Forbidden Alliance

by Diana Cosby

  “We are coming to a burn,” he called.

  She glanced ahead. The sweep of forest angled downward. At the bottom, the rush of water thundered along a twisted path, pummeling boulders blocking its way, roaring past fallen trees cluttered with ice, to sweep out of sight.

  “Go right, then follow the flow until you see a thick stand of oak and birch. The Romani will be hidden nearby. My stepfather and I visited a bit more than a fortnight ago. If they have moved, we will look in the stump to see if they have left a missive mentioning their new location.”

  He nudged his warhorse forward, half-walked, half-slid down the steep incline. “Why did we not check there first?”

  “’Twould take a half day’s travel, which I had hoped to avoid.”

  A whinny had him glancing toward the ridge. His body tensed. “Hold on.” He kicked his steed into a thick stand of fir. Cailin leaped off the horse, then ran back with a limb thick with needled bristles and erased their tracks before slipping into the dense cover beside her.

  Another whinny sounded, then voices. Ahead, a group of knights rode into view as flurries of snow blustered past, laying a silky layer of fresh snow atop which Cailin had erased any sign of their passing.

  “’Tis the earl’s men,” she whispered.

  Each second crawled past as the group meandered along the bank, pausing every so often to search their surroundings.

  Another gust of wind-tossed snow swirled past.

  “Bloody freezing,” one of the knights grumbled. “By now, they are hunkered down. If they had left tracks, with the snow falling at a rapid rate, they will be hidden by now.”

  “Aye,” another voice called out. “’Tis a fool’s errand to keep searching for them.”

  The lead rider halted, scoured the area. “’Twill serve us little if we canna see if they rode through here. We will make one more sweep of the area, then return to the castle.” He urged his horse into a canter.

  “That was close,” she whispered.

  “As much as I would like to remain hidden, we must leave,” Cailin said. “With them scouring the woods, they might stumble upon us.”

  He guided his horse around a large stand of rocks, following the knights’ trail to obscure any sign of their departure. A good distance along their path, he veered closer to the river.

  Orange-red smeared the sky as the last of the setting sun faded beneath the horizon as they reached the top of the next ridge. An icy howl of wind screamed past, for a moment blinding him.

  “Is Taog’s camp much farther?”

  “Nay. ’Tis a ways yet.”

  He scowled at the fading light and drew the horse to a halt. “’Tis too dangerous to continue. We must find shelter before it grows too dark.”

  She tugged her cape tighter as she scanned the murky landscape. “If the earl’s men are nearby, they will have a difficult time seeing us.”

  “There is—”

  Shouts rose as dark shapes charged out of the thick churn of flakes, surrounding them. “Drop your weapons or die!”

  Chapter 9

  Sword readied as he sat upon his warhorse, Cailin peered through the thick flakes of falling snow toward the warning voice. The soft pad of steps a short distance away in the knee-deep smear of white assuring him that he and Elspet were surrounded. The slide of her dagger against leather scraped from where she sat behind him.

  “We are but traveling through,” he called out, cursing that he hadn’t sought shelter before his uncle’s guards had returned and had now placed her life in danger. Blast it, as long as he drew a breath, the bastards wouldn’t touch her.

  A long moment passed, then a large, fierce-looking man stepped into view. Claymore raised, snow-laced wind whipped against his thick black beard. “Push down your hoods so I can see you!”

  Cailin’s grip tightened on his broadsword.

  Elspet laid her hand on his shoulder. “Wait!”

  “Do you know him?” Cailin whispered as he eyed the formidable man.

  “Aye.” She secured her dagger. “’Tis Taog MacCarron, the man we seek.”

  Thank God. He sheathed his weapon, then shoved his hood aside.

  After securing her blade, Elspet pushed down her hood as well.

  The fierce man’s eyes shifted to her, widened in surprised, then warmed. “Elspet McReynolds!” Taog boomed, and he sheathed his sword.

  “Aye.” She jumped down and ran into the huge man’s arms.

  Irritation slammed Cailin as the burly man enveloped her in a ferocious hug. Nor did he miss the soft rumble of words as the man spoke to her, or the sheer happiness on her face as she gazed up at him.

  Elspet had explained that she’d visited the Romani leader’s camp many times with her stepfather. Though with how she’d run to him, he was clearly more than her stepfather’s trusted friend, but hers.

  As if Cailin gave a bloody damn. She could befriend whoever she liked. That she had someone whom she obviously cared for, a feeling ’twould seem the Romani shared, mattered little. Soon the day would come when he was rid of her.

  Nor could Cailin overlook the fact that the leader couldn’t offer a woman a safe haven, a place where she could raise children and make a home. Life as an outlaw was one on the move, proven by the makeshift tents that were nearly impossible to see beneath the shield of trees.

  But that logic far from eased his discontent at how the man folded her within his embrace as if ’twas a common occurrence.

  Jaw tight, Cailin dismounted, strode over.

  At his approach, with one final hug to the Romani, Elspet stepped back. “Taog, I would like to introduce you to Sir Cailin MacHugh, the rightful Earl of Dalkirk.”

  Dark eyes narrowed on him. “We were told you died years ago, at sea.”

  Cailin straightened to his full height. “A lie. One of many told by my uncle in his treacherous plot to claim my title. ’Tis why I am here—” He scanned the armed Romani men who’d moved into view surrounding them, shifted his focus to their leader. “To reclaim my birthright.”

  Taog crossed his arms over his chest. “A fact that has little to do with me.”

  Father Lamond had warned him that ’twould be difficult to garner the Romani leader’s support, a man with friends, many unscrupulous, but someone who could be trusted. His unsavory life was not by choice but driven by the Earl of Dalkirk labeling him a traitor.

  They shared common bonds; in addition to their both supporting King Robert, Gaufrid had nearly destroyed their lives. A fact Cailin prayed would sway the powerful man to his side. “I would like to speak with you in private. First”—he glanced toward Elspet—“I ask that she be given food, and a place to rest.”

  Taog nodded. “Follow me.”

  She started after him.

  With a frown, Cailin took his mount’s reins and walked beside her. “Stay within my sight while we are here.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. “None within Taog’s camp would hurt me. I trust these people with my life.”

  He gave her a hard scowl, keeping watch on the armed men falling back as their leader strode past. “Mayhap, but you are under my protection. Until Tiran Castle is mine, you will heed my warnings.”

  Another gust blustered past as they followed the leader. Nor did he miss that, in addition to the guards surrounding them, more men who’d been hidden in the woods joined their ranks. Even if they wanted to escape, the opportunity was lost.

  Cailin shoved aside the unsettling thoughts as they stepped into a large clearing and focused on their surroundings. A few bows, spears, swords, and other well-crafted weapons were propped near tents, within easy reach. Though the camp was small, he noted that bundles of ties, travois, and other materials were close at hand in case they needed to break camp and flee.

  If everything went according to plan, before he departed, as had Sir A
ngus, he would establish a hiding place to leave messages with Taog.

  They made their way around several large rocks and the dense foliage gave way, exposing a much larger cluster of dwellings. Ingenious, he mused, that the outer encampment was designed to convince anyone passing by that it belonged to a small group. More so, at first glance the setting appeared arbitrary, while on closer inspection, he saw that the location of the dwellings allowed the Romani to spot approaching riders long before the intruders were aware of their presence.

  Tents with furs shoved inside riddled the area and chests of goods were stacked near the rocks. Flames tangled into the darkening sky from several fires set around the shared dwelling spots, bubbling pots sitting over each one, and scruffy men and a few women sat huddled nearby.

  As they moved through the encampment, several people called out to Elspet.

  Cailin glanced at her, remembered how Father Lamond had explained that she’d visited many times over.

  At the center of camp, their leader gestured to her. “Sit, please.”

  After she complied, she was handed a blanket, and once she’d wrapped it around herself, a bowl of stew.

  It pleased Cailin that they’d cared for her first. He met the fierce leader’s gaze. “Where can we go to speak privately?”

  “We will speak here.” Taog glanced at his men before his gaze leveled on Cailin. “There is naught here that we keep from the other.”

  Nor could he fault him on his method, ’twas one the Templars used as well. The knowledge, wisdom of many shared gave insight into decisions for battle. Cailin nodded and withdrew his sword.

  The scrape of steel hissed as the men sitting around them shoved to their feet, their blades drawn.

  Fury blazed in Taog’s eyes. “A threat?”

  “Nay, proof—” Hilt first, Cailin handed the broadsword to their leader “—that I am Cailin MacHugh, the rightful Earl of Dalkirk.”

  Taog studied the sword. Firelight glinted off the weapon as he raised it for all to see. “The hilt bears the Dalkirk coat of arms.” His gaze cut to Cailin before shifting back to his men. “This broadsword disappeared after Cailin supposedly died at sea.”

  “He looks alive enough to me,” one of the men joked.

  Laughter rumbled through the group, and a smile touched their leader’s mouth. “Aye, it does appear as if he is breathing, and,” he said, the humor on his face fading, “his eyes are the same color as his father’s.” He leveled his gaze on Cailin. “Who took your father’s sword from Tiran Castle after your disappearance?”

  “A highly respected man,” Cailin replied, “and one who, like me, holds naught but distrust for my uncle.”

  “I would know the man’s name,” Taog stated.

  Cailin shook his head. “He is too important to risk anyone within the earl’s ranks discovering his identity.”

  At the murmurs of dissent, Elspet set her food aside and stood. Slowly, she looked each man in the eye, then lay her hand over her heart. “I can vouch for the man of whom Sir Cailin speaks and swear that Sir Cailin is indeed the rightful Earl of Dalkirk, and an honorable man, one you can trust.”

  Those within camp gave him hard looks, but he noted some slowly nod their acceptance.

  She was a sight to behold, and despite their heated arguments and her stubbornness to heed his will, he couldn’t help but feel moved by her passionate recommendation.

  “Your reason for coming here is to reclaim your legacy,” Taog said, “but doesna explain why you seek us out.”

  Cailin met his shrewd gaze. “I need men who will swear fealty to me to join my ranks.”

  Taog arched a skeptical brow as he handed Cailin the broadsword. “You are believing that you can convince us.”

  He sheathed his blade. “I am.”

  “Why should we?” the Romani asked.

  “To serve justice to a man who would burn hardworking families from their homes—” Cailin allowed the anger at his uncle’s treachery to infuse his words, “—and hang Sir Angus McReynolds with a false claim, and pay to have his nephew be murdered.”

  A slim man cleared his throat. “We heard Sir Angus was caught poaching.”

  Elspet shoved to her feet. “A lie. You knew my stepfather. He was a man of honor and would rather starve than take what belonged to another.”

  Murmurs rippled through the group in concurrence.

  “I never believed the charge,” an elderly man near the back piped up.

  “Nor I,” a young woman sitting next to him said.

  “Sir Angus McReynolds might have skirted the law on occasion,” Taog said, “but he was a man of honor.”

  A roar of agreement sounded.

  The Romani leader raised his hand, and his people grew silent. He arched a brow at Cailin. “What benefit would it be to us to have you as the Earl of Dalkirk?”

  “Because, as Elspet said, I am a man you can trust to be honest and accessible to all,” Cailin replied. “I swear to you that I will always listen to your concerns, and I will make judgements in favor of those that best serve the people.”

  “And choices that line your pockets?” another elder called from the back.

  “Nay, ’twas not my father’s way, nor is it mine. My uncle is a detestable, ruthless man who cares naught for those beneath him. Once I claim my birthright, I will rule with a fair hand, and the Romani will always be welcome on Dalkirk land, that I swear.” He scanned the crowd. “But I need your help.”

  “Our ranks are not enough to seize Tiran Castle,” said a thin, bearded man seated paces away.

  “Your aid will lend much to the campaign. I have already spoken with a man at the castle who is now working with those he trusts to build our ranks.”

  Taog grimaced. “His name.”

  Cailin hesitated, not wanting to divulge it.

  “You ask us to risk our lives for your cause,” the leader stated, “we will have his name.”

  A fair request. Cailin gave a rough exhale. “Sir Petrus Beaton.”

  “The master-at-arms.” Taog raised his brow. “I am impressed. How did you manage to contact him without being seen?”

  “There are secret entries into the castle. Ones we will use during the attack.” Cailin paused. “Once I leave here, I have several more influential people with whom I will speak to garner further support.”

  “What if you canna raise a significant enough force to confront your uncle?” a slender woman to the side asked.

  Cailin met her gaze squarely. “Failure is not an option. I will not rest until Tiran Castle is back in its rightful hands.”

  Silence fell upon the group.

  And,” Cailin said, meeting each person’s gaze before continuing, “my loyalty is not to Lord Comyn, but to King Robert Bruce.”

  Gasps of surprise melded with hums of approval.

  An elder with a long white beard stood. “I have never supported the bastard Comyn.”

  “Nor I,” said a woman at his side.

  Shouts supporting King Robert filled the air.

  Taog stepped beside Cailin. “Those who wish to join Sir Cailin to oust his treacherous uncle and restore the title of the Earl of Dalkirk to its rightful heir and swear their fealty to the Bruce, say aye!”

  Ayes filled the air, and the elder who’d asked a question raised her fist in support, a smile widening the slender woman’s face.

  Cailin glanced at Elspet. Though they had a ways to go, pride filled him at what they’d accomplished.

  “’Twould seem,” Taog said as he offered Cailin his hand, “that you have our support.”

  With a nod, Cailin clasped his hand. “I am forever in debt to you and your people.”

  Taog turned toward the throng and lifted his hands. “’Tis time to celebrate!”

  Cheers rose from the group. Someone brought out a lu
te and another began to sing.

  Cailin accepted each person’s vow of fealty as he moved through the crowd and thanked them for their trust. A long while later, his mind a whirl with names and a blur of faces, he searched for Elspet.

  She sat near the fire, Taog at her side. A sad smile touched her face as her hand rested on the warrior’s arm and they spoke in low undertones. What did they discuss so intimately?

  Body tensing in what he refused to believe was something as simple as jealousy, Cailin walked over, nodded to the formidable leader, then met her gaze. “You are exhausted from travel. I thought you would be long asleep.”

  Her face was wan in the soft glow of the fire as though the night’s chaotic events—despite their happy conclusion—had caught up with her. He must have looked somewhat fierce as she withdrew her hand from Taog’s arm. “’Tis a night to celebrate.”

  “Aye.” He settled beside her and accepted a cup of mead from a nearby man. Cailin took a sip, appreciating the strong, tangy brew, glanced toward Taog, and tried to ignore thinking of him as a rival for Elspet’s affections. He had no tie to her, other than a common goal. “My thanks again for your support.”

  “You convinced my people, though after Elspet’s glowing praise, you had mine.” He shot her a fond glance, which she returned.

  Cailin’s fingers tightened on his cup. “I swear you willna regret it.”

  “Of that I have little doubt.” Taog stood. “And I agree, Elspet looks as if she is ready to collapse.”

  “We had a hard day of travel,” Cailin said, “made more so as a short distance from your camp, we had to hide from the earl’s men.”

  The Romani leader grimaced. “I have noticed the increase of rounds by his guards over the past few days. Now I know why. We will speak further in the morning, once you both have slept.” He walked to an elder on the opposite side of the fire, sat, and spoke softly.

  The elder gave a slow nod.

  A wave of tiredness washed over Cailin. Thankful for the Romani’s support and that Taog had given them some privacy, he emptied his mug.