Colin and Finn were fanned out several yards away on either side of him, somehow managing to keep up with his grueling pace. They had departed the stables together without a word, grim determination on all their faces.
After a quick query with the guards and scouts on the edge of camp, they discovered that a slight man on horseback had left about a half an hour before, headed south. No one recognized him, but a man leaving the camp was far less worrisome than a man trying to enter, so they had let him go unquestioned.
Another hour later, they reached the outer circle of scouts. One of the men in the area had seen a solo rider heading south, and at a reckless pace given the falling darkness. It would likely be the last piece of information they would get before they caught up to the assassin posing as a cook.
If they caught up to him, Garrick thought darkly. If the man was somehow able to outpace them, he could potentially make it all the way back to England to spread word of the death of the pretender King of Scotland, Robert the Bruce.
The thought sent Garrick spurring Fletch once more, though he knew the animal was giving him everything he had. The one small saving grace was that a nearly-full moon hung in the dark sky, giving them at least some light by which to see.
For the thousandth time, Garrick scanned the stretch of dark forest ahead of him, looking for any sign of movement or the trace of a trail left by the killer.
A flicker caught his eye in the distance. He blinked, fearing that his weary and straining eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, he saw it again. A rustle in the foliage far off ahead of them, and then—was that a flap of cloak?
“There!” Garrick shouted to the others, pointing.
Finn and Colin, already on the alert, jerked their heads in the direction of Garrick’s hand. They must have seen it too, for at the same moment, all three spurred their horses, digging for every last drop of energy from the animals. They fell into a single line so they could move faster, with Colin in the front, followed by Garrick and Finn.
Like its rider, Colin’s horse was young and spirited. Colin leaned over the animal’s neck, stretching out the distance between him and Garrick little by little. Even still, the three of them were gaining ground on the fleeing rider. Now Garrick could fully see the solitary cloaked figure atop a horse, riding hard.
The fleeing man must have heard them crashing through the forest behind him, for he shot a quick look over one shoulder, then kicked his horse to try to gain distance.
“Halt!” Colin shouted.
The man didn’t slow or even look back. He kept barreling forward through the woods. All four of them, the fleeing man and his three pursuers, were at the mercy of the dark forest. An unseen fallen log or a branch at the right height, even a rock or slight dip in the ground could potentially kill one or all of them.
As Garrick realized this, he whistled to Colin, who was several strides ahead of him but only marginally closer to the assassin. He reined Fletch in, forcing Finn to halt behind him as well. Colin turned over his shoulder, and when he saw that his two companions had halted, he reluctantly slowed his horse.
“What are you doing?” Colin shouted at Garrick, his voice loud and tight with adrenaline.
“We’ll never catch up to him like this,” Garrick said, more to himself than in response to Colin’s angry question.
He swung his bow off his shoulder and smoothly nocked an arrow. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart so that his pulse wouldn’t throw off his aim. His eyes locked on the lone rider, who was still crashing through the forest several dozen yards ahead of them, the distance growing with each pound of Garrick’s heart.
Colin said something, but Garrick didn’t register it. His mind was blank, his vision narrowed so that the only thing he perceived was the man, whose cloak hood had fallen back in his flight. Moonbeams flitted across him and his horse as they moved. He aimed at the soft, exposed neck, but then thought otherwise. He wanted the man to be able to talk. Shifting slightly, he targeted the man’s shoulder.
He exhaled and let the arrow fly. Time seemed to slow as the arrow sliced through the air, whizzing past the trees toward its target.
It found its mark. The shaft sunk into the man’s shoulder, slightly more toward the center of his back than Garrick had intended, but it had the desired effect. The man jerked at the impact of the shot and lost his balance, first slumping forward, then falling backward off his horse.
Finn and Colin surged forward, leaving Garrick behind to take one more steadying breath before slinging his bow back over his shoulder and following them to where the man had fallen. When they reached his crumpled form on the forest floor, they dismounted and moved in on him. He was reaching feebly behind him, trying to grasp the arrow shaft, but the fall had driven it farther into his back.
“Tell us what you know, and we will make this quick,” Finn said flatly.
The man sneered, a half-cough, half-laugh escaping him. “Go to hell, you cock-sucking rebels.” He spoke in a Lowland accent, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allied with the English. Not all Scots supported the Bruce and his campaign. Many lived in the pockets of the English and openly opposed the rebellion, and a few even worked as spies—or assassins.
“Who do you work for?” Colin demanded.
When the man didn’t answer, Finn leaned down and grasped the arrow shaft protruding from the man’s back, giving it a twist. The man bellowed in pain. Garrick longed to turn away, to have it over with, but he knew this had to be done. Yet still the man wouldn’t break.
“You can torture me all you like, you shit-eating savages. There will be plenty more like me to cut you down soon enough.”
The three men exchanged a silent look. Garrick shook his head slightly. They wouldn’t get anything out of him. Without speaking, Finn drew a dagger from his boot. As the blade flashed in the moonlight, the assassin smiled faintly, likely relieved he wouldn’t be tortured or put to a traitor’s death of handing, disemboweling, drawing, and quartering.
“Long live the King,” he sneered under his breath.
Before Finn’s blade could reach the man’s throat, Garrick said, “You’ve failed. The King of Scotland lives. Our healer has already given him an antidote to your poison.” He couldn’t be sure if the Bruce still lived, and he prayed Jossalyn’s brew was working, but he feared the worst. However, he wasn’t going to give this bastard the satisfaction in the last moment of his life of thinking that he had succeeded.
The man’s face shifted from condescending resignation to surprise, then horror. Finn’s blade descended on his throat, and likely the last thought the man had was of his own failure.
Garrick turned away from the scene of the would-be assassin’s lifeblood leeching from him, his eyes going blank and frosted. He walked back to Fletch’s side and mounted.
“What should we do with his body?” Colin asked.
“Leave it. The crows can have his eyes, and the rats his heart,” Garrick said coldly.
The other two mounted as well, and Colin collected the reins of the dead man’s horse. Though he was exhausted, Garrick was suddenly determined to get back to camp and be at his King’s side, even if it was the Bruce’s death bed that awaited him. He reined Fletch northward and pushed him forward with his heels.
Jossalyn rubbed a shaky hand over her face, pushing some of her loose hair out of the way. The sun was just cresting the horizon, and the King still lived, though barely. She had managed to get all the horehound brew into his system, which took the swelling in his throat and tongue down enough that she had been able to remove the quill that was serving as his airway and stitch closed the hole in his neck.
She also had another batch of the horehound tea brewing. Luckily, she had found one more stalk of the short, leafy plant in her satchel. Once this batch had been steeped and spoon-fed to the Bruce, though, she would have to scour the area for more of the plant. Blessedly, it wasn’t particularly rare or hard to find. At least the sun would be up to help he
r search.
The Bruce lay on his back now, still strewn across his large wooden dining table. Word had spread through the camp like wildfire that an attempt had been made on the King’s life with poison, and many had gathered to watch her work or offer to help. She had more boiling water and brawny men to hold the King upright than she knew what to do with, but she was touched at how so many had wanted to come to her aid as she had worked through the night to try to keep the Bruce alive.
She wouldn’t let herself worry about what would happen if she failed. Even though the swelling had gone down, the Bruce was still unconscious, and the poison must be lingering in his system, for although he breathed shallowly on his own now, his lips were still faintly tinged blue.
She also wouldn’t allow her mind to run wild with fears for Garrick. It had been growing dark when the three men had set out, and they hadn’t returned yet. She had seen the tight urgency in his body as he left, and she feared the pace they would set in rough conditions. She understood his imperative to find the disappeared cook, but she longed to see him safely returned.
Just as she stood wearily to set out for more horehound, she heard a shout that had her jerking her head up. Riding right through the center of the camp toward her was Garrick, along with Finn and Colin, and an ominously riderless fourth horse. Suddenly her knees were weak as relief crashed into her. His gaze locked onto hers as he approached, and his eyes were hard and flat.
“How does he fare?” he asked without preamble before he had even brought Fletch to a halt.
“He’s breathing on his own, now. The swelling has gone down, but the poison is still in his system. He hasn’t woken up yet,” she replied wearily.
Garrick strode to her side to gaze down at the Bruce, worry and exhaustion tightening his jaw. He searched over the Bruce’s prone body with his eyes for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall weakly. Then he turned to her, and without speaking, gathered her in his arms and pulled her against his chest.
She hadn’t realized it until that moment, but she was hanging onto her composure by a mere thread. At Garrick’s wordless act of kindness, she nearly came undone completely. But she forced the tears that were threatening to choke her back down, reminding herself that she still had work to do, and that all these men were counting on her.
The sight of Colin and Finn dismounting behind Garrick tugged her attention back to her fears for what they all had been through.
“What happened?” she said, pulling back a little so that she could look up into his face.
“We caught up to the man,” Garrick said, his tone clipped. “He fled, so I brought him down.”
“I wouldn’t have believed the shot if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Colin said, respect tinging his voice.
“He admitted his guilt, but he wouldn’t speak more.” There was something else that Garrick wasn’t saying, and Jossalyn felt an internal chill sweep through her.
“And so you…?” She dreaded the answer, but felt compelled to ask.
“We gave him a traitor’s burial,” Finn said coldly.
Her eyes shifted to him, and she feared his suspicious stare, but as he met her gaze, his dark eyes were unreadable. He approached, and she held her breath, a fleeting thought that he might still think her a traitor as well flitting across her mind. But to her shock, he knelt before her and grasped one of her hands, lowering his head in contrition.
“Forgive my suspicion, Lady Jossalyn,” he said, his head bowed. “I doubted you at first, wrongly assuming that because you are English and the sister of our enemy, that you were not to be trusted. But I value loyalty above all else, and you have proven yourself ten times over with your actions tonight, and in the past weeks. I only hope you will accept my apology and my unwavering fealty from this moment onward.”
She was frozen in shock for a moment, and he raised his head with a worried expression on his face. She came back to herself with a little shake and pulled him up to his feet by the hand. “Of course I accept your apology, Finn. I understand your suspicion and am grateful for your friendship.”
Satisfied, Finn gave a little nod and retreated a few steps. The swell of relief and gratitude at Finn’s words almost pushed all the worries and fears from the last night away. But her eyes returned to the Bruce’s limp form, and she remembered the task at hand.
“I must go search for more horehound,” she said to Garrick.
“Nay, lass, you need to rest,” he said gently but firmly. “Is this a fresh batch of the brew?” He picked up the warm pot of horehound water from the table.
She nodded.
“Gregor!” he called.
A large warrior stepped forward from the group of men gathered nearby.
“Give Gregor your instructions. Then you’ll rest,” Garrick said.
She began to protest, but he stopped her.
“Only for a few hours. And Gregor will come get you if anything…changes with the King’s condition.”
Gregor nodded in agreement with Garrick, so she sighed and explained how to spoon the brew down the Bruce’s throat every few minutes. Gregor listened intently, likely grateful to have something to do to help his King.
When she was done giving the warrior her instructions, Garrick took her by the hand and began leading her toward their tent. Colin and Finn were also wandering tiredly toward their cots. Just as Garrick veered toward Fletch, Angus appeared before all four of the horses. He produced an expensive and rare lump of sugar from his pocket for each of the animals. “I’ll see to them, laddie. You need rest just as badly as the lassie does.”
Jossalyn reached out and wordlessly squeezed the giant’s hand. He had been her shadow throughout the entire night, helping her lift and lower the Bruce, keeping the throngs of shocked men at bay, and even soothing the hysterical serving wench as she hovered around the table in tears. He smiled back at her and gave her a nod, bobbing his ruddy head slightly.
Leaving the horses in Angus’s care, Garrick led her to their tent. Without bothering to undress or even take off her new leather boots, Jossalyn went straight for the cot and curled up on her side. Garrick followed her, settling himself behind her and pulling her back snugly against his chest. His warmth and strength surrounded her. No matter what happened, she could count on him. That thought soothed all her fears, and exhaustion and sleep claimed her almost immediately.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The next week passed in a blur for Jossalyn. She slept and ate when she could, but mostly, she stayed by the Bruce’s side. After that first night, he was moved into his tent and placed in his own bed. Jossalyn set herself up at his bedside, giving him more horehound tea and watching for any signs of change, for better or for worse.
Men from the camp came and went, sometimes bringing her food, other times refreshing her supply of horehound or boiling water. She had described the medicinal plant to a few of the men, and before she knew it, they were bringing her armfuls of the stuff. Just as she had suspected, it wasn’t rare here, for which she was grateful.
Garrick stayed nearby as well, though he occasionally disappeared to brief those in the camp about what had happened or update them on the King’s current condition. He also ran a few training sessions in an attempt to burn off some of the men’s anxious energy and sense of uselessness. She suspected that it helped him feel useful to have a task like training to complete as well.
Garrick also called a few meetings of the Bruce’s advisory circle over the week. The dozen or so men would gather in the Bruce’s tent a few feet away from where Jossalyn sat at his side to discuss their plans. Though they never openly talked about what they would do if the King were to die, the air was always heavy with unspoken worry during these meetings.
A week after the night of the poisoning, Garrick called Colin, Finn, Angus, and a few others to the Bruce’s tent for a discreet meeting.
“I’ve been thinking on what the Lowland assassin said, though he didn’t give us much to work with,” Garrick bega
n in a low voice. “He mentioned there would be more coming.”
“Another assassination attempt? More planted traitors?” Finn said, his brow furrowing.
“I doubt it would work a second time,” Garrick replied.
“I have spoken with the serving lass again,” Angus offered. “She didn’t have much new information, but she remembered that the man passing himself off as the new cook claimed to be the cousin of the old cook. The old cook was called back to Inverness to see to his ailing father. A few days after he returned to his village, the body of his cousin was found floating downstream in the River Ness.”
“Then that bastard would-be assassin has at least one death on his hands,” Finn said bitterly.
“Aye, and he’s paid for it.” Garrick’s voice was grim. “But now that his plot has been discovered, no one has been allowed to enter or exit the camp. Besides the poisoner, everyone here has been with the cause for months and has already been vetted and proven themselves.”
“So what did the bastard mean when he said that more like him were coming?” Colin asked.
“That’s just what’s got me fashed, Colin,” Garrick said, running a hand through his hair. “I think he may have let slip more than he intended. Could he have been alluding to an attack?”
“He said, ‘there will be plenty more like me to cut you down soon enough,’” Finn said quietly. “Lowlanders?”
“Or Scots who have sided with the English against the Bruce. The Comyns have been openly hostile to the Bruce for more than a year,” Garrick responded. “Either way, we need to be ready. There could be an attack mounting, and even if they don’t know the exact location of the camp, they may be gathering nearby.”
“I’ll warn the scouts,” Colin said, his normally easy features tight with concern.
“And I’ll increase the men’s training, especially in covert archery. If there is going to be a battle in the area, we’ll need to use the forest as an advantage rather than a hindrance. There likely won’t be any open-field fighting if we are attacked.”
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