Tamed by the Barbarian

by June Francis

  He released her. ‘I’ll see to your horse. You do what you must and I will join you inside. Tomorrow, you return north.’

  She did not speak, but watched him lead her horse away before going inside the inn. There was no way she would do what he ordered. He was not her keeper. She would ask the innkeeper for bread and cheese and then seek her pallet in the chamber upstairs so she did not have to speak to him. Then she would decide what to do later. God willing Mackillin would not be sleeping in the same chamber as herself. In case he was, she must conceal herself completely.

  Mackillin was annoyed and worried when he returned to find no sign of Cicely downstairs. He described her youthful appearance to the innkeeper, but received a suspicious look so said no more and walked away. Not knowing which room she was in meant that he could not go barging into all of them in search of her and drag her out. The mood she was in, God only knew what she might do. So he ate his supper and then went up to the communal sleeping chamber. There were several people already there, but all appeared to be asleep. He was of a mind to inspect each one, but after being firmly rounded on by a man with a bushy black beard, he decided to wait until morning as a couple of other sleepers had complained about the noise. He stretched himself on his pallet as close to the door as he could get and determined to stay awake all night if need be. If Cicely tried to sneak out of the building so as to avoid him, then he would surely hear her.

  So he lay there listening to every creak, murmur, snore, the patter of tiny feet in the thatch overhead, as well as the occasional footfall. He thought of Cicely dressed as a boy and by then had calmed down enough to reluctantly admit that she had some spirit. With such a lass at his side, what couldn’t they face together? He imagined her in his arms, then drifted into slumber.

  Mackillin started awake. What hour was it? He gazed about the room and heard a man shifting in his sleep. Then there came a cough and a snore. He lay down again, but the screech of a bolt being drawn below was loud enough in the silence to cause him to rise from his pallet. He rolled up his bedding and placed it in his saddlebag, then crossed the short distance to the door and opened it. He caught the sound of footsteps below. Perhaps it was the innkeeper, but maybe it was Cicely? Deciding he could take no chances, he headed for the stairs.

  The moon was a silver discus in the pearly sky when Cicely hurried across the cobbled yard and into the stable. She wasted no time saddling up her horse and leading it over to a mounting block. Soon she was out in the street and riding for the road south. So intent was she on looking for a place to conceal herself until Mackillin came by that at first she did not hear the drumming of hooves to her rear. The moment she became aware that there was a rider or riders behind her, she left the road. It might not be Mackillin and even if it was, she did not want him catching up with her yet again.

  She rode through the undergrowth to the trees a short distance away, determined to stay in hiding until whoever it was had passed. Despite the rising sun it was cold waiting there, so she pulled her hat further down over her ears and drew her cloak closer about her. A rider came into view and she reeled with shock as she recognised a man that she had hoped never to see again.

  To her horror he left the road and appeared to be heading straight towards her. What was Husthwaite doing here? How had he known where to find her? No time to give more thought to such questions. Her heart thudded in her chest as she reached for her bow. Then, to her amazement, he dismounted. She watched him take something from his saddlebag and do something with it before moving stealthily through the undergrowth nearer to the road. She realised that he could not have seen her. It was then she heard the sound of another rider approaching. The next moment Mackillin came into view. Instantly Cicely realised what her enemy was about and she rode from out of the trees, removing an arrow from its quiver as she did so.

  Mackillin’s head turned in her direction. At the same time Husthwaite raised his weapon and there was a bang. The noise so startled her horse that she had difficulty controlling it and dropped the arrow. Then everything seemed to happen fast. She saw Husthwaite coming towards her with a murderous expression on his face and a dagger in his hand. Then there was the thundering of hooves and she saw Mackillin riding towards them. The man must have suddenly realised what was happening because he flung the dagger at her before swerving and running for the trees. The dagger glanced harmlessly off her gloved hand. She caught sight of Husthwaite’s terrified face and then Mackillin passed her, but was too late to rein in his horse. The stallion trampled the man beneath its hooves.

  She stared aghast at the scene, but then Mackillin managed to pull back his horse and calm it. They dismounted almost simultaneously and hurried over to where Husthwaite lay. It was obvious that he was fatally wounded, but his eyes were still open and he was mouthing curses upon them.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ demanded Mackillin.

  Husthwaite did not answer, but panted, ‘You’ll rue the day you interfered in my plans. My—my accomplices know…you—you are heading south. You…. will…die a horrible…death.’ His head fell back and for several seconds there was no sound but the wind in the trees.

  Mackillin stood up and looked across at Cicely. Her face was ashen, but she stood as straight as a rod. ‘Who do you think he meant by his accomplices? Other members of my kin?’ she asked.

  ‘Possibly. Do you think he recognised you?’

  Cicely shrugged. ‘I thought at first he had done so, but it was you he was intent on killing. What was that weapon he aimed at you? The bang frightened my horse and drew his attention to me.’

  Mackillin’s relief on finding her safe was taking its toll on his emotions. ‘He could have killed you, little fool, but as it is you saved my life!’ he snapped. ‘I only wish you’d stayed at the inn and waited for me.’

  She fixed him with a faint smile. ‘If I’d done that, then he might have killed one or the other of us. As it is, I’ve proved my usefulness and I will not be sent back home.’

  There was a baffled expression in his eyes. ‘I’ve never met a lass like you. I hate it that you put your life in danger.’

  She warmed to his words. ‘Then allow me to ride with you,’ she pleaded. ‘I am not the only one prepared to put their life in danger.’

  He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘The battlefield is no place for a woman, Cissie. You might want to find Diccon, but you will see such horrors that it will turn your stomach and cause you to swoon. You, yourself, could be killed.’

  She supposed that she should not have been surprised by his mention of Diccon. ‘You’re mistaken. Remember the time you vanquished one of my kinsmen at Milburn?’

  ‘That has naught to do with this. I admire your bravery, but I cannot allow you to endanger your life further, Cissie,’ he said earnestly.

  She was disappointed by his words and felt a lump rise in her throat. She looked away quickly, then thought to search for the arrow she had dropped. An idea occurred to her. ‘Do you not think that it could be just as dangerous for me to return north whilst an army is on the march than to continue south? There are bound to be deserters with plunder heading back north. If you will not allow me to go to the battlefield, then at least let me go with you as close to it as I can?’

  Her words gave him cause for thought. Most Scotsmen didn’t like to travel far from their homeland into enemy territory. With the queen having given them leave to plunder the Yorkist lands, most likely it was as Cicely said and some were heading home, having filled their packs with booty.

  ‘All right,’ he said abruptly. ‘I will allow that, but you must do exactly what I tell you when the time comes for us to part.’

  Relieved that that was not to be just yet, Cicely agreed.

  Mackillin was vexed that she should have put him in such a difficult position, and his tone was more curt than he intended when next he spoke. ‘Let’s be on our way. The sooner King Henry is free, the sooner we can all go home.’ He did not immediately mo
unt his horse, but walked back the way he had come. Suddenly he bent down, then straightened with a weapon in his hand.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Cicely, walking over to him.

  Mackillin smiled. ‘I suspected it was a hackbut and I was right. It shoots lead shot as well as arrows. I wager there’s a bag of shot in his saddlebag.’

  ‘So that’s what caused the bang. It looks fearsome.’ She gazed at the weapon, noticing its trigger.

  ‘Aye,’ he said grimly, wondering where Husthwaite had come by such a weapon. ‘Could prove useful, though. If I had time, I’d show you how to use it.’ He placed it in one of the saddlebags and then searched those belonging to Husthwaite and removed that which he had hoped to find.

  ‘What do we do with his body?’ asked Cicely, watching him stow away the bag of shot. ‘However much I despise him, I do not feel it is right to leave him here for the wild animals and birds to pick his bones.’

  Mackillin glanced to where Husthwaite’s horse tore at a patch of grass; although touching the man was distasteful to him, he hoisted the body on to the back of the horse and tied it there. Then he whacked the animal’s rump and sent it on its way, wishing he could have squeezed some information out of Husthwaite before he had died. It would have been useful to know how he had known where to find them and glean information about his accomplices. Too late now. He would just have to be even more on his guard.

  Mackillin helped Cicely into the saddle and then mounted his own steed and headed for the road. He deemed it was going to be a difficult journey. They were both silent as they rode further south. Cicely would have liked to hold back time so she could keep him with her longer, but Mackillin now wanted to rush ahead and have the battle behind him. He was so determined to live that he refused to contemplate his own death.

  Once past Northampton, they discovered the forces of Lancashire were well ahead of them; also from the same peddler they learnt that the Yorkist forces led by the Earl of Warwick were camped in the vicinity of St Albans. A penny gained Mackillin the further information that the earl was fortifying his position with ditches, barricades and nets sewn with nails that could cripple and bring down the horses of the enemy.

  ‘What of the young Edward of York—have you heard aught of his host heading this way?’ enquired Cicely.

  The peddler shook his head. ‘No sign of him. It’s rumoured that he and his army are still a good number of leagues away to the west the other side of the Cotswolds.’

  Cicely glanced at Mackillin. ‘Does that mean his army will not be in time to fight in the coming battle, you think?’

  He shrugged broad shoulders and turned back to the peddler. ‘You mentioned the Lancastrians—where exactly did you see them?’

  ‘Marching towards Dunstable.’

  ‘How far is that?’ asked Cicely.

  The man shrugged and Mackillin handed him a groat. ‘I doubt you’ll get there before nightfall, sirs,’ he said. Nevertheless, when asked directions, he set them on the right road.

  Mackillin made the decision to part from Cicely at Dunstable. When they came to the town, it was to discover that the queen’s forces had wiped out the small Yorkist garrison and, having left a small detachment of Lancastrians in the town, the rest of the army had departed, intent on marching through the night to surprise the Yorkists at St Albans.

  ‘Then I must do the same,’ said Mackillin, after they parted from the soldier who had given them that information. ‘You will stay here, Cissie, and await my coming. I doubt Diccon will be numbered amongst Warwick’s army.’

  She agreed, wanting to say that she didn’t give a groat for Diccon, but that was not true. She loved him like a brother, but Mackillin in the fashion of a woman caring for her lover. The muscles of her face quivered as she tried to control her emotions and she reached up a hand and touched Mackillin. ‘You will promise me you will take care?’

  He was touched by her words and impulsively drew her into his embrace. ‘Aye, I promise. And you must give me your word to not be foolish.’

  She had no intention of doing what he asked, but instead said, ‘There you go again, calling me a fool, my lord.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said hoarsely and kissed her.

  Afterwards she wondered what it was she was supposed to forgive him. He was about to leave the stable when she stayed him with a hand. ‘Wait!’

  He stared at her, watching as she lifted the long chain that held the crucifix that had been her mother’s from about her neck. ‘Wear this and may it protect you.’

  As he took the precious gift from her there was a brightness in his hazel eyes. He placed the chain about his neck so that the crucifix hung beneath his clothing against his skin. Then he took both her hands and kissed her fingers.

  ‘Fare thee well, sweet Cissie, until we meet again.’

  ‘Aye, till we meet again,’ she whispered.

  He climbed on to his stallion and she went to the entrance of the stable with him and stood watching until he disappeared in the moonlight. She felt a few flakes of snow land on her cheek and hoped they were not the forerunners of a blizzard, then she returned to her horse. She needed to consider her next step. There was no doubt in her mind that Mackillin was right in saying the battlefield was no place for a woman; even so she could not spend the days to come anxiously waiting to know if he was alive or not. She would rest awhile here in the straw, close to her horse, then she would ride for St Albans and pray God she would have the courage to go where the fighting was and do what she could to help the injured whilst at the same time looking out for Mackillin.

  She had thought sleep would evade her, but, physically and emotionally exhausted, she went out like a snuffed candle.

  She woke to the sound of a voice and realised it was coming from the other side of the partition dividing her horse’s stall from the next. She got up and saw a figure dressed in a woollen brown habit and a large brimmed hat. Man or woman, it was leading a horse out of the building.

  ‘Where are you going to at this time of night?’ asked Cicely, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  The figure started and turned and looked at her. ‘It’ll soon be morning and battle will be joined,’ it said in a squeaky voice. ‘You’re not from hereabouts, young master. Are you one of them?’

  ‘I’m not with the armies, if that’s what you mean,’ said Cicely, following out the old person, ‘so there’s no need to fear me.’

  ‘Am’s not scared. The Saviour looks after His own. I’m off to tend the wounded and dying. It’s the task He’s given me to pay penance for my many sins.’

  Cicely now saw that there was a wagon outside and watched in astonishment as the aged figure backed the horse between the shafts. She had an idea. ‘May I come with you?’ she asked.

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To assist you in tending the wounded. Will you be allowed on the battlefield?’ queried Cicely.

  ‘They’ll be too busy trying to kill each other to stop me. So either join me now or get out of my way, young master. I have work to do.’

  Cicely went back inside the stable and took up her saddlebag and bow and quiver of arrows before eventually leading out her horse. ‘I’ve visited the sick and helped my stepmother tend the injured on my father’s manor in the past,’ she said conversationally, ‘so hopefully I will be of some help to you.’

  The ancient nodded. ‘Let’s pray so. Although they would not have been the kind of injuries sustained in battle, hacking, slashing, stabbing and cutting. Fighting is a bloody business, young master.’

  Cicely quailed at the images the words conjured up, but she stiffened her backbone. ‘If there’s any man we can save, I can help lift him into the wagon if he needs carting somewhere else.’

  ‘Agreed. Now, let’s not waste any more time. Climb up beside me and let’s be on our way.’

  Cicely tied her horse to the back of the wagon and then sat beside her newfound companion. She wondered if Mackillin had already reached St Albans and was prepa
ring for battle. She realised that the pace the wagon would travel could mean that by the time they arrived in the town, he could already be fighting for his life. She felt a deep sense of urgency and prayed that he would survive.

  It was getting dark and there appeared to be few men about as Cicely rode past tents flapping in the biting wind. She had yet to find Mackillin and felt sick at heart, scared stiff that he might be dead. The clashing of weapons and the screams and shouts of men came to her on the wind, so, despite the pain in her arm, where an arrow had whistled through her sleeve grazing her skin, she gave her horse its head. The ancient hung on behind her.

  The wagon had lost a wheel and they’d had to leave it behind. Cicely had thought her companion would have given up when that happened and been satisfied with what they’d done to help those dying in the streets of St Albans, where there’d been hand-to-hand fighting, but she, for it turned out that strange figure in the stables was a woman, had refused to do so. Cicely had barely been able to control her tears as they had attempted to ease the pain of the battle’s victims, whilst thinking all the time that Mackillin could be suffering in like manner. But to find him when there was so much confusion was difficult and there were so many in need of their care. All she could do was to hold him constantly in her prayers; that she had done whilst tending the suffering. The groans and screams of the dying still echoed in her ears, but there were holy men and women tending them now, so she had come in search of Mackillin because the Lancastrians had won the battle in the town.

  ‘There, there! See, see!’ The crone pointed a scrawny arm in the direction of a ridge.

  The slopes were dotted with fleeing men, pursued by horsemen. As the two women drew closer, they could make out some men still fighting. It was then Cicely spotted Mackillin. If he’d ever been given a helmet, then he had lost it for he was bare-headed. Also he was on foot, involved in close combat, so she could only presume that his horse had been killed from under him. Her heart was in her mouth as she watched the two men slogging it out with sword and axe. Then she saw Mackillin give what proved to be the decisive blow to his enemy because the man fell. Only then did she cry out Mackillin’s name.