Chapter Twenty-Nine
Reagan and Robran came back together and told Da that Earl Randolph wanted to see him. Randolph had summoned all the chiefs to the center of the swarm where flew his standard, a banner of red showing three cushions.
Katrin brushed Da down as best she could, ridding him of as much trail dust as possible, straightening his bonnet, and repinning the plaid at his shoulder. New lines had appeared in his face, and to her eyes, he appeared exhausted.
“Go wi’ him,” she bade Robran, and watched the two men move off together.
Not till she turned back did she realize Reagan still occupied the place at her side.
“Where are we to camp?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Where we stand. There are no facilities for so many men, and we will not be here long. As soon as all the clans arrive, we will be movin’ on.”
Katrin glanced around at the rough, barren hillside and prayed rain would not come. So far they had been fortunate in that regard, enduring little more than brief showers warded off by the men’s plaids. In the west of Scotland in autumn, that could not possibly last.
She turned her gaze back to Reagan. “So many men to move south. It defies imagining.” Surely, surely the English would not have a force to match them? Da said the English king spent his men on the war in France.
This must all be over soon.
Reagan gave her a crooked smile. “Sorry ye came, yet?”
“Nay,” she said. Did she lie?
“Ye will be.”
He began to walk away. She snagged his arm. “Wait. How many more men do ye suppose will gather yet?” Laird Robert Stewart, whom they were yet to meet, would have his own army. “How great will be the force that moves to England?”
“Who can say? I heard up there”—he jerked his head toward the standard—“King David himself is to lead the armies.”
“Och, aye?”
The wings of Reagan’s mustache twitched. “’Twill make an impressive sight.”
“We still ha’ a long way to go. I am concerned for my da.”
“Try no’ to be. An army this size will not move very quickly.”
“Aye, but—he tires.”
“At least ’twill be the earl’s business now to feed all this lot.”
When Da returned a goodly amount of time later, he looked worried. Reagan was gone from Katrin’s side by then. She hunkered down beside her father, who had quickly seated himself, and said, “Wha’ is it, Da?”
“We are to wait here till the other western troops arrive and then move on eastward.”
“Aye, so. Let me find ye somewhat to drink.”
Did it surprise her that even here among naught but warriors, and a supposed warrior herself, she took on the role of caretaker?
Of looking after not only her da, in truth, but all of them.
She ventured off to collar one of the men she saw circling, who proved to be Earl Randolph’s servant, and demanded rations for her father’s men.
He stared at her in surprise when she spoke, having at first glance taken her for just another fighting man.
“Aye—mistress,” he said a bit uncertainly. “We are doin’ the best we can to reach everyone.”
“Our men ha’ marched far and are in need o’ drink.”
“There is a stream.” He waved a hand vaguely. “I suggest ye avail yoursel’s o’ it.”
She did, going back for a flask, now empty, and bringing it full to her father, advising all of their men she met to do the same. She made sure Da ate from the last of their own rations, took none for herself. An empty belly was the least of what she would likely endure.
Earl Randolph’s servants did come round eventually, but provisions were pitifully few. Dark fell and a chill crept in with it. They camped where they stood—or, more accurately, sat.
Such a vast force could not possibly be silent. Indeed, as they settled for the night, sound undulated like the sea on the shore back home. Rising and falling. A shush of being.
When the music began, she could scarce believe her ears. It seemed so small and delicate amid that other sweep of sound. Yet it drew her inexorably.
She rose from her place beside Da, who opened one eye and asked, “Is that the harper? Our harper?”
Our harper.
“I believe so.”
She moved back through Murtray’s troops, only some of whom slept and most of whom sat in clusters. Around Finlay, the cluster was dense. They leaned to him as to one of the fires, for comfort, for enchantment.
He had unwrapped Brada and had her on his knee. Hands caressing the strings, magic in his eyes.
He did not play soft and soothing songs for them now, despite their need for comfort. Nay, for these were bright and jaunty tunes that sprang from his hands, strong and speaking of valiance. Music meant to lift the heart.
Katrin went to her knees beside him. He shot her one glance of gladness and acknowledgment, and played on.
Ducked down there, so close, she could feel the music spin out with him as its center in an ever-widening circle. Like a wheel turning, carrying both fate and time.
Only he was not upon the wheel. He was its hub.
It lifted her beyond herself and somehow, at the same time, took her deep within. When he broke into O’Hanlon’s march, she lifted her voice in song, matching to it the words they had made together.
She did it without true intention, the impulse drawn up from her heart. Finlay approved it with his gaze upon her face, a thousand emotions resting in his eyes.
Come all ye who would valiant be
Who would follow the train o’ bright glory.
Where battle brings us gory fates
We follow them both soon and late.
The Gallowglass gang to die!
For fight they will wi’ sword or spear,
With blade and axe, their numbers dear.
The heart o’ courage lingers here.
We follow them wi’ strength o’ eye.
They lead us on to victory,
May the Gallowglass never die!
After the second or third time through, the men around them took it up.
The song grew—so very much like the swell of that ocean to which she’d likened it.
In this time of the unknowable and the unbearable, the Gallowglass were, to these soldiers, a guiding star.
And aye, to their fates would they follow them.
At length, some of the men wandered off to sleep. Others lingered, perhaps valuing a high heart more than rest. When many had taken themselves off or rolled into their plaids where they sat, Katrin found herself with Finlay, the two of them as good as alone.
Even the fires had died down. Finlay set Brada aside and wrapped her carefully in her leather covering.
Katrin supposed she too should stir, climb to her feet, and return to her father. She wanted, with all her being, to stay where she was. To drink in the company of this man, soak up his presence. Comfort beyond comfort.
When he looked at her, his gaze seeming to caress her face, it was almost—almost as good as a touch.
“Ye ken,” she told him softly so as not to disturb those around them, “there is still time for ye to turn back.”
“And ye,” he said implacably.
“I do no’ feel I can.”
“Nor I.”
“Finlay—ye be no’ a warrior. Nor sworn to my father. Ye might go on your way off north out o’ all this to some other chief’s hall. There might ye ride out the storm that besets us, play yer music. And after”—she drew a breath, long and unsteady—“I will find ye.”
“I am no’ sworn to your father, nay.” Finlay let that implication hang in the air, and Katrin felt the impact as she took his meaning. They had made no promises to one another, not even when they lay in each other’s arms, when they were joined into one being.
It came to her now that mayhap they did not need promises.
Tears came to her eyes. “Please. ’Twould do me much good to know ye are safe.”
“I would do most anything for ye, Katrin. No’ that.”
“Why?” she asked, desperate.
“Ye wish me to go into the north—”
“Anywhere, into safety.”
“—and await ye. But Katrin, it has taken me all my life to find ye. And for me to tak’ mysel’ off again not knowing what might befall ye, whether ye will ever be able to come to me—do no’ ask it.”
She said nothing, just blinked away her tears fiercely.
Swiftly he said, “Lass, ye be a strong woman, and dauntless. But ye ha’ no idea of the battles to come.”
“I should, having heard your tales.” A pit of dread opened in her stomach. “I should ken fine wha’ it means to be a warrior.” Why else did he think she feared so that he should endanger himself? An old, old fear.
He shook his head.
“Finlay, if ye maun stay, at least say ye will lay aside that sword. Engage our men wi’ your music as ye will. Wi’ yer bold tales. Wi’ your high spirits. But when we reach England and the battles commence, at least say ye will remain at the rear of the company, out o’ danger.”
He said only, “We ha’ a long march ahead o’ us, and a hard one. Best go, lass, and tak’ your rest.”
May I no’ stay here wi’ ye? But she could not speak those words. Her duty lay beside her father. She had quite boldly chosen that duty, and must stand by it.
But she swayed on her feet when she rose, and moved unsteadily as she left him, feeling every step in her soul.