Page 68

THE CAMP WAS empty and silent without the men.

Tiring of sitting in the pavilion sewing clothes for the coming bairn, Greer took a walk outdoors.

As always, Morven stuck to her like a burr.

The two women didn’t speak as Greer wove her way through the tents.

She marveled at how eerily quiet the camp was without the gruff voices of men, the shouts of warriors sparring, and the snorts and whinnies of their horses.

Greer had said goodbye to Malcolm the morning before.

It had been an awkward farewell. He wasn’t a man given to showing emotion, but there had been a strained expression upon his face as he bent to kiss her cheek.

Drawing back from Greer, his gaze had shadowed.

“I shall return to ye, wife,” he’d promised.

Greer had nodded, even as guilt twisted inside her. Malcolm had indeed grown attached to her over the past months, yet she couldn’t give him her heart in return.

All the same, she appreciated his consideration toward her. And as such, she repaid Malcolm by acting kindly toward him in turn.

It was odd how circumstances changed one. In the past, she’d longed to find a place where she truly belonged, where she’d have the freedom to be herself. And she’d found it: Dun Ugadale. Yet, these days, her life was about survival.

Her past wants and cares seemed almost frivolous.

A skeleton guard of men had been left behind to watch the camp followers, and as Greer walked, she wondered how many of the men had brought their wives with them. Apart from Sheena Campbell, she hadn’t seen any others.

Ahead, a woman emerged onto a clearing where the ashes of a fire smoldered. Small and comely with flame-colored hair, she carried a bairn in her arms—and she was singing to it in a low, melodious voice.

“Blow the wind, blow

Swift and low

Blow the wind o’er the ocean.

Breakers rolling to the coastline

Bringing ships to harbor

Gulls against the morning sunlight

Flying off to freedom!”

A wide smile blossomed across Greer’s face, and for a few moments, the heavy blanket shrouding her that blocked out the sun fell away. Suddenly, it was as if she were back in Dun Ugadale, where she truly belonged, taking a walk with her best friend through the village.

“Bonnie!”

Hearing her name, Lady Mackay stopped singing and turned. Joy rippled over her face when she spied Greer. “Heavens!” Bonnie gasped, hurrying toward her. “What are ye doing here?”

“I should be asking ye the same thing.”

Bonnie’s gaze slid down to Greer’s belly, and she drew to a halt, her smile freezing on her face. She then breathed an oath. A moment later, her friend glanced up and their gazes fused.

Greer’s smile faded, and she silently prayed that Bonnie wouldn’t say anything imprudent. Morven would be standing a yard or two behind her, ears flapping.

Reading her expression, Bonnie gave a slight nod. “How have ye been?”

“Well enough,” Greer murmured. The joy had been fleeting as heaviness descended once more, like a shadow passing over the face of the sun. “What a beautiful bairn.”

Bonnie’s lips quirked. “His name is Reid.”

Greer moved closer, her hand reaching out and stroking the fine fluff of red hair. “Iver must be so proud.”

“Aye,” Bonnie whispered, although her eyes suddenly guttered. She was putting on a brave front, yet Greer sensed she was worrying about Iver.

Of course, she was.

Guilt speared Greer then, for she wasn’t plagued by worry for her own husband.

Pushing the discomforting sensation aside, she gazed down at the bairn.

“Good morn, wee lad,” she murmured, stroking his soft cheek. “I’d wager ye will grow up to be a fine warrior like yer Da.”

Bonnie gave a soft laugh. “I’m sure.”

“How is everyone at Dun Ugadale?” A pang of longing rippled through Greer as she asked this. Bonnie’s family wasn’t her family, yet she thought about them far more often than she did her own kin.

“We’re all well.”

Greer glanced up then, and the two women’s gazes met once more.

Bonnie’s eyes were full of questions. No doubt, she wished to know if Malcolm mistreated Greer, or if she needed assistance.

Her friend’s concern made Greer’s throat tighten. Her eyes suddenly felt hot and prickly. She took a step nearer to Bonnie then, lowering her voice lest Morven overhear her. “I’ve missed ye.”

Bonnie swallowed. “I thought ye might write to me as ye promised,” she murmured back. “I kept awaiting a letter … but one never arrived.”

Shifting in the saddle, Brodie leaned forward and placed his palm on Brèagha’s warm neck. “Ready, lass?”

The mare jangled her bit and tossed her head, giving him his answer. Like the other horses in the line, Brèagha was full of nervous energy and impatient to surge forward. Brodie kept her in check, yet the same restlessness thrummed through him.

Around him, the line bristled with deadly schiltrons—long pikes designed to pierce through mail and armor. The colors of the various clans gathered here made it look as if a host of brightly-hued butterflies had landed in the valley. Standards rippled in the stiff breeze.

The Red Douglases and their allies had left Lockerbie and ridden east, finding their quarry as expected, not far from the eastern banks of the River Esk, near the village of Arkinholm.

The two armies faced each other now at opposite ends of a shallow vale, waiting for the horns to blow, for the order to charge.

The enemy host was too far away for Brodie to make out their faces, although he could see a big man upon a warhorse riding up and down the front line, shouting to his men.

Brodie guessed this was Archibald Douglas, Earl of Moray—one of the three Black Douglas brothers who led the opposing force.

The Black Douglases’ white and blue standards and surcotes stood out starkly in the spring sunlight.

Brodie’s skin prickled. The odor of sour sweat filled his nostrils, the smell of fear and anticipation. A man who went into battle without a little fear in his gut was a fool indeed.

This would be a strange battle, for Brodie was about to fight men he didn’t actually hate. Aye, the Black Douglases had been a thorn in the king’s arse for years now, yet that was James’s problem, not theirs.

His pulse quickened then. It was dangerous, as a man needed to fight with fire in his blood. If he didn’t, he’d be easier to kill.

Ye are fighting for the king , he reminded himself. Ye are showing him that the Mackays are loyal to the crown … that we shall always answer his call.

“Ready to meet yer maker, mongrel ?”

A big destrier decked in a golden caparison, a flowing cape that rippled in the wind, pushed into the line next to Brodie. A huge man clad in chain mail and boiled leather sat astride the formidable warhorse, a domed helmet jammed upon his head.

Cool pale-blue eyes glared out from under it.

Brodie’s gaze met that of Malcolm Sutherland.

“Aye, but are ye … cuckold ?” he growled back.

It was an inflammatory response, yet Sutherland had already insulted him. The whoreson deserved it.

His stomach started to ache then. Christ’s bones, he longed to draw his dirk and drive it into Sutherland’s eye.

He’d wondered how long it would take before Sutherland spotted him amongst the ranks.

Iver had prudently kept his brother away from all war councils.

At present, Iver sat upon his stallion a few rows forward, next to John Johnstone of Annandale—a young laird who’d recently succeeded his father.

The Johnstones had suffered at the hands of the Black Douglases over the years and were eager to fight against them.

Until recently, Sutherland would have been glowering at Iver, his old nemesis—but now his attention was elsewhere. He should have been up there with the other leaders, yet instead, he’d maneuvered his destrier in next to Brodie, so that he could face him before the fighting started.

The two men glared at each other, and Sutherland’s mouth went white around the edges, a muscle ticking in his heavy jaw. “If ye live through this battle, I’m going to come looking for ye,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “Then we can finish things … man to man.”

Brodie nodded, the ache in his gut twisting harder. How he longed to fight Sutherland, to unleash the fury that now pulsed through him. But first, he’d use this rage against the Black Douglases. Thanks to Sutherland, he now had the drive he’d been missing earlier.

“Aye,” he growled back. “I’ll be waiting.”

The horn blew then, a long, drawn-out wail that chilled the blood.

A cry went up, rippling up and down the ranks, and then they were charging forward, the hooves of their horses tearing up the ground.

At the other end of the vale, the Black Douglases gave an answering roar—and then, they too were thundering down the valley. And as they did, their enemies’ shouts shattered the crisp morning air.

“Jamais arrière!”

Never behind.

From the instant the two hosts smashed into each other, schiltrons and shields colliding with a sickening crunch, the battle moved with frenzied speed.

Brodie charged into the fray, steering Brèagha with his knees as he fought, shield in one hand, longsword in the other. He lost Iver almost immediately, for the melee swallowed his brother up, yet Brodie was vaguely aware of Sutherland fighting just yards away.

The warrior’s destrier was just as vicious as he was. The warhorse was bred for this, and so it plowed its way through the press of bodies, teeth snapping and huge hooves stomping and kicking. Its bright gold caparison lit up the battlefield.

Brèagha was no warhorse, but a courser—a leggier, sleeker beast, built to carry its rider long distances.

Nevertheless, she was stout of heart, and Brodie had strapped on mail barding around her shoulders, head, and throat, to protect her as much as possible from injury.

The mare held fast as Brodie fought his way through the press.

His heavily muscled shoulders and arms gave him an advantage as he slashed with his sword.

At close quarters, he stabbed at his opponents—going for the weak spots in their armor, under the arms or the throat.

Blood sprayed, and soon it coated him. However, he fought on, shutting his mind off to the gore, the screams of horses, and the grunts and cries of injured and dying men.

Unlike Sutherland, who howled with joy as he cut down each hapless individual who came within reach of his blade, Brodie had no love for battle.

Iver had often spoken of how a dark song would catch alight within him in the midst of a fight—that moment when a warrior lost all fear of death and became even deadlier because of it.

Thanks to Sutherland riling him up, Brodie fought savagely, yet every time he slammed his blade through the throat of a Black Douglas, he felt nothing but a grim satisfaction that he’d bested another one of them.

There was a point in the battle when he wasn’t sure who was winning. He fought in the middle of chaos. But then their men were gaining ground, pushing the Black Douglases back.

His gut swooped. They were winning.

Sutherland must have realized too, for he gave a great yell and surged forward, driving his destrier into the middle of the Black Douglas ranks.

Brodie stared after him, agape at the warrior’s boldness.

Aye, he hated Sutherland, if only for the fact that he’d married the woman Brodie loved.

He was able to see her, touch her, while Brodie was left with nothing more than the ashes of memories and a longing that gnawed at his insides like a rat.

But there was no denying that the man was born to fight.

And this being the case, it was shocking to see an enemy pike slam up under Sutherland’s sword arm and topple him off his mighty destrier.

Brodie didn’t think. Acting on instinct, he dug his heels into Brèagha’s flanks and drove her forward, howling like a banshee.

He cut down the warrior who’d just leaped from his horse’s back, intent on finishing Sutherland off, before jamming his sword through the throat of the next man who came at him.

Their allies swarmed around them now, beating the rest of the Black Douglases back.

However, rather than following them, Brodie swung down from Brèagha and strode to where Malcolm Sutherland lay spreadeagled, staring up at the sky.