Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Garrick?”

  Jossalyn had turned from the stream and was staring at him with a guarded look. He realized his face was twisted into a scowl and he was glaring at her, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He took a quick breath to try to release the tension that had formed as he stood there thinking. “We should get moving,” he said, schooling his features into expressionlessness once again.

  Burke was already swinging into the saddle, though he looked just as exhausted as Garrick felt. Jossalyn followed Garrick to Fletch’s side and waited for him to mount and pull her up in front of him. She settled herself between his legs as if she were always meant to be there.

  He forced the idea from his head. He needed to concentrate on delivering her without issue back to the village at Dunbraes. Then he would have to push her from his mind completely. He wouldn’t be able to accomplish what would be required of him in the coming weeks and months if he were distracted.

  Even as he thought this, though, her hair, which gleamed in the sunlight, brushed his cheek, and he nearly lost his resolve yet again. Just an hour or two more, he told himself. But if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that instead of looking forward to being free of Jossalyn’s distractions, he was dreading the moment when they would part—for good this time.

  Jossalyn knew that this was the last stop even before she spotted the village through the trees. As Garrick and Burked reined in their horses, she could feel the tension radiating from Garrick’s body behind her. Before he could help her down, she threw her leg over the large chestnut’s neck and slid the considerable distance to the ground. Garrick dismounted too, but she took a step back from him, pretending to adjust her cloak, which she had swung back over her shoulders to avoid having to carry both it and her satchel.

  Finally, she found her voice, though it was pinched with emotion. “I’m sorry to have put you in this position. Please forgive me. I wish you a safe journey.”

  With that, she spun on her heels and half-ran toward the village, too cowardly to meet Garrick’s eyes or go through another goodbye with him. She almost expected to feel his big hands pulling her back, spinning her around so that he could apologize, kiss her senseless, and take her back north with him. But his touch never came.

  She brushed the tears out of her eyes as she went, forcing herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though it meant growing farther away from Garrick. She told herself this was as it must be, that she would overcome the sorrow, the hollowness inside, that she could still escape Dunbraes and build a new life for herself. None of it eased the crushing weight of sadness that sat like a boulder in her chest.

  She stumbled into the village on the outskirts of the square. No one seemed to notice her as they moved about their lives. They all had their struggles and heartbreaks, and she chastised herself for thinking that hers were somehow special or worse.

  Wiping away the lingering tears with the sleeve of her dress, she straightened her spine and turned toward the main road, which ran right through the square from the south and up to the castle above the village.

  Just as she took the first step back toward the castle, however, she heard the town crier’s clear voice above the mundane sounds of the square.

  “Lord Warren returns! The King is dead! Long live the King!”

  Jossalyn’s heart froze.

  King Edward was dead.

  Her brother was approaching the castle from the south along the same road on which she now stood.

  As she registered each of these pieces of news and what they would mean for her life, she felt all the blood drain from her. With Edward’s death, her brother could have potentially angled for a new position—one that could mean more power for him and less for her. It could even mean that they would be leaving the Borderlands. Or perhaps he had already arranged her marriage while he was at the makeshift court in Cumberland for Edward’s death.

  She had to get away. Now. This could be her last chance at freedom.

  But before she could run, she saw the parade of her brother’s returning men-at-arms filling the road just to the south of her.

  And her brother was at the front of the procession. She saw him squinting toward her for a moment and felt like a deer in the sights of a hunter. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide anymore.

  He kicked his horse into a gallop straight toward her. Her life was over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Garrick had watched her as she had hurried from him, not looking over her shoulder even once. He had willed himself to keep his feet rooted to the ground despite every instinct telling him to give chase, to take her into his arms—but for what? For one more gut-wrenching kiss? For whispered words of affection, or vows that he couldn’t keep? Nay, he wouldn’t put both of them through it again. She was stronger than he would have been.

  When she was far enough away that he trusted himself not to go after her, he walked Fletch to the edge of the forest and watched her as she strode into the village. Burke followed him but didn’t say anything, despite the fact that he was likely eager to get going.

  Finally, Garrick forced himself to turn his back on her. He faced Fletch and ran a hand down the animal’s flank reassuringly. His eye caught on the long object wrapped in cloth sticking out of his saddlebag. His bow. If anything could make him feel more like himself right now, it was his bow, hand-carved and custom-built just for him.

  Though they didn’t have time to change into their Sinclair kilts at the moment, at least they could resume wearing their weapons, a comfort to any warrior. Burke was already unwrapping his sword, so Garrick did the same with his bow and quiver full of arrows. He too had a sword, which he unwrapped and belted to his waist, but nothing compared to the feel of his bow in his hand once more.

  Suddenly he heard a high voice drifting through the village and into the surrounding forest. It was a lad’s voice, but it wasn’t the sound of horseplay or pranking. He was repeating something over and over. Garrick quirked his ears. When the message finally made sense, his blood ran cold.

  “Lord Warren returns! The King is dead! Long live the King!”

  His gaze flew to Burke, who stood frozen with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Garrick tried to sort through the tangle in his mind at the news.

  Longshanks was dead.

  The Hammer of the Scots was dead.

  While part of his mind rejoiced, the other twisted. He had no idea what this would mean. On one hand, there was likely not another soul on earth who despised the Scots as much as King Edward did. His death could put and end to the wars for Scottish independence once and for all.

  On the other hand, the King’s son, Edward II, was now King, and he was an unknown entity. He was said to love the arts and have little of the spirit of war that his father had, but then again, the boy had been raised with a hunger for Scottish blood as if it were his mother’s milk.

  Then there was Warren’s return. Lord Raef Warren was his family’s mortal enemy. Garrick had fought alongside his brother Robert and Burke at the battle of Roslin four years earlier. He had seen the coward then, but was more familiar with Robert’s description of the man as a snake and warmonger. Warren was responsible for starting that war, which had dealt a heavy blow to the Sinclair clan and its lands. Robert had made it his personal mission to twist the knife in Warren’s side at every opportunity, raiding and stealing from him in the Borderlands.

  Though Garrick knew Robert’s blood still ran hot when it came to Warren, he had calmed somewhat with the arrival of Lady Alwin into his life. Now that she was with child, Robert had entrusted Garrick and Burke to investigate Warren’s whereabouts and learn about the movements of the English army.

  It had been a relief, when upon their arrival to Dunbraes, they had learned that Warren was away on some court business. It would be hard to avoid him, and Garrick suspected that Warren might recognize one or both of them on sight. But now the pompous arse was marching up the road, perhaps only one hundred
yards from where he and Burke stood partly concealed by the thin outskirts of the forest.

  All of this crashed through Garrick’s mind like a wave. They had to move—now. They couldn’t be seen by Warren or his men, and they had to get to the Bruce to deliver this news.

  Garrick quickly dug through his saddlebag and retrieved his metal-studded leather vest, throwing it over his English clothes. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He finished unwrapping his bow and quiver, slinging both over his shoulder. Just before placing his foot in Fletch’s stirrup, he let himself take one last look over his shoulder at Jossalyn.

  He picked out her gleaming gold hair easily. Her back was still to him, but instead of continuing to walk through the village, she had frozen, and her eyes were locked on none other than Raef Warren. The man was barreling down on her from atop his horse. She held her ground, but even from a distance, Garrick could see that she had hunched her shoulders, pulling herself inward defensively.

  What he saw next hit him like a punch to the gut. At the last possible moment, Warren reined in his horse to prevent from trampling her. He then threw himself off his horse’s back and closed the remaining distance between himself and Jossalyn, towering over her. She kept her head down as he appeared to shout at her, waving his hands and leaning toward her, despite being in the middle of not only the crowded village square, but also the procession that was escorting him home.

  Jossalyn simply stood there, head bowed, shoulders hunched, taking the barrage of shouted insults that Warren threw at her. Her lack of response seemed to infuriate him even more, for he gripped her arms and shook her, hard enough that her head whipped back and forth on her neck several times.

  Garrick hadn’t realized it, but he had taken several steps toward the scene in front of him. He was now well clear of the forest line, and was nearly halfway to Jossalyn before Burke’s hand shook his shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Burke said frantically.

  “Jossalyn is in trouble. Warren is hurting—”

  Suddenly something clicked into place in his head. The memories of moments that hadn’t seemed quite right flooded back to him.

  Jossalyn stuttering over both her own last name and her brother’s first and last names.

  Jossalyn being called “lady” in the village, though she had brushed it off uncomfortably.

  Jossalyn being unable to practice her healing art because of her brother’s controlling and manipulative ways.

  Jossalyn being hurt by her brother.

  Jossalyn Williams was actually Jossalyn Warren. Her brother, “Ranald Williams,” was Lord Raef Warren.

  His mind tried to grasp all the implications of this, but he couldn’t seem to get his thoughts in order. He turned back to the scene in front of him, and all thought drained from his mind.

  It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. Warren was drawing back one of his hands from Jossalyn’s arm. He was raising his palm higher and higher, his hand straight and rigid. Jossalyn tilted her head up, her eyes wide, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks in the slanting sunlight.

  Warren was going to hit her. Right across her perfect, innocent face.

  Garrick saw red, but at the same time, everything seemed to fade around him and grow quiet. In one fluid movement, he dropped to one knee and drew an arrow from his quiver. His bow was already in his hand somehow, the wood warm and smooth. He nocked the arrow and drew back, his eyes locked on Warren’s raised hand. Without thinking, he adjusted for the whisper of evening breeze and calculated how far Warren’s hand would travel in the time it took his arrow to reach him.

  He exhaled and let his arrow fly. Warren’s hand was now descending toward Jossalyn’s face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she didn’t flinch away from him.

  Just as Warren’s palm was fully exposed in the space between him and Jossalyn, Garrick’s arrow found its mark. It sunk all the way through his hand, half of the wooden shaft on either side of his palm. His hand froze in the air, a stunned look on his face. Then slowly, Warren turned to look in the direction from which the arrow had flown. Suddenly, everything seemed to speed up again.

  Garrick realized he was sprinting straight for Jossalyn. He threw his bow over his shoulder and drew the sword at his hip as he ran. He faintly registered Burke running just behind him, but he couldn’t give the man any of his attention. He was solely focused on Jossalyn, who had also turned in his direction. Now her eyes locked on him and widened in disbelief and he barreled toward her.

  Chaos was erupting all around. Warren screamed something, a combination of a pained wail and a command to his men-at-arms marching up the road several dozen yards behind him. A few of the men noticed the arrow protruding from their Lord’s hand and broke rank, struggling to draw their swords and face the attack. Even as his men-at-arms advanced, Warren faded backward, scrambling away from the two armed men coming straight at him.

  They all seemed to collide right where Jossalyn and Warren had been standing, though Warren had squeezed himself behind his men-at-arms, and Jossalyn had flung herself out of the road.

  Garrick brought his sword down on one of Warren’s men, landing a fatal blow. He spun just in time to block the swing of a sword aiming to separate his head from his shoulders. The impact of the blow reverberated down his arms, but he held fast to his sword and managed to thrust his enemy’s blade away. The man swung again, but this time Garrick was ready for it. He ducked and thrust upward, piercing the soldier through the stomach. The man screamed and fell, his body toppling onto a fellow soldier Burke had just run through.

  In a matter of seconds, Garrick and Burke had dispatched half a dozen of Warren’s men, but a score more surged toward them. Blessedly, the road on which they fought was creating a bottleneck that allowed only a few soldiers at a time to step up to the deadly swing of the two men’s large blades.

  But Garrick was more comfortable fighting from a distance with his bow. He realized as he drew his sword across the flesh of an oncoming man that they couldn’t hold their position for much longer. The quarters were too close, and there were too many of Warren’s men surging toward them. He threw a glance at Burke, who met his eyes quickly before turning back to the soldier he was squaring off against.

  “Get the lass! I’ll cover you!” Burke panted.

  Garrick’s eyes flew to the side of the road where Jossalyn had flung herself out of the way. She was pressing herself as flat as she could against a stone wall that lined the road, but she was dangerously close to the sword-wielding men-at-arms who were trying to squeeze their way toward Burke and him.

  He hacked through another soldier as he fought against the tide of them pressing down on him. He was almost in reach of her.

  “Jossalyn!” he shouted over the near-deafening noise of battle. Her terrified eyes found him, but just as they did, one of the soldiers was shoved by his comrade and went careening toward her, his blade raised in front of him.

  Garrick dove forward, putting his body between her and the stumbling soldier. He threw his arms against the wall on either side of her small form, creating a shield with his body. He felt a burning slice on his back, but it barely registered. She was safe.

  He turned so that she was at his back and he could face the soldier. With one block and thrust, he had ended another life. He swung his sword with his right hand and used his left to push her along the wall behind him toward where Burke held off three English soldiers at once.

  “Go!” Burke shouted as he cut down another man. He took a blow to the leg which sent him staggering backward, but he righted himself and blocked another swing.

  “You’d better be behind us!” Garrick shouted back.

  Without waiting longer, he wrapped a hand around Jossalyn’s wrist and pulled her into a run with him toward the forest where their horses waited. He could feel her stumbling and struggling to keep up behind him, so he turned and lowered his shoulder into her middle, hoisting her over his sho
ulder like a sack of potatoes. He could hear a whoosh of air from her as he took off running again, but she didn’t scream or resist. She was likely too stunned, Garrick thought somewhere in the back of his mind.

  When he reached the horses that stood nervously at the edge of the forest, he set her down on her feet again and sheathed his sword. He launched himself onto Fletch’s back, then reached down and pulled her up also, but this time behind him. He would need to have unobstructed access to the reins if they were going to make it out of this alive. He leaned over and grabbed Burke’s horse’s reins and spurred them both back toward the battle. Burke was disengaging himself, backing up rapidly away from the onslaught of soldiers, who were now starting to overpower him.

  Garrick whistled as he charged toward Burke, giving him enough warning to take one last swing before bolting toward the forest. Burke only had to take a few hobbling strides before Garrick reached him. He flung himself atop his horse, and Garrick tossed him the reins. They wheeled the animals around hard and sent them flying into the forest once more. Behind them, Garrick could hear Warren’s enraged screams.

  “To the stables! Every man on a horse! After them!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jossalyn clung for dear life to Garrick’s back as they plowed through the dense forest as fast as the horses could take them. She vaguely registered that they were headed northeast, even though Burke and Garrick had traveled northwest the day before to get to their home.

  But that was a foolish thought, for these men clearly weren’t who they had pretended to be. She had barely recognized him when he had come charging toward her. He moved with the same lightning speed and deadly grace she had noticed in him before, but his face had been twisted in rage and bloodlust, and the way he wielded his sword—she swallowed and tried to push the images out of her mind, for she feared she would be sick if she recalled the blood, the limbs, the blades cutting through flesh like butter.