A lifetime of worshipping everything to do with war, and all Joshua wanted to do now was stop it. “If ye kill her, Patrick, her people will see ye as a murderer of a woman, a mother.”
“I do not care what her people see,” he said, spittle coming from his mouth.
“And that is the problem,” Joshua said, speaking in a calm voice. “Ye do not care about these people. Ye do not take a moment to think about what it is like to have hunger gnaw at your belly or your bones ache with cold from inadequate shelter. Or have your few possessions stolen away because ye are part of the common people. Ye see them as criminals when ye are the one to break laws against them. Ye convince yourself they are less than ye, that they deserve whatever befalls them, that somehow God does not see them the same as ye.”
Patrick snorted. “God? Where is He in all this? I see nothing of Him in this world. You should know, Horseman of War. It is the strong and powerful who rule the world.”
How had something that Joshua had been raised to believe seem suddenly so very wrong? But it hadn’t been sudden. It had started with the disaster in South Ronaldsay, where he watched good people die because of his self-conceit and inexperience with weakness. The conflict grew within him as he trained Robert’s soldiers and even more as he tried to talk the Hillside people out of fighting a war they could not win, finally giving voice to what he’d learned. And now, as he saw Kára, so beautiful and strong but so damn vulnerable with a blade against her, he realized the foundation on which he’d always stood was sharp, crumbling sand—unstable, vicious, and wrong.
What mattered right now, above victory or revenge, was getting Kára safely away from the madman who stood with full conviction on the very foundation in which Joshua had built his life.
“Let her walk away,” Joshua said, his voice low and even, as if he spoke to a spooked horse. “There is no war between her and ye.”
“She killed my brother,” Patrick said.
“I killed your brother,” Joshua said. “Your revenge should be on me, not her.”
Patrick’s lips rolled back, showing his clenched teeth. “You bring destruction to your whole clan by killing a royal.”
Joshua held his arms out wide. “I am naked and obviously unarmed. Take out your revenge on my body.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed as if he knew Joshua’s words were a ploy.
“Joshua!” Jean’s voice came from behind, followed by a gasp.
Kára’s hand pushed against her captor’s arm. She dropped down to twist away under the blade. Joshua lunged forward to grab her, but she was too far away.
Eyes wild and snarl in place, Patrick yanked his arm and sliced in a sweeping downward swing into Kára’s side. She screamed, and Joshua’s heart fell inside his chest, leaving him hollow as Patrick threw her to the stone floor.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions.”
Sun Tzu – The Art of War
“Nay!” Joshua yelled, his gaze tethered to Kára where she fell on the floor, crumpled and unmoving.
Joshua reached Patrick, his fist hitting the blade from the bastard’s hand. He could easily swoop down to grab it, thrusting it into the man’s belly. Even without a blade, Joshua could kill him viciously with his two hands alone. But the usual fury within Joshua had changed to desperation to reach Kára. The cape had fallen open to show a red line swelling with blood, skin flayed open. Eyes closed, she lay unmoving.
Nay! Bloody hell, nay!
Patrick dodged past Joshua as he fell to his knees beside Kára.
“Get out of my way, Jean!” Patrick yelled as he shoved her out of the doorway.
“Kára,” Joshua murmured and glanced around for anything to staunch the blood.
Jean stood in the doorway, holding what looked like a length of plaid. But his gaze fastened on her linen smock. Jumping up to face her, the woman’s eyes went wide.
“Joshua?” she breathed, fear in the tightness of her face as if she thought he would tear her in two. He dropped before her, yanking the edge of her smock. She gasped as the fabric tore in his frantic hands, ripping the stitched seam that encircled her. Without pause he twisted around to return to Kára.
How deep was her gash? He could not tell, but the wet crimson that dripped down from it showed it had not remained merely on the surface. Taking the white linen, he gingerly but firmly wrapped it around her middle to hold the flesh together. “Lord in Heaven,” he whispered over her, his hands moving swiftly as he’d been taught to do when staunching blood on the battlefield. Her face seemed to grow pale under his stare, the darkness of her lashes stark against her skin.
Joshua’s lips moved as his fingers worked. “If ever there was a time for me to ask for miracles, Horseman or not, please…take me over her.” His whisper was hardly heard over the deep thudding of his heart.
“Joshua,” Jean said from beside him, some of her normal arrogance returning to her voice. “I brought you this.” She dropped a length of wool plaid. “Whatever happened to your clothes?”
Joshua moved to Kára’s head, feeling the side that hit the stone with enough force to steal her consciousness. A large bump formed under her golden hair, but no blood.
“I said,” Jean continued, “what happened to your clothes? And why are you with this…woman?” He stood slowly as she continued to speak. “Father said you had turned traitor, working with the enemy. That you stole away Hilda and my horse that night you did not return to me.” Her voice held anger and pain.
Joshua picked up the length of wool, shaking it out. Jean grabbed his arm, making him turn to her. She was pampered and perfumed and perfectly ignorant. How could he have ever felt her enticing?
“The horse and the woman, Hilda, were not yours to keep, or your father’s to keep, Jean.” He shook his head. “Ye either know little or care little about the atrocities done to the people of Orkney. And I have no time to explain them to ye.”
He turned away, squatting. Checking the wrapping around Kára’s middle first, to make certain it was secure, he took the plaid wrap meant for his hips and laid it over her body, covering her. He tucked the edge under her chin and rolled her enough to get the wool wrapped under her. The heaviness of her sleep felt like death to him, making his heart hammer in his tight chest. He had to get her out of there, out of the battle, somewhere she could be stitched and heal.
“That was supposed to be for you,” Jean said as he continued to wrap Kára up in it.
“She has more need of it at present,” he mumbled, even covering her head, her pale face the only thing showing. He finished by wrapping her cloak around her and stood slowly, Kára draped over his arms, her face against his chest.
Jean stood before the doorway, her arms wide as if to stop him from leaving. The idea was laughable, but nothing was humorous about a night such as this. “Step aside.”
“Joshua, be reasonable. If you continue this way, you will forfeit your life on the gallows.”
“And if ye continue this way, Jean Stuart, ye will forfeit your soul to Hell. Now get out of my way.” His words were low and lethal, making her eyes widen in the presence of his full battle expression. She slid aside, flattening herself against the wall.
There was no time to stop to try to wake Kára or check on the gash in her side. He knew only that he must get her out of there and to safety no matter which way the battle turned. Hopefully, Osk got Geir away and to safety before Torben’s vengeful attack sent everything spiraling toward a bloody end. To die in vain, Torben’s soul would likely haunt the Earl’s Palace forever.
Joshua stepped down the stairwell as quickly as he could while maintaining his balance and clearance for Kára in his arms. With the pitch darkness, he chose to step out on the bottom floor of the keep instead of continuing on to the back door where he’d entered. He swung
around the arch into the gallery lined with proudly displayed weapons flanking the walls and strode forward with Kára.
Liam and another soldier Joshua had trained fired their arrows from slits cut into the stone walls for just such a purpose. They turned to him, arrows nocked, eyes going wide.
Joshua shook his head. “Stand down, men,” he said. “This is a battle started by one vengeful man.”
“Ye broke The Brute,” Liam said, not lowering his bow. Made for distance, it would pierce both Kára and him with one thick arrow.
“With your bare hands,” said the other man.
“A fair fight, to retrieve a child and save this woman,” he answered, shifting her harder against him. “Now let us pass. I mean ye no harm.” He would rather slice through anyone in his way of getting Kára to safety, but words would have to be his shield over her.
“Liam, ye know the tyranny here at the palace, the unjust treatment of the weak.” He met the man’s gaze, a good man with whom he’d joked on many occasions after a day of training.
“Since when does the Horseman of War care about the weak?” the other man, a soldier named Iain, asked.
In some ways, he had cared his whole life. Joshua had intimidated most people to stop them from attacking and surrendering their lives. When that didn’t work, a quick strike against the aggressors saved hundreds of weaker villagers.
“Since ye started bedding them?” Iain asked, nodding toward Kára.
“Shut your mouth, Iain,” Liam said and nodded toward the door. “Go on,” he said to Joshua.
Rage at Iain’s slander battled against his need to get Kára away. The raw, hateful emotion roared within him, his face transforming into the pointed stare of an executioner. Iain took a slight step backward, his arrow held before him like a shield. He would have one shot. If he missed, Joshua would tear him apart.
“Iain,” Liam yelled. “Put it down.” A glance at Liam showed him aiming his arrow now at his fellow soldier.
“What the bloody hell?” Iain yelled, dropping the point of his arrow to the floor. “’Tis treason.”
“I will foking tear your limbs off if ye miss,” Joshua said, letting out in his low tone all the pent-up rage he’d felt.
Iain’s face turned pale as Joshua strode toward him. The man seemed to shrink, and Joshua dodged at the last moment to move past him and out the door of the keep, leaving Liam to deal with him.
Outside, fires burned high in the wind. Smoke flooded the bailey, and the familiar clash of men and weapons broke any peace the night might bring. Robert stood inside the gates, his shirt blackened with smoke and dirt. He yelled orders to his younger sons and his soldiers. Without other orders, the trained soldiers followed his. Joshua had seeded the idea of turning against Robert in the men he trained before he left, just in case. In some instances, it worked, like with Liam, Angus, and Mathias, but some remained loyal to the crown, which was Robert here on Orkney.
“Johnathan, Edward, stand down,” Joshua yelled as he walked across.
Robert charged up to him, making Joshua shift Kára to his shoulder where she moaned at the pain the movement inflicted. “How dare you!” Robert yelled, throwing his hand wide. “To bring these people to storm my palace after I housed you for months.”
Joshua had no time for arguing with the tyrant. “Get out of my way, Robert Stuart, or ye will meet the same fate as your Brute.”
“That is right! I am Robert Stuart,” he yelled in full tantrum. “I am a royal Stuart, and you are a traitor, you and all the Sinclairs.”
Joshua came up close to him, looming down while keeping track of the man’s blade. But the look on Joshua’s face seemed to freeze Robert as he stared up at him. “I am independent of the Sinclairs, rescinded my oaths, and have no ties to them.”
“Does not matter! Someone must die for your insolence and treason.” Robert lifted his short sword.
Naked and with one hand holding Kára over his shoulder, Joshua twisted as Robert thrust. The palm of Joshua’s hand hit the blade at the hilt, knocking it from Robert. He was like a spoiled lad, sitting in his palace, eating and sending soldiers to steal away Kára’s people and their possessions and peace. Torben’s fury and impatience must have been the only things that made him fail against the pompous man.
“Perhaps ye should be the one to die,” Joshua said, taking a step toward the man. Robert raised both hands as if ready to defend himself. That he did not draw another blade meant he had none.
Joshua shifted Kára to lie across his arms and turned his back on the bastard. He strode away toward the half-finished wall. He stepped past men he had trained, who paused to watch his march. None of them tried to stop him. Some of them halted their friends from firing out into the night when Joshua shook his head at them. There was no time to do more. He must get Kára somewhere safe.
Stepping around an incomplete wall, he traipsed away with large, ground-eating steps. Calder battled a man known as Bull. Erik Flett stood apart, his sword in his one remaining hand. Fire raging behind him, Joshua strode forward carrying Kára, completely unarmed, completely naked. She lay bundled in her cloak and yards of wool that he refused to believe would be her death shroud. On his way out into the night, men stopped fighting to watch him.
“You abandon us,” Chief Erik called, sweat and ash on his face.
Joshua paused, turning his face to the man. “’Twas Torben who signaled to start the battle, so ’tis not my fight. I strongly suggest that ye cease it.”
Without wasting another moment, Joshua took off in a run as smoothly as he could. Even so, Kára whimpered at the jarring. But the noise meant that she was alive. “Hold on, lass,” he said as he ran her out of the fray. Men of both sides paused to watch him. Did they think that he retreated in fear?
Death before retreat. His father’s words shot through his head, almost making him stumble with the rocks digging into the arches of his feet. Damn. George Sinclair could still haunt him from the grave. Never in his seven and twenty years had Joshua ever run away from an active fight. Even in South Ronaldsay, when people died around him, he did not give an inch of ground. Maybe if he had, more of Adam’s people would have lived to see the next day.
As he neared the top of the hill, he saw the shadow of two people. “Holy God! Kára!” Osk ran over, Geir with him. “Is she…?”
Joshua slowed but continued to walk. “She lives, but she has a gash in her side and hit her head hard when Patrick threw her to the ground.”
“Did you kill him for it?” Geir asked.
Joshua did not answer him. He would not defend his choice to go to Kára instead of giving in to the need for vengeance. “I am taking her to her den.” He glanced at Geir. “She would want ye two to leave this scene. Come with me.”
“No,” Geir said, anger on his face.
“Aye,” Osk said at the same time. He grabbed Geir’s hand. “As your uncle, I am getting you out of this mess or Kára will have my head.” He started to pull the boy along. “And my liver and bowels and heart.” Two steps farther and Osk seemed to remember what he was carrying. “Joshua,” he said and threw Joshua’s discarded boots at him. “It will be faster if you are wearing those.”
“I’m not putting her down,” Joshua said and began to walk.
“Bloody hell,” Osk yelled, dropped Geir’s hand, and ran to get the boots. He caught Geir’s hand again as he ran by, dragging the boy to get in front of Joshua. “We will put them on you. Blast it! Stop for a moment.”
Osk dropped down to the ground with one boot, and reluctantly Geir followed. “I still think we should stay to fight,” the boy said.
Joshua glanced over Kára’s head at her son. For him to grow into a man someday, he must learn when not to fight. “I will teach ye from my book starting on the morrow. Right now, we leave to save your mother.” His tone allowed for no refusal, and Geir nodded.
&nb
sp; Behind them, the night was lit with the red glow of burning thatch and hay, but Joshua noticed that shadows of men were fleeing the scene. Had Erik called for them to retreat?
Boots tied and the cloak that Osk had also retrieved thrown over his shoulders, Joshua ran across the rocky ground and through tall grasses hiding ruts. The pounding of his legs and the huffing of the two lads keeping up with him as he ran with Kára in his arms were the only sounds he heard over the wind rushing past his ears. How long had it been since he’d bound her wound? It seemed like hours when it was likely less than half of one. How deep was the gash? Kára’s survival depended on the answer.
He held her close into him, so he could run faster without faltering. If it were up to him, he’d have pulled her inside his body, but the best he could do was wrap her completely in the wool length. Please live.
Bloody hell, live. Live. Live. Live. The word became a mantra in his head, beating with the quickness of his steps. Because the alternative would tear him apart.
…
Voices. Low, rough, continuing voices, their ups and downs were like waves on the ocean. She tried to focus on them but slipped away again into the nothingness, the fire of pain ebbing into an ache in the darkness.
“Come back to me, Kára.” The voice pulled her, but darkness won.
…
Voices drew her again, words that at first hovered without reason.
“Hunting us.”
“Burned.”
“Hilda will not leave.”
“Fever.”
“Will not stop.”
“Treason.”
Slowly, the random words threaded together into sentences that wavered in and out in volume.
“Robert will not stop until he finds you.” The strong voice came from her amma.
“Until he kills you,” said another, Osk perhaps.
“Or you kill him.” That was Geir. She exhaled, her body relaxing into whatever bed held her. Her son had survived.
Highland Warrior Page 24
