“Know this.… you will receive no … further … warnings. The next man to disobey my orders will be flogged … by me.” He peered directly into their eyes as he passed again. “If you wish to serve in the king’s army, as you’ve sworn an oath to do, then you will conduct yourselves as king’s men. With honor. With discipline. You follow orders. My orders. Not your own impulsive, base desires. If you can do this, you will be rewarded. Perhaps not with wealth, but with the respect you will earn, as well as the appreciation of your king—and your commander.”
He stepped back, looking at them—meeting their gazes, one by one. He crossed his arms over his chest. “D’ye ken?”
“Aye,” the men answered as one.
He saw understanding in some faces—the realization they’d been given another chance to seek a different life, as well as his forgiveness. Others … not. Indeed, he could almost predict the ones would suffer lashes in the coming days, which gave him no pleasure, and certainly no satisfaction, but he would not abide criminals in his ranks—especially those who would victimize innocents. Those were the worst crimes of all. Perhaps God could forgive such sins, but he would not.
“Very well,” he said. “Because the day after tomorrow we move camp again, and again you will dig.”
“Aye, sir,” they shouted, many nodding.
His captain moved forward. “Each man, take yer spade and follow me.”
Turning to another of his captains who waited behind them, arms crossed over his chest, Cull spoke again. “Take me to the travelers.”
Graham, his second-in-command, nodded. “Aye, sir. This way.”
Graham led him to a copse of trees, where underneath, the men he’d seen that morning, along with the old woman, waited, their clothes splattered with mud and their faces drawn. They sat or crouched, surrounded by their meager belongings, but one man paced, his gaze searching the encampment—before focusing on Cull as he approached.
Cull had noticed the man earlier. ’Twas difficult not to, as the entire surface of his skin was covered with tattoos, a startling collection of complex swirls and images. Beyond that, he was a powerful bull of a man with a thick, muscular neck and arms to match. Older than the others, he carried the air of a leader. Behind him, as the rest of the party became aware of Cull’s arrival, they stood as well.
“My girl—” cried the old woman, her hands clasped together, looking as if she would fall to pieces if not given some assurance.
Seeing her fear, Cull’s heart faltered—as much as his heart was capable of faltering.
“Is safe,” he replied, lifting a hand. He took no pleasure in inflicting fear or pain on innocents. Indeed, he wished these innocents had not traveled into the face of the army gathered here. He looked at the tattooed man. “What is your name?”
Storms clouded the man’s eyes, and he answered through clenched teeth. “Deargh.”
“Deargh, tell me, what clan do you and your kinsmen claim?” He stared hard into the man’s eyes—but the man did not look away. Indeed, his eyes challenged Cull.
Cull was younger than most of the King’s Guards beside whom he served, and a good many of his warriors. He had learned to command respect from those who might be reluctant to give it.
He held the man’s gaze. “I suggest you don’t look at me like that, old man, unless you wish for me to treat you as an enemy, rather than a temporary guest in my camp.”
“This is not how you treat guests,” Deargh growled, his hands curling into fists at his side.
“I could show you how I treat my enemies, if you like,” he replied, with a tilt of his head. “Then you can decide which you like best.”
Deargh’s lips pressed into a fine line, and his nostrils flared. He blinked, then lowered his gaze—a response that gave Cull immediate satisfaction, for he had no wish to be in conflict with this man. “We are … MacClellans, traveling to join our Drummond kin, to work the spring fields.”
Several others nodded. Others tensed, as if waiting to see if the explanation would be accepted. But Cull had noted the man’s pause in speaking the name of his clan, as if the answer did not come naturally.
“Or ye could be Kincaids,” said Cull, with a lift of his shoulder. He shifted his gaze toward the camp.
It mattered not to him. It would not change his decision on how to proceed.
“Nay … sir,” answered Deargh, with a curl of his lip, as if speaking the word “sir” went against his nature. “We were trying our best to avoid them, when we came upon your men.” He gestured with his big, scarred hands. “We’ve no quarrel with either side, so if y’d just return our lass to us, and let us go, we’ll not trooble y’ further.”
The urgency in the man’s eyes flared when he spoke about the lass.
The lass. The filthy, wild creature that presently occupied his tent. Perhaps she was this man’s daughter, or even his granddaughter. Cull did not want to know. He had learned long ago not to ask questions, for if he had to kill any of them later, it would only be more difficult and weigh more heavily on his conscience. He was a King’s Guard, sworn to serve the Scottish king and those whom the monarch and the estates placed in command—not to ask questions. But there was no reason that he and this man could not be honest with each other.
Cull peered directly into the man’s eyes. “I cannot allow you to continue on your way. Not yet.”
“But sir—”
“Ye say ye are MacClellans, but I don’t know who ye are, or where your loyalties lie. Because of this, I must keep you close for a while longer.” They stared at him, hard-eyed and tense, yet without any true surprise, as if they’d known they wouldn’t be released. “Ye’ll serve me, and this army for a sennight perhaps, mayhap even less, and then ye’ll go free, to continue on your journey if that is what you wish—or take up arms against us, in which case ye will die. Understand, ’tis no punishment that you must remain here, simply a necessary consequence. But you must earn your keep while you are here. Men, you will cut timber, and transport it to our next encampment. Mistress, do you bake?”
The woman looked at the tattooed man, and he nodded.
“Aye,” she answered earnestly. “As does the lass. She would be a great help to me. To anyone.”
“Nay, mistress, after what occurred this morning, the girl would only cause distraction and strife in my camp, and I fear, she would soon enough find herself in danger. She will keep my quarters in order, tend my fire and mend my garments, or whatever else my manservant can find for her to do.” The pain reflected in the old woman’s eyes struck him hard, in his chest. “Ye have no cause to fear for her person, nor her innocence. You must trust me in this, aye?” He met the woman’s gaze squarely, before shifting to Deargh. “And you, old man. Yes? You have my word she will not be harmed or misused.”
A young man who stood behind Deargh pushed closer. Dried blood darkened his nose. “What ye are saying is that she wilnae be misused as long as we obey you,” he growled, his dark eyes flashing with hate. “That if we follow yer orders, and don’t try tae escape, she wilnae be harmed, and we wilnae be killed. She’s yer hostage and we’re yer prisoners. We don’t believe anything you say.”
“Quiet, Nathan,” Deargh muttered.
But Cull stared into the young man’s eyes. “Believe whatever you wish.”
He had no time for arguing with strangers over something that could not be changed. With a nod to the woman, and to Deargh, he turned and strode away.
To Graham, he said, “Bring them water, with which to wash, and allow them the same morning rations as the men. Then put them to work cutting timber. The woman will assist the baker.”
“Aye, sir.” Graham tilted his head in acquiescence, and turned on the heel of his boot to stride toward the temporary captives.
Robert appeared on horseback then, drawing Cull’s destrier, with several other King’s Guards following on their mounts. As they drew near, Cull swung into his saddle. Riding away from camp, they rode some two hours north, taking
careful note of distance, the difficulty of the terrain, and landmarks. Once there, one step nearer to the Kincaid stronghold at Inverhaven, they scouted a location for their next encampment.
Specifically, they sought a position visually sheltered but also uninhabited, so that no warning of the army’s approach would reach the Laird Kincaid’s ears. They also wished to be close enough to Inverhaven that they might successfully launch a surprise assault on the castle. And yet there must be enough ground for all his men and livestock, as well as the almost equal force that would join them tomorrow. Men commanded by Buchan.
“These Highlands are beautiful, are they not?” Robert asked, as they paused atop a high hillock to look over the sweeping landscape. The other King’s Guards had dismounted, and grazed their mounts nearby.
“Beautiful” seemed an insufficient description. As his eyes swept over the expansive landscape, Cull’s chest tightened and his blood seemed to flow more quickly through his veins.
“If only we were not here to war,” he replied.
Perhaps it was the high, magnificent sky, painted in the most vivid shades of blue and purple that he’d ever seen, that awakened a restlessness in his blood. And the endless expanses of rolling earth and stone, spreadiung out in all directions, as far as the eye could see, like a personal invitation from God.
There was something about this place that awakened his spirit. It made him want to ride, until he no longer felt the constraints of his life, with all its expectations. Something that made him wish to be free.
Free. The thought reverberated in his mind, unexpected … and more assertively than he liked.
For was he not already free? Certainly, he was no longer a slave, mired in fear and darkness. Aye, he was free, but there was duty, which bound him almost as strongly.
Here, in his saddle and flanked by these men, he could not forget that duty, to which he’d been sworn since he was a boy. A duty to Scotland—and, yes, to the man who had purchased his freedom, and who had asked little of him in all these years after delivering him to a gray, nameless fortification near Holyrood, where in the company of other young men, he had been immersed into a culture of discipline and warfare. It was there he’d learned to live, eat, breathe and fight for Scotland.
“Why was I brought here, Robert? Certainly there are other men who know this wild place, and these clans better, who would be better suited for fighting them.”
Robert glanced at him, and smiled. “To be honest, I was surprised Father summoned you here as well, away from the border with England. Your authority is respected there, by both the Scots and English, and undeniably valuable. But he persuaded the king that it must be you.” He exhaled, and his smile broadened. “It’s because you are the best, Cull. Take pride in that. But watch Duncan, for he is envious of my father’s admiration for you.”
Aye, it had always been so with Duncan. Cull had trained for years, and soldiered for almost as many, before being named a King’s Guard. It was at that time that Buchan again appeared in his life, introducing him to his sons. Robert had accepted him warmly, as a friend, whereas Duncan had always considered him with suspicion. But he would not speak ill of Duncan to Robert. They were brothers—a sacred bond, in the mind of one who had none. He would never seek to be a point of controversy between them. He diverted the conversation elsewhere.
“What have the Kincaids done to draw the ire of the Crown?”
Robert looked away again, to the north. “The conflict goes many years into the past, to a time before my grandfather was king. You know as well as I that many of the king’s conflicts … my father and uncles’ conflicts, are the result of personal and sometimes petty grievances.”
“Which then become conflicts over land, and sovereignty,” Cull murmured.
“Aye, Cull. You know the way of things. For men like you and me, destined to serve those more powerful, it’s best not to ask too many questions.” The smile fell from Robert’s lips. “For we may find ourselves disappointed in the men we serve, and our consciences in conflict. You know as well as I do the best warriors do not question. They declare their loyalty to this power or that, and they follow orders, and for that, they are rewarded.”
“Aye,” answered Cull.
Unquestioning service to the Crown. It had been his salvation … his key to a life he’d only ever dreamt of as a boy, in the dark hold of that ship. He could not be anything less than grateful for the opportunities he’d been given, no matter how deeply stained in blood they might be.
He looked to the sky. “We’d best finish our task here, if we hope to return to camp before dark.”
After a time, a suitable location was agreed upon. It was evening when he returned to the encampment.
“You’ll sup with Duncan and me tonight?” Robert asked him, before blinking, and looking to the other guards. “All of you as well, of course.”
“I would not miss it,” Cull replied. “I hear Duncan employs a cook who rivals his father’s, and has brought him to camp.”
“Indeed he does.” Robert grinned. “So let us take advantage of my brother’s need to boast and impress, and enjoy a fine meal at his expense before we are mired in a siege!”
Cull lifted a gloved hand. “Until then.”
Robert rode toward his tent at the edge of the encampment, and Cull continued into the center of all activity, toward his. Effric, his elderly, hunch-backed manservant, stood from where he perched beside a fire, wearing a heavy woolen tunic and a black snood, and came to take the reins when he dismounted.
“Welcome home, Sir Cull.”
His “home,” more often than not, had been a tent in some encampment, although on the border, he sometimes accepted invitations to reside in the castles of landed nobles, the expectation being that he would ensure their lands and hearth remained protected. There, he had seen lords and their families and vassals, and servants and peasants, banded together by something stronger than duty. By respect, honor, love.
It was in these places, where his dream had been born. He hoped one day for a land and hearth of his own. That, and a family … a wife and children … and a name.
Sometimes he wondered if he’d sell his soul to have them … or if perhaps he already had.
Pensive, Cull strode toward his tent, pulling his gloves from his hand.
“Sir Cull,” Effric called after him.
“Aye?” He turned, looking over his shoulder.
Effric tied the horse to a long stake. “I gave the bairn something to eat. I hope ’at’s all right wi’ ye.”
The bairn. Cull’s shoulders tightened, and his mood soured. He’d momentarily forgotten her existence. He glowered at the flap of the tent, which remained closed against him.
“What has she been doing in there?” he asked darkly.
Had she caused any trouble?
“It’s a she, then?” Effric’s face bunched up.
“So I’ve been told,” Cull replied dryly.
“I wasn’t certain, with all the mud.” He raised a wrinkled hand to his own face.
Indeed, he himself had taken the peasants’ word that she—his temporary captive—was a girl, though earlier he had discerned nothing that would confirm her gender. Not even her voice, which had been thick with tears, and her words, nearly indiscernible.
In his mind, he imagined a waif of about twelve or thirteen, which some men considered a woman, but most certainly not he.
However, truth be told, he didn’t know what was under all that dirt.
Cull scowled, thinking of all that dirt, drying on and likely littering his Persian carpet, for which he had paid handsomely to celebrate the day last year when he’d been knighted. “I suppose something must be done about that.”
Effric shrugged. “She hasn’t made a sound that I’ve heard. When I went in earlier, with the food, she was just sitting. Didn’t look at me or move. Didn’t speak a word. Should I bring warm water?”
He recalled the layers of garments on her. The wild, tangled t
hicket of hair atop her head.
“Nay,” he answered, his lip curling with distaste. “She requires the bathhouse.”
Effric nodded, his lips thinning into a fine line. “Aye, sir. I will take her there, then.”
But Effric was old. A strong and willful child could easily overwhelm or outrun him.
“Nay, Effric,” Cull said, in resignation. “I shall see it done.”
Again, he proceeded toward his tent, a frown firmly etched on his lips. Effric followed close behind.
Aye, he wished to protect an innocent from harm … to provide the child with the protection and care he had not received as a boy—but it annoyed him to be deprived of his customary privacy. He was among men all day, forced at every moment to be a leader, his every word and action on display. At night, he preferred to be alone.
He could not return her to her kinsmen because once they had her they would no doubt attempt to flee, which would place him in the unpleasant position of having to capture them, and exact some sort of punishment or consequence. Curse his own momentary failing, he’d looked into the eyes of that old woman and that tattooed warrior and he liked them far more than he ought.
Absent giving her back to her kin, there was no one else in the camp whom he trusted to be the child’s guardian. Aye, there were women. Camp followers and workers who existed, always, at the edge of camp, some of them wives, but most of them nothing more than prostitutes or beggars. He would not see an innocent young girl exposed to the depravities that occurred there at night, when soldiers sought out their pleasures.
Just before entering the tent, Effric knelt to pull off Cull’s muddied boots, after which Cull thrust his feet into clean leather shoes that waited on a thick mat of reeds. Effric carried away his boots for cleaning. He paused a moment before pushing back the flap, bracing himself for whatever he might confront upon entering. He’d learned to expect the unexpected, which in this instance might be an attack by a shrieking banshee, wielding his own dagger. Or perhaps she’d torn his garments to shreds.
But inside, he found everything exactly as he’d left it, every weapon in its place, and the girl curled up on her side under the blanket he’d given her, sleeping like a dirty mongrel dog. And god, she stank like one too. The food and cup of ale Effric had left remained untouched on a small wooden trencher.
The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Page 4
