Chapter Twenty-Seven
Katrin did not approach Finlay as the company prepared to leave.
Angry with him, as he knew full well. It proved easy enough for her to avoid him, as great confusion filled the bailey.
She hurried here and there, consulting with female servants and her father’s seneschal.
With her father, and the head of the guard, Robran.
She had dressed herself, after he left her chamber, in men’s clothing. Her long legs clad in leggings, a tunic and leather jerkin, a kilt. Given her height and the fact that she had her hair tightly braided, she might almost pass for a young man.
Finlay knew better. He had touched every part of what lay beneath that clothing. Had his lips to it. The feel and fragrance of her fair haunted him.
He himself wore his plainest clothing, his robe packed away into his bundle and the sigils removed from his hair. He had wrapped Brada most carefully, as he did for his sojourns upon the roads, but she still made a bulky bundle upon his back.
They mustered in the bailey, and apart from the Gallowglass, who stood in strong formation, it was far from orderly. A brisk, cool autumn morning it was, with mist still gathered on the headland and far out to sea. Men called to one another; women and bairns wailed, bidding farewell to their men.
A madness, was war. On some level, he had always known that, even when he was a warrior.
Someone—a man Finlay had never seen before, possibly assistant to the armorer—came up to the group in which he stood, looking distracted. “Sword or bow?”
“Eh?”
“Ye be unarmed. D’ye fight wi’ a bow or a sword?”
The man did not recognize him, nay, any more than Finlay knew him. Finlay looked far different in rough clothing and with his hair tamed.
He’d been unsuccessful in finding a weapon at the almost-empty armory, so he took this as a good sign. He could shoot a bow, aye, and had trained at it in his youth, as with the sword. A long time ago.
A long time.
“Sword,” he chose instinctively, and the armorer turned to a lad, heavily laden, who followed him, then thrust a blade and belt into Finlay’s hands and moved on before Finlay could speak.
He buckled it on with suddenly clumsy fingers. Did this make him once more into what she had forbidden him to be?
The wheel of destiny spun, came round to the place it had started over and over again. He was where he had begun.
Someone shouted—a voice of command. The painful level of noise in the bailey fell. O’Hanlon, so it sounded. Had he been placed in charge of the mass of men? Not a bad choice.
“Form up! We march out. For now, keep together.”
They would head south, that much Finlay had gleaned, and meet up with other troops mustered at Earl John Randolph’s command.
They filtered out through the gate, and the sea spread before them, great and limitless and eternal. Love of Scotland seized Finlay’s heart. He undertook this for love of a woman, aye, but this place lay anchored almost as deep within him.
An ironic smile twisted his lips and words appeared in his mind.
The minstrel boy to war has gone,
In the ranks of death ye will find him.
His father’s sword he has girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him.
Nay, he was not the first to take this path, nor would he be the last.
They moved out so slowly, it seemed impossible they could ever march so far as England. Women and old men followed them, the women wanting last words with their men. The clinging of hands.
He had no idea where Katrin might be. He had lost track of her. Somewhere near the front, he did not doubt.
I will find ye. I will find ye always.
“Wha’ are ye doin’ here? Are ye no’ the harper?”
The man marching next to Finlay had light-brown hair and brown eyes. He carried a spear.
“Aye, so. I am going to war now.”
“Are no’ we all? D’ye ken how to fight?”
“I used to.”
A bright picture flashed into his mind. A far-off green land. An Erin chief declaring him first among his warriors. The unwanted glory and responsibility of it. His skill, inborn, came from the gods. He had never exercised it for gain.
He would not now, save for the gain of Katrin’s heart.
“Aye, well, I am more farmer than fighter, me, though they ha’ given us training, all o’ us fro’ a young age. I am hoping when we get to England there will be so many o’ us wild Scots, the English will turn butts and run. Aye? We will soon be home again.”
Finlay could not help but grin. “Aye.”
“Gregor is the name.” The fellow stuck out a broad hand.
“Finlay.”
“I ha’ heard o’ ye and the stories ye tell, though I was no’ there to hear them. Mayhap ye can tell some on the road, eh, to lighten the way?” Gregor’s face clouded. “I ha’ stayed much at home of late. My Kerra is to birth our first anytime. It has no’ gone well.”
An agony, to leave. The man could be no older than Finlay, quite likely younger.
“I hope for her sake and yours, we do come back soon.”
“We are to march south o’ Inverness first, so I hear, where Earl Randolph or his captains will collect us.”
It was more than Finlay knew.
Aye, well, anything could happen before they reached there. Those in high places could well change their minds. He prayed so.
That day, though, proved a slog. The mist lifted and a cool breeze chased them from the north. They walked and paused and moved on again while a sense of unreality rose to Finlay’s head.
Where was Katrin? He’d still had no glimpse of her. Did he occupy her thoughts even as she did his?
He hoped O’Hanlon would look out for her.
When they rested, they conversed. Everyone who encountered Finlay stared at him before they either did or did not recognize him. Those who recognized him always exclaimed, “Harper! Wha’ be ye doing here?”
He and Gregor, like two strangers flung over the side of a sinking ship, stayed together as if for comfort.
During one such pause, late in the day, they sat while food was distributed.
“Ye ha’ nay tired yet,” Gregor observed. “I am impressed.”
“I am used to walking great distances fro’ house to house, seeking to perform. This is no’ great feat for me.”
“As I am used to walking great distances behind a plow. But I am beginning to feel it.”
Not till nightfall, when they were instructed to make camp, did Katrin find him. Indeed, by then Finlay half imagined she was naught but an illusion, and the past four nights had most assuredly been a dream.
Then, all at once, she was there at his elbow.
“Och! I ha’ hoped at the last ye’d ha’ the sense to reconsider and stay behind.”
She was still angry with him, then. Nay, mayhap not merely angry, for he could see fear in her eyes.
Had she been looking for him? Moving back through the admittedly ragged troops thinking to see him? Hoping, as she said, that she would not?
Her gaze touched him up and down with frank surprise. Had she expected him to go marching in his green robe?
“There is still time, Finlay, for ye to turn back.”
“And for ye,” he said pleasantly. “Let us go together.”
“I march at my father’s side. In Geordie’s place.”
“And I follow.”
She growled in frustration. Gregor gave her a startled look, shot Finlay another, and moved off.
“Ye be no’ a warrior,” she said through gritted teeth.
“And ye be no’ Geordie. Yet here we are.”
“Are ye punishing me?”
“Och, alanna, nay. I would no’ do that. Just—as ye follow yer heart, so do I follow mine.”
“But ye do punish me.” Her eyes flashed. Aye, anger still had a part in the emotions that filled her. “Have I no’ enough to worry me, wi’out fretting for ye?”
“Do no’ fret for me, then.”
“Och!” She examined him again, head to toe. “Ye are wearing a sword.”
“So I am.”
“Come wi’ me. I will find ye a place to sleep.”
He was tempted. Och, he was tempted. But he said, “Nay, I will bide here where I belong, among the ranks.”
She went off in a visible huff. Gregor edged back and eyed Finlay but said nothing.
It did not take long for Chief MacMurtray to come moving through. Just at nightfall it was, and he gave encouragement to his men, pausing often to speak with them.
He paused before Finlay and lifted shaggy brows. “Harper, ye here?”
“Aye, laird.”
“’Tis nay called for, ye ken. Ye be no’ sworn in fealty to me.”
Not to him, no. Finlay followed a far older demand.
“How is a bard to make braw songs o’ battles if he is no’ there to see them?”
Anders scowled. “There is time for ye to go back. No’ now, when we ha’ made camp. But in the morning, perhaps.”
“Aye, laird, I will consider it.”
“Will ye turn back?” asked Gregor after Anders had moved on.
“Nay.”
“I did no’ think so. There is a tale in it, I am thinking.”
“Best get some sleep. I do no’ doubt we will be marching again by dawn.”
Gregor, wrapped in his own thoughts, either slept or did not. Finlay did not even try, but instead lay reliving each of the previous nights, touch by touch and kiss by kiss.