“Feel no sorrow for the bastards. Be proud of the Scots. ’Twas their wit that drove the English scum back.”
Her heart filled with sadness at the death and devastation of so many, she looked at her friend. “Proud I am, but the loss on both sides is enormous.”
His mouth tightened. “More so had we lost.”
The condemnation in her friend’s voice underscored the grief he’d suffered through the battle. “You are right.”
“The bodies you see strewn about would be but a pittance if the English had been victorious,” Lochlann stated. “Had they overpowered us, they would have continued northward. As with their butchery at Berwick, they would have spared nae a man, woman, or child. And in their wake, left naught but careless destruction of life, and the homes leveled beneath the blaze of fire.”
The stories of the carnage at Berwick came to mind. Indeed, the greed of King Edward knew nae limits. To him, a country’s boundary defined naught but the next land to concur.
For now, the English king was at war in Flanders. When he returned to England and learned of Stirling Bridge, then what? Rois made the sign of the cross. God help us all. However much she wished otherwise, Scotland had far from seen the last of the English monarch.
And what of her cousin? Griffin would still be en route with him to Cumbuskenneth Abbey. Had Andrew begun to fever?
Her heart pounded as they rode up the spill of land cluttered with trees, brush, and bodies. As they crested the brae, before a thick swath of fir, her father’s flag came into view. Relief swept her, followed by fear. Please let us find him well.
Lochlann pointed toward a stand of fir. “Lord Brom is camped within the trees.”
Rois kneed her steed into a canter; Lochlann rode at her side.
Several lengths from the trees, a guard stepped forward. Recognition flashed in his eyes. “Lady Rois?” Then he glanced toward Lochlann with a grimace.
Unease filtered through Rois. Why would the guard act apprehensive? He must have known Lochlann had ridden to bring her to see her father . . . Fear shoved through her. Had her father’s state degraded?
Her body trembling, Rois dismounted. She ran toward the break in the trees.
“Rois,” Lochlann called.
Branches whipped her face, but she didn’t care. Naught mattered except seeing her da. She shoved aside the next limb, and a sturdy tent came into view. Afraid to see him, more afraid nae to, she took a deep breath and ducked inside.
Near the center of the interior, a fire blazed. Thick smoke swirled against the tent’s peak where it churned out of a hole and into the murky afternoon sky. Wrapped within a blanket in the far corner, her father lay with his eyes closed and his face twisted in agony.
“Da?”
A frown wrinkled his brow, then slowly, as if in an act of immense will, he opened his eyes. The agony there almost brought her to her knees.
“Rois?”
His whisper-thin voice had her rushing to kneel beside him. “I am here.”
His mouth worked, then he gave a feeble exhale.
She uncapped her pouch of water, lifted it to his lips. “Drink. Please.” She helped him take several sips, and then set the cured leather sack aside.
Misery-wracked eyes darkened. “Wh-why have you come?”
Before she could answer, the tent flap slapped open. Lochlann stepped inside.
Her father began to shake as he tried to lift his head. Tired eyes narrowed. “She was to stay with her husband.”
Lochlann held fast. “She is your daughter and deserves to see you.”
“Enough,” Rois said. “Now is nae the time to argue.” She gave her father a gentle look. “Nor are you in any condition to do so.”
Her father crumpled back against his makeshift bed. “You . . . You sh-should nae have come.”
“’Tis too late.” Rois steadied herself. “Let me see your wounds.”
Her father tugged the cover snug, but his hand trembled from the effort. “They are better.”
Nerves shot through her. “Has a healer tended to your wounds?”
Wizened brows narrowed. “Rois—”
“Truth,” she interrupted. Damn him, she had to know!
“His wounds are infected,” Lochlann stated.
Her father shot Lochlann a withering glance. “A healer has c-cleansed the wounds several times as well as bound them with a poultice of goldenseal and sage.”
Lochlann crossed his arms over his chest. “You need the comfort of a bed and warmth of a hearth. Nae the chills of the cold ground.”
“Aye,” Rois agreed, “but ’tis too far for my father to journey to our home. The long trip could reopen wounds starting to heal and he could bleed to death.”
“A crofter’s hut lies but a short distance away,” her friend replied.
She frowned. “Why was he nae moved there immediately?”
Angus touched her hand. “There is no need. Once I am a wee bit better, I will ride home.”
Tears built in her throat at his bravado. “Oh, Da.” Rois brushed the hair from his brow slick with sweat. “You need the warmth of a fire in the hearth and the comfort of a bed. Stubborn you are, but I am taking you to the cottage.”
“Nay—”
“’Tis why I brought you, Rois,” Lochlann stated. “Lord Brom needs proper rest, but ignores our requests to help him.”
“Blast your interfering hide!” Her father began to cough.
Rois shook her head. “Do nae be angry at Lochlann. He but cares for you.”
Her father grunted, his expression far from convinced.
“He does,” she repeated, well aware of her father’s opinion of her friend. “Sir Lochlann risked upsetting you in bringing me here, but ’twas for you, because he knows I love you.” Lochlann’s hand lay upon her shoulder. She reached up with her own, placed it atop his.
Her father frowned. “I didna gave the blasted upstart permission to leave or to inform you of my wounds.”
“’Tis done,” Rois said softly.
“Aye, behind my back.” Wincing, her father started coughing again.
“Shhhh. You are doing naught but opening wounds fighting to heal.” Rois nodded to her friend. “My thanks.”
Her father raised his head as if to argue, than a pained look crossed his face.
“Da?”
“Rois . . . I . . .” Her father collapsed.
“Lochlann!”
Her friend knelt beside her father, leaned down, and met her gaze. “He has but passed out again.”
Again? Panic filled her. “What should we do?” If only Griffin was here.
“He needs to be in a place where we can build a decent fire to keep him warm,” Lochlann said.
“I agree, but Da refuses.”
“And always will.” Her friend took her hand. “’Tis best if we move him while he is still unconscious.”
Rois stared at him unsure. “’Twould be wrong to move him without his consent.”
On an oath he released her hand. “Bedamned, Rois, I have tried to talk sense into him. God’s teeth, I even pleaded!”
She nodded. “When he sets his mind, he is stubborn as a badger.”
“Aye.” Lochlann winked. “A trait he passed to his daughter.”
“Do nae flatter me,” she said, but a smile tugged on her lips, one raw with memories of their youth. How easy life had been then. Through a child’s innocent eyes, she’d seen naught but challenges.
“Rois, listen to me. Your father’s thoughts are mulled by his pain, by his worry over you.” He swallowed hard. “And of his men, who he is too ill to check on. Though he is their lord, he, too, needs time to heal. The distance to the crofter’s hut is less than half a day’s ride. I believe it is the best choice.” He glanced toward the tent flap. “’Tis why I brought you. The guards will nae let me move him, but if you give the order, they will allow it.”
She hesitated. “Da will be upset.”
Lochlann reached out, lifted he
r chin. “Upset, aye, but alive.”
Tears burned her eyes. “I am afraid.”
“I know.” Lochlann softly swore. “Even protected in a crofter’s hut with a fire burning hot and proper treatment, I canna guarantee nothing. But, if we do nae try . . .”
He was right. Her father’s anger was a small price to pay to save his life. She stood. “I will speak with the guards.”
“You will nae regret your decision.”
“I know.” And prayed she was right. Her father would be furious, as would Griffin. “I must send word to Griffin where we are.”
Lochlann nodded. “I will take care of that while you are gone.”
A shiver whispered through her, and she hesitated. With the dissent between him and Griffin, would he? The guard’s troubled look when they’d arrived haunted her as well.
What was she thinking? The horror of this day infused her with doubts. Throughout her life, Lochlann had always been a friend she could trust.
“My thanks,” she said. “I know nae what I would have done without you.”
He took her hand, pressed a kiss upon the back of her hand. “I will always be here for you, Rois. That I swear.”
“I know, and for that I thank you.” Her mind spinning with the events to come, she turned toward the entry, and prayed her father indeed would live.
Chapter Fifteen
Hands clenched in frustration, Griffin stared at de Moray, who slept in the bed. Flickers of yellow candlelight scraped the aged stone of Cumbuskenneth Abbey with morbid glee, the odor of beeswax melding with the stench of illness. Two days of slow, monotonous travel, and with each sunrise he found himself thankful when his friend raised his eyes to meet his.
But for how long?
With the rebel leader’s face waxen, his breathing labored, ’twas a miracle he still lived. And, ’twould take another miracle to allow him to celebrate Beltane.
Terrified for the life of a great man and friend, Griffin knelt before the bed, folded his hands in prayer. A rough cough had him glancing up.
Eyes clouded by pain stared back.
“Mayhap,” Griffin said as he stood and crossed his arms, refusing to dishonor this proud man with any show of weakness, “I should follow my wife’s lead and tell you that you look like Hades.”
A smile trembled on de Moray’s mouth. “You should,” he replied, his voice thick with exhaustion. “A special lass she is. And with Rois never will you be bored.”
“An understatement.”
“Aye, that it is. Never have I known a woman whose emotions seem to burst from within and too often guide her.”
He grimaced. “That I can attest to.”
De Moray smiled, this time fully, then exhaled, the moment intense, but also filled with a sense of peace. As his smile fell away, the rebel leader reached beneath the covers and withdrew a leather-bound writ.
“When you depart Cumbuskenneth Abbey,” de Moray said, “deliver this to Lord Grey.”
At the seriousness of his words, angst crawled within Griffin like soured ale.
Shrewd eyes studied him. “’Tis my will.”
“Andrew—”
“Truth,” the Scot hissed. “Do you nae think I know the seriousness of my wounds? Or, the odds that I shall live?” He closed his eyes, drew several ragged breaths. After a long moment, he struggled to force them open. “Scotland’s freedom is too high a risk for me to do nae but plan for the worst. If I live, the writ shall be cast aside, forever forgotten. But”—he stared at the stream of light thick with dust shimmering within the twilight’s golden rays and then faced Griffin—“if I indeed die, these are instructions for Lord Grey to stand in my stead as Wallace’s advisor.”
De Moray had considered every critical venue. Why would he not? He was a strategist, a man who planned for success, and ’twould seem a man who planned for his death.
With a heavy heart, Griffin accepted the leather-bound writ, Lord Andrew’s seal impressed in the wax upon the rolled documents inside. His fingers shook as he secured the leather case beneath his shirt.
“Death awaits each of us,” Griffin said, his words solemn, “and I pray yours will be many years from now, long after your son grows strong.”
Warmth touched the rebel leader’s face. “Andrew will grow to be a fine man.”
“He will,” Griffin agreed. “As is his father.”
Mirth sparkled in his eyes. He reached over, lifted a goblet of wine, and took a long swallow. “I think your English king would deem your words traitorous.”
“Indeed.” Griffin lifted his own cup in a toast. “To Scotland, may she forever be free.”
His friend took a deep drink. With a grimace, he set it back, his lids starting to droop. “Go now. Much remains to be done. Until I am on my feet, Lord Grey must be aware of what I request.”
Griffin nodded, started for the door.
“Griffin?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“My regards to your sister.”
Warmth filled him. “Nichola holds great admiration for you, you know.”
“Aye,” Andrew replied, his voice growing thick with fatigue. “Married a Scot. Always a smart lass.”
“She is.” And on this Griffin agreed. Nichola’s husband, Alexander MacGruder, was a man to admire, even if their meeting had begun with his abducting Nichola. Griffin nodded. “Godspeed.”
“Godspeed,” de Moray returned.
Griffin exited the chamber, the slap of fresh air potent against the heavy scent of illness inside Andrew’s chamber. He cursed with frustration, and then grimaced as it echoed along the abbey walls. Yes, he would deliver the missive to Seathan MacGruder after he retrieved Rois, but he prayed Andrew would live and the instructions would rot from nonuse.
Rois. The thought of her with that bastard Lochlann cut through him as if a curse. Indeed, ’twas time to go. He wanted his wife within his arms.
Dust and sweat coated Griffin as he galloped across the battlefield of Stirling Bridge. The orange-red rays of the late afternoon sun coated the browned earth and clumps of leafless trees. Though days had passed, many bodies of the English remained strewn about.
Thank God the rain had washed away much of the blood and stench. ’Twould take many more months before the last sign and smell of the battle faded. Still, the land would never truly be cleansed.
Like many others, Griffin believed the memories of the horrors suffered lay embedded within the earth, a terrible angst that would forever exist and be sensed by those who walked upon the ground in the future.
As he crested the next hill, he drew to a halt. His mount’s hard breaths against the chilled air rolled out in puffs of white as he scanned the field below for Lord Brom’s tent.
Naught.
Where was Lord Brom’s camp? Had Angus’s condition improved and he now rode to Kincardan Castle? Or, had he worsened?
With his heart in his throat, Griffin kicked his mount forward. He galloped past the blackened remnants of the campfires and the disturbed earth, evidence of where Lord Brom’s tents had stood.
Griffin dismissed the Scottish noble’s return to Dunadd Castle. Lord Brom’s dire condition warranted not moving him for many a sennight. But someone had.
Someone?
No, Lochlann.
With a curse, he galloped toward a stand of trees outlining the river Forth as it wound its way along the sheath of land. He followed the thicket along the marshy banks. As he broke through a line of fir, he came upon an encampment of Scottish knights. He scanned the staggered tents for Lord Brom’s standard.
Naught.
And what of the bastard Scot? A quick search exposed no sign of Sir Lochlann, Rois, or their mounts. Mayhap they’d decided ’twas best to go elsewhere. No, the self-serving Scot’s departure would occur only if Angus had recovered and booted Lochlann’s arse out.
A fetid ball of anxiousness roiled in his gut as Griffin drew to a halt before a Scottish knight.
Recognition flashed in
the man’s eyes, and he stiffened. “Lord Monceaux.”
Griffin nodded. “Do you know where Lord Brom is?”
The knight tensed. “Two days past Lord Brom’s men passed by on their way home. They shared the news that for his health, Sir Lochlann escorted Lady Rois and Lord Brom to a crofter’s hut they were told was nearby.”
“Why was he not moved to Dunadd Castle?”
“He was nae strong enough to travel that far,” the Scot replied.
Anger rose. “Then why was he moved at all?”
A frown dredged the Scot’s brow. “’Twas upon the orders of Lady Rois, my lord.”
No, upon the orders of Lochlann. Without Griffin there to watch the Scot’s every move, the bastard had manipulated her into the task. “How do I find the crofter’s hut?” After brief directions, Griffin whirled his mount and rode hard northwest, but leagues from Lord Grey’s home where he must deliver the missive penned by de Moray.
Mayhap the knight who’d given him directions was confused, and Rois was taking her father to Lochshire Castle? No, the knight had insisted they were headed to a crofter’s hut, which made no sense. With Seathan’s castle so near with the ability to provide immediate care for her father, why wouldn’t they travel to the powerful earl’s home?
With each league he traveled, Griffin’s fury grew. A man as sick as Angus needed not to travel this far, or over such rugged terrain. If the bastard valued his life, Lochlann had best pray Griffin found Lord Brom alive.
As the dregs of night clawed across the land, the leafless trees scraped the air like bony fingers. Beneath the wash of moonlight, the vague outline of the crofter’s hut came into view. Smoke chugged from the roof in a lazy swirl as if a night like any other. Except, this night he would learn the fate of a man for which he held great respect.
With his emotions caught in a dangerous roil, he sighted Sir Lochlann’s mount tethered to a tree. Nearby stood Rois’s horse. Beside the hut’s door a rough litter, similar to the one they’d used to carry de Moray, lay askew.
His blood pounding hot, Griffin halted and swung to the ground. Even at a slow pace Angus must have suffered. By God, what was Rois thinking? No, in her distraught state she’d sought guidance from a man whom she believed she could trust, a bastard under the guise of a friend. Griffin stormed forward, jerked the door open.
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