Return of the Border Warrior

by Blythe Gifford

  She stilled, not speaking, not wanting to give him a clue that she was not the man he thought.

  He circled her, keeping the pike close, as if turning a wagon wheel. ‘What’s your name, boy? How did you find me?’

  She followed him with her eyes, but he disappeared behind her. ‘Who are you?’ she answered in the lowest tone she could muster. At least he had not disarmed her. ‘And what are you doing on Brunson land?’

  He stopped, squarely behind her, an invisible menace. ‘You!’

  She tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

  ‘All alone, are you?’

  Bravado deserted her. Stomach churning, cheeks hot, then cold, she could only stand, helpless as the first time, and wait for him to grab her again.

  ‘Been missing me since Truce Day, have you? Well, your beast gave me a new scar. One you must pay for.’

  Her stomach curdled. ‘No.’ The word shook.

  You must do this. Or when you next lie in Johnnie’s arms, you will see this man instead.

  ‘No!’ She yelled this time, to be sure the ancestors knew she was no coward.

  She jumped away, then whirled to face him, blade up, her sword strong and solid in her hand. ‘I came back to make sure you never hurt another woman.’

  And that you hurt me no more.

  He stepped to one side, forcing her to do the same, recognising her as a threat. ‘You’re going to fight me, are you?’ He laughed. ‘Even better. More exciting than before.’

  She gripped the hilt of the sword. Her fingers numbed.

  Before. When she had not fought at all.

  He teased her sword with his pike, the staff so long he could easily knock her blade away, while keeping her well at a distance.

  Furious, she grabbed the hilt with both hands and swung the sword, leaving herself open on the other side. His pike blocked her easily, throwing her off balance. She stumbled backwards into one of the stones.

  He waited, smugly, while she steadied herself.

  Fear, anger, something beyond thought throbbed in her head and pulsed through her veins as she raised her sword again.

  Scarred Willie felt none of those things. Scarred Willie was laughing.

  Moving before he could prepare, she knocked the pike from his hands and pointed her blade to his chest.

  Now. Thrust it through his black heart.

  But now he was close to her. Close as he had been that night just before...

  He dodged under the sword. Reached for her.

  She ran, or tried to. Her arms and legs, useless stones, too heavy to lift, holding her back, dragging her down.

  She tripped over the hogback stone and fell into the snow.

  Then he was on top of her.

  This time she kicked and screamed and punched and scratched and fought with all the fury she’d been saving for two years. But no matter what she did, he was bigger and stronger and heavier than she would ever be. Her knee could not connect with his groin. He held her arms safely away from his face. And all her puny efforts weren’t enough to throw him off.

  Now, her nightmare lived in truth.

  * * *

  John, on Norse, raced beside Belde, who ran directly up Hogback Hill.

  I have not been on this hill since...

  What a fool he’d been not to realise it then. She feared more than spirits on this hill.

  He urged the horse faster, knowing the dog would keep up. As he gained the rise, he saw them, amidst the stones, two black figures, fighting. She swung her sword. He blocked her blow.

  She tripped. Screamed. Storwick was on top of her...

  John leapt from the horse and pulled his sword. There would be no waiting this time. No pretence of taking the man for trial. There would be only justice: quick, sure and final.

  In the time it had taken John to dismount, Belde was at Storwick’s throat. Barking, teeth bared, the dog ripped a new scar on his face.

  Storwick yelled and rolled off Cate. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled into a run. Belde was on him in an instant. Rising on hind legs, tall as a man, the dog knocked Storwick to the ground and pinned him to the earth.

  John rushed over, sword drawn, ready to plunge it through the bastard, piercing his black heart and letting his blood soak the soil. Rage drove him now, the same fury that had kept Cate going these two years. This man had hurt her, hurt her so deeply that John was not sure she would ever recover.

  And for that, he raised his sword...

  The man beneath the dog’s paws curled in on himself, eyes shut, shaking.

  John paused, his arm raised, sword ready to descend.

  No. Not like this. This was no better than murder.

  The furious, boiling rage in his blood cooled enough for him to look down at the craven coward. The man deserved no better death than this for what he had done.

  But it was not the Brunson way.

  John lowered the sword and kicked Storwick in the ribs. ‘Get up.’

  The man opened his eyes. Belde growled, but did not move.

  John looked down at Storwick, thinking one more time of running him through. ‘Get up, fazart.’ He dragged him up by the shoulders of his vest and pulled Belde away. ‘Take out your sword and face me. I’ll give you a fighting chance, but only one of us will come down from this mountain alive.’

  He snarled at Storwick’s snivelling, cowardly face, ‘And it won’t be you.’

  * * *

  Cate cringed, hiding behind the carved stone as John stood over the man, sword raised. Eyes closed, she waited for the scream of pain that would tell her Willie was dead.

  It didn’t come.

  She opened her eyes to see Storwick standing, sword in hand.

  No!

  But the scream stuck in her throat.

  Move. Do something.

  But she was rooted to the ground and the small voice in her head seemed to come from as far away as the scene before her eyes.

  Belde, removed from his prey, paced around the two men as they circled each other with drawn swords. She called the dog, afraid he would get too close and John might trip.

  Slow, reluctant, he obeyed and she locked her arms around his neck, as the men drew sword and dirk and faced each other. The dog’s chest rose and fell and she wanted to make her legs work, wanted to rise, grab her dagger and thrust it into Storwick’s neck, to save John from his own foolish honour.

  But as she watched the dark shapes move against the pre-dawn sky, she hesitated. Moments ago she had tried to fight Storwick and been overpowered. If she interfered now, would she help John or put them both in danger?

  She had faced John’s sword, knew how good he was. Willie preferred to use a pike from horseback, or a latch to send an arrow, killing while he remained out of reach. She had never seen him face a man with a sword.

  He swung it like an axe. Rough, blunt, strong as if hacking through trees, not caring where he hit. But if the sword connected, it would be a mortal blow.

  John, on the other hand, fought quickly and lightly, shifting his stance, switching his thrust too quickly for Storwick to defend against him. Fuelling the dance was his rage, controlled, but ready to channel the blade for a death thrust.

  Beside her, Belde growled and tugged against her hold.

  Storwick swung his sword, forcing John to back up. She saw the stone behind him, stood to shout a warning, too late. John tripped and fell to his back on the other side.

  And Storwick stood over him, sword raised.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sword gone from his hand, wind knocked from his chest, John looked up to see the point of Storwick’s blade hovering an inch above his chest.

  ‘I’m the one who’ll be coming down from the mountain,’ the man said, with a smirk. ‘With the girl.’

  Honour, John thought, had had its chance.

  He lifted a boot, aiming squarely between Stowick’s legs, and kicked.

  Storwick staggered. John rolled out of reach and sprang to his feet.

&n
bsp; Yet he was armed only with a dagger now. Storwick had stumbled, reached down to cradle himself, but managed to hold on to his long sword. John stepped sideways, hoping to reach his sword before Storwick could swing again.

  And then John saw a blur lunge from behind a stone.

  * * *

  Belde had ripped himself from her arms and run.

  Willie dropped his sword and stumbled up the mountain, leaving the circle of stones. The dog gained on him quickly and the man looked back over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror.

  And because he was looking back, he did not see the edge of the ravine.

  The echo of his scream was cut short by a distant thud.

  * * *

  John shook his head, trying to clear his eyes and his brain. Belde paced at the edge of the precipice, as if ready to leap into the chasm to be sure Scarred Willie Storwick was a threat no more.

  John staggered to the edge and looked down.

  Done. It was done.

  His word kept. Cate avenged.

  He turned, expecting to find her at his side, smiling, arms wide, raising her lips to be kissed.

  Instead, he saw only the sculpted stones. Heard only the whistling of the wind.

  * * *

  She heard the scream, and its end, and knew it was over.

  She waited for relief. For joy. For peace.

  It did not come.

  Storwick’s death did not free her limbs or allow her lips to move. In the uncertain light, she could only stare at the diamond shapes carved into the stones, eyes fixed on them as though they might have meaning.

  When John pulled her gently to her feet, she did not resist.

  ‘It’s over. He’s dead.’

  She did not raise her eyes to his.

  He grasped her in a fierce hug, but she did not return it. It was as if her spirit had left her body, leaving only the husk of a woman. Scarred Willie Storwick lay dead. She had been avenged, yet it was as Johnnie had warned her.

  It was not enough.

  But not for the reason he thought.

  ‘I fought him this time.’

  His arms did not leave her, and he rocked her tight against him. ‘I know you did. It’s all right now.’

  But it wasn’t. And she couldn’t make him understand why.

  She shook her head, buried against his chest.

  ‘It didn’t matter. Everything I’ve done didn’t matter.’ And because it didn’t, she was not worthy of this man. ‘If you had not come, he would have taken me again.’

  * * *

  John held her, shaken not by the battle now that it was over, but by the despair of the woman in his arms.

  ‘But I did come.’ The quest was over. His promise fulfilled. Her revenge taken. She should be grateful, relieved, joyful.

  But the woman in his arms was none of these, her expression bleak, empty, as if life held no more purpose. He had expected...what? Happiness. Joy. Celebration. Not this inner deadness, as if killing Scarred Willie had also killed something within her.

  ‘And then the dog had to save you,’ she muttered, looking at Belde. The derision in her eyes directed inwards. ‘A dog chased Scarred Willie over a cliff while Cate the Bold cowered behind a gravestone.’

  Her words made no sense, so he put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the horses. ‘Come. Let’s go home.’

  Wordless, she let him guide her.

  Trailed by Belde, they returned to the tower as the sun cleared the eastern hills. Helpless to make her smile, he kissed her forehead and turned her over to Bessie, who would put her to bed.

  Cate was tired. She needed sleep. He must give her time. It was only natural for her to be numb with shock. When she woke, she would be his Cate again.

  And even as he thought it, he knew he lied.

  * * *

  ‘Is she still abed?’ John whispered to Bessie as the sun left the sky.

  Cate had slept the day while he had been hailed a hero. Tankards were raised. Ballads sung. A new verse tested.

  Braw Johnnie Blunkit, blue-eyed Brunson

  Faced his foe on Hogback Hill...

  And when he told the men that the dog deserved full credit, they laughed, and spun a verse of ‘Belde’s Ballad’, as well.

  It was enough to make him feel as if he had come home.

  As if he wanted to stay.

  Then he would look up to see Rob, standing by the hearth, silent. The only man who had not wished him well.

  And all through the day, there had been no word from Cate.

  He had left the celebration when he saw Bessie at the hall’s door. His sister kept her voice low. ‘She’s not moved since she lay down. Nor that great beast beside her.’

  ‘Should we wake her?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know. She was like this once before, when she first came, right after he...’ She bit her lip.

  Right after he raped her. That’s what she had almost said.

  The realisation surprised him. ‘She told you?’ He thought he had been the only one.

  Silent, Bessie studied him, as if judging what he knew and whether he was worthy to know the rest. ‘She told no one,’ she said finally, as if accepting that they shared Cate’s secret.

  No one but him. ‘Then how did you know?’

  A shrug was her only answer.

  They were women. They shared a room. A bed. And while women seemed ever talking, he had discovered that it was the things they knew without speaking that were the most mysterious.

  ‘What happened last time to bring her...back?’

  ‘I never knew, but I remember the day she rose. She came to the kitchen door, wearing men’s clothes for the first time, and stood, not even looking at me, but staring at something I couldn’t see and said, “Next time, I will kill him myself. Next time, there will be no fear.”’

  ‘But he is dead. There’s nothing more to fear. Then why...?’

  ‘You’re asking me again, Johnnie. Things you should be asking her.’

  He would have taken me again. And even conquering her fear had not been able to change that. Was that why? Yet it was easier for him to face Storwick’s sword than to see Cate so helpless. And to face the possibility that even with Storwick dead, Cate might not be free.

  He sighed. ‘I’ll let her wake on her own, then, before I ask her.’

  He looked back at the group around the table. They waved him to join them again. He nodded, but the hours weighed on him now. He needed sleep.

  Bessie’s fingers gripped on his sleeve. ‘There’s something else you should be asking, Johnnie. Something you should be asking yourself.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How much you care for her. And whether it’s enough.’

  * * *

  Cate squeezed her eyes tight, not wanting to wake to her life. But her eyelids fluttered open of their own, seeking the waning sun.

  She was alone in the room. Bessie had got up hours ago, working on her daily tasks, leaving Cate to face the truth.

  Storwick was dead. And still, she could not rejoice.

  She had searched within herself, looking for the joy she had long expected at his demise. She had imagined that when this day came, the sky would open, a rainbow would appear, perhaps an angel would even descend from the heavens. She had expected to be crowned with glory, or at least with peace.

  She had expected to feel as if, at long last, she was a woman who deserved the love of Johnnie Brunson.

  Instead, she felt only as if she had failed. Storwick was dead. And she was still the same woman.

  Belde sensed that she had waked and lumbered to his feet. He had not left her side all day, a hardship for a dog who lived to run. Now he looked at her without judgement, as if he were glad to have saved her life and John’s. As if he were ready to do it again.

  She turned her head away, eyes burning. Dumb beast. Yet he had shown more courage than she.

  She had lived the last two years only so she could set things right. This ti
me, she would fight back. This time, she would strike. This time, she would make him pay for what he had done to her father.

  To her.

  But when the time came, nothing had changed. She’d fought this time, yes, despite her fear, but not only could she not save herself, she had put John at risk. He had been saved by an animal’s courage, not her own.

  Her trousers, her blades, her swagger, all for show, a disguise over an empty shell.

  As she tried to imagine her life now, it yawned empty before her. For the past two years, every breath had been dedicated to revenge. Every small joy a rung on a ladder that had lifted her out of despair and kept her alive long enough to slay her demons.

  And at the top of her ladder, the demons still lived.

  She reached out to pet Belde. He sniffed her face, as if her scent could explain her sadness.

  She shut her eyes again, but the tears escaped. She could not face Johnnie knowing she had failed him. Perhaps she had braved the imaginary demons in bed, but that had made no difference in the end. He had almost died for a worthless shell of a woman.

  If she stayed abed long enough, he would be gone when she emerged. He would take the men and ride back to king and court and she would never have to face those blue eyes again.

  She buried her face in the pillow to shut out the light.

  * * *

  How much you care for her. And whether it’s enough.

  Bessie’s words hit hard as a broadsword.

  John staggered, resting his palm on a stone wall that no longer felt solid. Behind him, the words of the new song came through a haze.

  Braw Johnnie Blunkit, blue-eyed Brunson

  Faced his foe on Hogback Hill...

  Aye. He’d been brave. Hunting Willie Storwick to the death, risking the king’s wrath as well as his life. Telling himself, telling all of them, that he did it only so he could leave home and return to court.

  It was not brave to face those things. Men did. Every day.

  But he had not faced his true fear.

  In coming home, everything about his life had changed. Who he was. What he wanted. He was a Brunson. He wanted a life with Cate. Here. Home. He wanted nothing that he had thought he wanted when he first caught sight of the tower again.