by Julianne Lee
“I risk my life every day; at least this is something I enjoy.” He nuzzled her neck and took a bit of skin gently between his teeth.
Catlike, she tilted her head away to let him kiss her neck, then higher, then he took her earlobe. She said, “Alex, have you given any thought to trying to get home?”
“Home where?”
She drew away to turn and look into his face. “Home. To the twenty-first century.”
“Of course, I have.” Not recently, but he’d thought about it a lot back when he’d imagined it possible. “I don’t think that guy is going to help us out.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“He just didn’t strike me as very cooperative when we saw him. Or any other time.”
“What other time?”
“When he was whispering into the dowager’s ear about you and me. Didn’t you see him?”
“No. I didn’t.” A skeptical edge to her voice sounded as if she thought he hadn’t seen the elf with Hector’s mother, either. He figured anything he might say just then would be a waste of breath, so he said nothing and stroked her neck with his fingers. Her collarbone, where the skin was taut and smooth. Her shoulder. The valley between her breasts, and he watched them jiggle when he pressed with his fingers. Pink marks showed where the elastic bandage bound, and he made a futile effort to stroke them away.
“This place is changing you, Alex.”
Uh-oh. “No, it’s not. I’m still the same guy I always was.”
“You haven’t mentioned Cullan since that day.”
“Why are you so bunged up over him?” Alex pressed his mouth to the back of her shoulder, and wished she’d drop this.
“He was a human being.”
His lips still touching her skin, he murmured, “Death is everywhere. I have no control over it.”
“You had control over that death.”
“Let it go, Lindsay.”
“Some remorse, Alex. Just a hint.”
He looked away, toward the setting sun. “All right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s dead; he was a good fighter, and we’re going to miss him when we get to the action. He was a MacNeil, and that makes his death a loss to every MacNeil.”
“You’re not a very good liar. I know lip service when I hear it.”
Irritation blossomed and grew. “How come he matters so blasted much to you?”
“Specifically him? He doesn’t. It’s you who concerns me. You’re the one I worry about, who has become so callous.”
“Callous?”
“And you hate the English. You don’t give a damn about Cullan, who was a MacNeil, so you must have even less feeling for the English who are your declared enemy.”
He sighed “Don’t do that. I love you.”
“In spite of my being English.”
“I don’t think of you as...” No, that wasn’t the approach to take. He cast about for possible replies, but all of them took him to pitfalls. So he repeated, “I love you. No matter what.”
She stood to face him in the knee-deep water. “I don’t think you really know what it means to love.” Then she climbed to the bank to retrieve her clothing, and began to dress. He let her leave before climbing the bank also, and told himself it was only because they shouldn’t be seen returning to the castle together.
From the castle at Galashiels, Alex’s detail sallied south, having been directed to raid border towns loyal to King Edward. But their first objective was in a shambles before they arrived, and they were greeted with the stench of burning and blood. Smoke from houses reduced to ashes blew every which way in the blustery spring weather, under a slate sky that promised rain soon to put out the remaining fires that flickered in the ruins. Whoever had done this couldn’t be gone long.
“What’s going on?” Alex reined in his horse and the company halted behind him. He gestured for Henry and Orrin to ride out a short distance as pickets, then looked around at the destruction and muttered mostly to himself, “What happened here?” Animal pens stood empty and the enclosure dikes lay broken. Off near a shelter of trees by a burn, a cluster of townspeople stared at the force of armored men on horseback. Frightened and confused, they were ready to scatter like birds if startled.
Alex urged his mount toward them and ordered his men, “Stay here, and don’t disturb anything.” There was a bit of grumbling about the lack of looting potential, but Alex reined in, wheeled, and shot back a look of warning so nobody would destroy or steal whatever was left. He would decide what to do once he’d learned what had happened here. He then spurred away toward the cluster of people.
When the villagers shifted to flee, he called out, “Don’t he afraid. I’ve come to ask questions.” They obviously had already been stripped of anything he or the other knights might have wanted, and he was under orders to not harm anyone who gave them no trouble. “Resist and I’ll retaliate. Stand fast and answer my questions, and I’ll leave you unharmed.”
The cluster shuffled some more, the more timid moving behind one man who became their spokesman by default. He was the biggest guy in town, it appeared, a heavy-boned man with a shaggy mop of reddish hair and thick features that were almost apelike. But there was a light of intelligence in his eyes that was decidedly not simian.
Remaining mounted, Alex bent his head to look the man in the eye and asked, “What happened to your village?”
“Who are you?”
Right. Definitely not stupid. The man eyed Alex’s company, probably looking for the banner they would ordinarily have carried. But, like the captain of a pirate ship, Alex had chosen to keep a low profile and kept the red-and-gold banner of the king rolled up until necessary. Alex glanced around as if unconcerned, and said. “Would my reply determine what happened here?” When the man didn’t answer, Alex continued. “The truth, please, then I’ll tell you who I am.”
The red-haired man considered that, then said, “Edward’s men did this.”
“Which Edward?” Alex wasn’t stupid, either.
The man hesitated, then said, “King Edward. The English king has ordered the destruction of anyone who pays tribute to Robert.”
“I was told you’re loyal to the English king.”
A light of alarm flashed in the man’s eyes, and he replied slowly, carefully, as if watching Alex’s reaction to know whether to run. “We’ve not betrayed our pledge to Edward.”
“Playing both sides?”
Bitterness rose in his voice. “Wishing to be left in peace. But instead we’re attacked by both sides when we pay tribute to both sides.”
“Has anyone loyal to Robert harassed you?’
“Not since a year ago.”
Alex glanced off to the horizon and sucked air between his front teeth with an irritated hiss. He said to the red-haired man, “They won’t anymore, if you will cease giving tribute to Edward. I’m Sir Alexander Joseph MacNeil from Barra; my allegiance is to King Robert of Scotland. You’re Scottish; yours should be, too.”
“We expect protection in return for payment.”
Alex leaned over in his saddle to peer into the man’s face. “Well, then, it’s clear the English are not your best bet, are they?” He sat up and gazed around at the terrible destruction all around, and thought what a stupid sonofabitch Edward II was. That guy was going to win the war for them. Meanwhile, though, he was also trashing the countryside. There would he little left for the Scots once they’d reclaimed the country. He said to the red-haired man, “How many did they kill?”
Now tears welled in the big man’s eyes. “They’ve murdered many men, and several women. They took all our livestock, and the grain as well. We’ve no seed for the planting.” He nodded toward a patch of ground scattered with straw, where Alex guessed dregs of winter haystacks and stacks of last fall’s oat harvest had been earlier.
This was bad on so many levels, Alex couldn’t even consider all of them at once. Scorched earth was a valid war tactic at first glance, but only in retreat. This was sure to weigh agains
t Edward in the hearts of those he would claim to rule. One thing Alex knew for certain about armed conflict: deliberately killing noncombatants always backfired. In addition, Edward II was putting Robert’s army in a position of providing PR—boosting succor. Good for Robert, except the Scottish army were ill-equipped to support anyone. Alex’s men knew how to make war, and little else. He was at a loss to know how to help these people who, half an hour before, he’d only expected to fight.
He cleared his throat, gathered his reins, and said, “As I told you, I won’t harm you. We’ll be on our way.”
But the man reached out for his stirrup. “What will we do?”
“I’ve nothing to give you.”
“Tell us what clans have got enough to eat.”
Alex figured the plan would be to steal from neighboring clans, but he shook his head. “Our enemy has hurt all of us. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can tell you. If you want to make a raid, you’ll have to reive in England if you don’t want reprisals from us.”
The man nodded that he understood, though Alex knew that didn’t mean the villagers wouldn’t head right out and rustle a herd from the next village over.
Alex started to rein his horse around to leave, but Lindsay rode over and said loudly for everyone to hear, “Sir, I beg you to allow me to stay behind to hunt that forest yonder for some venison to give these people.”
The word “no” rushed to his lips, but he bit it back. He stared at her, angry at her impudence and appalled at the idea of letting her out of his sight this far into enemy territory, then said, “Your skills—”
“If my master would be so kind as to loan me his special weapon...”
“No.” She wanted his gun. Not just no, but no way in hell.
“But sir, these people are desperate. Some of them may die if there’s no relief for them.”
He knew that. He wished he didn’t, but there was no denying it. There was a very long moment when he couldn’t speak, knowing that no matter what he said next he would regret it one way or another. Finally he called to his huntsman. The man rode up and saluted.
“Sir!”
“Hunter, I need you to take some deer from the forest over thataway.” He indicated with a nod an area among the rolling hills that was thick with moss-covered trees.
“You wish me to poach?” The query was only for clarification, for poaching was nothing the huntsman hadn’t done for Alex in the past.
“Aye, and it’s probably the English king’s personal preserve, or something, and crawling with sanctioned huntsmen. So be careful. When you’ve taken three deer, give them over to this man, then make your way hack to Galashiels and await us there.”
“It would be simple enough to catch up with you.”
Alex thought that over. The man was a skilled hunter, and more important, he was also experienced at evading capture by the English king’s men. He nodded. “Very well. Meet us at Lochmaben.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
The huntsman hurried to his task.
Alex ignored Lindsay, for he was very angry with her. He turned back to the villager, whose gratitude was plain on his face. Alex expected to feel good about what he’d done, but all he could think of just then was that the English raiders had cheated his men out of a fight that was their livelihood. He remembered what Lindsay had said about how Edward II would be murdered in a few years, and just then he would have paid well for the privilege to be the one to stick that hot poker up the king’s ass.
“That will tide you over until you can find seed corn.” Or steal it.
With a nod good-bye, he swallowed his anger at Edward, and ordered his men on toward England.
“Who was that masked man?” Lindsay rode beside him, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You were going to just leave those people to starve.”
Alex bent his head toward her and said in the lowest, angriest voice at his command, “If you ever ask for my gun again in front of people, I’ll throw you in irons and leave you for your beloved English king to find you. Or not.”
“Alex—”
“I mean it. Question my authority all you want when we’re alone, but by God if you ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll be forced to do you damage.”
She fell silent, and they rode for a while. Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Just don’t do it again.”
“Yes, sir, Lef-tenant, sir.”
They rode in silence for a while before she spoke again. “What’s on the agenda now?” The word agenda was heavily emphasized, and Alex gave her a sideways glare.
“We’re to join up with the king’s brother at the castle in Lochmaben. Our objective now is Carlisle, where they haven’t been paying tribute to Robert. At least, by last report they haven’t. I never know for sure what’s going on anymore, it takes so long for news to get anywhere.” My kingdom for a radio.
“We’re going into England?”
“Yup. The closer we get, the better I like it.”
“Less chance of finding people paying tribute to Robert, because they’re English. Better chance of finding something worth taking.”
“Aye.”
“They teach you that at the United States Naval Academy? Plunder lOlA?”
Alex cut her another sharp glance, then continued riding without reply.
With a heavy, acidic tinge to her voice she added, “Well, so long as you remember: first you rape, then you pillage, then you burn.” With that, she slowed her horse and fell behind to ride with the others. Alex turned to stare long and hard at her, appalled.
“What is that? Python? You’re quoting Monty Python now?” She wouldn’t look at him, so he faced forward and kept riding. “How’s your Harpo Marx impression? Can you do Harpo for me, please?”
They rode on in silence.
Lochmaben was crawling with Robert’s knights, the castle well stocked and so far undamaged by King Edward’s army. Or for that matter, by King Robert’s. Word was the English king was busy with personal problems within his court, and he fought the war in the north with only half his attention, but Alex knew if the decisive battle of Bannockburn was to take place in only two months Edward II must already be preparing for it.
The mood here was nearly festive. The men were eager to ride into England, kill their hated enemy, and take back the wealth and the pride that had been wrested from them over the past decades. Hanging out by the cook fires, Alex listened to men speak of what had been done to them—the wrongs they were out to avenge. Some had been disinherited and hoped to win back their families’ lands. One man had lost his entire family, uncles and cousins included, in the massacre at Berwick nearly a generation before. The fellow had been a small child then, and now wished to make England pay. Most of the men simply were eager to free their land of meddling English so they could prosper.
All through this war, Alex noticed, economics seemed to be foremost in everyone’s mind. Revenge came second, cultural considerations third, and nobody seemed to think that was remarkable. These guys were the warrior class. They never did anything but fight, and so battle was a given in their lives. Necessary to their existence. As a professional soldier it was a natural state he recognized, and there was something attractive about not having to justify it. Everyone here understood the need. Anticipation of battle surged in his blood. Even the thought of death the next day didn’t dampen it, for what else could he do with his life that would be more worthwhile? Or even as interesting? Give up his knighthood and plow fields for a living? No, thanks.
He shrugged his plaid up around his neck against the evening chill and looked over at Lindsay, who sat on the wall of an animal pen, just inside the circle of light from the fire. Heels set into a niche between stones and elbows leaning on knees, she leaned forward, hunched over, looking very wan. Tomorrow she would fight well, but tonight the anticipation of blood seemed to weigh heavily on her. Thoughts of death crept in on himself, and he looked away. His own death was a given in
his mind. Hers would be unbearable.
It was a large force from Lochmaben that descended on Carlisle. Hundreds of Scottish knights swept into the town, cutting down anyone who resisted. They were under orders to spare those who offered no fight, but amid the shouts of men, screams of women, thundering of hooves, battering of swords and maces, it was always hard to determine who was a combatant and who was trying to flee or surrender. Difficult to say exactly what happened, or what would have happened if one hesitated. Alex figured it was enough to limit the killing to men, and assume any man who showed himself in the midst of a fight was asking for it.
For the better part of the day, the Scottish army battled the English garrison and townspeople. Buildings were torched; thatching burned merrily, throwing ash and smoke everywhere. Alex’s men stuck with him, and he led them through the streets in search of men with weapons. Lindsay rode dutifully by his side, but he never saw her lift her mace. Alex assaulted and cut down every man who raised a hand to him.
Only one he saw surrendered. Tall, thin, middle-aged, he ran from a house with a war hatchet in his hand. Alex spotted him and spurred his horse to ride down on him, but on sight of the Scottish knight, the Englishman dropped his weapon and held up his hands. Sword cocked to swing, relishing the sure coup de grace, Alex nearly swung anyway. It took enormous effort to stay his hand and ride on past. When he wheeled to be certain the townsman left the hatchet and ran away. Alex was nearly disappointed to see him do it. Then with a roar of frustration he wheeled again in search of another opponent.
Finally, sometime later, as the din of weapons and shouting gave way to the weeping of women and bawling of children, Bruce’s men began gathering livestock and valuables for transport. They were quick and efficient, rounding up wagons and loading them with whatever they could find worth taking. When the roar of attack dwindled and became shouts of organization and industry. Alex reined in his dancing mount and looked over the streets.
Women cried over their men. Children watched wide-eyed as the town’s wealth was herded away or packed into sacks, tucked into shirts and saddlebags, and in some cases chewed up and swallowed on the spot. Alex gazed around him, exhausted from the fighting and covered with the blood of many Englishmen, and felt nothing more than gentle relief he was still alive.