A Warrior's Soul

by Aileen Adams

  “Shh,” she warned on approaching, holding both hands out in hopes her scent would precede her and earn their trust. And their quiet.

  She cast her eyes about her, praying silently that there would be no sudden noise or movement. If the men knew she was trying to escape…

  They would destroy everything.

  They didn’t know what it was to be entirely at the mercy of another. To have no control over one’s life. They were men, free to come and go as they chose. Able to decide their fate.

  She’d wish for them to understand someday, but that would be too terrible a thing to wish on anyone. Even they did not deserve to know what it meant to be at the mercy of another.

  Her mare was the last in the row, tied off to the low branch of an ash tree. She eyed Alana warily.

  “There, there,” Alana whispered, stroking the mare’s neck. “I’m sorry to have come upon you like this, so late in the evening. I know you wish to rest, and you deserve to for all the work you’ve done today. I promise, once we get away from here, you’ll get the rest you need.”

  The mare still shifted uneasily from side to side, one of her front hooves pawing at the ground in an impatient manner. Alana barely squelched her own rising panic as she reached for the beast’s reins, now in more of a hurry than ever. She had to get away with the horse before it alerted the others.

  That was when a hand clamped over her mouth. A large hand, strong fingers digging into her cheeks. There was no time to scream, for she hadn’t known there was anyone behind her until it was too late.

  An arm slid around her body, holding her in place.

  She kicked out but to no avail, as there was little chance of escaping the strong, tight grip of her captor.

  “Aye, then,” a voice whispered in her ear, “what’s this? Alone in the dark, are ye?”

  She just about went wild with terror. Who was he? What was he going to do to her? She clawed at the hand over her mouth, desperate to pry it away from her for just long enough to let out one good scream for help.

  Images overlapped in her frantic mind, ugly images of pain and humiliation which were enough to inspire a fresh burst of strength. She slammed her heel into her captor’s foot, and he let out a grunt of pain.

  And then?

  He began to laugh, though softly.

  “All right, lass. All right, then!” he whispered, still holding her but not as tightly as before. “If you’ll promise not to scream, I’ll release you. If you scream, you’ll awaken the others, and they’ll know you tried to escape.”

  It took a moment for her reason to catch up with her wild thoughts.

  The voice. He was speaking in a normal voice now, and it was a voice she already knew.

  Relief flooded her body, straight down to her bones.

  It was Brice. It had been Brice all along. He’d only been trying to frighten her.

  And he’d succeeded.

  Rage quickly took the place of relief.

  “Do you promise not to scream?” he whispered.

  Her hands, out of sight, balled into tight fists.

  She nodded.

  He slowly lifted his hand from her mouth—then, even more slowly, released the arm which held her tight against his body. The moment she had the room to spin around, she did so, pounding her fists against his chest.

  “What did you think you were doing?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. Oh, if she could only be as large as he was, just for a moment. Just long enough to take off his head.

  “Calm down, lass,” he urged, taking hold of her wrists. “I do not wish to cause you harm, but a man’s got to defend himself.”

  “What is wrong with you? Why would ye frighten me that way?”

  “To teach ye a lesson.”

  “How? By frightening me out of my wits? By killing me?”

  “Och, it was not killing ye I had in mind, though you’re making me wonder if that wouldn’t be a fine idea, after all,” he smirked.

  She shook her arms, trying to free herself from his grip but to no avail. She was already well aware of his strength—the pressure of his hand over her mouth was still fresh in her memory, as though he were still holding her.

  He might be able to hold her wrists, but he could not hold her legs at the same time. She drew one of them back and delivered a sharp, solid kick to his shin.

  He released her then, muttering obscenities as he reached down to rub his wounded leg. “All right, all right!” he whispered. “Enough! I couldna allow ye to escape, and ye know it. Or else there would’ve been no sneaking about.”

  A flush colored her cheeks. “I had to try. Why can’t you see that?”

  “I see it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to allow it.” He sat down, his back to the camp and the horses, still rubbing his shin. “You’ve got quite a kick, by the way.”

  She scoffed but sat down beside him. “You deserved it. Though I wouldn’t expect a man such as yourself to whimper so over the kick of a defenseless woman.”

  “Hardly defenseless,” he muttered. “And, I’m beginning to suspect, more trouble than you’re worth.”

  “Release me, then. Allow me to go on my way, and I’ll never trouble you again.”

  “And I will not collect my silver, and I’ll be robbing my friends of the chance to collect theirs. No, thank you.” He shook his head, chuckling in derision.

  Hopelessness settled on her, like a heavy weight sitting on her chest. Making it impossible to breathe. “To hell with you, then,” she croaked, her voice breaking as emotion threatened to overwhelm her once again.

  He sighed, turning his face toward hers. “Ye do not need to take it so hard, lass.”

  “How dare you say that to me?” she demanded. “You know nothing of what I’m suffering. You know nothing of me, or what it’s like to have no say in your life. You’re free. You’re a man. You can do whatever it is you like.”

  She expected him to come back at her with another accusation, but he fell silent instead. There was no escaping the slight twinge of smugness his silence granted her. He knew she was right, that there was no defense to offer.

  She was wrong.

  “That isn’t true at all, lass, though I can understand how you would come to that,” he murmured, looking off into the endless field of grass and heather.

  The fragrance of the latter was heavy in the air, sweeping over the two of them every time the breeze blew.

  She was nearly overcome with a deep, throbbing heartache and the desire to gather all her arms could hold. Simply for the sake of having something to remember her childhood by once she was someone else’s wife.

  “How is it not true?” she demanded in a whisper. “Look at the four of you. You’re free to do as you please, to go where you please. No one tells you what to do or when to do it.”

  “Nay, but we made a heavy decision in order to arrive at this so-called freedom,” he informed her. “Everything we do is a choice, ye ken, and no choice is made on its own. Not without payment required down the road. And payment is always required.”

  The chirping of grasshoppers filled the silence when he ceased speaking. They were merely an echo of the buzzing in Alana’s head at Brice’s words. The need to know more about him struck her suddenly.

  “What is it you had to choose, then?” she dared ask, hoping he would not rebuff her.

  Hoping, too, that he would not look at her question as any symbol of interest in him, for she had none. It was merely easier to make conversation than it was to suffer through his derision.

  “Fairly simple, if you ask me,” he grinned, good-natured once again. He leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his long, bulky body.

  Alana realized she was staring and quickly averted her eyes.

  He sighed, gazing up at the sky. “I can only speak for myself, of course, but I had the choice of either returning to my childhood home and always serving the laird or striking out on my own.”

  “Your brother, too?” she whispered.

 
“Och, aye. Him, as well, though I believe much of his decision to run off had to do with my deciding to do so. He didna wish to be the man of the place when our father passed on. Neither of us was looking to be the village cobbler. That was our father’s trade.”

  “A shoemaker,” she murmured with a smile. It all made much more sense, as though the clouds had parted to allow the sun to stream through. Woe to the man who ever tried to force Brice to make shoes.

  It was an amusing picture, one which she needed to bite her tongue to keep from chuckling over.

  He must have understood her mirth for what it was, but he did not chastise her for it. “You see, then. Not that it isn’t a noble profession, ye ken. A fine place any of us would be in without shoes for our feet. I know mine are very nearly ready to fall to pieces. But I simply couldna see myself settling down into a life of nothing but making shoes for the manor house and those who lived under its roof.”

  “It would likely be very boring to you, compared to what you do now,” she observed.

  He shook his head. “Nay, it isn’t just that. It’s that I’d be doing everything, offering everything I had, to the laird and his family and their people. That was what needled at me. I didna wish to do so even before I went off to join in the war. Neither did Fergus, though we never spoke of it until we were well away from home. We’re both what you would call rebels, I suppose.” He chuckled softly.

  “So, you chose to do what you do, instead.”

  “Aye. It’s a free sort of life, after all. As you said, no one tells us what to do unless we accept their silver in exchange for a task they need taking care of.” He stretched his legs further, crossing them at the ankle.

  Once again, his movement required Alana to avert her eyes.

  She’d never considered herself overly modest, but the presence of this remarkable person required her to recall everything the village priest had ever lectured.

  Good thing he was giving her plenty to think over, then. She chewed her lip, attempting to place herself in his position. It was either returning home to be a cobbler for the rest of her days—the thought of which filled her with a strange sense of resentment, as she did not wish to make shoes for anyone until the end of her days—or strike off on her own.

  Yes, she could see how he’d arrived at such a conclusion. It was a brave decision, in all. To leave behind everything one had ever known in favor of something unknown.

  “I would do the same thing,” she decided with a firm nod.

  He chuckled, perhaps louder than he should have considering the fact that they were trying to avoid waking the others. “Would ye, now?”

  “Aye,” she insisted, looking him in the eye. “I would. If I had the chance. But you see, this is what I was speaking of. You had the chance. You were able to make such a choice for yourself, while I’ve never been allowed to. It was never even considered.”

  “But.” He held up a finger to stop her. “You’re forgetting something. As I said, lass, every decision comes with another side. Like a coin. You can only ever look at one side of a coin at a time, but it’s important to turn the coin over every so often.”

  “What was on the other side for you, then?”

  She wondered if he knew he sighed. She heard it, but barely.

  “Never having a home,” he murmured, staring at the sky again.

  What did he see up there? He looked almost wistful.

  “Ah. You’ve turned your back on the comforts of a home and family,” she surmised, and was surprised by the slight twinge of sympathy she felt. Her heart nearly went out to him then.

  “Aye. You might put it that way.” His jaw worked for a long time while he spoke not a word. When he did, he said, “Not that it makes my heart heavy, lass. Not at all. I enjoy my life. I’m my own master. I’ve always loved the out-of-doors—the very thought of a life spent in a workshop makes my stomach sour.”

  She giggled. “I can imagine, compared to this, it would seem a very dull life.”

  He turned his head, eyes meeting hers. “So, you see now. It might appear as though a man can make his way in the world without answering to others, but that simply isn’t so. My father never could. He had not the strength nor the spirit to live the life I chose. He had no choice but to labor as others in our village did. I’m certain he worked until the day he died. The same with my mother.”

  The way he spoke of them, it was as though he felt nothing for them. As though he were relating a story which had nothing to do with him.

  Perhaps that was as it needed to be. Perhaps he couldn’t bear thinking of them as his parents, especially since it sounded as though he was uncertain of their final days. He hadn’t been there with them.

  Her heart softened even further.

  Which was what caused her to jump to her feet, her chest heaving.

  “What is it?” he asked, staring at her in surprise as he sat up.

  “Nothing,” she said with a toss of her head. “It’s… it’s very late, and I need to sleep if we’re going to cover ground in the morning.”

  “Aye…” he agreed, though slowly. He stood, his body towering over hers once he reached full height.

  The memory of that body against hers, overpowering her, sending terror racing through every inch of her, hardened her even further.

  He had terrorized her, the fiend.

  And he expected her to feel sorry for him because he once made the choice to not be a cobbler? She would’ve laughed if she weren’t so furious.

  “You’re angry again,” he observed, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

  “I would appreciate your not treating my feelings as something to be laughed over,” she warned, ready to thrash him if need be.

  “My apologies.” He managed a solemn expression. “What was it I said that upset you so? I only wish to avoid repeating the same mistake, ye ken.”

  “What upset me so?” she hissed. “I’ll tell you. It’s the way you think you understand anything about me. You didn’t wish to be a cobbler? Poor thing. What did you do, then? You made a choice, because there was a choice to be made. And others had to respect your choice even if it wasn’t one they would’ve made for themselves. Because you’re a man. You’re allowed.”

  She turned away, tears of rage threatening to choke her, and stumbled her way back to the campsite through the grass.

  Who was she more enraged with?

  Him?

  Or herself, for almost allowing him to work his way into her sympathy?

  10

  The day dawned bright and clear, with a blue sky which foretold of the autumn ahead. After taking care of nature’s needs, Brice went about the business of watering the horses. On the branch of one of the trees was a caterpillar. He watched as it slowly crept along and noted its thick hair. Perhaps the thickest he’d ever seen.

  One of the signs of a difficult winter to come.

  All the more reason for them to be well on their way, so they might be back before the first frost. Anything they did between now and winter would likely require less travel. And they might settle in after that, enjoying the spoils of their hard work—new clothing, new shoes, not to mention the satisfaction of a little rest after spending the year and so many years before that, with nowhere to rest their heads for more than a few days at a stretch.

  The rest were preparing for the day, ensuring the fire was truly out by covering it with dirt and wet leaves.

  Alana, meanwhile, stood at a distance. Her back was to a tree, arms crossed over her stomach.

  She would not meet his gaze when he looked at her. Even when he stared at her.

  There was so much anger there. Resentment. A lifetime’s worth.

  It wasn’t his concern.

  What was his concern was whether or not she would stay with them, rather than attempting to run away again. One look at her, and he was certain she hadn’t learned her lesson. So insolent, so angry.

  In her mind, they were the enemy.

  He went to her
while the others saddled the horses, pulling her aside and out of earshot. She wrenched her arm from his grasp but did not look at him.

  They were back where they’d started, apparently. With her refusing to acknowledge his presence. It was enough to make him regret what he was about to say, as she did not deserve his kindness.

  “I haven’t told the others about what ye did last night,” he murmured, one eye on his friends. They didn’t seem to notice that he and their charge were having a private conversation, too busy laughing over one of Fergus’s stories. He had untold numbers—and while many of them involved members of their group, those involved still laughed as though they were hearing something fresh and new. His brother was a natural storyteller.

  She glanced up at him, then away again. “You haven’t?”

  “Nay. I felt it best we keep it between ourselves.” If there was ever a chance to earn her gratitude, it was now. Surely, she was not so daft as to spit in his face after he was kind to her.

  Her eyes narrowed, her mouth pursing as it had while she sized the four of them up the day before. She was thinking. Weighing his words. Deciding what they meant.

  He wished she weren’t half as smart as she thought she was. It would make his task so much simpler.

  “Thank you,” she finally muttered, resentment still clear in her voice.

  “You might try to sound as though you mean it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked, still watching Rodric and the rest. “Fall at your feet? Weep until I faint from the strain?”

  “All right,” he grumbled.

  “No, truly. What is it ye wish for me to do or say? After all, you’ve been so kind to me, I want only to return your kindness.” Her eyes were cold when they fixed on his.

  He had half a mind to tell her to look away again. He did not wish to bear the weight of her cold glare.

  “You do not need to behave as though we’re the enemy. Let us begin there.”

  “But ye are.”

  “And it’s sorry I am that ye feel that way. But we’re not. We’re merely doing as we’re paid to do.”