Page 20 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)
“Ye canna be left here,” he said at last, his voice rough, final.
“Nae in this place. ?Tis a market burgh, aye, but one that sees too many strangers riding in and out—merchants from the south, messengers bound for Stirling, even English soldiers when it suits them. Too near to English-held ground, too full of eyes that would notice a woman alone. Ye’d have nae safety in such a place. ”
She nodded, accepting his answer and reasoning, it seemed, but winced in the next moment, “But I still don’t think it’s safe for me to keep riding.”
“A cart would offer even less comfort, I suppose,” he mused.
“I thought the same thing—too much bouncing. At least in the saddle I can control it.”
Alaric scowled, thoughtful for a moment before he hit on a solution given their proximity. “I agree the march is nae place for ye, lass. If there is safety for ye, it lies in the home of a man I trust.”
“A friend of yours?”
Alaric nodded. “And auld friend, a guid man.”
“Okay, home suggests some comfort,” she considered aloud, brightening dramatically. “That sounds like a better place for me—off the back of a horse, anyway. Oh, but...is it very far from here?”
It wasn’t close, not at all, but then it was the closest friendly keep he could think of. “A few more days in the saddle, lass, but nae a difficult path.”
“Oh, you would take me there?” she asked.
Alaric understood the question was not unreasonable, given some of his treatment of her, though still it rankled him, that she would believe now, after all this time, that he would simply send her off with naught but a direction.
“Aye.”
“Um, will that mess up you and your army?” she asked. “Your mission?”
“We will be delayed, aye, but I’m imagining we might also be resupplied by my friend, enough to keep us marching and fighting for many weeks.”
Ivy latched onto this, apparently pleased to know there was some benefit to him. “Okay, that’s good then, right? The trip won’t be a total waste of time for you and your army.”
“Aye, nae a waste of time at all.” He would, he knew, rather that she was settled safely.
“All right, if you’re sure. Okay,” she continued when he nodded. “Thank you. Really, I appreciate this very much.”
He nodded again, curtly now, unaccustomed to such heartfelt gratitude.
And Ivy, smiling now, rose awkwardly to her feet, even as she seemed a little more nimble now.
She dusted her hands off against each other.
“I’ll uh—” she pointed vaguely with her forefinger toward the camp behind him.
“Thanks again.” And with that, she skirted around the tree, returning to the camp, gone from his view.
Alaric drew a deep breath and finally, wearily, rose to his feet. He bit off half the forgotten oatcake and watched Ivy’s progress, saw her return to the company of Kendrick, Blair, and Ewan.
His shoulders eased a fraction. With them, she was safe enough.
For the most part, his men would guard her without even thinking about it, the way good men watched over their own.
However, there were some in the ranks he’d sooner see nowhere near her, men roughened and made mean by so much violence seen and often too much ale.
But those three, the lads who’d taken to her, he trusted them as much as he was able to trust anyone.
He’d just swallowed and popped the remaining oatcake into his mouth when Mathar’s shadow loomed.
“ Jesu , tell me I dinna just hear what I ken I did.” Mathar’s voice was pitched low, edged with accusation. “Ye mean to drag her with us still—and march us outside the war?”
Alaric turned, scowling, and finished chewing. “She canna continue at length with us, and she canna be left behind,” he confirmed.
Mathar’s brows snapped together, his scarred face creasing deep with disbelief.
“God’s wounds, lad. Have ye lost your sense entirely?
Wallace is dead. Too few patriots remain, and those that do will fear the cause is lost. And ye—” he stabbed a hand toward the fire where Ivy sat, her profile soft against the flame—“ye would take us out of the fight for a woman heavy with child?”
Alaric’s jaw clenched, but his voice when it came was iron, steady and deep. “I will nae have her birthing a bairn in the dirt, either with us or in some nameless village. She will be seen safely housed, made strong and able for the coming of the babe.”
Mathar barked a humorless laugh. “Ye’ll nae have—? She is nae a Scot’s wife, Alaric—mayhap naught but an English whore for all we ken,” the captain hissed. “Why risk so much for her?”
Alaric stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “?Tis nae risk to ride two days to Caeravorn. I think with my conscience, Mathar. And if ye canna stomach my command, ye’re free to ride elsewhere.”
A tense silence stretched between them. The night noises of the camp seemed to hush—the crackle of fire, the murmur of men who might be eavesdropping on the tense standoff. Mathar’s lips pressed thin, but he did not move.
At last, he spat into the dirt. “Stubborn bastard. One unknown woman shouldnae weigh more than Scotland.”
“If our cause canna bear the weight of a woman’s life,” Alaric challenged, “then we’re nae better than the English we fight.” His gaze was unwavering. “She stays with us, and we’ll move to Caeravorn on the morrow. I’ll hear nae more on the matter.”
Mathar muttered something low and foul under his breath, but he turned away, shoulders rigid, leaving Alaric standing alone.
Only then did Alaric allow himself the smallest exhale. He had made his choice, and though it would cost them time, though it might cost him the loyalty of some men, he could not do otherwise. Better their anger than the torment of abandoning her.