In the distance, nearly obscured by trees and mist, she saw rows of tents, small and rectangular, but also several larger circular ones bearing high peaks at their centers. There were wagons, mules, and horses, and many, many men, but no banners. Her heart sank, seeing so many. A cloud of silence hovered above it all. An air of secrecy.
The wild-eyed men who had attacked them belonged to an army, though they were the poorest examples of Highlanders that Derryth had ever seen. Filthy and rough, with grizzled, overgrown beards and hair, they wore tattered, mud-colored plaids and were bare of foot. The soldiers were visibly different, with trimmed hair and beards, and yellow tunics and leather boots. She could only assume the man who held her was their leader, for he did not have the look or speech of a Highlander.
He carried her, his boots crunching heavily on the ground, only to draw to a stop. He exhaled through his nose, and glared at all those who waited, silent and watching. A crowd of men surrounded them. Those who had been part of the attack, and those who had intervened.
He spoke. “Secure these men, who have defied my explicit orders, so that they may await my punishment. As for the travelers, hold them as well, separate and secure, until I decide what must be done with them.”
They all awaited a sentence then. His judgment. Her as well. Their faces blurred as he carried her past.
“Child!” Fiona buried her face in her hands.
“But sir,” murmured a man’s voice, as he approached, his expression pleading. “I tried to stop them.”
Her vision focused on the face of the man speaking—a face she recognized as one of her attackers. She stiffened, her hands clenching the arm of her captor. Her lips parted to confront his untruth, but the giant who carried her spoke first.
“Y’ dare lie to me?” he said coldly—his voice, and the retribution it promised, sending a chill down Derryth’s spine.
“I’m not tae blame for what happened—” the Highlander all but whined.
“Even now, you argue?” the warrior muttered in clipped syllables, his jaw taut and his eyes devoid of warmth. “Think again. Do you wish to say more?”
The man held silent. Tension blanketed the air.
“Go wait with the others,” the man holding her said with frightening calm, his voice like a slow, cutting blade through the silence of the early morning. “I promise you, it won’t be long until I return.”
The man’s face paled. Swallowing deeply, he lowered his gaze and stepped back, bowing his head in fearful reverence.
Her captor moved again, in the direction of the tents, carrying her past the men, who stepped back, allowing him to pass. Everything moved so fast, as with each step he carried her away from her companions. Roused to reaction, she elbowed at his arms. His chest.
A sudden murmuring rippled through the men, and in the distance, a man with shoulder-length dark hair and a long, prominent nose strode toward them, in a brocade dressing gown, which hung open over an embroidered tunic. Accompanying him were several armed warriors in fine metal-worked armor, such as Derryth had never seen. He exuded authority in the way he moved and held himself. He was young though—too young to be Buchan. Still, she ceased her struggles and averted her gaze, not wanting to draw more attention to herself than necessary.
“Cull. Answer me this. What has happened here?” he said, coming nearer, his words more a demand than a question.
Cull.
Cull—the man who carried her—slowed, coming to a stop.
“These men attacked a traveling party with the intention of killing everyone, to steal their possessions. They would have raped the girl.”
The girl. Her. Tears blurred her eyes, for she still wasn’t safe.
“And?” the man responded, his dark brows rising on his forehead—as if the crime that had almost occurred did not trouble him in the least.
Cull answered without hesitation. “They placed our entire mission in jeopardy. If one of the travelers had escaped this melee, they might very well have gone to the Kincaids for protection and we would have lost the entire element of surprise. The men defied the rules I plainly set forth, to hold back, silent and unseen, and immediately inform me of any passers-through. I will punish them for it so that all the others may know the consequences.”
The words were spoken with an edge of arrogance, in a manner that reflected a certain ease with the man who questioned him. He did not sound the least bit defensive, but confident that his response would be accepted. Derryth listened, her limbs heavy with dread, for they all but confirmed a planned attack against the Kincaids. And consequences—what would the consequences be for her and the others who had stumbled upon the advancing forces?
The dark-haired man chuckled, as if amused.
“Well, for whatever reason my father did place you in charge of these men,” he answered cuttingly.
Father. Did he mean Buchan?
“So indeed, punish them, if that is your decision.” He nodded, his expression cold, and smiling. “Yes, punish them as harshly as you deem necessary to set an example.” He lifted a hand and pointed a finger at Cull … before pressing it against his own lips, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him. “Though we do need every man for the undertaking before us, so I hope your punishment will leave them alive and able-bodied, at the least. I do believe Father would wish it so.”
The undertaking before us. Derryth’s heart beat as fast as a frightened bird’s. He meant an attack upon the castle at Inverhaven. Frantic thoughts clamored inside her mind. How to get away? How to warn them?
“Of course,” Cull replied.
Another man stepped forward then, from among those who had accompanied the one in the robe. Dressed in dark trousers, boots, and a leather hauberk, his appearance was very similar to the man in the robe, as far as his dark hair and eyes and his wide yet arched nose.
“As for our unfortunate travelers, what do you propose to do with them?” he asked, without the sarcasm of the man she presumed to be his brother.
“A fair question, Robert,” the robed man declared. “It’s not as if we can simply set them free, now that they’ve seen us. They could be Kincaids for all we know, and as Cull has already said, we can’t have them rounding back and warning our enemies that we are here.”
Derryth closed her eyes, listening to—memorizing—every word.
“Very true, Duncan,” said his brother, for yes, she was now certain they were brothers. And sons.
Robert … Duncan …
Buchan had many illegitimate children, with many different women. He was famed for it. But Derryth knew he had two adult sons, who in the past had done his bidding in and about the Highlands, one being named Robert … the other, Duncan. She had also heard that Robert Stewart had once helped Faelan Kincaid’s bride, Tara, escape the Wolf’s custody so that she might reunite with her husband—yet clearly he remained loyal to his father because he was here, prepared to attack the Kincaids alongside the others.
Duncan added, “These peasants are inconsequential to our cause. It is imperative to preserve the advantage of surprise.”
Inconsequential. The word sent a chill through her bones, because she knew that the unspoken alternative to keeping them would be to kill them.
“And we shall,” Cull replied in a low, even tone. “They will remain in our camp, watched at all times, until our forces are in place and the attack moves forward.”
“What … as our guests?” Duncan replied with a sarcastic laugh. “Eating our food, and drinking our ale, when we have none to spare?”
He all but argued for their deaths. Had she and the others just escaped murder at the hand of savages, only to be executed by men of higher power?
Cull answered. “They’ll earn their keep, until we release them. The men are strong and capable. There is timber to be cut and transported for battle fortifications. One of the bakers was lost to illness last night. The older woman can take her place.”
“And what of this one?” said Duncan, drawing nea
rer, his lip curling into a leer. He lifted a hand to her hair as if to lift it from her face, but as if thinking twice, drew the hand away. “This peasant’s whelp? You’ve denied the men her company, only to keep her for yourself. How will she earn her keep?”
She knew what he insinuated, and inwardly she recoiled in equal parts fury and fear. Despite the cutting rebuke that hurtled up from her soul, Derryth kept her gaze lowered and her teeth clenched tight. Surrounded as she was by these dangerous, snapping wolves, she knew if she did one thing to draw their ire, they would tear her to shreds.
“What does it matter to you?” Cull replied, his voice low and sharp.
The two men stared at each other, and Derryth realized then that they did not like each other.
“It doesn’t matter … not at all.” Duncan laughed, but it was a mirthless sound that issued forth from his lips. “It’s just that you must see something I don’t. But by all means, keep her for yourself, if you must. She is yours. Your lowborn, stinking prize.”
Beneath the layer of mud that painted her skin, Derryth’s cheeks burned. The men all around chuckled. The man who held her did not.
Duncan stepped back, lifting the edge of his robe. His boots sloshed in the mud. “Go on about your duties then, as those in the service of higher powers must do. As for me, being born to that higher power … I’m going back to bed.” He turned, and the hem of his robe swung heavily around his boots. Robert and Duncan moved away toward the furthest edge of the encampment, while Cull carried her toward the center of camp.
Derryth looked over his shoulder, growing more frantic with each step that separated her from her companions.
“Let me down,” she insisted, her voice thick. “I can walk.”
Abruptly, he complied. The moment her feet touched the ground, she spun round to return to the others—desperate not to be alone with him, and fearful she would never see Deargh or Fiona alive again.
But he seized her from behind and half slung her over his shoulder, with no more effort than a child would hold a doll.
“No! Please. Take me back!” she choked, fighting against him, pounding her fist to his shoulder as he carried her past one tent … two, his pace never faltering. All around, soldiers watched and laughed, as if her torment amused them.
Suddenly, he released her legs, and she kicked at him, only to find herself set free, and spinning into shadows. She stumbled across a darkly patterned carpet, only to come face-to-face with a terrifying figure—
Nay, ’twas not a man! But a full set of armor, gleaming on its wooden stand, and beside it, a brazier wavering orange and gold with the light from a small fire.
She backed away from it—and from the warrior still standing in the tent opening behind her, now bare of foot, as he’d left his boots on the threshold. She peered at him warily, and he looked back at her, his face inscrutable for the shadows concealing it.
What would it mean to be this warrior’s prize? She did not want to find out.
“Please. Release me—” she whispered earnestly, clenching her hands together, praying that there was some goodness in him, that he would show her and the others mercy. “Me and my kinsmen. I beg you! Let us all just go on our way, and ye’ll never see us again—”
“Quiet.” One word commanded her to silence. He moved toward her.
Here, inside the close confines of the tent walls, he seemed even larger and more threatening than before. The light from the brazier cast the lines of his face into relief, making him appear more dragon than man, and his body—muscular, hard, lean—that of some ancient warrior god. A young warrior god. Seeing him like this, face-to-face, she realized he was younger than she’d first believed. The sight of him closing in on her dizzied her, and filled her with terror, for what did he intend?
“Careful!” he barked, looking to her feet.
She looked too, and only then saw the pallet, dressed with linens and furs, onto which she almost stepped in her retreat. Frantic, she scampered back and around, placing the pallet between them, retreating into the shadows. Her heart thumped with dread. She realized the danger of being alone with him. No matter how much she fought or resisted, she would not escape him. But she would try! She would die before letting him take her.
He glared at her coldly.
“You needn’t fear that, peasant. I have far finer taste than the likes of you.”
Heat rose into her face. Peasant! Aye, she was glad he believed it, but … the words stung, nonetheless. The way he looked at her now, with such blatant disgust, she might as well be a toothless hag. At that very moment, a great clod of mud chose to fall from the front of her tunic, as if to confirm her pathetic state.
He rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed growl.
“Stop moving,” he commanded, his nostrils flaring. “You’re spreading your filth everywhere!”
Her cheeks burned with the sting of humiliation. She had never been “filthy” before, or looked upon with such derision.
“I’m not moving,” she retorted. “I’m just standing here, breathing.”
“Then stop breathing!” he shouted.
She winced. No one had ever shouted at her thusly before! As if she were undeserving of care and respect. Not even Elspeth, when they argued. Her face flamed hotter, which made her skin itch beneath its mask of mud. She wanted nothing more than to bathe, and to put on clean, soft, warm garments—and for him to stop looking at her as if she was a squirming, filthy worm.
But … how stupid she was. How childish a reaction! Her vanity and desire for comfort could have no place here in the now, not when her life could be snuffed out at any moment. Not when her Kincaid protectors and friends had fought and bled to try to save her.
Rage replaced fear, and she blurted, “If I offend y’ so greatly, then stop looking at me.”
She glared back at him, shivering as the coldness from her sodden garments seeped into her bones. More words crowded her mouth, but she bit down her teeth, holding them inside. She had no wish to reveal herself to be anything but the peasant he believed her to be, and mayhap her speech would give her away. She needed time to calm herself. To exert control over her thoughts and actions. To decide what she must do.
“That I will,” he muttered.
Seizing up one of the blankets from the pallet, he tossed it against the center of her chest. “That is your blanket. Everything else in this room is mine. If I see that you’ve touched anything … anything at all, I will cut off your hands. Do you understand?”
She did not answer. She did not nod her head. Perhaps she could not fight him or escape, but she’d not agree with a single thing that he said.
His nostrils flared. “Ye’ll be safe in this camp as long as y’ remain in this tent. Your companions will all be safe, as long as they do as I say. If you can all do that, for just a few days, you will live and you will go free. Defy these orders, and I will not protect you again.”
She clutched the blanket against her chest like a shield.
“Now sit and be still,” he growled. “Do not move or make a sound or touch one single thing until I return.”
Stepping back, he turned and moved toward his armor, where a wooden chest also sat on a stand, which, with a muttered curse, he opened. Her gaze settled on his bare back, and the muscles that bunched along his shoulders and striated his side … and scars? Aye, old ones, which had faded. She watched in silence as he angrily wrenched a tunic over his powerful shoulders, and pulled on another pair of boots, tying the straps at his calves. Scowling, he fastened a sword at his hip.
Taking up a leather hauberk, which he yanked onto his arms, he was gone.
Derryth stood frozen in place for a long moment, then dropped the blanket and ran to the opening of the tent, which she pushed open and peered outside, seeking a clear path back to Deargh and Fiona and the others. Instead, her gaze struck straight into Cull’s blue eyes, where he stood just a stone’s throw away, as he fastened the hauberk.
“Go ahead, little o
ne,” he said quietly, his eyes gleaming dangerously. The corner of his lip twitched into a smile. “Try me. Or should I say, try them?”
He cocked his head back.
Behind him … to his side … in the distance … all around him were soldiers. Sharpening blades. Cutting arrow shafts. Sewing their leathers. But most had stopped what they were doing, and stared now at her like hungry wolves.
She stepped back, and flung the flap back into place.
Chapter 3
Cull walked the line of stone-faced men. “And so, consider yourselves fortunate to be henceforth known as the masters of the latrines, rather than receiving lashes—or death—for defying me, your commander.” He turned, and walked in the opposite direction, over earth and stone that would be brutal to dig. “Each time the camp moves, you will dig two pits—the locations to be chosen by my captain, who stands with me now. Memorize his face, for he is your commander in my stead. You will dig wide, and you will dig deep.”
He turned and scrutinized their faces, looking for any sign of rebellion. Any hint of dissent. It was not his first command, but his largest, given the hoard of grizzled Highlanders whom Buchan had paid to bolster their numbers.
“If there is any confusion about what I mean by deep, then you will refer to the guide post there.” A jerk of his chin directed their attention to his captain, who held a rod, some three feet taller than Cull’s own head. The men’s faces paled. Several groaned. “Good. You understand the task before you. You will dig quickly, through earth and stone, and through the night to ensure the latrines are ready for the use of your fellow warriors the first morning after our encampment. Because you are new to this very important responsibility, today you must dig faster and harder, so they will be complete by noonday.”
“Noonday!” a man’s voice exclaimed softly.
Cull’s intentions did not waver. He felt no pity for these men. He had seen them at their worst, and knew them for what they were.
The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Page 3