by Laurin Wittig - Guardians Of The Targe 02 - Highlander Avenged
Malcolm saw her take a deep breath as if preparing herself, and then, with a shout, she pushed the soldier’s dagger arm away with all her might. Malcolm swung his claymore, slicing the man’s now outstretched hand, and the dagger it still gripped, from his arm. Gaptooth screamed. Scotia dropped to the ground like a deadweight the second the soldier’s grip loosened on her, then scrambled behind Malcolm as Duncan ran the man through. Gaptooth dropped where he stood, facedown, his blood pumping slowly from where his hand used to be, and blossoming from the center of his back where Duncan had severed his spine.
Malcolm pulled Scotia to her feet and only then did he notice that there was a shallow slice that oozed blood from just below her left ear, almost to her chin. A hair’s breadth deeper and she would be lying on the ground losing her lifeblood. She had scratches on her face and hands, probably from the debris flung into the air by Rowan’s gift, and there was a place on the side of her head where her black hair looked matted.
“Are you well?” he asked her, but her eyes were trained on the man who had held her.
Duncan stared at Scotia, his eyes full of relief and anger, his mouth working as if he tried to speak but could not form the words he needed to say.
The shouts and clangs of sword on sword, which Malcolm had not noticed while his attention was focused on freeing Scotia, suddenly drew his eye to the open area near where the Scots had hidden in the wood and the men still fighting hard there. His heartbeat doubled as it always did at the prospect of battling the English.
“Duncan, take her to Jeanette and Rowan.” He pointed to where he had left the two Guardians with Nicholas. “That cut on her neck needs tending. If Nicholas will leave the lasses in the care of the two of you”—he nodded at the other warrior still standing a few paces away—“tell him I await his company in battle!”
With that, Malcolm wheeled toward the fighting, the battle cry of the MacKenzies bursting from his lips, as it had in so many battles before, and his claymore held at the ready.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT WAS DARK when Jeanette, Rowan, Scotia, Duncan, and the other clan warrior ventured out of the shelter of the wood, but a bright half-moon had finally risen and cast enough light for them to make their way across the meadow and head back toward the battleground. As they reached the hillock in the middle of the meadow, Duncan signaled for them to stop as he crept up the wind-scraped mound to peer over it. He quickly returned to them.
“Let us go around the hillock,” he said.
Jeanette started to ask him why but he just shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line, and she stopped. She forgot about her question as they neared where the battle had been joined. Even in the dark she could see bodies scattered about where they’d fallen. She quickly scanned those closest to her to see if any were known to her amongst the dead, if any of them had golden hair.
“These are all English soldiers,” Duncan said as if he, too, had been searching for their kinsmen.
Nicholas walked out of the darkness of the forest nearest them, his face and clothes spattered with what must be blood, though Jeanette could not make out the color in the moonlight. Rowan ran to him.
“Are you hurt?” she asked before she closed the distance between them.
“Nay, love.” His smile looked tired, but genuine. “None of the blood is mine, thanks to Uilliam’s tutelage these past weeks and Malcolm’s presence at my back this day.” He kissed his wife, then looked at Scotia. “It is good to see you alive. I hear we have Malcolm and Duncan to thank for that.”
Scotia had been silent since Duncan had brought her to them near the stream and she continued that now by replying with a slow nod.
“Where is Malcolm?” Jeanette asked.
Nicholas looked around. “He must be digging graves with some of the others.”
“We are not leaving them here to rot?” Duncan asked, indignation thick in his voice.
“Nay. Malcolm made the point that leaving them here to be found would give anyone looking for us information about how many we must be and at least an inkling of our tactics, though I do not think anyone would believe what really happened here.” Nicholas looked down at Rowan, then over at Jeanette. “You two make a formidable weapon. I am very glad I am on your side in this business.”
Scotia looked quickly from her cousin to her sister and back, her eyes filled with questions, but rather than ask them, she gave a quick, curt shake of her head, as if she’d answered them herself. She crossed her arms and looked at her feet.
“You should have seen the fear in the eyes of these men as they fled into our trap.” Uilliam waved a hand toward the dead as he joined them. “I confess, I had my own worries if you could not stop your barrier before it overran us as well.”
“We would not do that to the ones we love,” Rowan said. “It was impressive, aye?”
“Aye. There will be tales told around the fires for many nights to come.”
Shadows seemed to separate themselves from the darkness of the forest, MacAlpins come to drag bodies into the wood.
“I need to speak to Malcolm.” Jeanette left her family and headed into the forest. She needed to see if he, too, was unharmed, and then she needed to ask him to stay. The terror that had overtaken her, when he did not return with Scotia and Duncan, had filled her mind with horrible possibilities. Her mouth had gone dry at the thought that he had been harmed, or killed, and she had not been able to sit still. Even if he lived, the idea of watching him leave her to return to a life of battles, where she would never know if he were alive or dead, was almost more than she could bear.
She reached for calm now that she knew he was alive, but she could not find it, not until she had seen him for herself. Not until she convinced him to stay.
As soon as she stepped into the wood she realized that she would not be able to see where she was going, for the leaves blocked almost all of the wan light cast by the moon.
Frustration and fatigue hit her all at once. “Malcolm?” she called out. “Malcolm?”
She heard footsteps at about the same moment she saw a small, flickering light.
“Angel?”
“I am here, but I have no light.” And suddenly he was in front of her. A candle in one hand, the other cupped around the flame to keep it from blowing out. He dropped the candle, extinguishing it as it fell, and swept her into his arms.
“You were magnificent,” he said, taking her face in his big hands. “You and Rowan, both.”
He kissed her then, quick and hard, crushing her against his chest as his tongue danced with hers. Desire kindled low in her stomach and she wanted to lose herself with him again, to love him, and have him love her, as they had loved each other in the grotto. And she knew he had been as worried about her as she was about him.
“Do not go,” she whispered against his lips between kisses. “I ken it is selfish of me. I ken that there is more than you and I at stake. But I do not want you to go.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, lingering as he kissed the corner of her mouth, then sliding the tip of his tongue along the line between her lips as if inviting her to open them to him, which she did, though she couldn’t help but notice that he had not replied to her entreaty.
At last he held her close and rested his head against hers. “I would stay if I could, angel. I would have you come with me if you could, but neither of us can forsake our duties. And we would not like ourselves much if we did.”
Her throat clogged with grief and she struggled to draw in breath as she hugged him tightly to her.
“ ’Tis the hardest thing I have ever done, angel mine,” he whispered to her, his voice gruff as if his throat, too, were clogged with grief and heartbreak. “But I still cannot see another way.”
She knew he was right, but the grief—more grief—fought against reason and for a moment she tried to think of ways to manipula
te him to stay with her, but only for a moment. That was not her way. She closed her eyes against the tears that begged for release and she listened to his heartbeat one last time before she stepped back. He grabbed her hands and they stood there looking at each other, though it was so dark, she could hardly make out his beloved features.
“When will you leave?” Her voice shook and she swallowed back her heartbreak lest she fall apart in front of him. She struggled to think of his grin, his twinkling eyes, the feel of his skin beneath her hands, the wonder of joining with him in the grotto, and the way he always made her feel safe when he was near.
“At first light.” He ran a finger down her cheek and she could not help but close her eyes and lean into his touch. “I do not ken where King Robert’s army fights now, so it may take me some time to find them.”
“Will you ever return here?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear his answer.
“I do not ken. Angel, you are the seer.” She could hear a smile in his voice. “Perhaps you should see what the future holds for us.”
She shook her head. “I do not want to.”
“Nay?”
“I fear I will not like what I see, that it will destroy my fervent hope to see you again one day.” She stepped back into his embrace, hugging him tightly to her one last time as the tears she had fought streamed down her face.
SEVEN LONG DAYS later, Malcolm approached the camp of King Robert’s army late in the afternoon. It had not been easy to learn where the king was, though he had heard of the great Battle of Loudoun Hill and the routing of the English army. King Edward of England was no doubt livid that the king of Scotland had remained free once again.
“Who goes there?” a sentry shouted at him. The shout was meant as much for Malcolm as to warn the other sentries, and anyone else close enough to hear, that there was possible trouble.
“ ’Tis Malcolm MacKenzie of Blackmuir,” he replied.
There was silence as he continued to approach the sentry.
“Malcolm? Step closer.”
When he was close enough to make out the sentry’s shaggy red hair and short stature, Malcolm smiled at the familiar face.
“We thought you dead!” the man said, slapping Malcolm on the back.
“I thought so myself, a time or two, but I am alive, and so it seems, are you, Gregor.”
“Where have you been?” the man asked, his excitement quieting.
“That is something I must speak to the king about. He is here, is he not?”
“Aye, you can see his tent just there.” He pointed toward the center of the encampment where a tent larger than the others flew a pennant of red and yellow. “Come and find me tonight. I would hear this tale of yours.”
Malcolm smiled but promised nothing. He could not tell the secrets of Clan MacAlpin to anyone but the king, and even in that he would be careful what he told and what he did not. ’Twas bad enough that one king wanted the Highland Targe and its Guardians. He’d not tempt King Robert with the full story of what Rowan and his angel could do.
A familiar pang of remorse hit him, turning his mood dark, as it had been every day since he’d left Jeanette. If he could find a way to discharge his duty to the king and to his clan, he would surely do it, but even after a sennight of battling the problem, he could not see a solution for himself, though he hoped he had found one for the MacAlpins.
He waited outside King Robert’s tent for some time before he was finally summoned inside.
“It is good to see you alive, Malcolm,” the king said, motioning for Malcolm to take a seat on the stool across the table from him. He pushed a stack of maps aside. “We have missed your sword in our battles since last I saw you. It was Dalrigh, was it not?”
“Aye, sire, it was. I was sorely wounded there and it has taken me a long time to recover.”
He then began the story of the MacAlpins and King Edward’s desire to obtain a relic they had. He did not say anything of the Guardians, nor did he say anything about the true power of the stone, though he did relate the lore of it.
“They have fought back the English twice now, but have paid dearly for it. They have had to abandon their home and take to caves until they can be sure the English are no longer after their relic, or until they can repair their castle enough to return there. They need help, my lord.”
“And you expect me to send men to their aid?”
“Not expect, but I do ask. There is reliable information that Edward has sent a contingent of men against them, led by Lord Sherwood, and they’re due to arrive in Glen Lairig anytime now.” He hoped the king would not ask where that reliable information came from, for he was certain the man would not believe it came from a vision.
The king grew thoughtful. “We had reports of ships leaving Ayr, with Sherwood and forty men aboard today. But we could not learn where they were bound.” He cast Malcolm a calculating look. “If the relic is just a stone, why do they not give it over to the English and be rid of them?”
Ire burned in Malcolm’s bones but he tried to keep his tongue civil. “Some say the Stone of Scone that you would have been crowned upon, if Edward had not stolen it, is just a relic. Should we not worry about retrieving it from English hands?”
The king steepled his fingers against his mouth, his head barely nodding. “You owe this clan something in exchange for their care of you, aye?”
“I do, but this is more important than what I owe them. King Edward hopes to crush the spirit of the Highlanders by taking this relic and crushing the clan that protects it, but I think he underestimates the spirit of the Highlanders.”
King Robert narrowed his eyes as he considered what Malcolm had told him.
“Do these Highlanders not have allies they can call upon?” he asked at last.
“The former chief has been dispatched to rally them, but he had been gone at least a fortnight, with no word, when I left the clan.” He carefully considered his next words. “Sire”—he rubbed his right hand with his left, as Jeanette had taught him to do to loosen up tight muscles, a thought only now occurring to him—“since it is the English they fight, would you consider sending me back there as fulfillment of my service to you?”
“You would go back to fight with them even if I send no one with you?”
“I would.” Malcolm leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked straight into the king’s eyes in the hopes that Robert could see that every word he spoke was sincere. “They are good people fighting for Scotland, every bit as much as this army does. They are loyal to you and your cause. They have done nothing to merit these repeated attacks by an avaricious king, except that they protect something he covets, something that has been in their keeping for generations, something he knows nothing about except that it is revered in the Highlands as a protector of the place and its people. He does not even know if the lore is true, yet he harries this clan with spies and scouts, and soon, by the sound of it, a full detachment of soldiers. They are a small clan. I do not know if they can stand against those numbers on their own. I do not ken if one more warrior will turn the tide, but I would try.”
Robert leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table. He laced his fingers across his midsection and once more considered Malcolm.
“And the lore is true, aye? Would you be so adamant about this clan if it was not? Would you ask me to send men with you if you did not worry about what would happen should Edward get his hands upon the relic?”
Malcolm did not let his gaze waver. “That is not for me to say, my lord. But this I can tell you. The chief of the MacAlpins of Dunlairig, Nicholas, was once a spy for Edward. He kens well what Edward is capable of and he fears for the well-being of his people. You have seen firsthand what the English king is capable of when his will is thwarted. Do you think this small clan will stand against his forces for long?”
King
Robert said nothing.
“If they fall, sire, there will be nothing to stop the English from swarming across the Highlands. If they break through, they will strive to close a noose about the Lowlands. There will be nothing to stop King Edward from taking the thing he covets most . . . your throne.”
King Robert sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I do not have men to spare, Malcolm.”
Malcolm closed his eyes and did his best to quell the anger and fear that threatened to overtake his reason. Without help, he doubted the MacAlpins would survive to see summer’s end, Jeanette would not survive. It was bad enough that he had left her there. He did not think he could live with her death upon his conscience. “But sire—”
King Robert held a hand up to stop Malcolm before he could make further entreaties. “You do make a compelling argument, though,” the king said. “I will release you from your duty here to return to this clan.”
Malcolm nodded, grateful that at least he could return to Dunlairig and to Jeanette, at least until he had to return to his home. Time, if they survived the coming English attack, might show them a solution to their inevitable separation.
“I thank you, sire.”
“Do you give up so easily, Malcolm MacKenzie? I never knew you to accept less than you demanded, even of me.”
Hope sprung up in Malcolm. “I have learned of late that my old ways were not always the best. Perhaps I learned that lesson too well?”
The king laughed. “Perhaps you have, but even so, you have convinced me that I must do what I can for these MacAlpins. I cannot spare many for your cause, but if you can convince your kinsmen to follow you into battle again, you have my leave to take them with you.”
IT TOOK MALCOLM a while to find where the MacKenzies of Blackmuir were in the camp of over six hundred men, but finally, as the sun was settling on the horizon and the shadows were long and cool, he discovered his kin. A kettle hung over a fire and the scent of a savory stew hung over the seven MacKenzie men sitting near it.