The Scotsman (34 page)

Torchlight stung her eyes, smelling strongly of pitch. Catherine blinked against it. Despite a lack of sleep, she was tense and wide-awake, her nerves thrumming as she perched atop her mount in the midst of the bailey. Around her was the tumult of men with weapons and fresh horses eager for the coming journey. It was still dark, though the days had grown longer. Soon it would be May, and then the weather would be soft and night would not long linger on the land.

It should be a time to celebrate the passing of the bleak, cold days of winter, but instead it was a time of preparation. Fields lay fallow, the men who tilled them conscripted into the service of the Bruce. Husbands left wives behind, sons their mothers, and women stood weeping as they had done since time began and the first men had gone to war, some never to return.

Her throat tightened, and Catherine looked away when a young woman clung weeping to a soldier. She felt very much like doing the same. Yet she could not, even if she had the right to weep for Alex, for the daughter of an
earl did not betray such emotion before all. Despite her situation, she knew her station, and would not shame herself or Alex.

He came to her, striding across the bailey with a reckless grin on his face, his eyes alight with pleasure, and she wanted to cry out with frustration. Did he not care that he may die in this war? Ah, God, what would she do if he did, for she did not think she could bear it.

But she said none of that when he reached her, only nodded calmly when he said she would ride beside him.

“Robbie leaves when the last of the men summoned join him here, and they will catch up to us on the road.” He glanced around him. “John Elliot has arrived with a score of men, and we take a score. Robbie will bring near two hundred when he comes. When we all arrive at Torwood Forest, there will be enough men under our standard to make the Bruce proud, and fulfill Douglas’s requirements.”

“Sir James?” She was surprised, for she had not heard Alex mention that he was to fight with him. He looked back up at her with a slight frown.

“Yea, Black Douglas himself. We will form a division under his command. He summons the men from Lanark, Renfrew, and the Borders to him, and our roll call should be great, though not as numerous as the English.”

Every word had the ringing tones of a death knell to her, another reminder of the perils that faced them. Her hands tightened on the reins, her gloves slipping slightly on the leather. She looked down at the palfrey she had been given to ride, a burnished sorrel with a gentle nature.

“It will be good to see him again,” she said for lack of any other coherent comment that would hide her fears, and Alex put a hand upon her knee.

“Yea, milady, so it will.” He drew in a harsh breath
between his teeth and curled his mailed fist into the cloak covering her. “If aught should happen to me, ’tis to Douglas that you should go. He will see you safely away from danger and Scotland,” He looked up at her then from beneath his lashes, a strangely intense gaze that reflected torchlight in the smoky gleam of his eyes as he said softly, “I demand a promise from you, Catherine.”

He sounded so serious, and her heart jumped a little at the low significance of his tone. “Demand, sir?” she said with a shaky little laugh. “Tþs not oft you make demands of me.”

“Aye. But this is one I expect you to obey. If it should happen that we are attacked before we reach the Bruce, you will obey me instantly and hide yourself. Should I be the victor, all will be well. But should I fall—nay, do not argue,” he cut in harshly when she began to protest, “for I will not be gainsaid in this. Should I fall, you are to throw yourself on the mercy of the English and say that you have been my hostage. Once they learn your father is the Earl of Warfield, they will know the rest of it quick enough and see that you are returned to him. Do not try to aid me, or show yourself, but remain hidden where I put you, or so help me, if I still live, I will take great pleasure in treating you as a husband treats his errant wife and beat you until you are unable to sit or he in comfort. Now swear to me that you will obey.”

Irate, she glared at him. “I was not in the habit of obeying my father, sir, so I see no reason why you wouldst think I will obey you. But”—she put up a hand to ward off his angry interruption—“as it will no doubt distract you in a fight to think I might come to harm if I do not remain hidden, I will do so—at your
request.”

Outrage was reflected in his eyes and his mouth thinned into a taut slash. “By all that is holy, Lady Catherine, if you do not swear to me that—”

“Hold.” She tightened the reins and her palfrey gave a skittish jump that removed Alex’s hand from her knee. She stared down at him coolly. “Do not make idle threats, Alex Fraser, for I do not stomach them well.” Pent-up anger and frustration burned her, and she returned hot stare for hot stare until he swore softly beneath his breath.

“Christ above … if ’tis what ’twill take to wrest an oath from you, I will respectfully
request
that you swear to me you will do as I bid you do.”

She smiled sweetly. “On my honor as Lady Catherine of Warfield and subject of King Edward, I do swear to you, sir, that I will obey your commands should we be attacked.”

Resentment simmered in his eyes and tone. “If you find it that easy, I see no need for your delay.”

“Sir, I see no need for your demand, when all that was required from you was courtesy.”

He drew in another harsh breath, but an unwilling smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Check?”

An answering smile curved her lips upward. “Aye, and checkmate, sir.”

He laughed then, shaking his head. “You sorely try my patience, catkin, but I find it difficult to remain angry with your impertinence.”

Their argument had relieved some of her tension, and Catherine sat silently as Alex mounted his huge destrier and spoke to his men in Gaelic. They rode from Castle Rock just as the sun broke from beneath an outcropping of jagged rocks, splinters of light piercing the sky and staining it crimson and gold. A crisp breeze blew, carrying on the currents the scent of morning fires and fresh bread, and as they rode through the narrow, twisting streets of Kinnison, she wondered if she would ever see the village again.

No doubt, many of the men with them wondered the same, for they rode quietly along the rutted track that led north to Torwood Forest, where the Bruce waited with a growing army. The clatter of hooves against hard-packed dirt and muck was constant, and the metallic clank of weapons and jangle of horse harness announced their progress through small villages and quiet wood. Sunlight flirted with clouds and shadows chased them over broad fields and steep rocky crags.

When they forded the Esk River, Catherine’s horse shied at the rushing water, and Alex leaned from his huge destrier to grasp the bridle and tug the palfrey forward. The water was unexpectedly shallow, yet the gentle mare blew and snorted nervously as they crossed. Clambering up on the opposite bank, the horse stood trembling when Alex released the bridle. Then his destrier swung its great head, snapping at the mare savagely, and Alex jerked his reins to curb the beast.

Catherine thought of Nicholas and his frequent warnings to be ware of a warhorse’s temper, and she pulled her mare away from the destrier’s reach. “I fear your horse is sadly lacking in proper manners with a lady, sir,” she said when Alex cast her a sidelong glance. “My beast is gentle and fearful.”

“Unlike her rider.” Alex grinned when she lifted her brows at him. “I feared earlier that you would savage me if I did not heed your rebuke.”

“I might have.” She nudged her palfrey into a trot and away from Alex, saying over her shoulder, “I still may.”

He laughed, and she fought the sudden wave of love that overpowered her at times, making her yearn to tell him of her heart’s desire. There would be a time, if God and fate were kind, that she could say again what was in her heart. Next time, it would not be in the throes of passion, but with unfettered clarity, and he would have
no choice but to listen—and to answer. It was the last thing that she both feared and yearned for, for any answer was better than uncertainty.

Nicholas, Lord Devlin, strode the ramparts of Berwick impatiently. Curse them, what was the delay? He was ready to leave, weary of marshaling foodstuffs rather than men. An embargo had been put on the export of food, and over two hundred four-horse and eight-oxen carts had been drafted from various sheriffdoms to make up the wagon train that would provision the king’s army. To his chagrin, he had been put in charge of procuring the supplies.

But as reward, Hereford had managed to obtain for him the king’s promise that when the coming battle was over, he would grant him the lands of Castle Rock and Kinnison. King Edward grew expansive as he lingered at Berwick to await the coming conflict, and dealt out the patrimonies of Scottish gentry that he expected to soon gain. Already, the king had allotted the vast lands of Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, to the son of his close adviser, Hugh Despenser the younger, and other plum prizes to those of his followers who pleased him. This optimism was shared by most of the knights and barons, many of whom had brought with them household furnishings such as tapestries, furniture, and even baronial plate to refurbish the houses Edward had already promised them.

Despite a fierce desire to have Castle Rock just for the pleasure of razing it to a pile of rubble, Nicholas was uneasy at the confidence of the English army. It worried him, for none of them seemed to remember how viciously the Scots could fight. He did. It was sharply etched on his mind with every skirmish, every savage fray he had survived. There were times he was certain he
would be killed, and in truth, he did not know why he yet lived.

Possibly to right the wrong that had been done his sister.

His sword scraped loudly against the wall of the tower staircase as he descended the steps to the bailey, his stride swift and determined. He saw Beakin waiting for him at the gate. A fine mist settled on his bare head and face as he beckoned for the man to come with him, and they moved to a sheltered arch beneath the wall.

“Fraser rides at last, my lord.” Beakin’s sharp eyes peered at him from beneath the metal noseguard of his helmet. “He has an army with him, and they ride north.”

“Is she with him?”

“Yea, my lord. You were right. He did not leave her behind.”

No, he would not, not after the last time he had left Castle Rock and the earl had attacked. Fraser was too smart to leave temptation behind in a poorly guarded fortress. He looked back at Beakin and nodded curtly.

“Tell me the route they use, and where we can meet the men you left to follow them.”

“They crossed the Esk, so will most like try to skirt the Pentland Hills and go by way of Moffat, Lanark, and Motherwell. To my mind, an ambush could be laid between Moffat and Lanark. Too close to Motherwell, and you run the risk of falling into a nest of Scots.”

“Will I have time to get there?”

Beakin hesitated. “Mayhap, milord. If your horses are swift and the Scots few.”

Nicholas nodded grimly. The anticipation of action eased the constant irritation he had suffered of late, and he gladly put a heavy purse in Beakin’s outstretched palm. “The rest you will get when we intercept Alex Fraser.”

Beakin grinned, showing a row of blackened teeth. “Aye, milord. But do not be surprised if he is caught, trussed up and ready for you when we find them, for the men I left are in no mood to dally.”

“As long as my sister is unharmed, I do not care what they do to Fraser.” He thought a moment, then added in a soft voice that earned him a wary glance from Beakin, “But I hope he is still alive when I get to him, for I intend to lesson him on what it means to goad me.”

“Aye, milord. Do we ride?”

“Yea, I have been waiting on your report. All is in readiness.”

It occurred to him as he went to inform Hereford of his absence that he was taking a great chance in riding so deep into enemy territory. But it may well be the only chance he had for retrieving Catherine and killing Alex Fraser, and he did not intend to let it pass. Not now. Not after all these frustrating months of delay and careful negotiation. He was done with that.

And if he succeeded in recovering his sister, he fully intended to attend the executions of Adam de Brus and James Fraser, for it would be little enough recompense for what had been done to his lands. For de Brus, he had no regret, for the man was full-grown and knew the risks. But with the youth, there was a certain amount of reluctance, for Jamie Fraser had been too young to realize the perils of war. He had his brother to thank for that, he supposed, for it was what Scots ate along with their meat—hatred and vengeance. It would not be pleasant to visit such a fate on young Fraser, but he would not be the first innocent to die in this strife between Scotland and England. Nor would he be the last.

Nicholas waited tensely for the Scots to pass, motioning to the men behind him to remain silent. They hid in a
thick copse of trees in the valley of the Clyde east of Biggar, watching the road below and the steady stream of Scottish soldiers. He began to wonder if any of the king’s barons realized just how many Scots were answering Bruce’s call to arms. A few were just peasants armed with crude weapons, but most were landed knights and barons who brought with them well-armed men and trained soldiers instead of the ill-fitted rabble they had been led to expect.

Still, it would be surprising if Bruce’s army numbered even one-half of King Edward’s, for a host of knights from Brittany, France, Poitou, Guinenne, and Germany swelled the ranks of their force. While the earls of Lancaster, Warwick, Surrey, and Arundel had not answered Edward’s summons in person, they would each send their feudal obligations of a quota of cavalry and footmen. Also along with the veterans of King Edward I’s campaigns was a knight oft described as the third best champion in all of Christendom. It was said that Edward II had ransomed Sir Giles d’Argentan from the Emperor of Byzantium, who held him prisoner, for an enormous sum. A surprising number of Scots arrayed on Edward’s side as well, among them the expected John Comyn, son of the “Red” Comyn whom Bruce had murdered, and the former Scottish guardian Ingram de Umfraville and his brother the Earl of Angus. An impressive array, indeed, and more than enough to annihilate the Scots in battle.