Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Myrddin looked over at Geraint, who stood in the entrance to the tent, his face drawn and white. “Several remain alive outside, but only one can walk—he was just stunned like Gareth. I sent him for help tending to the wounded, though with the caution not to raise a general alarm until we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Good,” Myrddin said. “When exactly did you leave the king’s presence?”

  “As I said earlier, it must have been nearly an hour ago,” Geraint said. “All was well then. I swear it!”

  That Geraint would feel he had to justify his behavior to Myrddin revealed the true extent of his guilt at what had been done and left undone. For his part, Myrddin chastised himself for kneeling in the snow on the battlefield as long as he had, lamenting the delay it caused, and he told himself that the next time he had a vision, he wouldn’t question it nor allow anyone else to do so either.

  He turned back to Gareth. “Who was it?”

  “Modred’s lackey, Beorhtsige.” Gareth was crawling on his knees now and conscious enough not only to be articulate, but mocking as well. “There were more than a dozen of them and, once the arrows stopped flying, only a few of us remained to defend the king. I tried, but even I can’t fight off that many men at once.”

  Not long ago, Myrddin might have questioned Gareth’s loyalty, but in recent weeks he’d proved himself a true son of Eryri—enough so that Myrddin merely held out a hand as Geraint had done to him and helped Gareth to his feet.

  He swayed at first, but then steadied himself. “I’m not badly injured. I fear for the king, however, who could even now be dead.”

  “No,” Myrddin said. “I saw him alive. That was what brought us here in haste.”

  Gareth put a hand to his head. “It doesn’t make sense that they’d keep him alive. Only last night they had orders to kill him.”

  Geraint let out burst of air. “I am as much at a loss in this as you.”

  Myrddin stood looking between the two of them. “I can’t say what was in the minds of these Saxons, and I won’t pretend that the king’s abduction isn’t a disaster, but take comfort in my vision, for it seems it was a true one. King Arthur is a captive, not a casualty, and if he isn’t with Nell, he soon will be.”

  Myrddin felt a surge of anger at the thought that the Saxons might hurt his wife, but her presence in the vision meant she was alive too. All was not yet lost.

  __________

  A Long Cloud is available at Amazon.

  www.sarahwoodbury.com

  Highlander’s Redemption

  The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy

  Book Two

  Emma Prince

  Copyright © 2014 by Emma Prince. All Rights Reserved.

  Chapter One

  Scottish Borderlands

  Late June, 1307

  “I leave on the morrow for Cumberland.”

  Jossalyn’s breath caught in her throat, but she kept her eyes downcast and her tongue still. She sensed her brother was already in a foul mood, and her questions always seemed to annoy him. She had learned over the years how to avoid his rage—or at least she had become better at it. Lord Raef Warren was as unpredictable as the weather here in the Borderlands.

  She waited, her hands clasped in front of her, while her brother moved to the other side of his huge oak desk and shuffled the papers that lay strewn across it. Finally, he continued.

  “The King is believed to be ill, which means that I may be able to leverage a Barony at last.”

  This had her snapping her head up. Despite the years of practice biting her tongue, she opened her mouth without thinking. “I could help! I could try to heal—”

  His hand slammed against the top of the desk, rattling his ink pot and causing her to jump.

  “Silence! How dare you insinuate that you could help the King, and with your little herbs, no less!”

  She had done it now. His rage would boil over, and he would take it out on her. She tensed, waiting for him to dart like lightning from behind the desk and strike her.

  Instead, he smoothed back his sandy blond hair with one hand, inhaling through his nose to try to calm himself. “The only reason I called you here was to let you know that I would be away and to warn you not to disobey me.” He stepped back around the desk toward her, his glaring eyes locked on hers. “But if you defy me one more time, sister, I will name you a witch and have you burned alive, blood relation be damned.” His voice was calm, but deadly so.

  Jossalyn lowered her head once more, giving her brother what he wanted—her utter submission. But if she had met his stare, her eyes would have revealed her defiance. She was not broken or cowed, no matter what Raef might think.

  A little piece of her heart squeezed at the thought. She had been sneaking to the village outside Dunbraes Castle for years, tending to the people unfortunate enough to be under the rule of her power-hungry brother. Yes, she had been discovered a few times—and had borne his rages, insults, and even his fists—but it was worth it to help people, to save lives with her healing abilities.

  “Perhaps this visit to the traveling court will give me the opportunity to marry you off as well. Then you’ll be someone else’s problem,” he said coolly. “Who knows, it may even help me toward my Barony. I hear the Earl of Suffolk is looking for a new bride. Someone young.”

  Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself not to react. Her brother had made mention of arranging for her marriage before—after all, she had just turned twenty—but his threat about the Earl made her nauseated. The Earl of Suffolk had visited Dunbraes several months ago to discuss the mounting war between England and Scotland. He was old enough to be her grandfather, and had already worn through three wives. The first night of his visit, he had become so drunk on the castle’s store of fine wine that he had tried to grab Jossalyn. When she had twisted out of his clawing hands, he proceeded to vomit on her slippers.

  She swallowed. “How long will you be gone?”

  He grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Likely only two weeks, but it depends if the King dies or not,” he said bluntly. “And don’t get any ideas about making one of your little trips to the village, sister. I will have you watched and followed. I can’t have my best bargaining chip with the Earl getting into anything…unseemly.”

  Her heart sank, but she didn’t let the mask of meekness slip from her face. His hazel eyes bore into her for a moment longer, seemingly trying to reinforce his threats. He didn’t need to, though. Jossalyn knew from years of experience that her brother wouldn’t hesitate to punish her, should she defy him.

  “That is all,” he said finally, releasing her chin and turning his back on her.

  She curtsied despite the fact that he couldn’t see her then silently crept out of his study and toward her chamber. As she walked up the stone steps toward her door, she felt a shadow following her and glanced over her shoulder. One of her brother’s soldiers, Gordon, trailed her from several feet back. He stopped when she did but merely stared back at her, his coarse face and dull eyes flat in his obedience to Raef’s order to follow her.

  So this was to be her hound while her brother was away. Gordon was hulking and imposing, but at least he wasn’t particularly bright. Perhaps she could still find a way to do her work in the village while Raef was in Cumberland. It would probably have to involve some discomfort for Gordon, unfortunately.

  She turned back up the stairs toward her chamber, her mind running over her most potent herbal laxatives.

  Chapter Two

  You are to stay no longer than a week, collecting as much intelligence as you can.

  The words burned into Garrick’s mind, along with his older brother Robert’s serious tone as he had said them. Garrick had been chewing on his Laird’s words like a bitter cud for the entirety of the week-long journey from the Sinclair clan holdings at Roslin in the farthest northeast corner of Scotland all the way to the Borderlands. De
spite Garrick’s protestations, Robert thought it best to send him to the border to conduct a covert information gathering mission—along with Robert’s right-hand man, Burke Sinclair.

  But Garrick worked alone.

  He always had, and except for this mission, he always would. If Robert hadn’t invoked his authority as Laird of the Sinclairs, Garrick would have rejected the mission outright. He was needed elsewhere. Then again, his King, Robert the Bruce, had also agreed to lend Garrick for the operation, and he couldn’t very well go against his Laird and his King. So here he was, stuck with Burke, a distant cousin and clansman, a mere day’s ride from Raef Warren’s Borderland holding at Dunbraes.

  He spat over the neck of his large warhorse as they continued to move quietly through the dense forest. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help the Scottish cause for independence. In fact, he had devoted his life to it. He had fought in every major battle of the last ten years, and in quite a few minor ones as well, first with his brother defending Sinclair lands, and later, alongside Robert the Bruce. It was more the idea that he could only collect information. He had to “blend in,” as his brother had ordered, and talk with locals about what they were hearing.

  Blend in. Talk. Him. He would rather have his bow in his hand, sending arrows into the throats of his enemies, Raef Warren included.

  Burke was the man for the job. He was charming and handsome—or so the lasses seemed to think—and had a strange way of putting people at ease whenever he talked with them. Of course, Burke was also a highly trained and skilled warrior, wielding his great sword better than most men in the Highlands. But he was even more skilled when it came to interacting with people.

  Unlike Garrick. He had worked alone for too long. His skill with his bow had allowed him to enter the Bruce’s army, but because he excelled at precision shooting, he had risen quickly out of the mass ranks to become the Bruce’s most trusted shot.

  This meant that he was sent out on solo missions, waiting for hours and sometimes days at a time hidden in underbrush or tree foliage before his target came into view. He knew how to wait. He knew how to kill. Aye, he could go unnoticed anywhere in the Highlands, but he’d be damned if he could “blend in” within an English-held Borderland village, casually chatting with the locals about the English army’s movements.

  Resisting the urge to spit again, Garrick instead moved his horse slightly to the right, taking them farther into the woods and away from the road. Burke did the same without comment. Both men had fallen into a sullen silence shortly after departing from Roslin Castle the week before. Neither wanted to be here, but that didn’t change anything. Their Laird had given the orders, and they both had to obey.

  Thankfully, Robert was familiar enough with the area from his own days of raiding and information gathering that he had been able to give them instructions on how to find a safe house a day’s journey northwest of Warren’s holding. There, they would stash their warhorses, weapons, and armor, all of which would have made them stand out starkly—and draw dangerous attention.

  They would also need to borrow a cart and draft horse and the clothing of English commoners. Nothing could be done about their Scottish accents besides trying their best to soften them to the Lowlanders’ lesser bur. The Borderlands had become so fluid these days that many Scots and English lived together, especially surrounding the larger castles that kept changing hands. Dunbraes had been under Warren’s control for several years, but it was surrounded by Scotsmen and their farmlands, so there was no avoiding interaction between the two nationalities.

  Garrick and Burke had agreed that their cover story would be that they were two blacksmiths from a village farther north. They were looking for temporary work, and so had decided to try to find employment at the largest nearby holding—Dunbraes Castle and its village. Smithing would explain both men’s large, muscular frames. It was dangerous to look too much like a warrior these days.

  It grated to have to pretend to be supporters of English rule over Scotland, or at best act neutral, but times were too volatile to walk into a powerful English holding wearing kilts and speaking with a Highlander’s brogue.

  Garrick urged Fletch, his chestnut warhorse, forward a little faster. The sooner they reached the safe house, the sooner they could move on to the village, and the sooner this damned mission would be over. Garrick wanted nothing more than to return to the Bruce’s side and do what he did best—fight. This week was sure to be tedious, but at least it would be over soon. Aye, this was bound to be the most boring week of his life.

  Chapter Three

  Jossalyn peeked behind her shoulder once again, but she knew without looking that Gordon wouldn’t be behind her.

  A smile itched at the corners of her mouth. She didn’t relish the suffering he currently experienced, but she could barely contain her excitement to be going into the village—and only two days after her brother had left for Cumberland!

  Besides, Gordon would be just fine, though he would likely be glued to the garderobe or his chamber pot for the next few days. Such were the effects of a little buckthorn bark steeped in water. Of course, as soon as his symptoms showed themselves, she had ordered that he be given a tea of chamomile to soothe his innards and keep him hydrated, which eased her conscience further.

  Not minding the basket under her arm, she nearly skipped through the yard in the middle of the castle in her excitement. The portcullis was drawn up along the outer curtain wall, and both villagers and residents of the castle moved in and out freely on this particularly fine summer day. Perhaps she would even be able to stroll to the outskirts of the forest near the village to collect herbs before seeing to some of the villagers.

  The combination of sunshine, fresh air, and freedom were surely going to her head, she thought giddily. She walked under the portcullis and wound her way toward the village, which sat just south and slightly lower than the castle a few hundred yards away.

  She weaved her way around the west side of the village, swinging her basket and humming a tune. Yes, the forest would be perfect on this warm afternoon. She had heard from one of the castle’s servants that a villager named Laura had a colicky baby, but she was running low on fennel, which would treat the colic.

  When she reached a likely looking spot on the edge of the forest, she plopped her basket on the ground and began searching for the distinctive yellow flowers. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so free. Even when she had been able to get away from her brother and the castle in the past, she always had to be looking over her shoulder, and she knew she would catch hell from him if he found out what she had been up to. But with Raef gone, and his lackey incapacitated for the time being, she felt like she could fly. She hadn’t felt this way since—since before their parents had died.

  Though it had happened almost seven years ago, the thought of her parents’ death cut dully into her joy. It had been some sort of fever. Meg, the village healer back at her childhood home in England, had done all she could, but death’s grasp had been too strong. Jossalyn’s girlish screams still rang in her own ears. She had begged Meg to heal them, not understanding the limits of a medicine woman.

  Once the initial shock had worn off, she had begged the healer for a second time, but instead of asking for the impossible, she had pleaded with Meg to teach her everything she could about the art of healing. The old woman had resisted at first, but quickly noticed an unusual aptitude in Jossalyn for identifying plants and their uses, and her gentleness with the sick and ailing. Meg had called it a gift. Jossalyn just wanted to help, and if this was her way, then so be it.

  A few years later, when Raef had been entrusted to hold Dunbraes against the Scottish, she had found another friend and teacher in Vera, the old Scottish wisewoman and healer of the village. Vera was more than willing to have an eager and knowledgeable apprentice, despite the fact that she was also the sister of the Lord of Dunbraes Castle, a very unusual arrangement.

  The only person who seemed to mind, h
owever, was her brother. As the years went on, he set himself more and more against her work as a healer. At first, he only warned her that it wasn’t proper for a lady to move around the village so freely. Then, he told her she couldn’t continue with her work. When she did anyway, he took to screaming at her, shoving her, and even hitting her.

  Though he claimed that it was merely a problem of propriety, Jossalyn suspected that it went deeper than that. Her brother had changed, albeit slowly, since their parents’ death.

  He had always been concerned with order, even as a child. But now he seemed poisoned with it, and with his desire for power. Perhaps he saw illness as the ultimate powerlessness, the ultimate intrusion onto order and control. He couldn’t save his parents, nor could a healer, and that had frightened him. While Jossalyn had turned to healing as a way of dealing with their loss, he had turned to rage. And she had seen him shudder at the sight of her after one of her trips to the village, as if illness clung to her, followed her, and threatened to sink its claws into him as well.

  Something happened in the last few months to make his rage even worse, too. Jossalyn had heard rumors that he was to wed an English lady, yet nothing had come of it. And the English army seemed to be mobilizing for a great attack on Scotland any day now, which had everyone on edge.

  Jossalyn pushed the dark thoughts from her mind. She had chewed on them so much lately and was tired of them poisoning her just as they poisoned her older brother. She would enjoy this day, and even when her brother returned and forced her to stay inside the castle walls, she would have the memory of the warm sunshine on her hair and back, the smell of soil and plants on her hands, and—

  Suddenly, a faint reverberation vibrated through her slippers. The ground was rumbling—and it was growing stronger.