The Warrior of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  “Ye won’t be followin’ my orders in doing so. Ye’ll be followin’ Sir Cull’s. Just as I will be, once ye get yourself tidied and come out ’ere.”

  Orders. Cull had issued orders for her?

  “What kind of orders?” she asked, uncertain if she should be happy or afraid.

  Effric did not reply. Instead, he threw back the furs and blankets that remained on the bed and, touching his hands to the linens, threw a scowl over his shoulder at her, and quickly gathered them up. “I hope they’ll be no more such mischief from ye, lass, such as this.”

  He limped toward the door, and was gone.

  She lay back down and pulled the fur high, feeling rebuked. Aye, she regretted dousing Cull’s bed. In the light of day it seemed a foolish thing to have done, and made more work for poor Effric, but she’d been so desperate to do something to change her circumstances.

  Curious about what awaited her outside, she ate the chunk of brown bread and cheese quickly and drank the ale, before dressing in the same shapeless garments she’d worn when she’d come to this place. They were still very ugly—though she would not complain, given her surroundings. Unfortunately, they were even scratchier after being washed with whatever inferior soap the women used on the soldier’s garments. Taking the comb Effric had given her from her pouch, she worked the snags out of her hair before tightly braiding the long tresses into a neat crown, in what she hoped was the plainest style possible. Her garments had been returned to her in her cloak, which, she recalled with a pensive frown, had been torn from her in the attack, a reminder of the threat of danger that awaited her outside the tent. Finding the fastenings repaired, she secured the garment at her neck and pulled the hood over her hair, then passed outside. Her breath turned to vapor in the cold air.

  Though she held her cloak closed at the throat and bowed her head low, already men paused in their work to stare at her. While she knew all men were certainly not evil, after yesterday she could muster very little trust for any man who walked this camp. It made her nervous to be here with only Effric to protect her, and not Cull, for what could the frail older man do to protect her, if protection became necessary?

  Effric waited a few steps away with a gray palfrey, much smaller than Cull’s magnificent destrier, its reins wrapped round his palm. “Up with ye.”

  She frowned, immediately suspicious. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far. Over there—just beyond the trees.”

  Beyond the trees. He pointed in the opposite direction of the river and the bathhouse. She squinted, but saw nothing there that relieved her curiosity.

  “Why?” she asked, her heartbeat increasing.

  “I don’t know, lass,” he answered patiently. He blinked at her, looking very much like a wise old owl in his snood, which he’d returned to his head. “I am only a lowly servant and I wasn’t told. I was just told to bring ye.”

  “Well why?” her voice cracked. “Am I going to be flogged for ruining Sir Cull’s bed—or will I be set free? Effric, I want to know!”

  Effric’s eyes widened. “I would not expect anything so dramatic as that, but who am I to say?” he replied with a shrug.

  She stood looking at the horse, a scowl on her face, pensive and unwilling to move. How strange that after wanting to escape Cull’s tent so desperately, she wanted nothing more than to return there.

  Effric lifted his hands in exasperation, and grumpily implored, “Either ye can get on the horse, or I can tell Sir Cull ye decline to comply with ’is orders. Your decision. But I’m not going to stand ’ere all day waiting.”

  “Very well,” she exclaimed, with a toss of her head. “I’m coming.”

  Moving near, she grasped the saddle horn and thrust her foot into the leather stirrup. Pushing up, she swung her leg over. She adjusted her kirtle for modesty. “Take me to my doom.”

  Effric nodded, and bent in a courtly fashion, giving a flourish of his old hand. “’Twill be my pleasure, m’lady.”

  The old man trundled forth, in the direction of the trees, guiding the horse along behind him. From behind them, a man’s voice shouted out a vulgar compliment to her.

  Heat scalded her cheeks, and fear simmered up from inside her, a terrifying remnant of the day before. She stiffened, but did not look back, though Effric made a point to stop, and step aside to cast a darkly reproachful glance behind them. A moment later, he again led her forward. Around them, the camp went on as normally as before. Still, she did not relax.

  “Effric, have I any cause to fear the soldiers?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

  “The soldiers?” He scowled. “Nay, words are one thing, when our backs are turned and men are brave, but none would dare touch ye when all know ye belong to Cull the Nameless.”

  “I do not belong to Cull!” she cried, her cheeks hot at just the mere insinuation that she was his possession.

  But it was the other words he’d spoken that rang in her ears, darkly ominous. The Nameless. It was the first time she had heard Cull referred to as such. Had he no name? It reminded her how little she knew of him. That he was all but a stranger. She had assumed from his bearing and his position of importance among the King’s Guard that he was the son of a noble or powerful family. Mayhap he was a powerful lord’s bastard.

  “But ye are under his protection.” Effric cast her a sideways glance. “At least for these few days. Unless he decides tae keep ye longer.”

  She scowled, but realized he was only attempting to tease her.

  “In this camp ’tis not Cull’s warriors ye must concern yerself with, but the Highlanders. They are fearsome fighters. Mercenaries for the king. But little more than savages!”

  “Savages,” she repeated sharply. “Effric, I am a Highlander, and I am no savage.”

  “Nay, girl,” he replied softly, looking at her with what she might almost call affection. “Ye most certainly are not.”

  And yet she felt the need to offer those men some defense, though she would never defend the men who had attacked her yesterday morn. She did not consider them Highlanders, but criminals. A different breed from the honorable, brave men she knew. But she looked beyond that, as she felt she must.

  “The Highlanders you call savages most likely have been deprived of their homes by your king, or by men he has empowered. Is that not what this army is here to do again? To lay siege against some unsuspecting clan, for daring to prick some nobleman’s ire?”

  She could not name the nobleman—Buchan—without revealing she knew more than she ought.

  “Aye, lass. That is likely true, but who is this old man to pick one side or the other? In this life, we must all decide what path to travel, and I have chosen to follow Sir Cull. He is here, and thus, so am I.”

  What about Cull inspired such devotion? She found herself more intrigued by the mystery of him, as each moment passed.

  “You called him ‘the Nameless,’” she murmured. “Why is he called that?”

  “Because he had no father, and he had no name, and when he was knighted, they had to call him something.” He tilted his head toward her, and grinned. “The ladies seem to like it. The ladies seem to like everything about him.”

  At hearing those words, her cloak seemed to grow heavier. Her mood, sour.

  “Does he boast conquests of many ladies then?” she asked, wanting to hear everything shameful about the man who held her captive, so she could dislike him more.

  “Why do you ask?” he inquired, smiling, his eyes twinkling.

  “Because I love to gossip, Effric,” she exclaimed, eyes wide, her cheeks blushing that he insinuated that she had any interest in Cull at all, of a romantic sort—which she did not. “That is all.”

  “Then I would tell you, I do not gossip about Sir Cull.” He winked at her, and she scowled back at him. “I would protect his every secret to my death.”

  Despite his very annoying personal code of honor where Cull was concerned, Derryth was glad to have Effric with her, and even more glad he
seemed to enjoy talking. The flow of words helped calm her nerves over what was to come, as she still did not know where she was being taken.

  But then, as they broke past the line of trees, she knew. Unfettered joy rose up inside her—an emotion she feared she’d never get to experience again. Two familiar figures waited there—Deargh, and Fiona, whose faces broke into relieved smiles at seeing her.

  Chapter 7

  Without thought, she leapt from the horse and ran, throwing her arms around them. They both smelled of earth and rain, and looked very weary, but they were warm and alive.

  In the next moment, she recalled what Effric had said. That he only followed Cull’s orders.

  Cull had arranged this meeting, because she’d explained to him what she’d hoped to accomplish in ruining his bed.

  Her emotions wavered, and in her mind she remembered his face the night before, and the moment when he’d told her he had no wish to harm any of them. Was it possible there was kindness behind those cold blue eyes? And an honorable heart that sought to do what was right?

  “I am so happy to see you,” she exclaimed, tears blurring her eyes. “Are you well?”

  Effric led the palfrey some distance away, where he seated himself beneath a tree to wait.

  “Aye lass,” said Deargh, the tattooed patterns that covered his bald head and face stark in the clouded daylight. “Better now, seeing you.”

  “What of you, child?” Fiona cried, tears rolling over her cheeks. Her former nursemaid wore a head covering and an apron over her kirtle, all of which were heavily dusted with flour and dried bits of dough. Her hands squeezed Derryth’s shoulders, and pushed her hood back from her face, as if looking for marks or bruises. “Have ye been harmed? Don’t spare my old heart. Tell me the truth.”

  “I am well,” Derryth replied, eyes wide and hiding nothing. She pressed a fervent kiss to the woman’s cheek. “I have been protected, and no harm has come to me.”

  Just then, she spied a shadow in the distance … three riders on horseback, watching them. All three were warriors, but it was Cull at the center, tall and broad shouldered, sitting atop his black destrier, who commanded her attention. He wore a hauberk, leather trews, and boots. Cull held her gaze a long moment before looking away.

  Even in the cold, her cheeks flushed. Indeed, everything inside her warmed, as if a fire had suddenly come to life at the center of her belly.

  He remained there, a witness to their reunion—but making no move to approach. The meeting was a gift from him to her, she realized, one that implied some degree of goodwill and trust, because she, Deargh, and Fiona could be plotting escape or even harm to Cull, and from that distance, he would not overhear. Despite herself, her heart opened to him in that moment a fragment more.

  “How are the others?” asked Derryth.

  “All are well,” Deargh growled, looking down at his calloused hands. “Working dawn until dark, cutting and stacking timber for our enemy’s fortification, but we will do what we must for the time being, in order to survive—and to gain their trust.”

  They huddled together in the cold. She clasped his hand, and spoke in a hushed voice—afraid that the wind might carry her words to Cull’s ears. “Someone must escape and warn Niall of the attack to come.”

  “Nay, child,” he said gruffly. “To attempt an escape now, when we are watched at every moment, would be foolhardy, and most certainly lead to all our deaths. He has promised to release us, and we must bide our time until then. For now, we must keep our eyes and ears open, so that when we are released and make our return to our Kincaid brethren, we will take whatever knowledge we can, to give our side the advantage. And if ye are not in danger, lass, and merely keeping his quarters clean and neat as he says ye are, then ye are in the best position to overhear or observe something of value.”

  Derryth’s heart sank. She wanted nothing more than to convince Cull to release her … but she knew Deargh was right. If she could gain some advantage for the Kincaids by remaining in Cull’s quarters than she must do so.

  “Does he hold meetings there in his tent, with his captains?”

  “Nay,” she replied. “Not yet, at least.”

  “Does he keep maps there?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “If so, they are stored away with his things.”

  He touched her arm, and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I don’t want ye to take any chances. Stay safe. Do not place yourself in danger. But learn what you can. I vow to ye, our laird will send the Wolf a message that the Kincaids are no’ to be threatened without consequence and see this army and their leader—this Cull the Nameless—cold and dead in the ground.”

  The words struck Derryth like an unexpected blow to the chest.

  Cull … dead? The same man who had spread a fur across them both the night before, rather than punishing her for what she had done? The same man who had told her he had no wish to harm them?

  A cold chill settled in the pit of her stomach.

  But it was true. If this march upon Inverhaven continued, someone would die, and it would not be … it could not be Niall. Her sister’s husband! The father of Elspeth’s unborn child. The man who had protected her as if she were his own sister, in the years since he had returned to Inverhaven.

  But … Cull.

  Why did she feel the slightest bit regretful over the prospect of his defeat? Of his death …

  He was so cold, so distant. How could her heart have found anything at all within him for which to care?

  She looked over Deargh’s shoulder, to the hillside where he remained watching them. Watching her. Aye, she felt his eyes on her, just as real as a touch. A frisson of heat warmed her spine.

  “I know you are right,” she said quietly. “As you say, the Kincaids will carry the day.”

  But she knew very well that just saying the words did not make them true. The Kincaids had prevailed once before, but there had also been an intervention by Niall’s ally, the Earl of Carrick, the Earl of Buchan’s older brother, who had since been grievously injured by a horse, and as a result, been left weaker in both body and power. Who could be relied upon to intervene for the Kincaids now?

  If the attack was stopped then everyone would be spared. Including Cull.

  Deargh bared his teeth. “Do not fear, dear girl. Just be ready, for when the moment is right, we will rejoin our kinsmen behind Inverhaven’s castle walls, to fight anyone who thinks to take her from us.”

  “What if he does not let us go?” she whispered.

  Deargh muttered under his breath. “Then I’ve another plan. One the men and I are already working to put in place.”

  “Another plan?”

  “Aye, lass.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “We’re all doing our best tae convince them all that we truly are MacClellans, and that we’d much rather fight the Kincaids then farm.”

  “Why would ye do such a thing?” Fiona demanded with a frown.

  He leaned nearer. “If we can convince them to let us take up arms, and occupy a place in the line outside Inverhaven … well don’t ye see? By doing so, we could ensure a safe path for all of us to get inside the castle … or even better—provide the perfect weak spot for the Kincaids to break through the line, and make their own surprise attack.”

  Fiona exhaled, and covered her mouth. “Oh, Deargh.”

  Derryth’s chest seized tight. The plot he proposed seemed so dangerous. She hated to think of what would happen to him and the other warriors if their true loyalties were discovered.

  But Deargh was a Kincaid warrior. If his kinsmen were in danger, he would never stop thinking of how he could help them in whatever way. Derryth summoned her pride and her courage. She was a Kincaid too, by marriage and through the love she felt in her heart for all those at Inverhaven. She must do all she could as well, and not be afraid.

  More would have been said but Effric walked toward them, leading the palfrey.

  “Time to go, lass,” he said, earning him a gla
re from the tattooed warrior.

  He glared back.

  She would not refuse to go with him. To do so would ensure she would not be allowed to meet with Deargh and Fiona again.

  Derryth embraced them both once more, and said her good-byes. A moment later she was riding away, fighting tears at being alone again, but heartened by Deargh’s valiant words … all but the ones where he’d spoken of Cull’s death, and which now hung over her like a dark cloud.

  “Child!” Fiona called. Turning back, she saw the old woman hurrying toward her with something—her small wooden trunk, which had been on the wagon when they were attacked. “Your things. They aren’t much, but they are clean still, and yours.”

  Derryth lifted the trunk, and perched it before her on the saddle, grateful for any fragment of her life before, no matter how simple the garments. They belonged to her. They were a reminder of who she was. Derryth MacClaren, whose heart belonged with the Kincaids.

  * * *

  Some hours later, after spending the afternoon training with the elite warriors of his company and reviewing preparations for the next stage of advancement toward Inverhaven with his captains, Cull returned to his tent, his boots and garments spattered with mud, intending to quickly wash and change.

  He encountered Robert along the way, who held a missive in his gloved hand—one bearing a familiar black and gold seal, and tied with silken cords of the same color. In the distance, Cull saw a courier riding fast away.

  Robert handed the folded parchment to him.

  “Why didn’t you open it?” Cull inquired.

  “Because it’s addressed to you,” Robert replied with raised eyebrows and a smile.

  Cull broke the seal, drew aside the cords, and read the words within. Buchan, and the two companies of men he brought with him, would arrive that night.

  “We are ready,” he said, without a qualm of doubt.

  “I pray so, else we’ll not hear the end of it,” Robert teased.

  Cull removed his hauberk, and stepped back. “I’m going to my quarters to change.”

  Robert’s gaze narrowed at the front of his chest.