Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  For one thing, he still had lingering doubts about her allegiance. He hated himself for being so suspicious and untrusting, but thinking the worst of people—nay, thinking realistically—had saved his life more than once. He believed she identified with Scotland’s struggle for freedom, and that she wanted to be in a place where her healing gift would help the most number of people. But the memory of her grabbing his arrow just as he was about to shoot Warren still chaffed. If push came to shove, would she side with her brother, or with the Scots?

  Even assuming she would be loyal to his people, there was the problem of the Bruce’s men themselves. Garrick doubted they would trust her, especially if they knew who she was related to. If they didn’t accept her into the camp, she would be in more danger than she was now. They could turn on her, or simply let it be known that an English healer lass was in their presence. Word would get back to Warren eventually, Garrick was sure of it.

  The one glimmer of hope he allowed himself to indulge in was the thought of her being in the Bruce’s camp with him. It meant that instead of days, they might have weeks together—until the Bruce sent him on another secret mission.

  But would having more time in each other’s presence only make things harder on both of them? A small part of him had hoped that by sating their lust for each other last night, the razor-sharp passion between them would be dulled. He would have scratched an itch that was long overdue, given the fact that he hadn’t been in the company of a lass in a long while. And she would have gotten to explore her newfound sexual desires with someone who wouldn’t take her virginity. That could have been it.

  But he knew such a possibility was a long-shot to begin with. He hadn’t been terribly surprised when his desire for her hadn’t been blunted at all by their encounter.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was that his longing for her, body and mind, would redouble in force. He wanted her more than ever before, the memory of her body writhing in pleasure, his name on her lips, her hand touching his—Christ, he had to keep his mind on track.

  That was precisely the problem. With Jossalyn around the Bruce’s camp, Garrick didn’t fully trust himself to be able to think clearly, let alone act as one of the Bruce’s top advisors and warriors. And what would happen once he was sent off on another mission? He would be forced to leave Jossalyn, the most beautiful, tantalizing, enthralling woman he had ever met, in the middle of a camp filled with randy and virile Scottish warriors. He forced himself to release his jaw, which had clenched at the mere thought.

  He should just be grateful that he had gotten to spend any time with her at all. He was a lucky and undeserving bastard. Perhaps instead of worrying about the future, he should just enjoy what he had while he had it.

  With that thought, he hunkered down on the ground in front of the dying fire. The sun was already sloping toward afternoon. He had a few hours left to rest before they would start the next leg of their journey northward. He might as well enjoy the dreams of Jossalyn that were sure to lace his sleep.

  Jossalyn woke to a little shake of her shoulder. She tried to ignore it and reenter her dream, which had involved Garrick’s hands, lips, and tongue, but the soft shake came again. She muttered and turned away from the hand on her shoulder, only to hear a faint chuckle behind her. Garrick’s husky laugh sent a thrill through her, blending her sensual dream with an image of his smiling face in her foggy, half-awake brain.

  “You are fussier than an old cat, lass.”

  She jerked upright, fully awake now.

  “I’ve let you sleep as long as I can, but the sun has set, and Burke and the horses are ready. It’s time to head out.”

  The teasing lingered in his voice at first, but then he turned into the serious warrior she was becoming familiar with. He was leaning into her shelter, the warmth of his body invading the small space.

  Despite her excitement to be headed toward Robert the Bruce’s secret camp, she felt obligated to say, “I still think it is too soon for Burke to travel.”

  “I think he and I will both go stir-crazy if we are pinned down like a fox in its den with your brother and his men sweeping the area,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

  She nodded and picked up his plaid, which she had been sleeping on, and extended it toward him.

  “Nay, keep it, lass,” he said quietly. “You can use it tonight as we ride if you need to. The nights have been cool.”

  She averted her eyes, remembering how warm the previous night had been when she was pressed against him and tucked snugly under his plaid. He retreated out of the shelter, and she followed, hoping her cheeks weren’t as bright red as the Sinclair colors in her hand.

  Just as Garrick had said, everything was ready for their departure. The air was the pale blue of early twilight, but she could make out Burke standing next to his horse, leaning his weight on one leg. Garrick helped boost him into the saddle, and Burke managed to swing his leg over his horse, grunting slightly. Then Garrick mounted his own horse and guided the animal over to where she stood.

  He extended a hand to her, which she took, and was immediately lifted into the air. Garrick pulled her in front of him so that she was straddling his horse, her back and bottom plastered to his front. The position was familiar to her now, but it nevertheless sent a shiver of heat through her.

  As he nudged his horse forward, reining it eastward, she took a quick look back over her shoulder at their temporary camp. No trace of their presence remained. It was odd, she thought, because she would never forget this spot for as long as she lived.

  It was where she had decided to join the Scottish rebellion.

  It was where she had shared her body with Garrick, their pleasure intertwining next to that slow-moving creek.

  It was where she had come alive.

  She turned her head forward again, ready to meet her future.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Despite his best efforts to remind himself of all the reasons why he didn’t deserve the lass riding in front of him on Fletch’s back—why he didn’t deserve happiness at all—Garrick felt joy seeping into his limbs.

  Jossalyn’s hair kept brushing his face, and the combination of her scent and her soft, slim body pressed against him was becoming familiar yet thrillingly tantalizing. Burke had come through the fever, and his leg, though still healing, would eventually be fine. And he was headed back toward Robert the Bruce’s camp—once they turned northward anyway—where he would be able to deliver the news of Longshanks’ death and complete this mission. With Jossalyn at his side.

  Though the fears and worries still bubbled up through his growing happiness, it felt as though the decision were already made, and since Jossalyn was coming with him to the Bruce’s camp, he might as well enjoy their connection. Despite all the odds, despite his dark deeds as part of the Scottish resistance, and his attempts to resist what now seemed inevitable, they were together for this journey, and they sought the same destination—the Bruce’s headquarters.

  They even both sought the same work, in a way. They both wanted to help the Bruce and the other Scottish rebels achieve their freedom. He still didn’t dare let himself get carried away in his imagination, but a seed of hope was beginning to take root in his mind. Perhaps there was a chance they could have a future together. He knew he should just be grateful for the time he had with her now, but he was greedy. He wanted more of her.

  He let himself indulge in the pleasurable ache for her throughout the long night as they cut eastward across the Lowlands. He savored the moment when she leaned back against his chest about halfway through the night, her head tucked under his chin and her body warm and limp in his arms. He let her wildflower scent wrap around him. He even gave over the lead to Burke, allowing himself to simply follow his cousin instead of cut the path himself as he relished the feel of her against him. She slept like that for a few hours, but all too soon the sky began to lighten with the first traces of dawn, and she slowly came awake.

  “I’m sorry,” she said
softly, turning her head slightly over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to fall—”

  “Rest all you like, lass. I don’t mind.” And he meant it. He wasn’t thinking about the fastest path back to the Bruce and his camp at the moment. He was here with her now.

  Suddenly, Burke reined in his horse and cursed. Garrick tore his eyes away from Jossalyn’s upturned face and followed Burke’s gaze. They had come upon a clearing in the woods, and the pre-dawn light revealed a small cottage along with a barn and shed nearby.

  But something was wrong.

  Instead of a trail of smoke winding out of the cottage’s chimney, there was smoke rising from one of the corners of the thatched roof. Or what was left of the thatched roof. The charred remains of the thatch appeared black in the bluish light, and though one corner still smoked, it looked like the fire had been out for several hours.

  The glen was dead quiet.

  Instinctively, Garrick reached for his bow, which was sticking partway out of one of his saddlebags. Burke’s hand was already on the sword at his waist. Garrick clutched the bow, but there was nothing to shoot at, and besides, Jossalyn’s position in front of him would prevent him from firing an accurate shot anyway. She suddenly tensed, seeing the cabin and apparently sensing the men’s alertness.

  He swung down from the saddle but didn’t reach up to pull her to the ground after him. Instead, he placed the reins in her hand.

  “Stay on Fletch’s back, lass,” he said in a low voice. “If anything happens, I want you to kick him as hard as you can and guide him toward the north.” He indicated the direction with the curved end of his bow, and then locked eyes with her, making sure she understood.

  She swallowed and nodded, her eyes wide and dark green in the dim light. He pulled his quiver out of his saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder, keeping his bow firmly gripped in his hand. Burke had already dismounted and had drawn his sword all the way. The two men made eye contact, each giving the other a little nod. Then they slowly approached the cottage, both sweeping their half of the glen with their eyes, weapons at the ready. Nothing moved except for the grass around each man’s feet, and the glen was silent and still.

  When they were about halfway to the cottage, Garrick thought he made out a dark lump in the high grass, but he wasn’t sure. He slowly stepped closer.

  Jossalyn’s scream cut through the silence like a knife.

  He spun around, an arrow already nocked and his bowstring drawn back to his cheek. Jossalyn still sat atop Fletch at the edge of the forest, but her eyes were locked on something on the ground off to her right. Garrick shot Burke a quick glance, and after Burke’s nod to him, Garrick sprinted back toward Jossalyn, the tip of his arrow lowered but the bow still half-draw and at the ready.

  As he drew nearer, he could make out the look of horror that was transforming Jossalyn’s delicate features. Once at her side, he let his eyes follow the line of her gaze. Several feet away in the forest’s undergrowth, he saw a small shoe. His eyes trailed farther still, and when he saw what had caused Jossalyn to scream, he swallowed hard.

  A child lay motionless in the underbrush, face-up and open-eyed.

  His throat was slit.

  Garrick unnocked the arrow and slipped it back into his quiver, then quickly slung his bow over his shoulder and turned to Jossalyn. Her eyes were wide and horror-stricken, her mouth open, but no scream came out.

  “Jossalyn, sweeting, look at me,” he said quietly at Fletch’s side. “Look at me, Jossalyn,” he said more firmly when she remained frozen.

  She didn’t respond or seem to have heard him, so he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her down from Fletch’s back. Fletch was now between her and the child’s lifeless body, and she was forced to tear her eyes away from the scene. He took her chin in his hands and leaned into her face, locking his eyes on hers.

  “Jossalyn, listen to me. No matter what, that boy was innocent. Do you hear me? No matter what happened, that boy is in heaven now. Jossalyn, he is in heaven now, and nothing can hurt him.”

  She blinked. His words may have penetrated to the recesses of her mind, but she didn’t show it. She stared blankly at him for a moment, and then furrowed her brow.

  “Where is the rest of his family? He is too young to be playing in the woods by himself. Where is his family?” She spoke in a detached tone that frightened him. She began walking toward the cabin, muttering, “Where is his family?” under her breath. She sounded like she would chastise the boy’s parents for letting the child into the forest by himself, as if he hadn’t been murdered and left there to rot.

  He tried to grip her arm to stop her from going farther into the glen, but she shook him off and walked faster.

  “Jossalyn, don’t!” Burke shouted from the cottage’s doorway. He had sheathed his sword and poked his head inside, but his face was hard and tight from whatever he had seen within.

  But it was too late. She had made it halfway across the glen, Garrick hurrying behind her, when she halted dead in her tracks. She had reached the dark lump in the grass that had been indiscernible to Garrick earlier in the pre-dawn dimness.

  Now he saw that it was another body.

  A woman’s body. She lay face-down in the tall grass of the glen, but her skirts were pulled up and twisted around her waist. Suddenly, Jossalyn turned away and retched into the grass.

  Garrick hardened himself to the sight before him on the ground. He had seen the likes before. He hated himself for turning off inside, but it was the only way he knew how to cope with the sight of the violation and slaughter of women and children. He knelt briefly by the woman’s side, tugging her skirts down so that at least she had some dignity in death. He whispered a prayer for her as Burke came to his side, limping slightly. His cousin was grim-faced and ashen, even in the warming light of the pre-dawn sky.

  Garrick indicated toward the woods and said quietly, “A child.”

  Burke nodded and swallowed, then jutted his chin toward the cabin. “It’s burned out in there, but there was another…a girl…”

  He couldn’t go on, but he didn’t have to. Garrick could picture perfectly another murdered child, but because she was a girl, she had likely been raped like her mother. Garrick turned his back on the entire scene, fearing that like Jossalyn, he would become sick. She had finished retching in the grass and was slowly pulling herself upright as she dragged a shaky hand over her mouth. He strode to her side, then took her by the arm and walked her to the opposite edge of the forest, so that her back was to the glen.

  On the other side of the glen, she suddenly seemed to come to pieces. A moan escaped her, and she leaned limply toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, steadying her as sobs racked her body. He felt useless and hollow but tried to give her every last shred of himself as she cried into his shoulder. He stroked her hair, whispering every endearment he could think of. When his English ran out, he switched to Gaelic, murmuring all the sweet words his nursemaid used to say whenever he or his brothers were sick.

  The sky grew lighter, and then the sun cracked over the horizon and through the trees at the edge of the forest where they stood. Garrick was vaguely aware that Burke had moved slowly around the glen, finishing their sweep of the area and gathering their horses, and was now approaching. Jossalyn’s crying was slowing and quieting, and eventually, she placed a hand on his chest, pushing back a bit so she was standing upright on her own two feet. He kept his hands on her upper arms to steady her, though. She wiped both hands across her face, drying the tears with the sleeves of her dress. She took a few deep breaths, trying to regain some composure.

  “What happened here?” she said finally. Her voice was cracked and dry from her sobs.

  Garrick exchanged a look with Burke, weighing how much to tell her.

  “The English,” he finally said simply.

  A look of shock and horror briefly returned to her face. “What do you mean? You think the English did this?”

  Garrick nodded. It chilled
him, but he knew it was the truth. He only wished she hadn’t had to face the horrible reality that was his world. Death. Rape. Razed villages. Murdered children. This was his life. He had immersed himself in it, lived with it, and returned kill for kill. He knew he still had a shred of honor—he had never violated women or killed children—but he doled out death to the English, just as they doled it out to the Scottish. Now she would finally see him for what he was. Now his beautiful, foolish dream of a future with Jossalyn would be over. He steeled himself, closing himself off to the pain just as he did at the sight of death.

  He turned and took Fletch’s reins, preparing to mount.

  “That’s it? How do you know this was done by the English? You are just leaving?” Her voice rose in anger as he swung into his saddle.

  “I can explain more later, but I don’t plan on lingering here any longer,” he said, a bit more curtly than he had intended.

  “But what about the b—the bodies?”

  He couldn’t quite suppress a flinch. It was despicable, but they would have to leave them as they were. “If whoever did this comes back through the area, they will know someone else was here and may still be nearby. Avoiding detection is our best chance to get to the north in one piece.”

  “He’s right, lass,” Burke said, far more gently than Garrick would ever be able to manage.

  For some reason, he hated his cousin for a moment. He was always able to find the right words, to be kind and understanding, while Garrick was rough and curt. Of course, Burke’s ability to think and act smoothly on his feet had saved them more than once, but some small part of him was jealous that compared to Burke, he was a walking, talking sledge hammer.

  Jossalyn suddenly looked exhausted. There were dark smudges under her red-rimmed eyes, and her shoulders slumped forward like it was an effort just to stay upright. She didn’t say anything, but walked over to Fletch and extended her hand to be pulled up into the saddle, though she didn’t make eye contact with Garrick. Once she and Burke were both settled, he spurred Fletch due north. The time for dallying was long gone.