Chapter Thirty
The next day, just as Reagan had predicted, they moved out in a great swarm of men, one giant, ponderous creature crawling its way across the moor, darkening the yellow autumn bracken. Many days’ travel they had yet before rendezvousing with King David and his men, and then turning southward.
Toward England.
For Katrin, looking after her father grew ever more difficult and ever more demanding as they kept up with the now-vast army.
She didn’t know what Reagan considered a slow pace of travel, but she could tell Da struggled, valiantly though he tried to hide it.
With every step away from Murtray, she missed her home more.
And each moment, full to the brim with caring for those around her, another longing increased steadily in her heart.
She ached for Finlay. Aye, to be sure, she could feel him back there among the men.
But that only seemed to emphasize the distance between them.
She wanted to be with him so he could gift her with one of his smiles.
Caress her with those beautiful hands. Bless her with kisses.
How had this happened, that he’d come to mean so much?
Was it merely the physical connection forged during those four nights they’d spent together?
The stories he’d told? Mayhap she hadn’t realized at the time just how deeply those had touched her.
Though she looked for any opportunity at all to pass back through the men, doctoring minor scrapes and injuries taken along the way and making sure everyone was decently fed, she won no more than passing encounters with Finlay, and often not even that.
Sometimes at night, she could hear him play and would lie with her ears stretched, staring at the sky, almost—almost remembering something too precious to recall.
But as they crossed the back of Scotland and grew wearier and wearier, more worn, those musical sessions all but ceased.
To what did she lead him? She asked herself that again and again. Should she try once more to persuade him to return home? That journey would be as naught to him. But she had no words to say that had not already been spoken, and she feared looking too hard at just why he followed her.
What, oh, what if she led him to his death? An old fear, it seemed, an ancient one.
Sometime in late September, the vast army arrived in Perth, where it became still more vast. Here, near King David’s stronghold at Scone Palace, at a place called the Bridge of Earn, the king’s forces waited, to be swelled by those from farther west.
The day was a bonny enough one for autumn in Scotland, with a blue sky scudded by clouds of white and gray, the light slanting through to show a scene worthy of stealing Katrin’s breath.
She and all of Da’s men, who had already trodden so far and were so weary, fell silent against the greater undulating rush, as did the MacLeods, MacDonalds, and Campbells around them.
She barely noticed when Reagan O’Hanlon stepped up beside her. From his superior height, he slanted her a knowing look before he said, “What d’ye think o’ this, then?”
“I think I am a long way fro’ home.”
“Aye. Sorry ye came yet?”
In a way, she was. Not sorry to be standing at her da’s side, nay. But she regretted leading Finlay here, and that they seemed so very small now among this seething throng of men. So unimportant.
She did not answer him directly. “How can any army, English or otherwise, stand against so many?”
Reagan shrugged. There was no such thing, here, as privacy. Her da stood only a short distance ahead of her, straining—as did they all—for any sight of the king. She had no opportunity to clutch at Reagan and beg him, Persuade Finlay to turn back, I pray. ’Tis no’ too late.
She could not. She feared their fates were cast. So many fates…
“Where is the king?” The question was being repeated on every side.
“There,” Reagan told her. “Ye see the tents.”
Would David summon Da? Da and all the other chiefs who had risen so loyally to his call.
It did not happen that way after all. No sooner had Reagan stepped away to his men, and Katrin seen to the distribution of water to all their own, than word passed from lips to ears—the king was on his rounds and would soon be there to welcome them.
In due time, another sort of hush fell, one that seemed to spread out the way a wind does across a barley field. He came with his generals, and on foot.
Katrin supposed she should be impressed at being in the presence of the king of all Scotland, a man whom she had never before so much as dreamed of meeting.
And, aye, her first sight of him surprised her.
A young man was David, overly large in his regalia with the appearance of a warrior.
Not unhandsome, with a brown beard and a decidedly long nose.
She should have been reassured by his manner, by the fact that he showed fully willing to stand at the head of his men and would, in fact, lead them across the marches into England.
The king of all Scotland! For aye, he moved confidently among the new arrivals and showed little doubt in their cause.
Katrin watched as her da went forward and was greeted by his liege lord, she as silent as the men around her. She noticed a man taking the place at her side no more than she had noted Reagan’s arrival earlier. Not till he spoke in a musical voice did she start, her heart leaping.
“Men who call themselves chiefs and kings make the decisions and send those who harbor true hearts to meet their fates,” he mused very softly indeed. “So ’tis. So it has ever been.”
Katrin gave him a close look. “Ye can turn back yet. There is still time.” She had seen others deserting along the way. No one tried to stop them.
Finlay shook his head, not looking at her now.
“Why not? Finlay, please—”
For answer, he reached out and linked his fingers through hers, where they hung at her side. Fierce, hot tears stung her eyes. They stood so, linked amid the swarm of men.
Da came back to her armed with a modicum of information. They would camp and muster here a few days before the troops would be assigned to various leaders, and they would move off south to England.
Word flowing through the ranks as they set out to make a decidedly poor camp was that England stood near empty of defenders, all King Edward’s men sent over the water to France, caught in the continuing conflict there.
This should be easy, whispered men to other men as night fell and those from one contingent mingled and spoke with the others. There would be spoils. The English would learn of what the Scots were made and would not try to subdue them again. A blow for Scottish autonomy.
But even before night fell on that wide, open plain, an air of unreality descended upon Katrin.
It felt not as if she was part of a great, undulating sea of men, about to attack England, but as if she moved through one of Finlay’s stories.
None of this could truly be happening. She must be dreaming back in her own bed at the keep, musing on words the bard had said, not marching toward death and pain and devastation.
She would wake and go about her duties, as familiar to her as breathing.
Yet even that next morning, which dawned wet and much cooler, such a waking did not come.
Finlay had once more attained a distance from her, back among the ranks.
Though she tried several times to seek him out, she still had many distractions, including both Da and the immediate needs of their men.
Da and Reagan, in company with Earl Randolph, went forward to meet with the king in the white tent.
When Da returned, he confirmed they would soon move out southward, for England.
Not liking the exhaustion in her father’s eyes, or the way he moved, Katrin soon sought out Reagan.
His men sat in a rough circle, paying little heed to the pandemonium around them, calmly playing at dice and talking among themselves in low voices.
Several of them, including Daffid and a man called Malcolm, gave her friendly nods.
Reagan got to his feet and stepped to her side as soon as he noticed her.
“What is it?”
“Da says we will leave here soon. How far is it to England?”
He gave her a look, all hard-eyed and steady. “Far.”
“I am no longer certain Da can make it. It has been days since he’s had enough to eat.” Since any of them had. “Wha’ condition will he be in when we arrive?”
“Give the man some credit.” The wings of Reagan’s mustache twitched. “He is stronger than ye think, and as stubborn as yourself.”
“I do no’ suppose ye can talk him into going home before we cross the marches.”
“I do not suppose I can.”
“Then—is there any chance ye can find him a mount? Surely Earl Randolph would stretch to such, for so loyal a vassal.”
Reagan examined her with tawny-eyed sympathy. “I ha’ already tried. Your father says he will not ride when his men are walking.” He hesitated. “Ye have to give him respect for it.”
Och, why and why had she ever started on this accursed journey? She should have kept herself, her da and—and Finlay home.
Too late now. She found herself on the wheel of fate.
Reagan laid a hand on her shoulder. “Trust, lass. Perhaps ’tis a lesson, this, ye need to learn.”