What a Lass Wants

by Rowan Keats

  She was aiming for his eye, but struck his cheek instead.

  He howled with rage, leaping to his feet.

  Marsailli tumbled to the floor, losing her grip on the needles. She scrambled, trying to regain her footing, but he kicked her. One of his large boots sailed into her gut and she crashed to the ground. Completely breathless.

  “Cease!”

  Marsailli lay on the ground with her back to the tent entrance, her legs and arms curled around her aching belly, but she recognized the voice of the midwife.

  “She is but a child,” the other woman shouted. “Leave her be.”

  Giric spat on Marsailli, then spun and tackled the midwife. He brought her to her knees with a well-placed blow and then relentlessly pursued his advantage. His fists flew with deadly aim, and the older woman shrieked in agony as he struck her repeatedly about the head. Again and again.

  Marsailli attempted to stop him, dragging herself across the floor to strike him on the leg. But he shoved her aside with ease and continued to beat on the midwife. With distressing speed and a final, pummeling blow, he silenced Magda’s cries.

  Marsailli couldn’t move. She could barely breathe.

  She jammed her eyes shut, dreading the moment when the Bear’s fists turned on her.

  But he merely leaned over her, grabbed the jug of ale, and flopped down on his bed.

  “I’ll need a new midwife now,” he said grimly. Then he downed cup after cup of ale, until his eyes drifted shut and loud snores fluttered his lips.

  Marsailli waited until she was certain he was asleep, and then she grabbed a few belongings, crept from the tent, and slipped into the night. Her gut was bruised and several of her ribs were painful to touch, but she was alive. Which was more than she could say for the midwife. Marsailli said a prayer for the dead woman’s soul, and then scrambled over a slide of shale and headed for the bottom of the crag.

  Chapter 12

  They scaled the crag under cover of darkness. Niall MacCurran, a skilled woodsman with a keen sense of sight, led the Black Warriors up the rocks under a cloudy, moonless sky. Bran found himself climbing alongside a gruff bowman by the name of Cormac.

  “Mounting cliffs in the dark of night,” the archer grumbled quietly, “is becoming a bloody bad habit.”

  Bran had no extra breath to spare him a response—Niall ascended the peak at a grueling pace. They reached the summit in record time and took out the posted sentries with little effort.

  “Lazy Sassenachs,” Cormac muttered as he toed the unconscious body of one of the guards. He unhooked his bow from his shoulders—a smooth curve of solid ashwood—and nocked an arrow. Taking his cue from Niall’s hand signal, he led the way around the basin to the other side of the rocks.

  Bran had spent most of his early years in the forest, living the life of a brigand. He knew the value of a well-placed foot and a silent approach, but the Black Warriors were in a league unto themselves. They made not a single sound as they traversed the ridge. Every movement was spare and efficient, every boot carefully planted.

  In no time at all, they had completely surrounded the English encampment.

  Bran peered down through the rocks at the quiet group of tents. Most of the mercenaries were asleep—only a handful of men sat before the fires, keeping watch. The horses at the far end of the plateau were moving restlessly, and they would soon alert the Englishmen to the presence of danger.

  It was time to make their move.

  With a quick strike of flint, Bran signaled the rest of his men, who waited on the path, and they swarmed the entrance, creating a blockade. The only way out of the basin now was through the rocks, and Niall’s men controlled that egress. In unison, the Black Warriors launched their arrows, planting warning shots into the ground at well-placed intervals.

  The plateau erupted in a frenzy of fear as the mercenaries realized they were under attack.

  “Hold your fire,” Bran called to the men in the rocks. To the Englishmen in the basin, he said, “Surrender now and no blood shall be spilled.”

  At the far end of the basin, near the path leading to the burn, a huge man strolled out of his tent. Firelight flickered over his features, including the rough scar on the left side of his face. Giric. “There will be no surrender—unless it is yours. Archers, to the center.”

  Some thirty bowmen dashed to the center of the plateau, their longbows at the ready.

  “Fire at will,” Giric ordered.

  And with that command, the battle began in earnest. As arrows flew in both directions, the bulk of Giric’s men charged the soldiers blocking their exit. Sword met sword, arrow met arrow. The Black Warriors held the advantage in both visibility and position. Even against the powerful draw of the longbows, they made quick and decisive gains.

  Amid the furor, Bran searched the plateau for some sign of Marsailli. But there were no women among the faces he spied, no high-pitched voices amid the sounds below. If she remained in the camp, it wasn’t immediately clear where she was.

  His gaze fell upon the huge frame of Giric. The mighty Englishman was cutting a swath through Dougal’s men. Bran nudged Cormac’s shoulder and pointed.

  “Take that man down,” he said, “and the battle will be won.”

  Cormac immediately redirected his aim. He sent a flurry of arrows in Giric’s direction, but they all fell short. “He’s too far away,” the bowman reported. “I’ll need to move closer.”

  He slipped out from behind a rock and dashed along the ridge. Although he wisely zigged and zagged as he ran, his luck was in short supply. Just as he was about to dive behind a protective slab of slate, one of the Welsh arrows sang through the air and drove deep into his thigh. He fell hard, sliding a good thirty feet on a loose bed of shale.

  In the corner of his eye, Bran saw Giric lay another man low and barrel through the blockade. Once again, the Englishman was making an escape. A low growl of frustration rumbled in his throat. He’d promised Caitrina that he would leave the fighting to more experienced warriors, but all were occupied. No one was giving chase.

  Bran eyed the horses tied at the far end of the plateau. There wasn’t time to dwell on the likelihood of success. He simply ran. Slipping and sliding on loose shards of rock, he dashed for the bottom of the basin. When he reached the grass, there were other obstacles in his path—bodies felled by MacCurran arrows, dying fires, the trampled remains of pitched tents.

  To his amazement, he reached the horses and suffered nary a scratch. Freeing the closest palfrey with a quick jerk on its lead, he bounded onto the back of the powerful beast and spurred it toward the crumbling blockade.

  “Duck,” he yelled to his men as he urged the horse into a jump. He sailed over the heads of several men and raced for Giric’s departing back.

  It was only as he gained on the mighty Englishman that he remembered the significant difference in their sizes. Giric was nearly twice the man that he was. And the swing of his sword had enough power to make the air hum. The last time they had met in battle, Giric had very nearly destroyed him. What had possessed him to think he could duel such a mountainous man and come out the victor?

  Giric spun around at the clatter of horse hooves on the stone path. His eyebrows clashed as he recognized Bran. “You,” he growled. “I should have taken your head the first night I saw you.”

  He swung his blade with lethal intent and very nearly decapitated the horse—only a quick jerk on the reins saved the poor beast’s life. And even so, the edge of Giric’s blade sliced across the horse’s shoulder, and it screamed in pain.

  Bran slid to the ground and sent the palfrey on its way with a swat to its rump. He gripped his sword in one hand and his dirk in the other. “Only cowards take aim at unarmed horses,” he said, with more calm than he felt. Winning a lengthy duel against Giric would be impossible. The man was a giant.

  Giric shrugg
ed. “Only a weak-minded man would concern himself with a beast.”

  Bran studied the huge Englishman with a critical eye, trying to recall every detail of their last meet. Everyone had a weak spot. What was Giric’s?

  “Where is Marsailli?” he asked as he dodged left to avoid an impressive slice.

  “Dead,” Giric pronounced. “She was too small to take all of my cock and she bled to death from her injuries.”

  A crude tale, with just enough fact to make it believable. But Bran knew a lie when he heard one—there was a tad too much glee in Giric’s voice for it to be an honest accounting. Which suggested, thankfully, that Marsailli was still alive. All Bran had to do was discover her whereabouts.

  “Escaped your camp, did she?” he taunted.

  The Englishman growled with rage and swung his sword. Bran ducked—just in time to avoid losing his head.

  “A resourceful lass,” Bran said. “Just like her sister.”

  “Nothing like her sister,” dismissed Giric. “A scrawny bird with unremarkable plumage.”

  Bran feinted right with his sword, then spun left, slashing with his dirk. The tip of his blade caught the Englishman’s upper arm, and his sleeve blossomed with red. First blood belonged to Bran.

  But he paid a price for the maneuver.

  Giric came at him with a series of quick, powerful strikes, two of which he deflected with the flat of his blade. The third struck his sword at an awkward angle and left a nasty gouge in the steel.

  As he parried and blocked his opponent’s blade, Bran continued to hunt for a weakness in Giric’s defenses. But the man was surprisingly nimble, leaving very few openings. And he kept the pressure on Bran, forcing him to dart and dash from side to side to avoid the brunt of his blows.

  When he finally spied an opening, Bran was nearly exhausted. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back and his hair clung damply to his neck. The moment was now or never.

  He raised his sword to parry a blow and ducked under Giric’s sword arm to stab the huge Englishman in the chest. It was a well-executed maneuver, and he surely would have succeeded had his damaged sword not chosen that precise instant to fail him. It snapped neatly in half under the force of Giric’s strike.

  The muscles in his arm were wrenched sideways as the blade gave way, and a paralyzing numbness ran across his shoulder. The pieces of his sword clattered to the ground.

  The huge Englishman immediately took advantage, twisting his blade as it swung and clipping Bran’s undefended midriff. He planted his feet and prepared to make the killing thrust.

  It was a moment of crisis.

  And in such moments, Bran’s father had taught him to do the unexpected.

  He dropped to the ground and rolled.

  Once he was clear of Giric’s extensive reach, he leapt to his feet. With only a dirk in hand, a hasty retreat seemed wise. But the image of Marsailli, naked and trembling in Giric’s tent, surfaced in his thoughts. She had not deserved such treatment, nor had the two guards he had assigned to watch her deserved their cruel and merciless fate.

  He could not let this wretched cur walk away.

  On the streets of Edinburgh, Bran’s most valuable tools were his hands. In the blink of an eye, he could delve into a man’s purse, remove a few coins, and pat the fellow gently on the shoulder. Speed and a light touch were his saving graces.

  And he put those same skills to work with Giric. With his right hand hanging limply at his side, he stepped deep inside the Englishman’s reach, ducked under his swinging sword, and jammed his dirk into the soft skin of the other man’s neck.

  Giric dropped to his knees, holding a hand to his bleeding wound. “What have you done?” he cried.

  “No more than you would have done for me, if given the chance,” Bran said. “King Edward’s plot is foiled.”

  “Never,” Giric gasped. “My liege is a man of strong will. Whate’er he desires shall come to pass.” He collapsed in a heap on the ground. Dead.

  Bran allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, then spun around and headed for the plateau. Mercenaries without a benefactor would be quick to lay down their arms.

  * * *

  When morning dawned, Marsailli took stock of her situation.

  She lay on the sandy bottom of a ravine, having taken a tumble during the night. Save for some additional bruises, she was uninjured, but the climb to freedom was proving difficult. The walls of shale on either side of her were sheer and slippery with seeping moisture. Every attempt thus far to scale the walls had led to another tumble.

  She grimaced. Of all the places to fall, she had definitely picked the worst.

  She tipped her head up and studied the clear blue sky. At least the rain had ceased to fall. If she could dry her brat, she might finally be able to get warm. And if the walls dried sufficiently, perhaps her next attempt would be successful.

  It would truly be a shame if she had escaped Giric only to meet her maker in some forgotten hole in the earth.

  She spread her damp brat over a rock to dry and settled on the sand.

  Her mouth was dry as dust, but it was better not to think about a long-term battle with cold and thirst and hunger. She would give the sun an hour to dry the walls, and then she would attempt the climb again.

  Because she had no choice.

  * * *

  News of their triumph over the English reached Clackmannan well ahead of the returning troops, but details were sparse. Caitrina paced the floor of the queen’s room, impatient for Bran’s return.

  “Sit down, little cousin,” Yolande urged. “You tire me with your endless movements.”

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” she said, reluctantly taking the seat next to the bed. She could see nothing from here. “Would you care for some honeyed mead?”

  “Even as you offer that, you look to the window,” the queen said, with a light chuckle. “Have you found a suitor among the soldiers of Clackmannan?”

  Caitrina blushed. “I would never think to pursue such an interest without first gaining your approval.”

  Yolande’s eyebrows rose. “So there is someone.”

  The trumpets sounded and Caitrina’s gaze flew to the window. “It would seem that they have returned.” It took every ounce of Caitrina’s willpower to remain in her chair.

  “Go,” the queen said with a shake of her head. “But I shall expect to hear every detail of what transpired when you return to my rooms.”

  Caitrina stood and curtsied. “Of course, Your Grace. Every detail.”

  Then she dashed for the door.

  Downstairs in the great hall, preparations for the Samhain feast were under way. Trestle tables were assembled, linens aired, candles lit. The two cooks had found common ground and delicacies of every sort were being organized into a series of tempting courses, each with its own palate-cleansing remove. Caitrina’s stomach rumbled hungrily at the sight of eel soup, spinach tarts, May eggs, apple muse, poached herring, honeyed capon, caudell, suckling pig, roe deer in almond sauce, roast hare in wine broth, beef and onion pie, black pudding, clootie dumpling, tablet, and of course haggis. But food would have to wait.

  She skirted the pair of gillies who were tapping a keg of ale and made her way outside to the surprisingly large crowd in the close.

  After a few discreet queries, she located Bran in the infirmary.

  “You’re injured,” she said, staring at the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his middle.

  He grimaced. “’Tis little more than a scratch, but the barber is insisting on plying his needle.”

  “And how, pray tell, did you acquire this injury?” She bent and lifted the edge of his bandage. “It looks like a sword slice.”

  “It is,” he confessed. “But it was unavoidable, I swear.”

  The three MacCurran warriors, Niall, Aiden, and Wulf, entered the infirmary and
made their way to Bran’s side. “A fine bit of swordsmanship,” Aiden said. “I confess, I wouldn’t have thought you capable. Defeating a man of that size is no easy task.”

  Caitrina glanced from Aiden’s reluctantly admiring face to Bran’s slightly guilty visage. “Who did you defeat?”

  “Giric.”

  Caitrina stiffened, afraid to hope. “Giric is dead?”

  “Aye.”

  Her eyes met his. “And Marsailli?”

  He shook his head. “There was no sign of her. I think it possible she escaped the camp sometime before we attacked.”

  “Then she is out there in the wild, lost and alone.”

  The MacCurran chief frowned. “Of whom do we speak?”

  “My sister,” said Caitrina. “She was a prisoner in the English camp.”

  Wulf raked a hand through his long hair. “The body of a lass was recovered in the wreckage of the camp.”

  Caitrina’s throat clenched tight and she closed her eyes, refusing to believe. “Nay.”

  Bran’s hand clasped hers, squeezing gently. “Stay strong,” he said. “It may not be her. There was another woman in the camp.” Turning to Wulf, he asked, “What age would you guess the lass to be?”

  “Difficult to tell,” Wulf admitted. “She had been beaten.”

  Caitrina’s knees shook and her belly heaved. She knew just what such an injury looked like. She’d seen the broken body of that poor wretch Giric had slain. “Dear god.”

  Bran tugged her against his chest and smoothed a broad hand over her brow. “Do not assume the worst. In his last moments, Giric implied that she had escaped.”

  “Then we should search the crag for her,” Caitrina said.

  “Such was my intent,” Bran said. “Had the barber not insisted, I would be there still.”