tired, shaking from exertion coupled with fear. John’s training, she realized, had not adequately prepared her for true battle.

  A roar ripped over the battlefield and she gasped as Quinn broke free, galloping toward them. She blocked another blow with her shield, the shock reverberating up her arm. Unable to hold the weight any longer, the shield fell useless at her side and she took a glancing blow to her shoulder. Reeling in the saddle, she struck out with her sword, slicing through the unprotected flesh of her opponent’s gut. The other howled as Quinn charged into the midst of their private battle, his sword flashing with the speed of his attack. Both mercenaries ignored her and Stirling backed Bluefire away, confident in her husband’s abilities to handle both men.

  She watched Quinn, awed by his skill with a blade as he cut down the first mercenary, then spun to face the other. Sparks flew as their swords met, withdrew and slashed again. Pushing up her helm, Stirling glanced behind her, relieved to discover Quinn’s army had roundly defeated Calvin’s men.

  “Stirling,” Quinn’s hoarse shout snapped her head around. The remaining mercenary galloped toward her, swaying in the saddle, blood streaming from his neck. He leaned toward her, his sword aimed at her head and she responded instinctively, thrusting aside his stroke, the force knocking him from his horse.

  Quinn jumped to the ground, grappling with the injured man when he drew a knife and lunged. With a sweep of his legs, Quinn sent the brigand crashing to the ground, but still he would not yield and raised his knife arm. Quinn impaled the mercenary and he did not move again.

  Looking up at her, his face hidden beneath his blood spattered helm, Quinn motioned toward the camp and she nodded. Heart heavy, Stirling kneed Bluefire up the hill, once again praying, though now she sought Quinn’s forgiveness.

  Somehow, she knew ‘twould not be forthcoming.

  She entered the camp and slid from her horse as a fierce tremble overtook her. Dropping to her knees, she ripped the helm off as bile forced its way from her throat. She stayed there until nothing was left, then drew a shaky hand across her mouth and rose. Ripping the cork from the drinking horn, she tipped it up, emptying the sweet contents into her mouth, washing away the bitter aftermath of war.

  “Are you hurt?” Quinn’s cold voice sounded behind her and she turned slowly, clutching the horn to her chestplate.

  “Nay. What of you?”

  “Nay. Mount your horse, we return to Falcon Fire.”

  She complied quickly, not wishing to further test his obvious anger. Temple and his Scots kept pace beside the mounted men as they journeyed home. John and his garrison of men remained behind, securing the keep. Snow darted in and out of the trees and Quinn rode silently in front of them all, never once looking or talking to her. With a sinking heart, Stirling redoubled her prayers to God.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You are too harsh on her, my lord,” Temple murmured, sipping a cup of mead.

  “Leave it, Temple,” Quinn snapped, his fury with Stirling still raging. ‘Twas the reason he pushed them so hard, turning the three day journey into barely one night spent on the
ground. He’d hoped exhaustion and sleep would clear his mind, but the trick had not worked and anger still tore at him. She came close to death with her idiocy, ‘twas all he could think of and the reason he spent the night watching her every breath.

  “I will not leave it. We put Marcus in the ground tomorrow and whether you admit it or no, you will need her comfort.”

  “I need no woman’s succor, only her obedience.”

  “You mean submission, do you not, Sir Norman?” Stirling appeared in front of him, lips pinched and features wan.

  He shrugged. “‘Tis not my word, but ‘twill suffice.”

  “Nay, ‘tis your demand that I humble myself before you and allow myself to be guided through my life as a simpleton.”

  He surged to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table and leaned forward. “I demand you obey me for your safety, not to humiliate you.”

  “‘Tis not how I see it.”

  “Damn your sensibilities, woman,” he snarled. “Your disobedience nearly cost you your life.”

  “‘Twas an oddity, my lord, I do assure you. Never have I been forced to combat as the Knight. ‘twill not happen again.”

  “You are right, Stirling, it shall not. You will turn over your armor to me.”

  “Nay. You cannot mean it.”

  “I do. I’ll not risk my wife because of an imaginary legend.”

  He strode from the dining hall and out the door, leaving Stirling alone with Temple.

  “Be patient with him, lassie, such things as worry are new to him.”

  Stirling smiled sadly. “I fear I’ve ruined what chance we had together, but I could not forsake my men. They needed me to appear as I’ve always done. As has always been done.” She stared after Quinn, hurt by his coldness. “He must understand this.”

  “Do not go agin him, my lady. His mind is set and ‘twill only cause ye more pain to cross him.” Temple awkwardly patted her shoulder with his big palm. “He will need you on the morrow, whether he will say so or no.”