by Nancy Morse
Unless Gilbride organised his forces and put a stop to this kind of senseless marauding by disparate groups of peasants, Galloway was doomed.
It came to her that the harsh sounds of fighting had ceased. Judging by the jubilant shouts in Spanish, the Aragonese had carried the day. Her heart lurched. Had Matthew survived, had he been injured? She struggled to her feet, still clutching the dagger, a troubling thought gnawing her. Why did she care, and when had she started to think of him as Matthew?
What she saw when she peered over the rock broke her heart. Injured, dead or dying men lay at the base of the hillock. All Gaels. They hadn’t even made it to the road. Tears welled in her eyes as she dragged her feet towards the carnage. But she mustn’t cry, even though she recognised some of the dead as lads from Lincluden. Men didn’t cry. The Aragonese, who apparently hadn’t suffered a single casualty, would think it curious. And Matthew—
She had a strange urge to shout out her glee when he appeared, Belenus following in his wake like an obedient puppy.
“Look them over. Any still alive we hold as prisoners,” he shouted to the routiers.
The Spaniard closest to him spat, drawing an imaginary dagger across his throat. “Matar,” he yelled. “Why we not kill?”
The rest of the Aragonese brandished daggers and took up the chant. Matar! Matar!
Matthew eyed her weapon, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He would likely confiscate her only means of protection. She clenched her jaw, trying to hide the terror surging in her veins.
“You will obey orders,” he declared, still looking at her. “Prisoners can be of value. Dead men cannot.”
He’d spoken with authority, but without shouting, without any sign he doubted his orders would be obeyed, without so much as a glance at the mercenaries.
They grumbled, but the Aragonese set about roughly herding the wounded together. Brig retreated to the rock and sank down behind it, sick at heart. If any of the captured men had recognised her as the armorer’s apprentice, what would they think a Gael was doing travelling with the invaders?
Bullies
Matthew assessed the problem. Forcing the dozen or so prisoners to walk to Annan wasn’t feasible. Two or three had significant injuries and likely wouldn’t make it. The Spaniards were thirsting for blood. Confident as he was in his ability to control the mercenaries, he couldn’t watch them every minute.
He’d insisted prisoners were worth more alive than dead, but he believed firmly that treating captives humanely gained more ground than cruelty. The truth of it had been borne out in every campaign he’d taken part in.
Le Cordier wouldn’t be happy, but Matthew decided the best course of action was to deliver the prisoners back to Lincluden then begin the journey again on the morrow.
The Aragonese didn’t take the news well. In an effort to appease them he suggested they take an hour or two’s respite before beginning the march back to Lincluden. “The river is nearby. Enjoy a swim,” he suggested.
He chuckled inwardly as vicious, battle-hardened brutes whooped and yelled, stripping off their armor and clothing, running for the river like carefree youths.
He glanced over at the sullen prisoners, roped together and tied to a tree. He should post a guard, but saw little need. They’d been disarmed and weren’t going anywhere.
He looked around, wondering where Brig had got to. Probably still behind the outcropping. The fighting had obviously upset the lad. He sauntered over, thinking a dip in the river might revive the youth’s spirits.
Brig had his back to the rock, long legs sprawled, face ashen. The dagger lay at his side, Gorrie’s workmanship if Matthew wasn’t mistaken. He should confiscate the weapon, but these were dangerous times when a lad might need a blade.
He startled when Matthew approached. A trickle of blood had dried on his forehead. “A stone struck you,” he said, hunkering down beside the lad.
“Aye,” Brig replied hoarsely. “’Tis naught. The bleeding has stopped already.”
“You’re lucky,” Matthew said, filled with an urge to reach out and ease the pain of the wound that was rapidly turning into a livid bruise. But he thought better of it. “Scalp wounds can bleed a lot.”
Brig closed his eyes. Matthew watched him, wondering what it was about this lad that drew him. He wasn’t an attractive youth. The tufts of red hair made him look like a simpleton. He was tall, and working in the forge had given him muscles, but he was too willowy. And such small hands and feet.
Definitely odd, yet his face was appealing. Matthew found himself staring at the boy’s mouth. His lips had fallen open. What would it be like to—
Christ!
He leapt to his feet, inhaling deeply to clear the fog in his brain, and the lust in his loins. Cold water was definitely what he needed. “How about a dip in the river?” he suggested.
Brig scrambled away as if Matthew had told him he was sitting on an adder’s nest. “Nay, I canna swim.”
In the near distance they could hear the raucous shouts of the Spaniards’ horseplay.
“You don’t need to swim. Just get wet. You’ll feel better.”
“Nay,” Brig insisted, grasping for the dagger, his green eyes wary.
Water had never held any threat for Matthew. He and his brothers had enjoyed many a happy afternoon swimming in the lake near their father’s manor house. He smiled at the memory. However, he had known young men who were terrified of water. He held up his palms in mock surrender. “Fine. Stay dirty. I’m not going to force you. We’ll remain here for an hour then begin the trek back to Lincluden.”
“We’re going back?” the lad asked.
Matthew got to his feet and brushed the dust from his leggings. “We’ll take the prisoners to Lincluden then set off again on the morrow. If you’re not going to swim, help me take off my breastplate.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. His resolve had been not to touch the lad. Now he was asking him to help strip off his armor.
Brig stood, but hesitated, seemingly uncomfortable as well. Had he sensed the sinful attraction? Matthew tousled the red tufts. “Never mind. Sit. Sleep. You’ll likely have an aching head soon.”
He strode off , irritated with himself as he struggled to unfasten the straps of his breastplate. The sooner Gorrie perfected the more comfortable jacket armor the better. Was was it called? A brigandine, that was it.
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Brigandine—Brig. He’d thought it an unusual name, but now he understood why Gorrie had chosen it.
It was an odd name for an odd youth.
Brig slumped back against the rock, knees tucked to her chest. Matthew was right; a dull ache throbbed at her temple. However, the ache in her heart was more troubling. She’d sensed the Norman wanted to ease the pain of her wound, and was stupidly disappointed when he didn’t touch her.
Sickened by the bloodshed, she’d felt a need to be held in Matthew’s comforting embrace. But men didn’t embrace lads. It was unmanly, and weird.
Being a lad had been easier when there was naught to it but playing games in Cruggleton’s fields and helping her Da. War and death and wounded prisoners and rivers full of men cavorting around naked were harder to cope with.
Matthew must have deemed her refusal to swim peculiar. He’d looked at her in a strange way that had set her heart racing. Indeed everything about Matthew de Rowenne seemed to send her senses reeling. It was a good thing he’d decided against having her remove his armor. Her trembling hands would have raised questions in his mind.
She closed her eyes, listening to the men enjoying the river. The cool water would have felt good. Mayhap if she found a spot further upstream, away from the Spaniards, she could at least cleanse her dusty feet and dab water on the throbbing scalp wound.
She shoved the dagger back in the satchel, took a swig of water from the flask, bit off a mouthful of cheese, then lo
oped the strap across her body and crawled like a crab towards the river. She headed upstream away from the shouting.
She was encouraged when she located a rock big enough to conceal her. She sat in the cool grass of the bank and took off her shoes, banging them together to get rid of the grit then eased her bare feet into the blessedly cold water. The river wasn’t deep here but it ran swiftly. She could still hear the men, but the rock sat in the shadow of a spreading chestnut tree, so she was confident they wouldn’t detect her presence. She retrieved one of the apples and bit into it, wincing at the sour taste.
She closed her eyes for a only brief moment, listening to the birds chirping in the branches above her, inhaling the scent of something she couldn’t name. She swished her feet back and forth, half asleep—until hard fingers grasped her ankles.
“Olà, niño,” a voice taunted.
She screamed as her feet were lifted. Someone else grabbed her under the arms and she was carried into the middle of the river.
She kicked and screamed, but the Aragonese who’d stumbled upon her only laughed and tightened their grip, making what were no doubt raucous jests in their language.
She closed her eyes against their nudity, but kept on screaming and struggling. However, she had to remember they believed they were teasing a hapless boy. She couldn’t let them discover the truth. Despite her terror she lowered the pitch of her screams and hurled insults in Gaelic no decent woman would ever have heard.
They swung her like a sack of grain. “Uno, dos, tres.” On the count of three she was tossed into the river.
The water here was deeper. She floundered, flailing her arms, desperately hoping her feet would touch bottom. She struggled to the surface, gulped air then sank again, the satchel strap around her neck. She was furiously indignant that men would laugh while she drowned.
Suddenly, a strong arm clamped over her chest and drew her back to the surface. “Don’t fight me,” Matthew rasped. She didn’t know what had become of the Aragonese and she didn’t care. She went limp and allowed her hero to pull her to the shallows, fervently hoping his arm didn’t dislodge the bindings.
She bent over, coughing up river water while he hurled reprimands at the sniggering Spaniards. Once she had her breath back she looked up at him.
He stood in water up to his knees. For a moment she thought she was having a vision. Before her stood the Thunder God her Norse ancestors had told of in their folklore. He was magnificent in his nakedness, the water shimmering on his muscled body, his black hair flowing like rivulets over his shoulders.
Her own body did strange things in response. She shivered. She boiled in oil. She shuddered. She shook. Her mouth fell open. Her nipples tingled. A jolt of overwhelming need stole up the inside of her thighs and into her womb.
She wanted to plunge back into the river so he could save her again.
“Leave the lad be,” he shouted in Gaelic. She doubted the foreigners understood his words, but there was no mistaking his meaning, nor the menace in his voice.
But why would he come to the rescue of a youth he barely knew, the son of an armorer? A dreadful thought occurred. Mayhap he was one of those men who only liked boys.
“Are you all right, Brig?” he asked, his eyes full of concern that heightened her fear.
She scrambled to the bank, shoving the wet satchel onto her back. “Aye. I’ll soon dry off. Dinna worry about me.”
She hurried as fast as her wet feet would take her, reluctant to return for her shoes. She headed for the safety of the outcropping but became confused and was alarmed to find herself by the tree where the prisoners were tethered.
“Brig,” one of them hissed.
Breathless, she crouched, looking back to the river to make sure no one had followed. The ache at her temple sharpened.
“Brig. ’Tis Sorley. Ye must free us.”
She scurried over to the prisoners, recognizing the son of Lincluden’s cook. “Sorley. What were ye thinking? Pitchforks are no match for crossbows.”
He stuck out his tongue. “Some of us decided to fight for Galloway while others stayed at Lincluden and consorted with the enemy.”
The barb stung. Brig didn’t know how to respond.
“Ye have a dagger. I saw ye with it. Cut the rope,” Sorely insisted though gritted teeth, blinking away blood dripping from a gash on his head.
Brig was conflicted. Aiding them would be a betrayal of Matthew’s trust. But he was the enemy, commander of an invading army that had come to subjugate her people to the Scots. What harm in freeing Sorley? His Ma would be grateful. Matthew needn’t know she was responsible.
She searched in the wet bag for the dagger, then knelt at his side and sawed through the rope binding him to the others. Despite being drenched in cold water, she was on fire. If Matthew caught her—
To her dismay, once his hands were free Sorley grabbed the weapon and set about releasing the others.
When two or three were loose, he tossed the dagger to a comrade. She scrambled to retrieve it. “Nay, ye canna all escape. How will ye get away? They’ll hunt ye like animals.”
Sorley grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. “Be a man, Brig. We’ll take yon horse, ye and me.”
Her heart in knots, her eyes flew to Belenus, pulling nervously at the tether that secured him to a nearby tree. It was as if the animal sensed the danger. The theft of his beloved horse would infuriate Matthew.
Sorley dragged her to Belenus, picking up a crossbow. “Get on,” he shouted, levering her leg up the side of the horse’s belly.
She tried to resist but he was too strong. He put his shoulder under her bottom and shoved her up. She gripped the mane as he untied the rope then leapt onto the horse’s back. She clamped her hands on his shoulders as he urged the protesting horse forward. The remaining prisoners who weren’t badly wounded gathered up armfuls of discarded uniforms and weapons and ran off into the wood, one of them with her dagger in his fist.
Betrayal
Once the sun had more or less dried his body, Matthew picked up Brig’s shoes and sauntered back to the clearing, rubbing the water from his hair.
The Aragonese had tired of their antics and lay around in the grass, some snoring, others laughing, sharing a jest or two. He’d given instructions for departure in an hour’s time. First they would eat. The swim had given him an appetite.
He thought back to the incident with Brig. Spanish bullies, scaring the wits out of the lad. Charging to the rescue probably hadn’t been necessary. He doubted the Aragonese would have allowed the lad to drown. Brig was surprisingly light for a youth of what—seventeen, eighteen? And what was the padding he wore around his chest? Mayhap some sort of protection Gorrie had fashioned. Sensible idea really for a father worried about his son’s survival.
Anyone would think from the way Brig had gawked at him after the rescue that the lad had never seen a naked man before. What was more perplexing was the lunatic urge that had seized him to strut like a rooster under the youth’s startled gaze.
He reached the clearing and realized Belenus was gone. His roar of denial brought the Spaniards hurrying to his side.
“The captives have escaped,” he shouted through gritted teeth.
Panic seized him. Brig!
He ran to the outcropping expecting to see the lad cowering there. The truth hit him like a blow to the belly.
He has betrayed me.
The peculiar boy who drew him like a lodestone had freed the prisoners and stolen his horse. He stared at the rock, teetering on the precipice of furious despair, feeling somehow he had lost more than his horse—and most of his brigade’s clothing.
Then it came to him he still held Brig’s shoes.
The youth had fled barefoot. Only a fool would—
A spark of hope flickered in his breast. Perhaps Brig hadn’t gone willingly. He’d been in a state of panic when he’d left the river. Mayhap one of the prisoners had got loose and—
This fiasco was his responsibility. Leaving captives unattended was folly. He’d go after them, hunt them down and if he found Brig was guilty of treason, he’d see him hung.
He walked back to the clearing. The sight of the Aragonese squabbling over what remained of the uniforms irritated him further.
He barked curt orders, organizing the melee. To his relief one of the Aragonese came forward with his leggings and breastplate. But his boots were nowhere to be found.
The walk back to Lincluden would be a complete humiliation. Some of his soldiers were still in a state of undress, but only four crossbows had been taken. At least they’d have a chance if the escaped prisoners attacked again.
“Los otros cautivos?” a soldier asked, pointing to the badly wounded Gaels.
“Leave them,” Matthew responded without a glance at the four wretches. “They weren’t able to flee when they had the chance. We can’t burden ourselves with them now.”
The Aragonese fell in behind him as they began the trek back to Lincluden. It was too hot to wear his breastplate, so he carried it, swearing vengeance on the boy he’d trusted.
The loss of Belenus was one thing. His heart cleaved in two when it came to him his cloak was in his saddlebag, along with the treasured brooch. The heirloom might carry a tainted legacy, but it was his legacy, the only thing of true value he possessed. He’d get it back no matter what it took.
Brig clung to Sorley as he drove the horse over the moor. Trotting leisurely behind Matthew had been pleasant. Galloping at full tilt over uncertain terrain was terrifying. Sorley had slung the crossbow over one shoulder and the lethal weapon dug into the flesh of her arm. She shivered in the wet clothing, praying the soaking wet bindings still concealed her breasts. It felt like they’d loosened.
She tried to think how a youth would react. What to say to Sorley? He’d surely see the terror on her face when they finally stopped.