by Baker, Katy
The banging came again. "Lady Eleanor?" a voice called. "I've come to escort ye on yer rounds."
Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. It was Angus, not Stewart. "I'll be out in a minute," she called, pressing a hand against her chest to still her thumping heart.
She glanced at Finn, reading the same concern written across his face. That was close. If Angus had walked in and found them like that? Or worse still, Alasdair Stewart?
Finn took her hand. "Ye must go," he breathed. "Act normal and dinna alert Stewart's suspicions."
"What about you?" she asked. "You need to rest."
"There isnae time for that," he replied, shaking his head. "I will return to my command and find out what’s happening. In the confusion of the army moving out we might just find the cover we need to slip away. I’ll come find ye later." He looked at her. "Tell me, lass, is there aught incriminating about yer origins that Stewart’s patrol might find at Brigid's Hollow?"
"Yes," Eleanor breathed. “Dammit, yes! My watch—a device to tell the time. I dropped it when I came through the arch."
"Then we'll have to hope the patrol doesnae find it. Or if they do that we're long gone by the time they catch up with Stewart. Now go, before Angus comes in here looking for ye."
She nodded, began to walk off, but he suddenly pulled her back, caught her up, and kissed her long and deep.
Eleanor was a little breathless when he released her.
"Be careful," he said.
Eleanor nodded. "You too."
With that she headed out the door, the taste of Finn's kisses lingering on her lips.
Chapter 13
The man winced as Eleanor delicately probed his head wound. There was a tear in his scalp, not deep, but it bled profusely, as scalp wounds often do.
"How did you do this?"
The man gave an angry glance at his companion who sported a swelling around his eye that was quickly turning purple.
She sighed. "Let me guess. You were fighting?"
Their sullen silence was all the answer she required. Great. This was all she needed. It was the third injury she'd treated today caused either by fighting or drunkenness.
She washed out the wound—non too gently—and then applied a poultice of comfrey, yarrow and honey to keep out infection.
"You'll be fine," she told him. "It's already starting to scab over but don't scratch it and please don't get into any more fights."
The man nodded. A big bear of a man with a shaggy red beard and hands like hams, he ducked his head respectfully as he climbed to his feet and shuffled off, his companion at his side.
Eleanor placed her hands on her hips and looked around. Several paces away stood her two guards lounging against a stack of crates. Eleanor didn't recognize them. Stewart had appointed new guards since Finn’s fight with Balloch and members of Finn's command were no longer allowed to escort her.
Around her the army was settling down for the night. They had decamped from the manor house that afternoon and marched for many hours, stopping only as the sun began to set. The men were edgy, tense, knowing that they were marching to meet the enemy. She wasn't surprised that fights and drunkenness had broken out and she was glad of the two burly guards that Stewart had assigned her, despite the way they leered at her and made crude remarks.
She turned at the sound of footsteps approaching her make-shift medical station. A man ran up to her guards, spoke urgently in low tones, and hurried off again.
One of the guards came over, a skinny man with one ear missing and a row of teeth that any horse would have been proud of. He jerked his thumb. "Lord wants to see ye."
Eleanor ground her teeth. "You'd better lead the way then.”
She grabbed the leather bag containing her supplies and allowed the guards to escort her through the camp to its northern edge where Stewart's tent had been set up. It was more like a pavilion and once inside she saw it was divided into two rooms by a fabric curtain, one room for meeting with his officers, one for sleeping. The guards led her into the back room where she found Alasdair Stewart seated on the edge of a camp bed.
Eleanor bridled. Hot rage came bubbling to the surface, quickening her breathing and sending her pulse hammering. This was the man who'd allowed Balloch to beat Finn senseless. This was the man who'd made Finn a slave, stopped him from returning to his family, and turned him into a traitor. Oh, how she longed to land a fist into that twisted face of his!
But she schooled herself to calm, forced her face into an expressionless mask. Why did he want to see her? Had the patrol he sent to Brigid’s Hollow returned? Had they found something incriminating about her? The thought made fear coil in her belly.
"You asked for me?"
He glanced at her, his face gray with pain. He was holding a wad of cloth against his thigh. It was red with blood.
"Ye took yer time," he snapped. "The ride has reopened my wound. See to it."
Eleanor hesitated. The thought of laying hands on this man, of helping him, was almost more than she could bear. But she couldn't refuse. She was a doctor wasn't she? She'd sworn an oath to help any in need, even if that person was a monster who caused untold suffering.
She hefted her bag of supplies and knelt by Stewart's side. She glanced up at him as she removed the wadded cloth and found him watching her with hard eyes. Pointedly she looked away, concentrating on her task. She no longer cared whether Stewart suspected her true origins. He needed her and so for the time being he wouldn't do anything to harm her. Or so she told herself.
Wiping away the blood, she sucked a breath through her teeth. "You've burst your stitches," she snapped. "Didn't I tell you to avoid excessive movement?"
"Aye, ye did," he snapped back. "But I dinna take orders from a woman. Ye will remember who ye are addressing!"
"I'm addressing my patient," she replied, glaring at him. "And I suggest you get used to taking orders from a woman or this wound is never going to heal!"
He ground his teeth, anger flaring in his eyes, and for a moment Eleanor thought she'd gone too far. Then he looked away. "Just patch it up so that I can swing a sword come the battle."
Eleanor cleaned out the wound with alcohol, re-stitched it, smeared the wound with honey, and applied a fresh bandage.
"Is there anything else?"
Stewart stood, stretching himself experimentally, a slight grimace escaping him as he pulled the new stitches.
"That will do." He grabbed her arm and marched her to the tent's entrance.
"Ye will escort the lady back to her tent," he instructed the guards.
Eleanor followed her guards through the camp. She couldn't help but look for Finn as she walked but she knew she wouldn't find him. She'd not seen him since this morning, not since a whispered conversation when he’d told her he was going out scouting the MacAuley lines.
She concentrated on the path, not wanting to trip on any tent ropes or slip in the mud. They’d almost reached the small, patched tent she'd been given when a sudden ripple of alarm passed through the camp. The sound of shouting came from somewhere to the north. The men seated around their campfires jumped to their feet, grabbing for weapons as cries rose of, "A raid! To arms!"
Eleanor’s two guards fumbled to draw their weapons and swore under their breath as their comrades all went running off into the night. One of them pushed Eleanor towards her tent.
"Stay here," he growled.
Then he and his companion sprinted after their fellows. For the first time in what felt an age, Eleanor was left alone. She cocked her head, listening. She could hear the commotion to the north: men shouting, the neighing of horses, the clink of steel on steel. Her heart thumped.
A MacAuley attack! But a full-on attack or merely a skirmish? Would her guards come racing back any minute? For the first time since she'd arrived she was unguarded. Free.
She looked around, mind whirling. Could she make her escape now whilst Stewart and his men were distracted? No. Stewart set perimeter guards around the camp
and she would be unlikely to get through. And besides, she would not leave without Finn.
Her eyes settled on Stewart's tent. It stood maybe a hundred paces away, a silhouette against the night lit only by a single lamp burning inside. She bit her lip, thinking. Then she made her decision.
Keeping low, she hurried between the tents, skirted around campfires, and approached Stewart's tent. A single guard stood on duty outside, holding his sword and staring anxiously northwards, paying little attention to any danger closer to home.
Treading carefully, Eleanor moved around the back of the tent and listened. No sound came from within and she guessed Stewart had gone to see what the commotion was all about. Adjusting the strap on her medical bag so it sat against her back like a rucksack, she threw herself onto her belly and squirmed under the canvas wall, coming out in Stewart's bedchamber. She was breathing heavily, heart hammering, and forced herself to take long, slow breaths. The lamp had almost burned down, casting the empty room into shadow but it was strong enough to illuminate a cedar wood chest in one corner.
She padded over to it and gently, slowly, untied the leather clasps that held it closed. Grasping the lid, she slowly lifted it, pausing when it suddenly let out a low creak.
She waited for one, two, three heartbeats, expecting any minute to hear the guard come inside to investigate the noise. He didn't.
After a long, tense moment, Eleanor opened the lid all the way and examined the contents of the chest. A velvet drawstring bag lay inside. At the sight of it Eleanor's heart almost jumped into her throat. She'd guessed right! She'd seen this bag once before, when she'd first been ushered into Lord Alasdair Stewart's presence, he’d been locking it away in a cupboard. Carefully, almost afraid to touch it, she reached in and took it out.
It was heavier than expected. She untied the drawstrings, revealing a long bronze implement with a hand-grip at one end and a pattern of swirling metalwork at the other.
Finlay's brand.
Quickly pulling the drawstring tight, Eleanor hurried to the rear of the tent and was about to leave when a voice suddenly spoke out of the gloom.
"Going somewhere?"
Eleanor almost jumped right out of her skin. With a cry of alarm she spun to see Balloch standing there. His arms were folded and he wore his usual lazy grin.
"Ye know," he said conversationally. "My uncle doesnae take kindly to thieves."
"I'm no thief!" Eleanor spat. "This doesn't belong to Stewart. I'm returning it to its rightful owner!"
Balloch took a step forward and Eleanor stepped back, her back pressing against the tent wall. A feral look lit Balloch's eyes.
"There's nobody here to help ye now, lass," he said. "They're all off fighting this raid. It's just ye and me now."
Eleanor swallowed. "There's a guard outside. If I scream, he'll come running."
"Was a guard outside," he corrected her. "I sent him on his way. When I saw ye sneaking in here, I just had to know what ye were up to. Now put that bag down and lie on the bed. If ye dinna struggle I promise not to hurt ye too much."
"Go to hell," Eleanor snarled.
Balloch pouted, putting on a hurt look. "Now ye've hurt my feelings." He shrugged. "Never mind. I suppose we'll have to do it the hard way."
He lunged at her, his hand closing around her forearm. Eleanor reacted instinctively. She swung the bag towards him and the heavy metal brand inside clunked into the side of his head with a crack that echoed through the tent. Balloch's knees gave way and he crashed to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Clasping the drawstring bag to her chest Eleanor ran to the door and fled into the darkness.
FINN FLITTED THROUGH the trees like a ghost, stalking his prey. His quarry had no idea that he was shadowing their movements like a predator, watching, waiting.
Call themselves trackers? Finn scowled. He would never give men as sloppy as these a place in his command.
The two men—the patrol Stewart had sent out to investigate Brigid’s Hollow—were walking their horses, following the obvious line of march that Stewart's army had taken. The wide swathe of churned up ground wasn't hard to follow. Even a bairn would be able to track the army's passage.
Finn had been keeping pace with them for over an hour now, gauging their speed, their mood, trying to figure out if they posed a threat to Eleanor. They were not hurrying and from their pace it would be several hours yet before they caught up with the army. If he measured it right, they would arrive after midnight.
Three shapes materialized out of the darkness in front of the patrol. "Stop right there!" one called. "Name yerself or ye'll feel cold steel through yer gut."
Finn took cover behind a thick screen of hawthorn bushes and peered through the branches. He recognized the newcomers as some of the outlying pickets of Stewart's army, sent to guard his rear from being flanked.
The patrol from Brigid's Hollow halted. One of them leaned forward, peering through the gloom.
"That's young Martin unless I'm mistaken! I'll forgive ye for not recognizing me, dark as the Devil's arse out here, but I'll thank ye not to get in our way. We have important news for Lord Alasdair Stewart."
"Sean?" Martin replied. "What are ye doing out here? We weren't told to expect ye riding into camp."
"Lord Stewart has to explain everything to ye now, does he?" Sean growled. "He sent us on a mission and we have something very important to bring to his attention." He patted the pocket of his shirt. "Now stand aside."
Finn's blood ran cold. Something important? Had they found something that would give away Eleanor's origins?
"Aye, very well," Martin replied, his tone surly as he and his fellows pulled aside to let Sean and his companion pass. "Nay need to be bad-tempered about it."
"Aye, well ye'd be bad tempered if ye'd been riding for four days without a soft bed or a hot meal," Sean replied as he stomped past.
Finn watched for a moment longer and then silently slid from behind the hawthorn bushes. Sean and his companion didn’t bother to pick up their pace. Despite their griping about hot food and a warm bed they seemed in no particular hurry to get back to camp. Finn didn't blame them. Who would want to return when they might be forced into battle on the morrow?
Finn considered his options. He could ambush them. He could easily take them down, leave their bodies in the woods and Stewart would never hear what they’d found. But Finn was no murderer.
The only option was to get Eleanor out of camp now, while there was still time. Moving wide of the patrol, Finn broke into a run, pelting through the dark landscape as swift and fleet as a shadow.
He approached Stewart’s camp from the east and, as he reached the first tents, he frowned to himself. If the number of tents was anything to go by, Stewart didn’t seem to have the number of fighters Finn expected. If he had, the MacAuleys wouldn’t have been able to mount a raid without warning. Something didn't feel right. Why did there seem to be fewer warriors here than there were back at Stewart’s manor?
Scowling to himself, he pushed all such thoughts from his mind and approached the meeting point he'd agreed with his men. As he entered the clearing he found Donald, Rob and Duncan waiting for him, sitting their horses with hunched shoulders, tension written across their faces.
They spun as he strode towards them, weapons sweeping from their scabbards.
"Easy," he said to them. "It's only me."
They let out relieved breaths. Donald, Finn was pleased to see, seemed to have fully recovered from his beating at Balloch's hands although he had a black eye to show for his troubles.
"Report," he barked to his men.
"It's as ye guessed," Rob replied. "The MacAuley forces have taken the northern ridge, the MacConnells the valley below, controlling the water source and blocking any retreat. Stewart’s forces hold this hillside and the trees will make it hard for the MacAuleys to guess our numbers."
Finn nodded. "And Stewart?"
"I tailed him as ye commanded," Donald said.
"He rode out to inspect the pickets then went into his tent. He called Lady Eleanor to tend his wound then he got called away by the skirmish."
"And Lady Eleanor?" Finn asked. "She's safe?"
"Aye," Donald replied. "Last I saw, her guards were escorting her back to her tent but I left to follow Lord Stewart."
Finn nodded. He looked around at his men, at their eager, honest faces. They were good men. Honorable and loyal. They deserved better than the fate he'd led them to, better than to serve in a renegade army under a man like Stewart.
"Ye've done well, all of ye," he said. "Now, back to yer posts. Watch and report back to me if Stewart returns to camp."
They nodded, wheeled their mounts, and trotted off into the night. Finn watched them go for a minute and then drew a deep, steadying breath. This was it. The MacAuley raid might just provide the cover he needed to get Eleanor out of the camp. He must act now, before Stewart restored order.
He ran to the camp and approached Eleanor's tent. No glow of candlelight came from inside and no guards stood outside. He frowned, unease tingling down his spine. Something was wrong. Ripping aside the tent flap, he strode inside. It was empty.
His stomach contracted. Where was she?
Going back outside, he knelt in the mud, forced his mind into a tracker's calm, and looked for clues. There weren't many. The ground had been churned by the passage of many booted feet but he finally found a set of smaller tracks leading away from the tent and towards the woods that surrounded the camp.
Quickly, he ran to the horse lines, untied his horse and led it into the woods, following the tracks. Urgency bit at his heels. Time was running out. The jaws of the trap were closing. He must find Eleanor before they snapped shut.
ELEANOR STUMBLED THROUGH the woods. The darkness under the trees was thick, the shafts of moonlight hardly penetrating the canopy. She cursed herself for a fool. What the hell had she been thinking? She was no woods-woman. What was she doing wandering around like this?
The thick undergrowth had snagged her dress more than once, scratched at her face and hair, and she was pretty sure she was going around in circles. Off to her left, less than half a mile away she could see the light of burning campfires. She had a vague notion that if she could find the camps outer guards—pickets Finn called them—then she'd find Finn or at least Donald or one of his other men as they'd been assigned this duty for the night. But she hadn't found them and instead spent the last hour blundering through the woods and not getting anywhere.