The King's Rebel

by Morrison, Michelle

  “Look at William,” shouted a grizzled veteran and William strove to tear his thoughts from Meghan.

  “He’s consumed by bloodlust!” laughed another. “The only thing that can bring such a look to a man’s eye is the promise of battle.”

  William frowned, cursing himself for letting his mind carry him away.

  “Battle, aye,” said the grizzled warrior. “Or the promise of sweet young lass with dewy cheeks and even dewier thighs!” The group of men burst out laughing and William forced a smile. At the old soldier’s words, Robert turned a sharp eye on William, pinning him with a questioning look, assessing his true thoughts. William forced himself to return his cousin’s gaze until the king raised his eyebrows and pointedly looked away.

  “By the time Edward’s troops arrive, we should have men from several of the clans who have pledged their support,” Robert continued. He then proceeded to describe who would be joining them and where those soldiers would fit into the battle plan.

  William again allowed his thoughts to return to Meghan. She was furious with him, aye, but surely she loved him as well. He searched his memory, recalling every touch, every look she had bestowed upon him. She loved him. He was convinced of it. Perhaps convinced was too strong a word. He had faith in it. He formed a brief prayer that his faith in her and her love was not ill founded.

  “What little of Clan Innes is coming will bring up the rear right flank,” Robert announced, catching William’s instant attention.

  “How many will that be?” asked the grizzled warrior, though William desired the answer more than any other man.

  Robert gave a disparaging shrug. “A score, perhaps two. They’re a small clan led by an old man and a lass. We will place them in a position where we will not be devastated by their absence.”

  William studied the hard-packed ground at his feet. He would be in the forefront with Robert, too far away to protect Meghan in her foolish attempt to lead her clan to battle. He clenched his hands in frustration. A thought occurred to him that relaxed his fists. He would make damn sure the rear flank was not even needed. He would rally Robert’s troops until they foamed at the mouth for English blood. If that failed, he would slay every last English soldier himself to protect Meghan. Perhaps that would convince her of his true feelings. Perhaps it would atone for his failings in her eyes...

  When the assembly finally dispersed, William raced back to the smith to try and catch Meghan before she returned to Innesbrook.

  “Nay, the wicked lassie picked up her sword over an hour ago,” was the response when William inquired. “And may she stab herself in the foot with it!” the armorer spat before returning to the axe he was sharpening.

  William turned away and forced himself to return to Robert’s tent. He would need a good night’s sleep before this mad campaign began. With a snort, he reiterated the smith’s curse. Perhaps if Meghan stabbed herself in the foot, she’d be unable to lead her troops.

  Chapter 17

  A fire blazed in Meghan, but it was not the passion for warfare that her small band of warriors spoke of. It was the constant, aching burn of muscles pushed past their limits. An itch in her hand was not the anticipatory tingle of slaying her enemy, but rather the burst blisters from trying to cram a lifetime’s worth of sword practice into a fortnight. Since she had acquired her sword—alas, even more poorly balanced from being cut to her size—she had asked each soldier she encountered for a lesson. She had risen early and retired late to enable herself to practice without the scrutinizing eyes of the Innes men.

  She was afraid that the best advice she had received had been from her uncle when he said, “Keep yer head down and stay near the rear of our men. Mayhap you’ll see no action that way.” No, she could not in good conscience do that, but, dear Lord, she did not want to die!

  Shaking such cowardly thoughts from her mind, she focused on guiding her horse and leading her men into the outer fringes of the Scottish king’s encampment. As she had done since returning to Innesbrook to gather what men she could, she envisioned her father’s countenance, stern, unwavering. When she felt overwhelmed by what she planned to do, the image of his face always had the desired effect of straightening her spine and strengthening her resolve.

  Now, however, her father’s face was hazy in her mind’s eyes. She could not make out his craggy features and coarse red-brown hair. Instead she saw a shock of silky black hair, a pair of smoky green eyes, a crooked smile and straight white teeth. The pit of her stomach clenched and a warm flush of longing spread from a lower region to soothe her tired muscles and caress her stiff neck.

  Giving in to a moment of weakness, Meghan closed her eyes and allowed the memory of William’s clean-cut features and tall, lithe body to fill her mind. She knew the hard contours of his chest, could trace the line of hair down his taut belly all the way down to...

  Meghan opened her eyes. She was on her way to war. She could scarcely lift her sword arm and her clan’s warriors numbered barely a score. She could not afford to be indulging in fantasies about a man who was a liar, a schemer, and for all intents and purposes, a murderer. She had already resolved to avoid him at all costs during this venture; she would simply ban him from her memory as well.

  Both of those vows proved easier said than done. As Meghan and her small band of warriors dismounted, William and the king rode by, followed by at least three score soldiers, all better armed and armored than the Innes clan. Meghan told herself to look away. She ordered herself to attend to her horse, set up a small camp, counsel with her men to determine where they would fight. She could not.

  He wore a mail shirt. It rippled across his broad shoulders like living steel. He and the other men must have been training, for his hair was sweat-soaked and a rough hood—the kind worn as cushioning under helmets—was pushed down around his neck. The group paused not twenty paces from Meghan and she saw William grin tiredly at something Robert said. He leaned down to accept a skin of wine from a young lad and Meghan watched the stream of ruby liquid pour into his open mouth. Fascinated, she watched him swallow, saw him wipe his lips with the back of his hand before returning the skin.

  He called to the men behind him and half of them followed him as he parted Robert’s company. Meghan watched him until he disappeared amongst the cluster of tents and horses. She slowly turned to pull her saddle and small bundle of supplies off her horse. She lifted her hands, but found herself instead clinging to her horse’s neck while tears slid down her cheeks. She had longed to call out William’s name. Even still, she had to fight the desperate urge to follow him, to forget for just a moment all of their differences, forget that it was his fault her father was dead. The longing to feel his arms safely around her, to know that he would allow nothing to harm her was so strong, she almost gave in to it.

  “Ye alright, lass?”

  Meghan looked up into the kindly eyes of Morris MacDonald, the oldest of the Innes men to follow her. He had always believed in her, even when her father had scolded her for her failings. Now he looked worried and she would not allow him to think his faith in her misplaced.

  She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Aye,” she said, a bit too heartily, but firm nonetheless. “Just checking my horse’s mouth. He seemed a bit tender when I pulled at the reins.”

  Morris looked at her horse who stood placidly chewing a stray bit of grass. “Aye, ye must be careful with the beast that carries ye to war,” he said solemnly and Meghan knew he saw through her lie. She was grateful that he said nothing else, but turned to unsaddle his own horse.

  She saw William several more times over the next two days as the entire encampment prepared to move south. He seemed to be everywhere, organizing men, ordering supplies packed. Meghan was always instantly aware if he was near. It was as if his mere presence called her name for even if she was in the middle of polishing her sword or cleaning her horse’s tack, the hairs on the back of her neck shivered, her pulse began to race and her ears pricked up the low re
sonance of his voice. Each time she closed her eyes, willing herself not to turn, not to sneak a quick glance. Each time, she found herself ducking behind her horse or into a tent so that she could gaze at him without fear of detection.

  Luckily, this time she had already been in the tent when his voice strummed her heartstrings like a lute. She had been braiding her hair to keep it out of her face as they traveled south. The order had been sent out that they would move immediately after breakfast and Meghan did not want to draw attention to herself with her unruly copper locks. She had tried to stuff the long curls beneath her helmet, but they invariably fell out, blinding her as she practiced her swordplay. So now she separated the wild mass and carefully plaited it into several braids as the Vikings of old used to. She prayed their courage and fighting ability would lend themselves to her as she imitated their braids.

  “Now Malcom MacGregor, ye wee laddie.” William’s voice sounded in Meghan’s ear and she jumped before she realized he must be standing on the other side of the canvas. She heard a chorus of laughter for Malcom MacGregor was a huge boar of a man with a temperament to match. Rumors had been flying about the camp that the old MacGregor was threatening to take his substantial number of warriors home because King Robert had not granted him the honorary position of leading the left flank.

  “Now Will, don’t come kissin’ my arse for yer cousin’s sake. You and I both know what’s right and I should be leading the men to the king’s left, should I no?” The MacGregor’s voice rumbled like an avalanche of slow-rolling boulders.

  “Aye, we both know what’s right. But what’s right is not always what’s right.”

  “Don’t try to muddle me with riddles,” the MacGregor growled.

  “Malcolm!” Will sounded offended. “Ye know I’ll no live to see the day I outwit ye! But ye must see reason. It may be yer right to lead the left flank, but yer a better man than others who follow the king. A better man and a better warrior. You know that honorary positions on a battlefield mean naught if the battle’s not won, aye?”

  “Aye,” was the gruff response.

  “Weel then, how can ye deny us your warrior’s skills where we really need ye?”

  “I’d no deny ye my skills, Will, ‘tis just that—“

  ”I told Robert ye were the man most loyal to Scotland! He’ll be glad to hear I was proven right. So ye’ll ride behind the king?”

  Meghan was nearly dazed by William’s smooth cajolery. She imagined Malcolm MacGregor was all but befuddled.

  “Aye,” he said sheepishly. “I guess a man’s pride just needs to be assured every once in a while.”

  “O’ course it does. The Lord knows I grow positively peevish when I don’t hear how handsome I am at least twice a day!”

  Malcom’s rusty guffaw joined the chorus of male laughter as William’s easy manner smoothed yet another set of ruffled feathers.

  So it had been each time she’d seen him, each time she’d heard of him, whether he was negotiating with the clan lairds, training his men, or simply entertaining the troops with his harp playing. Authority emanated from his tall frame, his strong voice. And yet, no man who received an order or a chastisement resented William. In fact, soldiers and servants alike rushed to do his smallest bidding. Not once did he browbeat, threaten or intimidate. A traitorous voice in the back of her mind whispered that that had been her father’s technique but instead of pushing the disloyal thought from her mind, Meghan accepted it as the truth. No, what William did was call upon the men’s nobler instincts rather than catering to their baser fears.

  Unbidden, the memory of William’s spontaneous proposal flitted through her mind. She wondered for the thousandth time why he had made the offer. At first she had believed that he simply wanted to gain control of her troops. But now that she saw how insignificant the Innes contribution was to Robert’s forces, she knew that could not be the case. Perhaps he had felt guilty over her father. Were that true, she could not accuse him of being heartless and concerned only with the politics of her father’s death, the responsibility for which, now that she was being honest with herself, could only rest on the English king’s head. Could he have asked out of...love?

  Meghan’s fingers fumbled in their plaiting and she dropped her face into her hands. Had she thrown William’s love away for a grudge? Worse, had she denied her clan a strong, caring leader? For she had no doubt that her people would have taken to him with the same devotion the men around camp had. All of the Innes warriors in her camp spoke of him in glowing terms, trained harder and longer for him than she could have ever asked.

  Scrubbing the tears from her eyes, Meghan resumed her ministrations, tying the end of her braid with a bit of twine. What’s done was done. All she could hope to do now was hope to survive this battle. Then, perhaps she could try to set things aright with William.

  She grabbed up her small satchel, her light armor, and her sword. She ducked out of the tent and nodded at Morris to tear down the tent and pack it up. The entire encampment was ready to leave.

  Meghan hung her helmet on her saddle and secured her sword where it would stay dry. She swung up onto her horse, and turned it to follow the others.

  It was time to focus on the task at hand, she firmly told herself. She could not linger on her memories of that enchanted strawberry glen, and she absolutely must not wonder what might have been if William had been honest enough from the beginning to tell her his clan and she been strong enough to vow that it didn’t matter.

  Chapter 18

  William watched as the last of the Bruce's troops made their way into the shallow bowl where Robert planned to meet the English troops. They had passed the small village of Perth an hour before and William wondered how many men would sneak back to enjoy a bit of carousing before battle. He hoped they would wait and enjoy the ale and wenches as a victory celebration. On second thought, he decided, in case there was no victory celebration-he pushed the thought from his mind. He and Robert had planned and trained well. They had reviewed their plans and redoubled the men's training. He felt confident that on the morn when they faced Edward's soldiers, they would take the day. Why then did he still feel a lurking dread?

  Normally the thought of an impending battle-especially one for which he was well prepared-made his blood sing. His muscles would tighten in glorious anticipation and his senses would sharpen so that he could almost read the wind. Now, however, cold fear niggled at the back of his mind and threatened to break his battle concentration.

  Meghan. It was her fault he was distracted. How could he possibly focus on slaying the enemy when he was worried for her safety? A good commander had to rely on his troops to fend for themselves in the heat of battle. If he worried about a soldier's fate, he would surely die himself and then where would his men be? But Meghan was not just a soldier. Hell, he thought, as he swung off his horse and allowed a young squire to lead it off. Just a soldier. Meghan was no soldier! She was an ornery, stubborn idiot and if he hadn't been such an idiot and told her about his real mission in England, they would even now be married and he could have tied her to her bed to keep her from the battle!

  The thought of Meghan tied to a bed--his bed--was appealing beyond the assurance of her safety. William grinned and allowed his imagination to wander a little more before catching himself up short. He paused on his way to his tent and scanned the swarm of tents, horses, campfires and bedrolls that covered the grassy field like a horde of insects.

  He had not seen Meghan once since that day at the armorer's tent. Considering their numbers, it was not be surprising except that William had made a point to ride by each clan's soldiers, ostensibly to boost their morale and verify their battle readiness. Only in the privacy of his heart would he admit that he desperately needed to see her, assure himself that she was safe, discover where she would be come the day of the battle.

  For despite his duties as a soldier and one of Robert's commanders, William knew he would do anything necessary to keep Meghan safe. His efforts so
far had been unsuccessful and William only hoped that meant his headstrong love had finally seen the light of reason and stayed at Innesbrook where she belonged. He snorted as he entered his tent and Hamish looked at him with raised brows.

  "'Tis nothing," he told his stocky friend who returned to oiling his leather armor.

  Nothing indeed. If he knew Meghan, and he prided himself that he did, the little vixen was probably making sure he could not find her. She was too clever for her own good and he only hoped that cleverness kept her alive on the field tomorrow.

  ***

  William tightened the strap on his breastplate and adjusted his elbow cop so that it would not dig into his exposed inner arm. Anticipation pulsed through his body like a wildfire across a dry plain. He felt the familiar heightening of his senses and welcomed it. He smelled the old sweat which had stained the leather of his armor, heard the bawdy joke of a soldier across the camp, felt the faintest breeze from the southwest stroke his cheek as he lifted his head.

  One of Robert's squires brought him a plate of food, but William ignored it. He would drink a bit of water before the battle, but that was all. Afterwards, he would be ravenous, both for food and a woman, though he was fairly certain Meghan would not have forgiven him by then. However Meghan was now naught but a shadow on the periphery of his mind. His whole being was focused on his longsword and his shield.