by Julianne Lee
Without another word, he left the room.
For the rest of the day he kept busy with preparations to leave. He ate alone, taking his meat to the hoist platform outside the keep, where he looked out across the barbican to where his ships lay, waiting to take himself and his men and horses across to the mainland for the fight. He’d had the sails painted with his stylized bald eagle, wings spread and head facing dexter. It was a pleasure to see, for now folks on the water would know who he was. The bald eagle was unique, and becoming known. Alasdair an Dubhar MacNeil was a force to be reckoned with.
Tomorrow he would be away. After that, there was no telling what might happen to him. Whether he came back or not would be left up to fate. For a brief moment he was tempted to give in and bring Lindsay along, but now he wasn’t sure she would go. Damned if he was going to cave on that point and have it thrown back at him. Besides, he still wanted her away from danger. Even more, he wanted her away from Sir James.
No, she was staying here, and that was the end of it.
She was nowhere to be seen that night when he went to the bedchamber to sleep. Alex thought briefly of looking for her, but didn’t care to be seen prowling the castle in search of his stray wife. So he undressed and slipped into bed. His heart was a knot in his chest as he dropped into an uneasy sleep.
The fire was still flickering on the other side of the room when he was awakened by a warm presence in the bed next to him. He knew the scent of his wife, and reached for her. She slipped into his arms, and everything that had been said that day melted away from his mind.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Hmm,” he replied, and when he kissed her it was a relief to let go of the anger and grief that had choked him so.
“I thought I would stay away until you’d left, but then I realized how long you would be gone, and how horribly I would regret not saying good-bye if you didn’t come back.”
He didn’t care. All he cared was that she was there, and she was apologizing. Once again he could believe she loved him, and that brightened the dark world. He kissed her again, then bent to take a breast into his mouth and slip a hand between her thighs. But she eased his hand away, then kissed his chest in preparation to scoot down and take him into her mouth.
“No.” He stopped her.
She kissed his chest again. “I thought you liked it.”
“I do. I like it a lot. But not tonight.”
“Especially tonight.”
“I want you.” He reached behind her and pressed her hips against him. Her cycle was well known to him. He didn’t want her mouth at all tonight. “I want to make love to you.”
“Alex—” Already she was breathless and ready for him. He could hear in her voice her resolve was weak. She wanted it, too.
He kissed her ear and murmured softly into it, “Please. I might not come back. Let me at least hope for a chance of leaving something behind.” He kissed her neck, then her breast again, and nudged a knee between hers. His palm pressed the damp part of her. “Do you love me?” He wouldn’t take it further if she resisted, but he held his breath that she would let him.
“You know I do.” Her knee fell back to let him in, and she pressed herself to his hand. Hands clutched his shoulders as he settled between her thighs and buried his face in her neck. The feel of her and the scent of her filled him to his skin, and for now he thought she might truly love him after all.
After journeying by boat to Ayre on the mainland, then making their way south and east through the mountains of Galloway, Alex and his men rode into Lochmaben Castle to find the contingent of Scottish knights belonging to Sir James Douglas fairly depleted. No wonder he’d requested reinforcements. Only a few squires went about their duties, and there were no knights to be seen. No horses in sight at all. Women and children far outnumbered the men here, quite a change from when Alex had seen the place last. While the MacNeil knights dismounted and went to find food and shelter for themselves and their mounts, Alex looked around at the small numbers of men about.
“You!” he called to one nearby, whose head had been shaved for nits. “Where’s Douglas?”
The young man turned and pointed. “Through that portal and up. Knock on the door at the top.”
Alex thanked him, then dismounted and handed his horse over to Colin. Then he gave some general orders for the night to Sir Henry before heading inside in search of Douglas.
The stairs inside were steep and narrow and led in odd directions to the top of the tower. They came to a dead end at the door without any landing, and Alex reached up from the third step down to knock. The deep, muttery voice of Sir James ordered him to enter. Alex shoved open the heavy door and climbed the remaining stairs to find the large room nearly empty. A narrow bed stood against one wall, and a table strewn with papers and piled with weaponry stood beside one of the arrow loops.
Long, lanky Douglas sat on the bed, running his hands through his shaggy, black hair and coughing himself awake. He looked up at Alex, blinked at him in the waning firelight, and sighed. “Good. You’re here. We’ll waste no time, then.” He reached over to a bell pull and yanked it. “They’re lazy devils in this place. If someone deigns to respond before sunset, we’ll have meat and wine.”
Alex pointed with his chin toward a darkening arrow loop and said, “They’ll need to hurry; the sun is nearly down.”
Douglas blinked at the loop, then rose from his cot and went to peer out it, leaning heavily on the table. He grunted, then coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it through the opening. “Damn. I slept longer than I’d intended.” Then he stood and turned to face Alex. “Well, the men need a rest, I suppose. And your men will be fresh in the morning. We’ll go then.”
Alex wondered if this guy ever stopped fighting.
“Come,” said Douglas. “Sit with me and we’ll decide where to strike next.” He went through a door to an adjoining room and brought back a chair for Alex to sit. Waving a thumb toward that room, he said, “That’s where you’ll sleep while we’re here. Bare bones for comfort, but with any luck we’ll not be here much at all.” He sat back down on his bunk, and Alex straddled the chair backwards. Douglas opened his mouth to speak again, but there was a knock on the door and a serving man entered.
“Sir?” The servant hurried to light the candles in sconces about the room.
“Food,” ordered Douglas. “The lamb, all of it, cold and in a hurry. MacNeil here is without doubt a hungry man. And wine.” He held up two fingers, and Alex knew he meant two jugs. That would be a lot of wine. “Bread. There’d better be some.”
“Aye, sir. There’s bread.”
“Not burnt, like this morning.”
“Not burnt, sir.”
“Very well, then.” He waved the man off. “Hurry. We’ve a hungry and dangerous MacNeil to feed.” He clapped twice, and shooed the servant out the door. Then he returned his attention to Alex and began briefing him on the tactical situation in the area.
Literacy rates and travel technology being what they were, most others in these times never expended much energy on the gathering of intelligence, but this guy was busy enough and determined enough to have constructed a network of communication throughout the Lowlands. The papers littering the table were missives from spies and patrols he’d deployed, and the two pored over them. Alex noted they were all written in plain language, and he considered introducing to Douglas the concept of encryption. Even a simple letter-substitution code would be better than this.
As they talked, Alex watched the man’s face. His dislike of James Douglas simmered in his gut as he remembered how Lindsay had liked to hang out with him and his men.
“She wanted him to see her as a woman.”
That damned elf. Alex shuddered and shut his eyes to wait for the revulsion to pass. Then he glanced at Douglas to be sure he hadn’t heard the comment, but Douglas was oblivious as the voice continued.
“She asked to come with you so her dear friend might know he could have h
er. At long last. You know she’s been longing for him since those weeks in Torwood.”
Alex struggled to keep his face a mask and his voice even, but felt a chill crawl across his skin. He stared hard at Douglas’s face, handsome in a way that even Alex had to recognize as attractive, and hated him. Then he took a deep breath and reminded himself who his real enemy was. He hated Nemed more.
The food came, and Alex ate little. Douglas ate even less. His enthusiasm for the fight seemed to leave little room for other considerations, and he kept Alex for hours, talking about terrain, English garrisons, territories and landholders loyal to each king, and the personalities of each man involved.
Lochmaben was their base, where they would retreat for rest and provisioning. The castle was supplied and manned by clans of the Highlands and upper Lowlands. Mountains rose to the north, where local clans supported King Robert and the Scottish army could disappear if they’d a need. The Scots would sweep over the border at will, like avengers, onto the English farmers.
By the time they were interrupted again, Alex had a detailed concept in his head of the situation in the Lowlands and understood Douglas’s plan of harassment. A young woman entered the room without knocking. “Oh. Pardon me, James, I thought you were alone.” She was about to withdraw, but Douglas waved her in.
“Come. Stay. MacNeil was just leaving.” She hurried across the room to him, and he addressed Alex as he drew the girl onto the bunk. “Your room is in there, Alasdair. All made up for you. Good night. We’ll be off in the morning at first light.” Then he turned to kiss the girl and Alex was forgotten.
Alex took the hint and rose to retreat to his new quarters; the only entrance was through Douglas’s room. Alex grunted with disgust at the scant furnishings, and he returned to retrieve the chair he’d been sitting on all evening, ignoring the half-naked, writhing pair on Douglas’s bunk. He also appropriated one of James’s candles for the sake of lighting his own. Other than that chair, Alex’s room contained only a cot and a pile of peats for the fire. Nothing else. Douglas hadn’t lied, for the cot was made up for him with heavy blankets and rough linens. The small hearth held a failing fire, and Alex went to revive it.
The cot next door began to smack against the wall, a distant tap through the stone which must have resounded heavily within the room, and Alex felt so deeply homesick for Lindsay and Eilean Aonarach it stuck in his throat. Disgusted, tired, and lonely, he divested himself of his armor and spurs, dumped them on the floor, and crawled under the woolen blankets of the cot to drop into heavy, exhausted insensibility.
Early the next morning the Scots sallied out of the castle and across the countryside. All day long in the saddle, all night long alone in a tent, Alex, Douglas, and their men rode through the Lowlands in search of English holdings to plunder. Most days did not bring an objective, and they all considered themselves lucky to find a rich target. They worked their way south and into England, for Scottish farmers had little to take no matter what their allegiance.
And very often nobody knew where a man’s loyalties lay. Alex often found himself following Douglas against farmers unlucky enough to be in disputed territory, and after a while it became too difficult to determine true allegiances. Worrying about the niceties of protecting noncombatants became next to pointless, and so Alex stopped worrying. Any farmer caught paying anything to Edward II, or caught not paying tribute to Robert, was fair game.
The Scottish raiders evicted, raided, and laid siege as before, torching houses and making off with livestock, and now it was with the surety of established territory to which to retreat.
Nights Alex spent alone in his tent, picking lice from his clothing and wishing Lindsay were there so he could run his hands through her hair again. At home, he’d grown so accustomed to her presence in bed he could hardly sleep through the short nights without her now. And when he did sleep it was fitful, filled with dreams. Often when he awoke, just as he reached consciousness he heard the voice of Nemed saying. “I wonder what she does all day.”
He hated that voice. It shook him to his core to wonder about Lindsay. What she was feeling, what she was doing. How she was coping with those living on the island. Whether she would ever betray him. If that elf would show himself, Alex would lay him out and make sure he didn’t get up. Terrible thoughts ate at him each day, and when time came to ride into a fray against other knights it was all he could do to put Lindsay aside in his mind and concentrate only on his job. Struggling against the weakness hardened him until his body ached from it. The longing to send for her nearly destroyed his resolve to keep her safe. And away from Douglas.
Douglas, riding on Alex’s left, reined his horse over to be close enough to speak quietly. “There’s a determined look. I would fear to be the man in your thoughts just now, Alasdair.”
Douglas didn’t know Alex hated him. Alex wiped the deep frown from his face and shrugged. “I long for news from home.”
Douglas grunted. “Don’t wish for news, for nobody ever receives good news on campaign. Only the bad. Pray you hear nothing.”
Alex also grunted.
A grin crossed Douglas’s face. “You aren’t losing your heart for the battle, are you, Alasdair?”
Now Alex had to force a smile and hoped it was insouciant enough. “Never. Show me some Englishmen, and I’ll show you how much heart I have for the fight.”
Douglas laughed, and began to chat companionably about the campaign immediately previous to Alex’s arrival. Much had happened during the winter, and Douglas told of funny things as well as exciting ones.
Much to Alex’s surprise, the guy seemed to like him and wanted to hang out. One evening, after a particularly lucrative raid, Alex was in his tent, sewing up a nasty stab wound in his calf, when Douglas walked in with a ceramic jug dangling from one finger.
Not expecting company, Alex had his trews down around his ankles and his ruined boots tossed to the side. Without looking up at his visitor he adjusted his linens with a quick tug to be certain he wasn’t poking out of them, then gestured to a spot on the ground nearby. “Have a seat. I’m afraid you’ve caught me with my trews down.” He continued with his work, sticking his needle into the edges of his wound. As Lindsay had said, sewing while it still hurt at least kept it from hurting twice.
Douglas sat. “Is it a bad wound?” Meaning, was it still bleeding?
“No. I lost little blood and can ride tomorrow.” Walking would be an entirely different prospect, but he’d be damned if he was going to hang back for a wound that had broken no bones.
“Good.” Douglas lifted the jug to his mouth and tilted his head back for a healthy swig. Then he belched and said, “Ah. Good English wine.”
Alex gave a dry chuckle. “Too bad it’s not whisky.” He could do with a shot of something to clean his wound, and wished he knew more about distilling than he did.
Douglas peered at him as he handed over the jug and Alex took a drink. “You’re a strange man, an Dubhar.”
“Yes, I am.” Alex handed back the jug and stuck himself with the needle again.
Douglas chuckled, and Alex looked at him slantways. Couldn’t this guy tell Alex hated him? He was grinning and drinking his wine like a gomer, oblivious to the fact that his second-in-command wished him to drop dead. Or at least get the hell out of his tent, whichever might be most easily accomplished.
“That was a great excitement today, Alasdair.”
Alex had to smile, for it was true. The foray had been to a small town to the east of Carlisle, and though the locals had put up a fight, they had been no match for the Scots. Douglas, Alex, and their men had chased off the defenders, who disappeared into the woods, then carried off hundreds of head of cattle, sheep, and horses. Alex that day had acquired, besides his wound, a courser with feathered fetlocks he liked very much.
“Excellent haul.”
Douglas chuckled again at Alex’s odd way of speaking, and offered the jug again. Alex tied off his last stitch, cut the thread with hi
s dagger, then took another slug of the wine before standing to pull his trews back up around his hips. The wound in his leg burned like fire, and there was no telling whether he’d ever walk without a limp again, but he would never let on to Douglas any of that. He restored his belt over his tunic, then sat again to listen some more to Douglas reliving the day’s raid.
The wine was not strong, but it was making pleasant inroads on Alex’s sobriety. The praise from Sir James for his bravery and ingenuity during the fight washed over Alex, and a warmth kicked in. He looked over at the king’s favorite and once again saw the angry young man who had accompanied his mentor to the coronation. The years had taken the chip from his shoulder, but not the edge from his desire for revenge against Edward. The English king had ruined and eventually killed Douglas’s father, and Alex thought of how he’d be if that had happened to his own father. He might be just as ruthless and driven.
In spite of himself, Alex found himself thinking he should be glad to be riding with the guy. As clueless about strategy as most knights were these days, he was lucky to be taking orders from someone who gave a damn about something besides tilting willy-nilly against English lances. James Douglas may have been a danger to the ladies, but he was also an hellacious fighter. He led his men, and Alex, with an energy Alex envied. And he couldn’t help admiring. It was no wonder Robert was so taken with the guy. His hatred of the English was evident in every gesture, and every syllable of his speech.
Further, as Alex realized this he also realized Lindsay could never be attracted to such a man. In that instant, the knot in Alex’s gut loosened. He no longer hated James Douglas, and it was a relief.
He said, “Hey, James. You know those communiqués you send back and forth to your scouts and spies? How come they’re never encoded?”
Douglas held up a palm. “No need. The messengers can’t read, and never know what they carry.”
