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 a 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’ 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 began 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.”
The circle of men all nodded and began dispersing. Garrick came to Jossalyn’s side and sat on a stool next to her.
“Will we really be attacked?” She tried to keep the edge of fear from her voice but didn’t succeed. She wanted to be brave, but the thought of being in the middle of a battle terrified her. She knew all the men in the camp, most of all Garrick, were capable and skilled warriors. Even still, she hated the idea of them clashing with men who were bent on killing them.
He ran a soothing hand over her back. “The scouts will give us plenty of warning if it comes to that, lass. More likely, they’ll be able to detect the movements of a large group in the area, and we will be able to meet them on our own terms.”
“And you think they might be Scotsmen? Why would your own countrymen fight against the cause for freedom?”
Garrick shook his head slightly. “Some have found it more profitable to remain aligned with the English. Others dislike the Bruce and his tactics. He didn’t exactly make friends when he killed the Red Comyn last year.” A rueful but tired smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps having the entire English army to battle wasn’t enough of a challenge for him.”
Just then, the Bruce sighed and muttered something. Both Garrick and Jossalyn jerked, suddenly alert, their eyes locked on the Bruce. He muttered and rolled his head from side to side a little. It was almost as if Garrick’s sarcastic comment had penetrated into the Bruce’s mind and roused him somehow. His eyelids cracked open slowly.
Garrick seized the Bruce’s hand. “Robert, can you hear me?”
The Bruce blinked a few times, then croaked out a whispered “Aye.”
Relief flooded through Jossalyn. She grabbed a cup of water that sat on the table nearby and handed it to Garrick, who gently lifted the King’s head and gave him a few sips.
When he was settled back onto his pillow, the Bruce said, “What happened?” This time is voice was a bit stronger.
Garrick launched into an explanation of the poisoning, Jossalyn’s life-saving operation and her antidote to the poison, the cook’s flight, Garrick and the others’ pursuit of him, and their most recent suspicions that an attack could be mounting against them. As Garrick spoke, the Bruce went from dazed to shocked to serious.
“We must be ready for this attack,” he said, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. “We must—” He suddenly closed his eyes and swallowed, looking nauseated.
Jossalyn gently pushed him back down to lie flat on the bed. “You are still weak, sire. You may be through the worst of it, but you have a long way to go to recover your strength.”
“But I must be able to lead my men!” he said, frustrated. “I cannot ask them to go to battle for me when I cannot stand at their side and lead by example.”
“Instead of snapping at the lass for the fact that you are still recovering, I should think you owe her thanks for saving your life,” Garrick said with one raised eyebrow.
At first, Jossalyn was shocked that Garrick would speak to his King in such a way, but then the Bruce gave a faint chuckle.
When the chuckle died down, he sighed. “I owe you my life, Lady Jossalyn,” he said, all the bluster and intensity leaving him for a moment, to be replaced by earnest humbleness. “I thank you. But I warn you that you’ll find me an exceedingly difficult patient. I want to be able to stand in front of my men and lead them into battle, if it comes to that.”
“Then we’ll just have to work together to get your strength up again,” Jossalyn replied with a smile.
“You’re a lucky man to have this woman as your bride, Garrick,” the Bruce said, some of the old twinkle returning to his eyes.
Garrick’s eyes widened. “Then…you give us your blessing?”
“Of course, man! How could I deny it to one of my most trusted warriors and advisors and the woman who saved my life? I’ll do the ceremony myself if my healer will allow me.” He turned his shrewd gaze on Jossalyn.
“I’m—I’m sure we can find a way,” she stumbled, overwhelmed by the surge of excitement inside her. They would officially be wed—and soon, as long as she thought the Bruce was well enough to preside over a ceremony. Her heart hitched, and she sought out Garrick’s gaze. His eyes mirrored her excitement and joy, and she thought she would burst with happiness at that moment.
“Then we’d better get started on my strength-building right away,” the Bruce said, interrupting their moment. “I’ll start with some food—I’m famished.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Robert the Bruce was glaring at her. The King of Scotland was giving her a sour look as if she had just taken away his favorite toy. Jossalyn had to repress a smile at the thought.
“My suffering amuses you, lass?” he grumbled.
Apparently, she hadn’t repressed it as well as she imagined. “No, sire,” she said, trying to straighten her face.
“For the hundredth time, lass, call me Robert!”
She nodded, though she didn’t think she would ever get used to the idea of calling the King by his familiar name.
He tried to push himself off his bed and onto his feet once again, but like the ten times before, he only made it halfway before collapsing back down onto the mattress.
“That’s enough for today, I think,” she said.
He tried to stand again, but she put a gentle hand on his shoulder to stop him. Even her light touch was enough to force him back down. Though he had been awake for a week, his strength was slow in returning. And no wonder. It was a miracle he was even alive. Being unconscious for a week and bedridden for another was a blessing, but the Bruce was impatient to be up and about again.
The rumors about an impending battle didn’t help matters, of course. Though the scouts had yet to substantiate the speculations, the mood around the camp was serious and tense.
Garrick had been training with the men harder than ever before, putting them through their paces and running seemingly endless archery drills. Though the men were showing great improvements when it came to shooting on the move, among obstacles like trees and shrubs, and from different positions, Garrick kept on them, demanding their full dedication.
In fact, she had barely seen him this past week except at mealtimes and after the sun had set, when he would drag himself, exhausted, into their tent. Despite the fact that he didn’t speak much about it, she sensed that, like the others around the camp, he was tense
and on edge for the battle that seemed to be looming in all of their minds. Though the enemy hadn’t shown himself yet, he was a palpable presence in the camp.
Just as she was settling the Bruce back onto a stack of pillows and reaching for a bowl of stew for him, she heard a piercing whistle. She froze mid-motion, her insides chilling as she heard the whistle echoed again and again all around them. Suddenly, the Bruce was alert, his sharp eyes darting around the room.
The canvas flap at the other end of the shelter was ripped back, and Garrick burst inside. She gasped and jerked to her feet.
The Bruce simply said, “Speak,” as if he were waiting for such a startling interruption.
“It’s the Comyns. Along with a smattering of men from other clans, they are moving in toward us. We are believed to outnumber them, but we only have a preliminary report from the scouts.”
The Bruce’s eyes scanned the carpet at Garrick’s feet in thought. “We should move now, while they are still positioning themselves,” he said quietly.
“I agree. The men are preparing themselves.”
Jossalyn felt her stomach drop to the floor. The moment had come. They were going into battle. Garrick could be wounded or—or killed. She made herself finish the thought, and it sent panic stabbing through her.
As if sensing her distress, Garrick shifted his eyes to hers, and though he stayed rooted in place, his gaze communicated silently his understanding of the grave situation.
“I must be with the men,” the Bruce said in a pained voice as he tried to push himself up off the bed.
“Nay, Robert. You aren’t well enough,” Garrick said, striding to his side.
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