Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The Bruce nodded, his eyes bright with excitement at the memories of victory. “And you were central to our success as well, Garrick—don’t forget that. It was you who was firing arrows on horseback rather than in a straight line among the other archers, you who suggested that some of the men lie in the heather or in the surrounding forests rather than stand before the English waiting to get hacked down.”

  Though he remembered his role clearly, his chest swelled at his King’s praise. Those two battles, where they had finally tried something other than acting like a lesser version of the English army, had been the turning point in the rebellion. Garrick was with the Bruce when they had been forced to flee, first to the Hebrides islands and then to Ireland just last year. They had all been near giving up, but the Bruce wanted to make one more push for his claim to the Scottish crown and independence from England.

  During their flight and exile, the two of them, along with a few of the Bruce’s closest confidantes, devised a strike-and-retreat strategy, which used their knowledge of the Scottish landscape and harnessed the element of surprise, to attack the English. It had worked, both at Glen Trool in April and Loudoun Hill in May. Suddenly, Scotsmen from all corners of the country were joining the rebellion and pledging their allegiance to the Bruce and his cause.

  It had seemed like a foolhardy, last-ditch effort at the time, but their guerrilla tactics had led them to two small victories, enough to keep the cause alive. Now they were poised to finally tip the scales of war one way or the other. On the one hand, Longshanks’ death could mean the perfect time to strike, sealing their claim to independence. On the other, Edward II was an unknown entity who very well might redouble his father’s efforts to bring Scotland to heel. Edward II could even change his father’s tactics, making the Bruce’s recent success moot.

  The Bruce stood again, pacing across the carpeted floor of the tent absently. “I have been thinking that those victories should be our guide on how to proceed with the English. You have been the one to spearhead this stealth fighting strategy. You have clearly proven its effectiveness on the solo missions I have sent you on. You have been able to strike quickly and quietly, leaving the English no target to attack.”

  He halted in his pacing and turned to Garrick, the full force of his dark stare leveling him. “I want you to train all of our men in such tactics. We will be an entire army of silent, invisible warriors who strike quickly then dissolve back into the landscape. We will harry the English until they are so frustrated, so exhausted, so depleted, that they’ll have to leave Scotland alone. We will be a thorn in their side.”

  “Or a thorn in their hand,” Garrick said, subtly reminding the Bruce of their motto, “No one attacks me with impunity,” and the image of the Scottish thistle that resulted in a handful of thorns if a person tried to grab hold of it.

  The Bruce’s eyes lit with an ambitious fire. “That’s exactly it!” He took a step toward Garrick so that he stood over him in his chair. “What do you think, Garrick? Will you train the men in this new style of warfare?”

  “Aye, Robert, I will.” Of course, Garrick would have agreed no matter what—the Bruce was his King, and he was loyal to him until death.

  But it was more than that. He had seen for himself how effective their new strategy had been at both Glen Trool and Loudoun Hill. And of course, there was a reason he had risen so rapidly among the Bruce’s ranks to be one of his closest advisors: his skill at stealth attacks had proved invaluable to the cause. Even though he was only one man, his work had helped level the playing field for an otherwise outnumbered and out-trained Scottish rebel force. The thought of the entire rebel camp being educated in evasion, stealth, and surprise attacks sent a surge of hope through him that they might truly claim their freedom.

  There was another aspect of the Bruce’s plan that made his chest squeeze in optimistic anticipation, too. If his main task was to train the rebels in the art of guerrilla warfare, that would mean he could no longer spend weeks or months in the field working alone. Though he had always been proud of his work and grateful to serve in the rebellion, he found himself wanting something else now—or someone else. This new scheme could mean he would be at camp more often. Suddenly, the idea of having a loved one—a wife or even a family—didn’t seem so impossibly incongruous with his life and work.

  The Bruce was watching him closely, and must have been able to perceive something of these thoughts on his face, despite the fact that Garrick prided himself on being unreadable. But the Bruce was not only a warrior trained in surveillance—he was also a sage observer of men.

  “You have worked in the field for many years, Garrick. Perhaps it is time for a new chapter in your life. Though I know you do not think of yourself in this way, I sense you will be an excellent leader and teacher. Plus, you might enjoy the…connections that such work allows you to make.”

  Garrick didn’t miss the knowing twinkle in the Bruce’s eyes as he spoke. He didn’t need to convince Garrick of the benefits of such a course of action—he could have simply commanded him, and Garrick would have acquiesced. But the Bruce was showing Garrick that he understood very well the fact that Garrick would be able to pursue Jossalyn in this new role. This appointment was not only a strategically smart move for the rebellion, it was also a reward for Garrick’s loyal and steadfast service. Damn, but the Bruce was a clever man, Garrick thought with admiration.

  Garrick was about to stand and excuse himself from the Bruce’s company when one more thought struck him. “And if such a…connection should prove stronger than any other?” His chest squeezed at the thought, but he needed to know if the Bruce would allow one of his top warrior-advisors to marry.

  The Bruce smiled faintly, sadness touching his eyes. He was likely thinking about his own wife and daughters, who had been kidnapped and imprisoned by the English the year before. It had been the start of their dark time together, when all hope seemed to be lost for the cause. As far as they knew, the Bruce’s women were still alive, but Garrick knew that for the Bruce, this fight was deeply personal.

  Seeing his King’s deep anguish at the loss of his wife and children had always made Garrick silently swear not to make such attachments, so as to avoid the potential pain of losing them. But now he realized that a life without love was meaningless. Instead of shying away from love to avoid its potential loss, he suddenly understood that he would fight to the death to protect it—to protect her.

  Was it love with Jossalyn, then? Aye, what else could it be? He was drawn to Jossalyn like no other, was fascinated by her, and longed to know more about her. She fired his blood like nothing he had ever experienced, and he was in awe of her beauty, grace, skill, and strength. Even the mere thought of her not being in his life—or worse, being taken from his life—made him blind with rage and grief. He could only imagine what the Bruce had gone through—and was still living through—at the loss of his wife and daughters.

  The sadness flitted away from the Bruce’s dark eyes, though, to be replaced by a knowing light of approval. “Sometimes, for all that we maneuver and strategize, Fate makes her own plans, eh, man?”

  But then the King turned more serious. “I will give you the same suggestion I gave the lass. Why don’t you view these next few weeks as an information-gathering mission? If in that time your connection proves a solid one”—and he didn’t say it, but Garrick thought, and if Jossalyn proves herself to be loyal and trustworthy, Englishwoman that she is—“then who am I to stand in the way of Mistress Fate’s plan for you two?”

  Garrick’s pulse surged. The Bruce would allow him to marry Jossalyn. He was being cautious, as always, when it came to the safety of the larger cause, but nevertheless, Garrick had an opportunity to secure the King’s blessing on a union with the English sister of one of Scotland’s greatest enemies. And with Garrick’s newly designated role as a trainer of the rebels, marriage suddenly seemed more possible—and more desirable—than ever before.

  In truth, he wouldn’t even
consider marriage if it weren’t for Jossalyn. He wouldn’t just be getting married, or acquiring a wife, he would be binding himself to her forever. The thought send a jolt through him. How greatly life had changed since he met her only a couple of weeks ago outside Dunbraes.

  Garrick stood, exchanged a firm forearm grip with the Bruce, and turned to exit the tent. He had to remind himself that the Bruce had only given him permission to explore the possibility of marriage with Jossalyn. He still needed to secure his final approval. And, of course, he had to ask the lass! Though she had given herself physically to him, and had proclaimed her feelings for him, they had not spoken of the future, or of love.

  He forced away the voice inside his head that told him she would reject him, that a fling didn’t mean she would want to be tied to him for the rest of her life. The old misgivings about his unworthiness still haunted him, but he reminded himself of his word to her that he wouldn’t doubt her. He would have to learn to trust her feelings for him. For if she could come to love him, anything was possible.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The days passed smoothly as Garrick and Jossalyn formed a new routine within the Bruce’s camp. They each spent the days working on their own tasks, and then came together in the evenings to share a meal. More often than not, when they would retire to their tent, a simple brush of the hand or kiss on the cheek would turn into passionate lovemaking. When the metal frame of their small cot began to squeak too much after a week of use, they pulled the straw mattress to the floor and entwined their limbs, taking each other to the heights of pleasure, then sleeping deeply in each other’s arms.

  When Garrick had returned from his private meeting with the King, he had explained his new role as a trainer of the men to Jossalyn. He spent much of his days in a nearby glen with rotating groups of a dozen Scottish soldiers, teaching them what he had learned on his missions about weaknesses in English fighting styles, armor, and weaponry.

  Meanwhile, Jossalyn began to make the rounds through the camp, seeing to its residents, doling out herbs and roots and introducing herself. Though she was often met with surprised stares when she opened her mouth and spoke for the first time—her English accent no doubt jarring in this setting—most people she encountered were quick to welcome her, especially when she was able to help with a persistent cough or an achy joint. A few of those she met remained reserved or even openly suspicious of her, but she didn’t try to push them too hard into trusting her. She would just have to let her work speak for itself.

  She grew more comfortable after the first week in the camp, not only with being surrounded almost entirely by giant, burly warriors in kilts, but also in her role as the camp’s healer. She wasn’t afraid to gather medicinal plants in the thinner parts of the surrounding forest, for she knew her brother wasn’t going to catch her at any moment and strike her for her disobedience. She was sometimes aware of the scouts around the outskirts of the camp, but quickly realized they were protecting her and the others in the area, not trying to prevent her from practicing her healing.

  The only time she felt the itch of discomfort was when she would be crouched to gather some flower or root, or in conversation with a warrior who needed a new poultice for a minor cut, or just wandering through the mazelike camp, and then suddenly, she would catch a glimpse of Finn watching her. He didn’t try to hide, but he kept his distance, staring silently at her from several dozen yards away. Though his dark eyes were unreadable, his gaze would often send a shiver through her, for she felt his suspicion and distrust of her palpably.

  When she would catch him watching her, she would level her chin and go about her business, though her internal impulse would be to scurry away under his sharp eye. She didn’t mention it to Garrick; she figured she was just being overly sensitive, and she didn’t want to behave like a worrywart. Nevertheless, the sight of Finn lurking nearby always sent the hairs on the back of her neck up.

  On a particularly warm late-summer day nearly two weeks after they had arrived at the camp, Jossalyn was in need of more dandelion and decided to stroll toward the practice field to gather some. One of the older soldiers was complaining of gallstones, so Jossalyn had suggested a dandelion tea to ease the discomfort and help dissolve the stones. The glen where the men often practiced and trained with Garrick was one of the few grassy areas nearby, and she thought she remembered seeing some of the cheery yellow flowers there.

  As she approached the field, she noticed that while a group of more than a dozen men were practicing their aim with bows and arrows, another group of a similar size stood waiting for their turn on the outskirts of the glen. She recognized Colin and Angus among those standing along the edge of the field and approached.

  When Colin noticed her, he waved her over to them. “Fine day, isn’t it, lass?”

  The warm weather had caused many of the men to shed their shirts and practice only in their kilts. She blushed as she took in the sight. She wasn’t quite used to so much male flesh on display.

  Then she caught sight of Garrick, and suddenly, she was grateful for the hot sun overhead. Like many of the others, he had stripped to the waist, and sweat glistened off the hard planes of his torso. Though all the men present were warriors, his physique seemed especially honed and magnificent—at least to her eyes, she thought with another blush.

  Garrick hadn’t noticed her standing on the outside of the glen yet, and she relished the opportunity to watch him work. He was explaining to the group of men on the field how English bowmen would normally make a long line and fire a round or two of arrows to create cover for foot soldiers to move forward.

  “This is incredibly ineffective and inaccurate, though,” he said as he strolled around the group of men. “And even when they are lucky enough to hit something, why would we simply stand there and make their job easier for them?” The men rumbled their agreement.

  “So instead of standing around like a bunch of scarecrows waiting to let an Englishman get lucky”—at this the men chuckled—“we’re going to make their target smaller, harder to spot, and harder to hit. We’ll learn how to shoot from a crouch.”

  Those on the practice field remained silent, but several of them shot skeptical glances at one another.

  “You should all be able to hit the same target standing up—” Garrick snatched his bow and an arrow off the ground and stood, firing smoothly at a target on the far side of the field, hitting it dead in the center “—as you can from a crouch.” He knelt down, one knee on the ground and the other bent at ninety degrees. He took another arrow into his bow, aimed, and let it fly. It thunked into the center of the target, nearly overlapping with the first arrow. The men murmured their approval.

  “We will begin practicing shooting from a crouch tomorrow at the same time,” Garrick said, dismissing the group on the field and turning to the waiting men.

  Just then, he spotted Jossalyn, and she felt warmth suffuse her whole body—and it wasn’t from the sun. He strode over to her, his eyes locked on her and a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He had shaved a few days ago, but dark stubble already dusted his handsome face, which was made more enticing by the quirk of his lips. She watched him approach, letting her eyes drop from his face to his bare torso, mesmerized by the movements of the muscles.

  “What brings you to the practice field today, lass?” Then he leaned in and whispered just for her “Couldn’t wait for the sun to go down to see me nearly naked again?”

  She was sure that none of the other men around her, including Colin and Angus standing right next to her, had heard his suggestive tease. Nevertheless, she had to repress the desire to gasp in shock and swat him for the comment.

  “I’m only gathering dandelions for a tea,” she said instead.

  “But I have something for you in the tent.”

  This time she did swipe his shoulder, but it only made him chuckle. “I mean it, lass. I have something I wish to give you that I think you’ll enjoy greatly.”

 
The men heard that well enough, and several of them chortled or murmured a bawdy response.

  Turning to the group, Garrick said in an authoritative voice, “I’ll return in fifteen minutes. I expect you all to have run twenty laps around the field by that time as a warm-up to our training session.”

  There was a collective groan from the men.

  “Fifteen minutes sounds like an awfully long time, Garrick. Are you sure you’ll take that long?” Colin’s ribbing remark drew more chuckles from the men.

  “Make that thirty laps, then,” Garrick replied with a lifted eyebrow, not taking Colin’s teasing bait.

  There were more lighthearted grumbles from the group, but they started trotting around the field. He slid into his shirt, which had been tossed on the ground nearby, then took Jossalyn’s hand and led her back into the camp.

  Jossalyn shot a wide-eyed look at Garrick as he led the way back to their tent.

  Catching her stare, he smiled. “Don’t believe the filthy minds of that lot, lass,” he said. “I merely want to give you something. A…present.”

  “A present?” She could feel a smile spreading across her face to match his. What a decadent thing to receive a gift from her lover. She had begun to allow herself to mentally use that word to describe Garrick, for what else was he? It felt very wanton of her to have a lover, but she also relished the thought that she had chosen him of her own free will and shared her body and her passion with him willingly. Not many women—especially ladies—had that kind of freedom.

  But the word wasn’t the perfect fit—or maybe it was just that she would like another word even more. Husband.

  She was completely content with their arrangement as it was now. She was savoring her newfound confidence and the freedom to openly practice her healing art. Their hungry desire for each other only seemed to grow with time, no matter how much they sated their passionate appetites, she thought with an internal thrill. She was coming to care for and respect him more and more, and she sensed his growing and deepening affection as well. Then why did she want to introduce the idea of marriage into their lives?