Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Damn you, man! Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do!” Even as he ground out the words through gritted teeth, the Bruce fell back onto the pillows. He pounded a fist into the mattress in frustration.

  “Garrick, I need to be out there,” he said, this time his voice low with desperation. “I’m not so great a fool to think I can fight, but I am the King and leader of this rebellion. I need to let the men know that I stand with them in spirit, that their King is still strong and very much alive.”

  Jossalyn exchanged a look with Garrick, shaking her head slightly. Though the entire camp knew the Bruce had survived the attempt on his life, very few had actually seen him due to his enfeebled condition. There was no way he would be able to stand in front of his men, let alone walk out of his tent under his own power.

  A light flashed into Garrick’s eyes, though. “I have an idea.”

  An hour later, all the able-bodied warriors in the camp had gathered in the practice field, which was serving as their launch point for the battle. As Garrick looked out at the sea of men, who were bristling with weapons and covered in a variety of plaid colors, he felt his chest squeeze. Partly it was the heat of the anticipated battle seeping into his blood. These men were prepared, well-trained, and determined. Though he didn’t relish the thought of killing, and dreaded the fact that some of their own would surely fall, the adrenaline of the fight was coursing through him, and he was ready for it.

  But another source of the squeeze in his chest was the fear of leaving Jossalyn at the camp. The rebels absolutely couldn’t be bested today, for if they were, their enemies would do their worst to the few who would remain back at camp. And though he had never feared death, he realized now that he was terrified at the idea of leaving Jossalyn if he died. The thought of living without her was worse than any fate he could imagine. He had realized, as he had prepared himself to depart for battle, that if she felt the same way about him, she was likely twisting in pain and fear inside at the thought of losing him.

  As if summoned from his mind, he caught a glimpse of her moving toward him from behind the sea of warriors in front of his gaze. She was walking next to a litter carried by two burly soldiers. Inside the litter lay Robert the Bruce. A few of the men at the back of the crown began to notice the small group, which included their King reclined in the litter, and parted for them. A murmur ran through the gathered crowd as the Bruce was carried to the front of the group where Garrick stood.

  When they reached the front, the two men carrying the litter halted, and Garrick and Jossalyn helped prop up the Bruce so that he was sitting upright. A hush fell over those gathered.

  “Scotsmen!” the Bruce began in a loud, clear voice. “We stand at the precipice of either a gory end or a victorious beginning. Now is the day—now is the hour—to battle for our lives and our freedom. Edward would have kept us in chains, slaves to do with as he pleased. And Edward II will prove himself Longshanks’ son, in name and in deed.”

  The crowd rumbled in response.

  “Who among you will die the death of a traitor today?”

  The men exploded with shouts of, “Not I!”

  “Who among you will die the death of a coward today?”

  Again, the crown shouted their denial heartily.

  “Now, who among you will fight and die for Scotland, for your King, and for your freedom?”

  A cacophony erupted. The shouts of the men’s ayes mixed with the rumble of their feet stamping the ground and the clang of their weapons beating against their shields.

  “Today, you will stand as freemen, and you may fall, but you will fall as freemen also. Your freedom is in every stroke of your sword, every arrow you let fly, every swing of your mace or ax. No tyrant or usurper can stand against us. Let us take our freedom, or die trying!”

  The response of the men was deafening. A whistle was sent up, and the warriors bellowed their battle cries, and then began marching southwest toward where the Comyns were gathering.

  As the men moved out of the field, the Bruce collapsed backward into the litter, completely spent. Garrick lifted his limp arm and clasped it in his hand, locking eyes with him. The Bruce gave him a little nod in response.

  Then Garrick turned to Angus, who was waiting a few paces away. “Guard the King with your life,” Garrick said to him solemnly. He leaned in slightly and said more softly, “And Jossalyn.”

  Angus clasped arms with him firmly. “Aye, I will, Garrick.”

  It was time. The moment he hoped he would never have to face had arrived. He had to say goodbye to Jossalyn, potentially for the last time. Their eyes met, and he feared he would come undone before he could say everything he wanted to. Her eyes shimmered with tears, and he felt like he would drown in their emerald-green depths. She was trying to keep her emotions in check, but her rosy lower lip was beginning to quiver.

  He closed the distance between them in one long stride, slamming their bodies together in a hard embrace. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, locking away the intoxicating scent of wildflowers and sunshine in his mind forever.

  “I love you, Jossalyn,” he whispered into her hair.

  “I love you too, Garrick,” she choked out.

  Suddenly, he forgot everything that he wanted to say to her. He could only think of how much he loved her at the moment, how much he admired and respected her, how humbled and honored he was to be the recipient of her love.

  Pulling back from her was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he forced himself to do it. He turned before he could see the tears streaming down her beautiful face, for he feared he wouldn’t be able to leave if he didn’t go now. Though his feet felt like they were made of lead, he kept one moving in front of the other as he caught up to the tail end of the swarm of warriors headed to battle.

  He willed himself not to look back, instead holding the image of her in happier times in his mind. After several minutes, though, he cracked. He turned to look behind his shoulder, but she was already out of view. He spun back around, ready to face the battle ahead.

  Chapter Forty

  Once she had gotten the King settled in his bed, fed him some soup, collected a few herbs and roots along the outskirts of the camp, and tidied both her own and the Bruce’s tent, there was nothing for Jossalyn to do but wait. And pace. And worry.

  The King had fallen into an exhausted stupor after overextending himself to give the rousing speech to his men. Except for eating, he mostly slept, leaving Jossalyn alone with her thoughts and fears. Angus was like her silent shadow, pacing outside the Bruce’s tent or trailing a few yards behind her when she moved around the camp.

  The midday sun sloped toward the west, and the afternoon stretched into evening, then darkness fell, and still there was no word or sign of what was happening on the battlefield several miles away. Jossalyn tried to tell herself that no news didn’t mean bad news, that Garrick and the men were well prepared, and that their new stealth tactics would serve them well. But despite the tight rein she was keeping on her thoughts, every once in a while, the image of Garrick lying broken and bleeding somewhere in the forest flashed into her mind, unbidden.

  She tried to sleep briefly. The camp was quiet, the few remaining women and the non-warrior men who helped run the camp having hunkered down for the night to wait, but despite her fatigue, she couldn’t quite manage to crawl into the cot she shared with Garrick. His clean, masculine scent lingered on the pillow and in the blanket, and it made her heart ache. So she lit a candle and went back to the Bruce’s tent, plunking herself down in one of his upholstered chairs as the minutes passed painfully slowly.

  When the pre-dawn sky finally began to lighten, Jossalyn roused herself from her torpor and the swirling thoughts that consumed her and went out to one of the camp fires. She stoked the fire, and then hung a pot of water over the flames to boil. She wasn’t even sure why she was doing it, but at least it was something to do. By the time she was done, the sun was just inching its way over the hor
izon.

  Suddenly, her ears pricked. Were those voices in the distance? She shot a look at Angus, who stood a few yards away. He was also alert all of a sudden, his eyes fixed on the southwest end of the camp. A whistle went up from afar in that direction, a noise that Jossalyn was becoming familiar with. Angus recognized it as well.

  “They return, lass!” he said, his voice urgent, though he didn’t say how many of them were out there or if they were victorious. For all they knew, based on the whistle, only one of the rebels had escaped and had made his way back to camp. Jossalyn’s heart squeezed, dread and anticipation mingling sickeningly in her stomach.

  Just then, she caught a glimpse of a flash of red through the tents and the outlying forest. Her breath caught as she strained to see whose plaid she had spotted. Other colors began to emerge from the forest behind the red one. More and more of the men were materializing from the forest. But Jossalyn’s eyes were locked on the splash of red at their front. She finally got a clear line of sight. Before she knew what she was doing, she was sprinting as hard as she could toward the red-clad figure.

  Garrick was alive and running toward her too.

  As soon as he spotted her, he had broken into a run ahead of the others. As the distance between them finally closed, she launched herself into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. He held her so tight she didn’t think she would be able to breath, but she didn’t care. He was saying something to her, words of love and reassurance, but she didn’t register them. All she was aware of was his arms squeezing her hard, his body enveloping hers.

  She opened her eyes, blinking past the tears, and noticed a smear of red on his neck a few inches from her face. Suddenly realizing that he might be injured, she pulled back and scanned him, worry creasing her brow.

  “Are you hurt?” There was dried blood on his neck and hands, and his shirt underneath the studded leather vest he wore was dirty and blood-smeared as well.

  “Nay, lass. Only minor wounds.”

  Angus arrived next to them just then, huffing a little. “What news, Garrick?”

  “We are victorious!” he said loudly, which caused the men tromping back into the camp around them to cheer noisily. Though they appeared tired and a bit bedraggled, their spirits were high.

  He turned his attention back to Jossalyn. “I must get to the King and tell him of the battle.”

  She nodded and turned back toward the Bruce’s tent, but he tugged her back to face him, his voice serious. “We didn’t sustain very many losses, but there are several wounded men who are being helped back to camp as we speak. They will be arriving shortly.”

  She swallowed but gave him another nod, steeling herself. This would be her true test. She had already proven herself to the Bruce and the camp of rebels with her healing skills, but now she had to confirm for herself that she was able to be a battlefield healer. In a few minutes, she wouldn’t just be seeing to one man’s toothache or a case of indigestion. She would be responsible for overseeing and tending to all those wounded in battle. She was nervous, but she realized she didn’t want to turn away and flee from such a task. She knew she could help and was honored to be able to lend her skills to aid these brave men.

  Garrick took her hand, and they strode quickly toward the Bruce’s tent. Apparently the whistle and the sound of the men filtering back into the camp had roused him, for he had managed to prop himself up when they entered the tent.

  Before the Bruce could ask, Garrick said again, “We are victorious.”

  The breath rushed from the King in relief even as his eyes lit up with excitement. “What happened?”

  “Once we got closer to the Comyn camp, we spread out to flank them. Though they were preparing to move on us, we caught them by surprise. We were able to keep our distance for much of the battle.”

  “And that must have allowed our archers to use their training in shooting from cover and in obstructed conditions,” the Bruce said.

  Garrick nodded, his face showing traces of his pride. “Aye, the training paid off. We lost very few of our men. We were able to take cover, and their archers were at a loss for how to fire back through the forest. They haven’t let go of the English style of fighting.”

  “It worked,” the Bruce said quietly, almost to himself. Turning his attention back to Garrick, he said, “And what of the Comyns? Have they been adequately quelled?”

  Garrick sobered slightly. “They took a hit, but they fled when our victory was clear. I doubt this is the last we will see of them. And Robert—a few other clan colors were visible in their midst. Others may be joining the Comyns to oppose you and stand with the English.”

  The Bruce’s face darkened. “Then we will have to show them, once and for all, that they cannot crush this rebellion.” He took a breath and schooled his dark features. “But today, we are victorious. We have proven ourselves and our tactics yet again. Any man, English or Scottish, who dares attack our freedom, can challenge us and see for himself what we are capable of!”

  Garrick laughed, a sound of relief and joy. Just then, a distant shout went up, and Garrick jerked his head around. “The wounded are arriving. I must see to the men.”

  “And so must I,” Jossalyn interjected.

  The Bruce waved them away, and they strode out of the tent together. Just as Garrick had said, the wounded from the battle were arriving back at camp, being aided by their fellow warriors. Some hobbled in, leaning on the shoulders of their comrades, while others walked on their own but gripped broken arms or bleeding wounds.

  “Bring those with the most serious injuries over here,” Jossalyn shouted to the approaching men. “The remaining can gather over there.” She turned to Angus and Garrick, who were waiting for her word. “Boil as much water as you can. I’ll also need thread and a needle, which should be held over a flame for a full minute. Someone fetch me my satchel!”

  She rolled up her sleeves as a man with a serious gash on his calf was brought over to her. Just before she became completely engrossed in her work, a thought flitted across her mind. Not long ago, she had been a scared girl under the control of her cruel brother. Now she was a respected healer for the Scottish rebellion. She was loved by and loved in return a good-hearted, brave, and passionate man, who never tried to restrain her work or deny her skills. She had arrived into the future that she could have only dreamed of a few months earlier.

  She brought her attention back to the man with the leg wound. She could contemplate her blessings later. Right now, she was needed.

  Epilogue

  “Before we get to the joyous events of the evening—”

  Garrick felt Jossalyn’s eyes on him, and he gave her a sideways glance, taking her hand in his and giving it a little squeeze.

  “—I have some news, and a few things to discuss with you,” the Bruce finished.

  Jossalyn began to excuse herself, but the Bruce waved his hand to halt her. “Nay, stay, Lady Jossalyn. This involves you as well. We’ll get this business taken care of, then get on with the real reason you’re here.”

  The two of them stood before the Bruce in his tent. He had managed to walk under his own power from his bed to a large chair that was pulled out in front of his desk. It was a major accomplishment—yet another milestone in the King’s recovery. His progress was slow, frustratingly so to the Bruce, but in the week since the battle, Garrick had noticed his color was returning. And though his body was still weak, the Bruce’s mind had resumed its normal sharpness.

  The Bruce withdrew a folded piece of paper from the silk vest he wore. “I have received a missive from your brother,” he began.

  Garrick felt his eyebrows rise. “Is all well? Lady Alwin and the child and—”

  “Aye, aye, all is well. In fact, Robert sends me news that felicitations are due to your cousin Burke.”

  “Felicitations? Of what manner?” Jossalyn asked.

  “Apparently he has gotten married. It seemed that he beat you two to the punch!” the Bruce replied w
ith a mischievous smile.

  “Married! I didn’t even know Burke was looking for a wife!” Jossalyn turned to Garrick for confirmation, her green eyes wide with surprise and joy.

  “Nor did I,” Garrick said, just as baffled as Jossalyn. A snippet of conversation with Burke flitted back into his mind. His cousin had said there had been someone special once, but that he had lost his opportunity and didn’t believe to find such happiness again. He hoped Burke had been wrong, that the opportunity had perhaps re-presented itself and that he could indeed experience happiness in marriage.

  The Bruce’s tease about his cousin beating them to wedded bliss finally registered through his surprise at the news of Burke’s marriage. “And how much longer do you suppose it will be before we join my cousin in married life?” Garrick said to the Bruce with a raised eyebrow.

  The Bruce roared with laughter at Garrick’s thinly veiled impatience. When the King finally caught his breath and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, he said, “Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait a few minutes longer.” He cleared his throat, sobering further. “Your brother also mentioned that the Comyns have been active near Sinclair lands, trying to stir up trouble and recruit others to join their resistance against me.”

  Garrick’s mood instantly darkened. Just as he had suspected, the Comyns wouldn’t go quietly. If they had already been moving through the Highlands trying to gain support against the Bruce and the rebellion, then the battle a week ago was only the beginning. Now the Bruce would have to worry about not only Edward II and his English army, but also the resistance of fellow Scotsmen who were allied with the English.

  The Bruce was watching him closely. “Edward II’s role remains to be seen. Only time will tell if he will choose to take up the mantle of Hammer of the Scots from his father. But now we’ll need to devote ourselves to winning over our own countrymen,” he said, seeming to read Garrick’s thoughts. “An uphill battle, to be sure.”