Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  burbling water sounded deceptively peaceful.

  ‘I think you are trying to help me. And I thank you for that.’ Her voice did not overflow with gratitude. ‘But whether Willie Storwick lives or dies, you’ll be leaving the Borders and I’ll be living here—’ she flung her arm towards the hills ‘—and Storwicks will be living on the other side of those fells, for the rest of my life. So his fate means nothing to you. It means everything to me.’

  Her fair hair, whipped by the wind, tangled behind her and her brown eyes had become dark holes in her face. He still did not know what to make of this woman and her mix of courage and fear. But watching her bludgeon her terror into submission made him long to prevent her from ever feeling it again.

  ‘You’re brave.’ He gentled his voice, wishing he could put his arms around her. ‘To ride with them.’ Then he smiled, hoping to coax one from her in return.

  ‘I do no more than any Border man would do,’ she scoffed, as if blades and blood were nothing. ‘It takes no special courage. Nothing to sing about.’

  ‘What is courage, then, if not to face your enemy?’ He wondered whether she would answer, whether she would give him a glimpse behind her shield.

  ‘To lie down in darkness and face your dreams. And then to rise in light and face your day.’

  Her words hit him like a punch. Aye, that was the kind of courage she needed to live when even sleep did not bring rest.

  ‘What dreams, Cate? What dreams do you face?’

  She was silent for a moment, eyes dark. But when the dog nuzzled her hand, she raised her eyes to John’s and shook her head. ‘Is that what the king’s men do?’ she mocked him, clearly, to save herself. ‘Speak of their dreams?’

  He had dreamed of her, he realised, but he would not speak of that. ‘No. Life with the king takes courage of a different kind.’

  He thought she would mock him again. Instead, her eyes touched him softly. ‘Tell me.’

  He had told none of them. Indeed, he had barely admitted it to himself, but she seemed to draw his words, like the vent drew the smoke from a brazier.

  ‘The king has grown up surrounded by—nay, more than surrounded, he’s been at the mercy of men who kept him alive for their own good purposes.’ He had become king when still a babe, and a young king is a fragile creature. ‘Even his mother changed her allegiance faster than she changed her husbands. Scots, English, French—he knew not from one day to the next where her loyalty would lie. It has made him strong, but not trustful.’

  And had made John the same. Life had shown him no reason to trust family. Or women.

  ‘Does he trust you?’

  ‘If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have sent me.’ Yet with those words, he recognised why the king had sent him. It was a test, a larger one than he had realised at the time.

  One that would prove where his loyalties lay.

  Cate’s gaze was steady, but he felt the confusion in his own. There had been no questions in his mind when he left the king. No doubts about what he must do.

  Now, things were not so clear. Loyalties were tangled. That never happened to the others. Family was all. No one here ever, ever doubted that.

  No one but Johnnie Brunson.

  But stubborn, steadfast Cate was making him question himself, something no woman had ever done. And now, grudgingly, she had even thanked him. Something, he was sure, she had never done for another man.

  But she still doubted him. Well, maybe she had good reason. Maybe she, too, was testing him, demanding no less proof than did the king.

  ‘I gave you my word, Cate. Do you trust me to keep it?’ He held his breath, awaiting her answer.

  Her smile surprised him. ‘Not enough to let you ride alone, Johnnie Brunson.’

  Folding his arms, he matched it. ‘Then we’ll both be mounted, because I’ll not let you ride without me.’

  ‘You’re pigheaded, Johnnie Brunson.’

  ‘No more than you, Cate Gilnock.’

  And they smiled, and shook their heads at their shared stubbornness.

  * * *

  That night, Cate woke with a dream more frightening than all the others.

  She dreamed of joining with John Brunson. And of being unafraid.

  She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Bessie’s gentle breathing beside her, trying to understand. In her dream, there had been a moment of peace, a soft kiss, and then, more.

  She had wanted more.

  Nay, no dream then. Just a premonition of what would happen if she gave in to him. For in the dream, his hands were on her breasts, on her skin, stroking, comforting, exciting until she felt swept away, as if some wild spirit moved through her—

  And that was when she woke. Heart pounding, afraid again.

  She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, forcing her breath to slow.

  She must marry some day, she supposed, though she had put it far from her mind. As long as the tower was without a mistress, she could live here, helping Bessie with the running of it and Rob with the ponies. As long as she could train dogs and raise ponies she would have food and shelter. A life.

  One that seemed worth little.

  For months after the attack, she had numbed herself, feeling nothing. Food had no taste, sun, moon, music no sweetness. Her clothes hung loose and she moved in a world coloured only in grey.

  She wasn’t sure how long she lived that way, but one day, she heard a bird. Felt the wind. Rediscovered delight in small things she could hug to herself. A dog’s tongue, grateful, on her hand. A sunrise after a night free of dreams or raids. A fire’s warmth in December. These were the things she clung to, the smallest daily touchstones, asking, wanting, expecting nothing more.

  Until now.

  She had had few reminders of tender feelings between man and maid. Her father had been widowed early, so she had not seen kisses stolen nor heard bodies joining in the room next to hers. She could pretend they did not exist. Pretend she would never have to face them again as long as she stayed alert with her body stiff and her sword at hand.

  John’s arrival had changed all that.

  He was a man used to easy kisses and willing women. One who had not been taught that she was not to be touched. And his very appearance roused a desire more dangerous than the body’s. A desire for a life with a man. To work beside him in trust and sleep beside him in love and carry his children in her womb. Things she had forbidden herself to imagine, let alone to want.

  She wanted to resent him for that, but the dream told her the truth. Promises made. Promises kept. And now she dreamt of things that could not be. Dreamt of being a woman who could love a man.

  She must suppress those dreams. Master them as she had mastered her life for the past two years. For even after Willie Storwick was dead, she feared she would never be a woman who could press her body, nor even her lips, against a man’s and feel joy.

  And that meant there was no point in pining after a man like Johnnie Brunson who could charm a woman just by breathing. He would expect a wife eager to be charmed. One who would melt into his arms and welcome his kiss.

  And she was Braw Cate—now and ever more. Not a woman who needed, or wanted, a man.

  His promise to her was really, always, a promise to the king. That’s where his allegiance lay. Soon, John Brunson would be back at court and married to some woman with courtly graces, leaving Cate alone with yearning and regrets as difficult to heal as those she had already suffered.

  No, she must not yield. And she must make sure John Brunson got no closer. The day would come when he would be gone and she’d be alone with her nightmares again.

  Don’t you trust me? Aye, there was the problem. She was starting to do exactly that.

  Chapter Nine

  John mounted with the rest, in the hour before sunset.

  It was a small group tonight, so they could move quickly. Come before they were seen. Go before they were heard. Only five men and Rob, John and Cate.

  In the dimming l
ight, breasts beneath her quilted jack-of-plaites vest, hair disguised by her steel helmet, she looked no more a woman than the rest.

  Except to him.

  The borrowed helmet on his head shifted and she reached over to straighten it.

  Not a touch, he reminded himself, but he smiled. ‘My thanks.’

  His eyes met hers and her lips parted. Then she looked away, as if even her fingers on steel were too great a risk.

  He wanted to grab her hand. To kiss her fingers. To tell her he would keep her safe. To beg her to stay home—

  ‘Stay in the middle.’ Rob’s voice, speaking at his side.

  She gathered her reins, motioned Belde to her side and nodded as her horse started for the gate, following the others.

  ‘Both of you,’ Rob said in a voice John could not misunderstand.

  ‘You needn’t worry about me,’ John said. ‘I was trained by the king’s own sword master.’

  ‘You stay close and do what I tell you,’ Rob said in a voice meant for John alone. ‘I don’t want you straggling behind.’

  ‘I’m not Johnnie Blunkit any more,’ he growled.

  ‘That may be, Johnnie boy, but you’ve never ridden a raid.’

  He resented the reminder. He’d been too young to ride before he left. Or so his father said. Rob had ridden by the same age. ‘Maybe not, but I’ll have no trouble with it.’

  ‘Do as you please, then, if you know so much, but if you get yourself killed, don’t blame it on me.’

  Rob rode to the front of the group, but beneath his angry words, echoed something beyond annoyance. Concern.

  John pulled his pony beside Cate’s. It was for her that he rode tonight and he meant to stay close.

  ‘We’re only there to lift a few cattle,’ Rob said, addressing all of them. ‘Just a little reminder and a warning. Nothing more.’ He looked at Cate. ‘And no one else.’ Finally, he raised his voice, a battle cry. ‘Silent as moonrise!’

  ‘Sure as the stars!’ his men responded.

  ‘I ride for no cattle,’ Cate muttered, so low that only John could hear.

  ‘And you’ll not ride for him,’ John said. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘But they must know where he is.’

  ‘I promised and so did you, Cate. You gave me your word you would let me bring him to justice.’

  A pout mixed with her frown as she flashed him a frustrated glance. She trusted family, yes, but this woman was not accustomed to depending on anyone but herself. Nothing he had done so far had done much to change that.

  As they rode across the valley and into the hills, John felt awkward as his brother had predicted. His own horse had been judged untrained and his armour too heavy. So he rode Norse, still an unfamiliar mount, and wore only the chest piece of his armour. The saddle’s back rose high against his, a blanket rolled behind him. He carried his own short sword and dagger, but in his right hand, he carried a lance, longer than he was tall, forcing him to ride one-handed.

  But for all the strange trappings, he rode lighter and more freely than when he was suffocated by his armour and, as they climbed into the hills, the pony steady and sure beneath him, something stirred within. Not quite a memory, but a hunger for the feel of hooves on the ground beneath him, sure and swift, as if he were remembering something that had been with him since his first breath.

  He settled in, trusting the bay, as they rode through the dark. The miles were not long, but they were hard ones. A friendly visitor would have ridden by the water, in the valleys, to come up to the castle. Instead, they took to the hills, circling around so they would not be seen. From here, he looked down, catching a glimpse of a little village and the glow of hearth fires.

  They were not raiding a village tonight.

  He kept as close to Cate as her dog, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, never looking at him.

  The others might want cattle. Cate wanted revenge. And he meant to keep her from it.

  There was no road, but the ponies did not need one. They were in the treeless part of the land now, dipping in and out of the folds of the hills so that if someone caught a glimpse of riders, by the time he blinked and looked again, they would be gone.

  And then they came over the rise to see a small hut and the last of the Storwick cattle still left in the high country.

  Scarred Willie was not a keeper of cows. There was no reason he would be near the beasts in the middle of the night.

  John kept his eye on Cate anyway.

  * * *

  As they paused and looked down, Cate gripped the pony’s reins so tightly that he shifted, trying to sense her command.

  She loosened her fists and kept her eyes straight ahead, as she had done throughout the ride after that one quick glance at John. She could not look around for every threat. Looking would only feed the fear. Surrounded by men, with Belde at her pony’s side, she tried not to think about where she was going.

  And even though it was impossible, she thought she smelled heather. Choking her. Reminding her.

  You’re brave, John had said. But she was not. When Scarred Willie was dead—only then would the fear ebb and the nightmares cease.

  Yet when Rob gave the nod and the rest rode down the rise towards the cattle, her fear returned in a wave. This time, not just for herself.

  This time, she feared for him.

  * * *

  Rob motioned them into action with only a dip of his head and a flick of his hand. John stayed on the ridge beside Cate, relieved she did not follow. The other men swooped down, surrounded the cattle, herded them back up the hill and slipped away before a single Storwick could protest.

  But as the rest disappeared, Cate lingered on the ridge. A single man rushed out of the hut, too late to save his herd. Beside him, John sensed her taking a breath, tightening her thighs on the pony, gathering the reins...

  ‘Come.’ Rob, beside them. ‘Now.’

  He could not. He must move or Cate would ride down and confront the man alone. ‘Keep her here.’

  John galloped to the hut before the man could mount and pointed the lance at his chest. ‘Scarred Willie. Where is he?’

  The man laughed, a sound of panic. ‘I know not. He goes where he likes.’

  John was aware, dimly, that Cate had ridden up behind him. ‘What does he say?’ she asked, breathless.

  He heard the creak of saddle and boot, the growl of a dog. Was the woman dismounting?

  ‘Stay back,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder.

  A glance away was enough.

  The man pulled his dagger and swung. The blade hit John’s left arm, unprotected by armour, and drew blood. But the man did not stay to fight. He started to run.

  Towards Cate.

  John swung the horse around. In the dark, it was hard to see what was happening, but he thought he heard Belde jump.

  No time to dismount. No time to reach for sword and dagger. Instead, he thrust his lance at the man.

  No thought. No hesitation. Just as quickly as that and suddenly, John was looking down at a dying man with the steel tip of his staff holding him to earth.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘He cut Belde.’ Her voice shook.

  John started to dismount, then swayed, dizzy, nearly falling. He must be losing blood.

  Rob appeared, crackling with anger. ‘Come. Now.’

  Cate was not ready. ‘But Belde—’

  ‘Must run with us.’

  She mounted, slowly, and Belde struggled to his feet. Then they rode back over the ridge, leaving a dead man behind, along with some of John’s arrogance.

  You may learn, Johnnie, that on a raid, you don’t always have a choice.

  * * *

  Contrary to plan, the ride home took longer than the ride out. Rob sent the others ahead with the cattle to hide in the gullies of Tarras Moss. That way, if the Storwicks followed the trail of blood, only Rob, Cate and John would be in danger.

  Instead of keeping to the hills, they followed the easie
r route along the river, but neither John nor the dog could move fast. As the sky lightened, they stopped to look to the wounds of dog and man.

  John kept an eye on Cate, tending to the dog, while Rob looked at his injury. Rob washed it roughly and without tenderness, tying a cloth around John’s forearm to stop the bleeding.

  ‘You’ll mend,’ he said, jerking the knot a little too tightly.

  John winced and looked down at his arm, then up at his brother. ‘Rob, I’m sorry.’

  A shrug. It meant forgiveness. ‘I’m riding back a ways to see if they follow us.’ He looked over at Cate, then back at John. ‘Go.’

  John took the few steps to where she sat, the huge beast sprawled across her lap, cradled like a baby, his shoulder roughly covered by a cloth. The dog nuzzled against her with a soft whimper of pain, a sound John had never heard from him before.

  ‘How is he?’

  She looked up, anguish in her eyes. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Rob says I’ll mend.’

  ‘So will he.’ She petted Belde and slipped away from him. ‘The cut was not deep. Now let me see yours.’

  She turned to John, fussing over the bandage Rob had tied. Her fingers, gentle on his bared forearm, were welcome after his brother’s rough treatment.

  Touch. She was touching him.

  She was alive and safe and touching him.

  He covered her hand with his and she stilled, but did not protest. All the emotions he had stifled throughout the night flooded over him. That he could have lost her. So easily.

  He raised her fingers to his lips, kissed them.

  She rewarded him with a squeeze of his hand and raised her eyes to his. ‘You saved my life.’ Her words came slowly. She was not accustomed to giving thanks.

  ‘It’s why I came.’ He put on a smile to make light of the admission.

  Relieved, she answered it. ‘You must stop getting yourself injured, Johnnie Brunson,’ she said, taking her hand back, but without drawing her dagger or threatening him.

  He reached for her hand again, pulling it back, pulling her closer. Then he tilted her head up to look into her eyes and stroked the fair hair away from her temples, her brow, and trailed his fingers down her cheek and to her neck with a touch softer than he knew he possessed.