Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He turned away from the shelter, only to find Jossalyn staring at him, an unreadable look on her face, but a softness in her eyes. Feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and not wanting to think about why her soft look made his chest pinch, he cleared his throat and said gruffly, “That should do.”

  “Thank you.” She kept her large green eyes locked on him as she approached, only breaking their gaze so she could duck her head down and crawl into the shelter. One more idea occurred to him to make her sleep more comfortable. He went to his saddlebag, which was still next to the fire, and retrieved an extra length of plaid, then went back to the new shelter and knelt in front of it.

  “Here,” he said, extending the plaid toward her. He realized suddenly that perhaps he was fussing too much over her. He berated himself silently, reminding himself that he was supposed to be keeping his distance from her. Why should he overexert himself just to make her comfortable?

  A voice in his head whispered that he wasn’t exactly living up to his self-appointed title of villain very well. But just because he was an assassin in Robert the Bruce’s army didn’t mean he was a cold-hearted bastard. What was so bad about trying to make the lass comfortable, especially when it was his own blockheaded and moon-eyed “rescue” of her that had put her in this situation?

  She took the proffered plaid but was gazing up at him with that look in her eyes again—a combination of tenderness and desire. He had to get out of here before he did something stupid again.

  “I’ll be back,” he said tersely, standing.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” A thin edge of concern cut through the surprise in her voice.

  “Hunting.” They could use some fresh food, but the real reason was because he needed to calm his mind and straighten out his thoughts, and nothing did that better than having his bow in his hand.

  “Oh.”

  Just as he was turning away again, she called after him once more.

  “I was wondering…why does your bow look so strange?”

  He couldn’t help the smile that quirked up one side of his mouth. So she had noticed. As far as he knew, he was the only Scot with a recurve bow from the Holy Land, and likely the only one in all the British Isles.

  “It’s called a recurve bow. You’ve seen normal longbows?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you’ll know that they are long and almost straight, and can be as tall as their shooter. They are made out of yew, which makes sense in these parts since it’s fairly common and sturdy wood. They are also easy to make, which is important in wartime, like now, because it doesn’t take as much time or skill to produce them. What did you notice was different about my bow?”

  She thought for a moment. “It was curved or warped somehow, and was a bit shorter than the bows I’ve seen. The two ends seemed to be going the wrong way.”

  He nodded. “That makes it far harder to make, but more accurate and precise. Most English armies line up in long rows and shoot a swarm of arrows at their opponent, hoping some of them reach a mark, but relying more on sheer numbers rather than accuracy. My bow is designed to be shot from horseback or among tree cover, so it is more maneuverable and precise.”

  He surprised himself at his own loquaciousness, but he felt a twinge of pride, not only for his bow, but also for the fact that she had noticed it.

  She tilted her head to the side a little. “Where did you get it?”

  “The Holy Land. I was on a mission.” He almost added that he had been hunting a target for the Bruce, but decided to withhold that information. For some reason he didn’t like the thought of her picturing him hunting down and killing someone on the order of the King of the Scottish rebels. He shouldn’t care what she thought of him, but he did.

  Her eyes widened in amazement, and he reminded himself that most people never traveled more than a day or so away from their homes. In her case, she had moved from England to the Borderlands, and was now in Lowland Scotland, but her circumstances were rare and unique. He had seen more of the world than most people could dream of. Working for the Bruce had taken him to Ireland, France, and even the Holy Land.

  Though he believed in the importance of his work and was honored to call the Bruce his King and commander, the reminder about how different his life was from hers sat like a stone in his stomach. Yet another piece of evidence that the two of them could never be together.

  That thought startled him, for he didn’t realize that some small part of him was still looking for a plan that would allow him and Jossalyn to be together. He shouldn’t need to collect evidence for why it wouldn’t work. He should already have moved on from his little fantasy.

  “I won’t be long,” he said, turning to go again, “but you should sleep.” He had to get his head on straight before he forgot all his reasons and logic and duty. Because if he didn’t start thinking clearly, he would join her in the shelter and do something that no amount of reason or logic or duty would undo.

  The rain was finally unleashing its full might, just in time for him to be trying to keep their little fire alive. Upon his return from his hunt, he had stowed their saddlebags inside Burke’s shelter to protect them from the mounting downpour. Then he had skinned, cleaned, and skewered the rabbit he had shot. Now he was trying to roast it over the meager flames, but the rain seemed to have other plans.

  Both Jossalyn and Burke were still sleeping, Jossalyn peacefully inside her dry little shelter, and Burke somewhat fitfully. Garrick had forced more tea down his throat and had changed the dressing on his leg a few more times, but Burke’s fever still burned, and the wound looked angry and enflamed.

  He had thought of rousing Jossalyn, first to have her check on Burke to see if anything else could be done, and then to share the rabbit with him, which would have been done cooking by now if the skies hadn’t decided to open up and nearly completely douse his fire. It was already sometime between late afternoon and early evening if Garrick could judge correctly through the heavy cloud cover. She had been asleep for several hours, but he was glad he hadn’t roused her. She needed it, and who knew when they would get a place and time to rest again?

  Unfortunately, his bow had offered him little in the way of solace or clarity as he had hunted. He still had no idea what to do about Jossalyn. He knew that he couldn’t keep her with him, at least not after Burke healed—God willing. He still wouldn’t let himself wonder what would happen if his cousin, his brother’s right-hand man, and, he grudgingly admitted, someone who had become a companion and friend to him over the last few weeks, somehow didn’t pull through. He had to believe Burke would make it, and that they would still be able to complete their mission together.

  When—not if—Burke was well enough to ride, they would need to continue heading north, and fast. But Garrick had to get to the Bruce, whereas Burke needed to report back to Garrick’s brother Robert. Although Robert was still Garrick’s Laird and leader of the Sinclair clan, the Bruce’s position as the King of Scotland trumped his brother’s authority over him. Burke could report back to Robert on what they had learned in the Borderlands about Warren’s movements, and Garrick would deliver the news of Longshanks’ death and the crowning of Edward II to the Bruce.

  But where did that leave Jossalyn in all of this?

  He still didn’t like the idea of leaving her in some random village in the middle of Scotland. He hated to admit it, but he felt too protective of her to do that. Though her healing skills would be welcomed anywhere she went, the farther into Scotland they traveled, the less amenable people would be to having an English lass in their midst. Some would likely distrust her, while others might even be openly hostile toward her. Plus, word of a bonnie English lass in the middle of nowhere in Scotland would likely draw attention. Her brother might be able to find her, or maybe someone looking to kidnap and ransom her would be drawn in. Either way, her presence would stand out and draw unwanted notice.

  But he couldn’t very well take her with him—could he? Though he longed
to cling to any thread of an idea that would mean he could stay in her presence longer, he couldn’t think desperately or let his desire for the lass cloud his judgment. He couldn’t involve her further in the rebellion—it wasn’t safe for her to be in the middle of a war. And besides, he doubted that the Bruce or the others in the army would appreciate him bringing an English lass—and Raef Warren’s sister no less—into their secret camp.

  His mind continued to churn, still unable to find a solution.

  Just as he was about to give up on the rabbit ever getting cooked, he heard the distant whinny of a horse and froze.

  He strained to hear through the patter of rain in the trees, praying he had been mistaken. But then he heard it again—another whinny, a bit to the left of where the first had come from.

  He bolted upright, and in a flash, had kicked dirt over the fire, rabbit and all. Luckily, the ground was soft and damp enough that the fire was quickly smothered, and the ground looked relatively undisturbed. He grabbed his bow and quiver, which he had wisely kept with him after his hunt instead of returning them to where the horses were stowed. His mind tried to picture how well the animals were hidden, and he prayed they were resting quietly behind the thick screen of shrubbery that blocked the entrance to their little cave.

  A cursory glance around their makeshift camp didn’t reveal any obvious signs of their presence. Then again, someone was about to stumble upon them, and Garrick would bet his bow that it was Warren and a small English army. But the ground hadn’t held their footprints, and the two shelters looked to be naturally-occurring.

  He quickly ducked his head into Burke’s shelter, but his cousin was still sleeping relatively soundly, so he covered the entry with a few extra branches and went to Jossalyn’s lean-to. She was curled in a ball on her side, her blonde hair splayed across his plaid, which she was using as a pillow. At any other moment, he would have lingered to drink in the sight of her, but as it was, there was no time to indulge himself. He eased his way inside the shelter, though the quarters were tight, and pulled another few needled branches behind him to cover the entry as best as he could.

  Just then, he heard the snap of a branch, closer than the whinnies had been. Someone—or a group of people on horseback—was nearly on top of them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The heavy weight of a callused hand clamped over Jossalyn’s mouth. Her eyes sprung open, panic stabbing through her.

  “Don’t make a sound,” came the low voice right next to her ear. She tried to thrash away from the man behind her who was holding his hand over her mouth, but his arm pinned her upper body, and he threw a large leg over her kicking legs.

  “It’s me, lass. It’s Garrick.” His breath tickled her cheek and neck, and despite the fact that he spoke right into her ear, she could barely hear him, he spoke so quietly.

  He eased his hand back slightly from her mouth, trying to make sure she wouldn’t scream or thrash again. She turned her head slightly so she could lock eyes with him. He shook his head in a warning, and then jerked it toward the entrance to her shelter, indicating something outside.

  She froze and felt her eyes grow wide. Burke? she mouthed silently. He jutted his head backward to where Burke was apparently still lying inside his own shelter. Then he leaned in and his lips brushed her ear, sending shivers through her.

  “Men on horseback,” he whispered. He lifted his arm and leg off her and twisted toward the entrance of the lean-to, which was covered with a few branches to obscure the view of them inside. She sat up next to him and peered out into the woods, which were darkened with the bluish-gray light of evening. The clouds were still thick overhead, further dimming the light, and rain fell heavily.

  Through the trees and underbrush, she began to see shadowy figures emerge. She felt her stomach tighten and twist. As the group moved closer, she guessed there were over a dozen of them, their armor dull in the low light. She could tell just by their armor that they were her brother’s men, but instead of riding in two tight rows side by side like she had seen them do on their way in and out of Dunbraes, they were fanned out and moving slowly across the forest.

  They were hunting them.

  She couldn’t quite suppress a shudder of terror. What would her brother and his men do when they found them? She suddenly pictured a sword sinking into Garrick, his blood seeping out of him as he crumpled to the forest floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to not only will the image away, but also push her brother and his men in a different direction.

  But they kept moving closer. When they were only fifty yards away, she unexpectedly caught sight of her brother. He still wore the same fine clothes he had been clad in when he had arrived at Dunbraes from Cumberland with word of the King’s death, though they were wet and rumpled now. There was a bandage wrapped carelessly around his right hand, where Garrick had shot him. The bandage, white except for a dark smear of blood, glowed bluish in the dim light. He and his men must have been pursuing them just as hard as they had been fleeing, though this group traveled slower since there were more of them, plus they had to pick out the signs of their trail.

  Her brother spurred his horse forward and ahead of the arc of soldiers sweeping the forest, more tense and alert all of a sudden. She watched as he turned his head this way and that, scanning the woods. He sniffed the air suspiciously and turned his horse in a slow circle.

  Jossalyn held her breath, praying they would move on but fearing the worst. She felt a movement at her side and glanced at Garrick. Ever so gradually, he was nocking an arrow into his curved bow, which he had raised in front of him. He slowly pushed the tip of the arrow through a small gap in the branches covering the opening of the shelter and drew back the bowstring.

  Panic sliced through her. If he fired, their hidden position would be revealed, and it would be Garrick against more than a dozen armed soldiers. And he would have her and Burke to worry about also. But her fear was suddenly eclipsed when she looked down the shaft of the arrow and saw who he was aiming at.

  Garrick was pointing the arrow right at her brother’s heart, and he was about to fire.

  Garrick slowed his breathing, focusing on the sound of his heartbeat as he locked his eyes on his target. Warren continued to look around suspiciously. The second Warren spotted them, he would let his arrow find its mark deep within the man’s chest. He had nine arrows in his quiver, ten if he counted the one that was currently aimed at Warren, plus his fletching dagger in his boot.

  He had left Burke’s and his swords with the horses, which he regretted now, but if all of his arrows flew true, he would be able to take out most of the men before they could reach him or Jossalyn. Once the arrows were spent, he would have to count on his skill and a lot of luck to be able to take out the remaining men, who all had armor, swords, and horses. It was a long shot, but if they were spotted, he had no alternative.

  He let all this slide through his mind like sand through his fingers as he homed in on his target. He always found this sanctuary of calm right before he let one of his arrows fly. He was totally in the present, letting sensations and thoughts wash over him as he became completely focused.

  Just as he reached this internal refuge, Jossalyn wrapped her hand around the arrow and pulled it out of line with his target.

  “No,” she breathed, her voice breaking through the silence in his head.

  The arrow’s jerk sent a slight ruffle of movement through the branches of pine needles blocking the shelter’s entrance. Warren’s head whipped around, either sensing the movement of the branches or hearing Jossalyn’s whispered plea.

  In a flash, Garrick released his bow and pulled her back against his chest. He wrapped one large hand around both of Jossalyn’s wrists, clamping the other over her mouth. It was probably too late, but he held her still, trying to quiet even their breathing. He could feel her breath hitch and knew that she, too, was staring at her brother, whose eyes scanned their area.

  Time stretched. It felt like Warren was look
ing right at them, his eyes boring into their shelter. Garrick again visualized taking on all these men, but this time without the element of surprise. Warren would give the signal at any moment, and all those armored soldiers would come crashing down on them. He might be able to get a few shots off, but it would come down to his six-inch fletching dagger. It would be a lost cause. He and Burke would be killed quickly, and the Bruce would never get his information in time. And Jossalyn would either be killed or dragged back with her brother, probably to be locked away, never to see the light of day or use her healing skills again.

  He tried to savor this moment, since it would likely be his last pleasant experience on earth. Jossalyn’s hair was brushing his nose, and he inhaled her scent—wildflowers, as if she had rolled in a field of them. He closed his eyes for a second and let himself drink in the image of tumbling with her through a springtime meadow in the Highlands, the sun warm on their skin and the sweet new grass cushioning them.

  He released his hold on her wrists and slowly reached for the dagger in his boot. She stayed motionless, her slim back pressed into his chest. If he had to die, at least he had known a sliver of happiness in Jossalyn’s presence. She was like a balm to his black soul, making him feel like he was a good man, or at least that he was better than he thought himself to be. He had put her in the middle of this chaos, though. He could only pray she would be safe after he was gone.

  “Lord Warren!”

  Garrick snapped his eyes toward the voice. One of the soldiers had broken rank and was riding toward Warren. Reluctantly, Warren broke off his searching gaze and turned toward the soldier who had called him.