Page 14 of Halloween Knight (A Knights Through Time Romance #17)
“I thank ye.” Callan nodded his gratitude, looking forward to filling his belly before continuing his journey.
When she left, he dropped the plaid he’d been holding to cover himself on the floor, pulled on the clean-smelling shirt, then laid on the floor and rolled to wrap himself in his now dry plaid.
He descended the creaking stairs to find Eamon already breaking his fast at a table set back in the corner of the room, gaze fixed on a crudely hand-drawn map spread before him.
“A good morn to you,” Eamon nodded, motioning for Callan to join him. “You said you were headed south. Would you care to travel together until our paths diverge? I wouldn’t mind having a fearsome Scot such as yourself by my side. Too many bandits around these parts for my liking.”
Callan nodded. “Aye, I would welcome the company.” He grinned, showing off straight white teeth. “Your horse and cart will make for a swifter, more comfortable journey.”
Eamon nodded, a bit of bread caught in his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Eat and we will set out on the road together.”
Over a simple meal of porridge, dark bread, cheese, and ale, Eamon spoke of the markets he planned to visit, while Callan mentioned he was going to Blackford.
“I’ve many stops before, but I am also headed for Blackford. The lord and lady will want my fine velvets, silks, and spices.”The merchant pursed his lips.“We must take care, the closer we venture to the coast. There has been illness in the surrounding villages. The pox.”
Eamon made a rude gesture with his hand.
“Mayhap the sickness will have passed by the time we arrive.”
The sky was the color of dirty snow as they set forth.
Eamon’s horse, a sturdy bay mare, pulled a small cart laden with goods—barrels of ale, bundles of fine cloth, costly spices, and various wares destined for distant markets.
As Eamon’s knee did not pain him, he declared there would be no rain today.
The road stretched before them, winding through rolling hills and dense forests.
Eamon guided the horse with practiced ease, scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble.
Callan occasionally rode in the cart when he tired of walking, but he preferred to walk alongside, keeping pace with the steady clip-clop of the horse on the dirt road.
A man of few words, Callan was content to listen to Eamon share tales of his many travels, while the merchant asked only a few questions about the highlands and its people.
The hours passed, the hills giving way to an open field. They continued onward to the woods before stopping along a stream to eat. Callan had purchased provisions at the inn to show his thanks to Eamon for the merchant sharing his cart and company.
Almost finished with the meal, Callan stiffened, careful not to betray any sign he’d heard the intruders as he spoke in a low voice, eyes narrowed.
“Keep your wits about you. We are not alone.”
A group of men, some dressed in little more than rags, armed with rusty blades and clubs, emerged from the shadows as the leader eyed the horse and cart, along with the costly goods, with a hungry gleam in his eye.
“I will not lose my livelihood to this rabble,” Eamon declared, voice firm.
The bandit leader, a short man with a vivid red scar across one cheek, stepped forward.
“Well, well, what do we have here? Merchants ripe for the picking. Hand over your goods, and we may let you live.”
The air crackled with tension as the bandits closed in, their intentions clear. Callan, sensing the violence about to erupt, unsheathed his daggers.
In the chaos that ensued, Eamon and Callan fought as they tried to hold their ground, even though they were heavily outnumbered.
Callan, his movements honed by a lifetime of survival, cut down three of the men, but not before tragedy struck.
A brutal blow found its mark, and Eamon staggered, a grimace of pain contorting his face as he stood in front of his horse and cart. The leader, sensing the opportunity, delivered a final, fatal strike.
“Eamon!” Callan roared, the bandits fading to a blur. The merchant, his eyes filled with determination, fell to the ground, blade slipping from his grasp.
Fueled by fury, Callan charged the nearest man, the dagger finding its mark.
The skirmish continued as Callan fought, determined to kill them all, but sensing he would not give up until they were all dead, the leader let out a piercing whistle from the cart as the remaining men ran alongside, urging the horse onward, shouting insults as they escaped with their loot.
As the dust settled, Callan rushed to Eamon’s side. The merchant lay on the ground, his breath labored, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him.
“Bastards, the lot of ‘em,” Eamon whispered, a weak smile flickering on his lips. “We took out more than a few, though, didn’t we?”
Callan kneeled beside Eamon. “Aye, we did. Ye fought well.”
Eamon’s gaze met Callan’s, a silent understanding passing between them, and then the merchant slippit awa as his breath faded into the autumn air.
Anger gave way to sorrow for the man so full of life that he had briefly befriended. Callan buried Eamon under a tree where he could look upon the stream as the merchant said he liked hearing the water as it ran over the stones.
He stood head bowed, hand on the stones covering the mound where Eamon now rested.
Now at journey’s end I bid ye farewell
Though cruelly met by bandit’s han d
No more will ye roam afar
Murdered cruelly, though ye meant nay harm
Yer spirit, I hope finds calm
As I remember well your kindness and stories
And lay you here beside this stream for your final rest.
As the clouds cleared, the moon cast its glow across the small clearing, a distant howl echoing through the night, a harbinger of whatever was yet to come.
He’d been traveling for a fortnight, sleeping rough, when Callan stopped at an inn for the night to enjoy a hot meal and a soft bed.
But before he entered the inn, he had words with several English nobles who did not want a filthy Scot under the same roof.
One in particular was concerned Callan would ravish his beautiful young wife. And while Callan would admit the lady was lovely, there was a wickedness deep within her eyes that bade him stay away.
So late that night, when the English bastards were in their cups, Callan deprived the whoreson of his fine horse and purse, riding hard through the night as a chorus of shouts erupted behind him.
Arrows whistled through the air, narrowly missing him as Callan leaned low over the horse’s neck, heart pounding in sync with the horse’s hoofbeats.
By dawn, Callan had put considerable distance between himself and his pursuers, enough so he slowed the stolen horse and found a covered spot to rest.