A Soldier's Salvation

by Aileen Adams

  “Of course. I believe we met once before,” Rodric remarked, shaking Maccay’s outstretched hand.

  Introductions were made among them before the entire group continued the rest of the way together, with Maccay and Rodric in the lead.

  “Truth be told, we’d expected to see you lot a few days back,” Maccay pointed out. “But the wet weather undoubtedly slowed you.”

  “Aye,” Rodric grunted, the memories still fresh. “It was a bit of a struggle at times, but we managed.”

  “As Jake said you would,” Maccay grinned. “Hard-headed a group as he’d ever known, I believe were his exact words. Never the type to give up, even in the direst situations.”

  “He should be the one to talk.”

  “Which is exactly what his wife said!” Maccay’s laughter rang out. “Aye, he’ll be glad to see ye. How was it he came to entrust you lot with this task?”

  “We crossed paths on the road to Inverness,” Rodric explained, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “I believe he thought himself up to the journey, but it didn’t seem that was the case.”

  Maccay’s expression darkened. “Aye. I suspected the story of his horse going lame was just that. A story. I’d never say it to him, of course. I prefer my tongue still attached to the inside of my mouth.”

  Rodric snorted. “We’d never speak a word of it, not any of us. Certain things a man doesn’t want getting around.” His heart clenched when, once again, he remembered how his friend had come to earn the wound which had made it impossible for him to ride for long distances.

  Jake met them outside the massive front door. “I was beginning to fear for you,” he called out, grinning.

  “You know us,” Rodric replied as he dismounted. “We would never let something like Scottish mud keep us from delivering what we promised.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to concede defeat, even if you had.” Jake laughed.

  The two of them clasped arms, the bond between them as strong as ever. It did Rodric’s heart good to see Jake looking healthier than he had on the road—the pain had obviously gotten to him long before their encounter, and his skin had looked downright ashen.

  Jake glanced around at all the men. “Please, please, come in. The courtesies of the house are extended to you. Rest, refresh yourselves. I’ll have baths drawn and meals prepared.”

  “If it’s not too much bother,” Fergus replied.

  “Not at all. The laird is out riding at present, but he’s already instructed the servants to prepare rooms. You need only make yourselves comfortable.”

  Meanwhile, a handful of men appeared seemingly out of nowhere to unload the wagon, while Maccay and his men rode off to perform other duties. The entire place ran smoothly. Clearly, the Duncans were skilled at managing.

  “I would like to walk a bit before going in,” Rodric decided.

  His legs were stiff from riding, though he was careful not to mention this in Jake’s presence. It was a sensitive issue and always would be.

  “I’d be happy to show you around,” Jake offered, falling into step beside him.

  Rodric’s instincts told him there was an unspoken reason for this offer of companionship, but he kept this insight to himself while in the presence of the others.

  One of the servants, a young girl—too young for Quinn, he noted with a wry smile—led the others inside.

  “How have things been here for you and your family?” Rodric asked.

  “Better than ever, though it may sound a bit as though I’m bragging when I say it.”

  “Just a bit.” Rodric snorted. “Still, I’m glad to hear it.”

  “God knows we had more than our share of challenges,” Jake replied, his voice and expression darkening a bit. “I suppose we’re due a stretch of fair weather after so many storms.”

  “I cannot think of anyone more deserving of the peace you seem to have found here.” This was all Rodric could reveal of what lie buried in his heart. He’d never be able to express his appreciation for what Jake had done.

  If anyone deserved happiness and the satisfaction of a peaceful, abundant life, it was Jake Duncan.

  “And you?”

  “And me? What about me?” He chuckled.

  “Do you plan on spending the rest of your life going from place to place, offering your specialized skills to the highest bidder?”

  This rankled Rodric, as his friend made it sound as though he were nothing but a soldier of fortune. As though he were a brute who inflicted pain on behalf of the man or woman willing to pay. There were men such as that who wandered the roads, always moving, never able to settle in one place for long as they were more often than not wanted by officials in every corner of the countryside.

  When he didn’t receive a reply, Jake clicked his tongue and sighed. “I shouldn’t have spoken so freely. It was unfair to you.”

  “A bit,” Rodric conceded.

  Jake sighed again, this time the sort of sigh which signaled a bit of bad news. “There’s a reason why I ask about your plans. I thought there was a chance you hadn’t heard, and now I believe I’m right.”

  Hair stood straight up on the back of Rodric’s neck. “Hadn’t heard what?”

  “There’s been some trouble in your clan. I had hoped to approach it delicately, asking if you planned to return home. I didn’t want to greet ye with such unpleasantness right off.”

  “What sort of trouble?” He should’ve known. The moment Alan took over...

  “It seems there was an argument.” It was clear to him that Jake chose his words carefully—irritatingly so.

  “Put it plainly,” Rodric snapped. “What did my brother do?”

  “How did you know your brother had anything to do with it?”

  How did he know? There wasn’t enough time in the day to explain to his friend how he’d known without being told that his older brother Alan had started a feud between their clan and another. Alan had been starting fights since the day he was born, or so it seemed.

  “He’s always had a talent for fighting—if it hadn’t been for his being the eldest son and our father needing his assistance with the clan, he would’ve been the one to go to war for King Alexander. And he would’ve loved it.” For once, he’d have had the excuse to release his insatiable appetite for violence.

  “Aye, well, it seems he’s used that talent with another clan. The McAllisters.”

  Rodric went cold at the name. Not a name he’d expected to hear, much less one he wanted to hear. A McAllister was the reason he would’ve gladly never returned home.

  He managed to speak over the blood rushing in his ears—though he couldn’t hear himself, he asked, “Did you happen to hear what the feud involves?”

  Jake shook his head. “Only that there’s bad blood between the clans now. Rumor has it, bloodshed isn’t far off.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, knowing Alan.” Rodric’s jaw tightened. If only their father was alive to see what his son was making of the clan which had brought him such pride—then again, if the old man were still living, Alan wouldn’t be leading the clan to destruction.

  Perhaps it wasn’t that grave. He tried to convince himself of this.

  It didn’t work.

  “Will you go?” Jake asked.

  The question sat heavy on Rodric’s heart. Would he go? He hadn’t gone in so long, not even at the announcement of the death of Ross Anderson. His father had been a rough, brutish man, but he was merely a product of his times and the responsibilities he’d shouldered since boyhood.

  Not to mention the roughness of the land and the sort of hardy character one needed to possess in order to survive.

  Rodric had never been the hot-tempered, strike-first-and-ask-questions-later sort of man Alan had grown into. For that reason—and so many others he’d never dare discuss with Jake Duncan, no matter what he meant to him—Rodric had stayed far away.

  He thought of Jake’s question; would he go? “I do not know,” he replied, keeping his to
ne even. “I truly do not know.”

  “Is there no longer any loyalty to your clan?”

  When Jake caught sight of the withering look with which Rodric favored him, he almost visibly fell back.

  “My apologies. It was an indelicate question, and not one I had the right to ask.”

  Rodric withheld a grunt and looked around at the bustling activity beyond the manor house. Smiling, cheerful people. The sounds of laughter coming from the smithy and the stables. There was warmth and life in the house, in the family.

  Phillip was a good and fair leader who cared deeply about doing what was right by both his wife and child, and the clan on the whole.

  And everyone knew it. That was the most important of all. Doing right by the clan meant no fear of showing strength when the need arose. Phillip Duncan wouldn’t back down from a fight, and he’d shown as much, time and again.

  The two of them walked past the training yard, where many men practiced with swords and shields while instructors shouted commands.

  He ruled both with compassion and an iron fist. A good balance, Rodric thought.

  “My brother isn’t your brother,” he pointed out. “Your clan was fortunate to fall into the right hands upon your father’s passing.”

  “Do you feel the Andersons would’ve done better in your hands, then?” Jake asked. The question was asked both in jest and in all seriousness.

  He shook his head. “Nay, I’ve never wanted to take on that sort of responsibility. It holds no great pleasure for me. I would much rather sleep in a field every night, downwind of the stinking beast I spent the day riding.”

  Jake laughed. “I cannot say I miss those days much, though there are moments when I look back on them fondly.”

  “Aye, because they’re so far in the past. We can look back with fondness on that which the passage of time has softened for us.”

  They laughed together then, though Rodric’s eye kept falling on Jake’s leg. The days of spending sunrise to sunset in the saddle were indeed far behind him.

  Even if the second-oldest Duncan son had wished to devote his life to roaming the clan’s holdings to ensure their safety, it would’ve been beyond his grasp. The short walk they’d taken together had already left the limp far more pronounced than when he’d exited the house.

  If it pained him, Jake gave no indication—then again, he wouldn’t. Neither of them was the sort of man to reveal weakness or pain unless under the most extreme circumstances. Even when they’d met up on the road north, less than a day’s ride from Duncan lands, Jake hadn’t spoken a word of the agony he’d clearly suffered.

  They came to a stop several yards from the house.

  Jake turned to him. “You realize I have somewhat selfish reasons for bringing this up. Phillip will more than likely wish to discuss it with you as well, once you’ve freshened up and eaten your fill. Any troubles between the clans could in time mean trouble for us, so naturally, he’d prefer the matter be put to rest as painlessly as possible.”

  “And if it’s not possible to put it to rest?” Rodric grumbled, folding his arms. “Please, do not mistake me. I would do anything in my power to assist you in keeping the peace. But my brother is hardly the type to listen to reason.”

  “I remember hearing he took a wife not long ago,” Jake said. “I didn’t hear which clan she was from, but I did hear he’d been wed. Perhaps she might be persuaded to bend his ear?”

  This only inflamed Rodric’s already troubled mind. Rather than shouting, rather than explaining why that was a terrible idea which would never work because he would rather die than see his brother’s wife in his brother’s household, he merely replied, “Of all people, I’m certain she’s the one he’d be least likely to listen to.”

  3

  Caitlin drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs as the sun began its magnificent descent beneath the far-off Grampian Mountains. She’d never seen them up close, but could imagine their ability to strike awe in even the most jaded heart from a distance.

  What was it that drew her to them on this day? There was no way of knowing. She only knew she had to watch them as the brilliant warmth of early evening light turned into dusk. The rays of light, amber and gold, turned nearly red as the fiery ball sank lower and lower.

  Something about the mountains called to her. Something quiet, like a whisper on the wind, but far more incessant. Insistent.

  She wished the whisper would tell her what it wanted from her, why it perturbed her so. Why it made her heart ache.

  A lock of hair fell in front of her eyes. Hair blond as her mother’s. She smoothed it into place even though the breeze was bound to tease it free again. Mother had always fretted so over Caitlin inheriting that hair. In a world where it seemed brown or red or brownish-red hair was the norm, to be born with hair as light as theirs was surely a sign.

  Of what? Mother would never say—or, if she did, Caitlin had been too young to remember now. There were so few memories which had stayed with her. Would that Mother had lived a bit longer.

  Would that Caitlin had died with her.

  She dragged her knuckles over her cheeks to dispense with the tears which had begun to fall. She wouldn’t allow herself to give in to emotion—she’d done enough of that already. Over the last month, she’d cried enough to fill a lake.

  But you got away. You ran away.

  Yes, she had, and she’d barely made it through the journey. By the time she’d reached Fiona and Kent’s farm, a day’s ride from Anderson lands, she’d been half-dead from exhaustion and starvation.

  It had been days since she’d last eaten, since long before the wedding ceremony had taken place. The thought of marrying Alan Anderson had robbed her of an appetite, and she’d been far too panicked to take time to secure food for the journey.

  There had been no time, as it was. Her new husband had been heavily into his third or perhaps even fourth pitcher of wine by then, laughing and jesting with fellow clansmen, paying her little attention. But that would change. He wouldn’t ignore her for long.

  There would’ve been the bedding, for one. He would’ve sought her out soon enough in order to climb on top of her and sweat out what he’d drank. To officially make her his property until the end of her life.

  Even now, weeks later, seated on a hill a day’s ride from her husband, the idea turned Caitlin’s stomach.

  She’d left Alan’s home with nothing but the clothing on her back and the horse which she’d raised since the day it was foaled. She didn’t want to owe him anything, didn’t want him to be able to claim she’d stolen anything from him, other than herself.

  Naturally, he’d think of it that way. She was his wife. She belonged to him, as she had always belonged to one man or another. She’d never been her own person before she’d slipped out of Alan’s home—she refused to think of it as her own—and taken off into the night without even knowing whether or not her cousin would take her in.

  Fiona had, thank the heavens.

  A chill ran through her, making her hug her legs tighter in spite of the very warm evening. What if she were found? What if Fiona and Kent suffered for the charity they’d extended?

  She had already been with them for far too long, a fact which she was certain Kent was also aware of. The first fortnight, he’d been genial and almost overly solicitous toward her. She’d been ill-used, for certain, and as her cousin’s husband he’d offered to take her under his protection in spite of the fact that she was wed to another man.

  “After all,” he’d reasoned at the time, “the marriage was never…”

  He had blushed and stammered after that—a gentle man, a kind one, as befitting her gentle and kind cousin—but Caitlin was old enough to understand what he’d tried to express. The marriage was never consummated. If she wished to have it dissolved in the eyes of the Church, she had the ability to do so.

  Except she had no power. And no money with which to secure such a decree. Her powerlessness was the e
ntire reason she’d been forced into marriage at all. Now, she was powerless to escape it except by running away and staying away. Far away.

  What if it meant running for the rest of her life?

  Her eyes fixed on the mountains, which were turning deep purple now that the sun was all but a memory. Could she truly live out the remainder of her days without a home of her own? Always moving, hiding, pretending to be someone she wasn’t in order to avoid being tied down to a brute?

  He’d always been a bully. Her first memories of him were of being teased and taunted—not the way Rodric had teased her, the way boys and girls sometimes teased for lack of the ability to share what they truly felt for one another.

  Alan had taken pleasure in being mean. He’d laughed loudest whenever he’d made her cry, such as the time when he’d pretended to drown her favorite doll.

  She’d been old enough by then to know her doll wasn’t alive, didn’t breathe or think. But that doll had been with her as long as she could remember. The doll had been a gift from her father, the only thing he’d given her aside from his blue eyes. He’d died long before she was old enough to remember him.

  Had Alan known this? Had he understood the hidden significance a simple rag doll had held for her? Caitlin didn’t know. She only knew that he’d noticed the way she’d carried it everywhere, and he’d waited for just the right moment to snatch it from under her arm and thrust it into a bucket of water.

  “Don’t!” she’d screamed, pleaded, wailed, tugging at his sleeves in a frantic attempt to save her beloved friend. “Don’t, Alan, you’ll kill her!”

  “She’s not real, you baby,” he’d laughed—still, he’d held the doll beneath the surface of the water, squeezing it and laughing louder the harder Caitlin had fought him. She’d nearly had a fit, she was so thoroughly beside herself.

  Until her hero had stepped in, shoving Alan with all his might. Perhaps it was surprise which had knocked the bigger, older brother off his feet. He’d been taken off-guard by the brother who’d almost never managed to land a punch when they’d tussled.