Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
G abhran shouted across the practice yard where he watched Fraser warriors as they practiced with claymore, battle axe, and the short-bladed dirk. And especially the warrior who had stripped to the waist, the metal that was now his lower arm and left hand gleaming dully in the midday sun.
"Again!"
It was warm, the summer days longer, with a measure of warmth, and bodies glistened as seasoned warriors paired off with younger ones, driving them, teaching them what only came from experience, years of it. If a man survived.
The times were uncertain and these young warriors might well be called upon by their chieftain in the conflicts that festered and threatened to boil over with the young king Alexander now on the throne of Scotland, untried, and the incursions from England in the south.
Scots had died in that confrontation, many Fraser kinsmen with them. James Fraser still carried the wound from the last encounter four years past.
The men he watched now had been part of it too. Many carried scars from wounds. That was what was seen on the outside. But what they carried on the inside was only spoken of around midnight fires after abundant wine. Their sons, now young warriors, burned with the fire for revenge, but knew not the sting of battle nor the aftermath of the funeral fires. Their fathers listened and mumbled their comments with the wisdom of years.
It would come, just as old Maisel had once told a young Fraser son those many years before. A dangerous and bloody future.
His gaze swept back to Ruari Fraser. He was finely made, long of limb with hard muscles that were accustomed to the weight of the war axe and the lethal blade of the claymore, capable of slicing a man in two. He practiced the hardest, drove himself harder, longer.
More than once the old warrior saw him when all others had sought their evening meal, practicing in the yard against some imaginary enemy in the gleam of moonlight and torches until he could hardly lift either axe or sword. He recognized what he saw. It was a darkness that rode him--a darkness for revenge.
It was there now in the way he drove himself past the point of exhaustion, as if the warrior he now faced, a kinsman, was the enemy and he would destroy him.
"Enough!" Gabhran eventually bellowed as a move came a little too close, was countered, but almost took the other man's leg out from under him.
He laid a thick paw of a hand at Ruari's shoulder as he reached the two embattled men.
Ruari suddenly turned on him. It was there in his eyes, the look of death in the fire that burned there.
"Leave off!" Gabhran warned as he brought his own sword up.
For several moments they stood there like combatants, Ruari lost in some silent battle, Gabhran patient, waiting him out, having been in that same place himself more than once as war chief to the clan.
Ruari slowly returned, shadows pulling back, familiar things settling back into place--the practice yard, the walls of the keep, the familiar sounds of kinsmen returning from a long ride, the hounds setting up their noisome racket, the smell of it in the air as he slowly returned from that dark place.
He took several deep breaths, then looked over at his kinsman, an experienced warrior he'd very nearly sent to his death. There was an understanding in the gaze that met his, then a nod.
Both were exhausted.
"Angus... "
The man was a cousin, and a warrior who had fought beside his brother, James. He owed him an apology, and it was there in his voice.
Angus shook his head. "Yer a good man, Ruari Fraser. Dinna ever apologize. But I'll have yer oath to fight beside me, not agin' me in the future."
Ruari nodded. "You have my word on it. But I will say I respect ye for not giving quarter because of this." He held his left arm aloft, metal gleaming in the midday sun.
"Yer no less a man for it, Ruari Fraser. I'd be a fool to take ye on in battle. We all fight the same enemy, aye?"
"Aye," Ruari replied, even as the memory of his encounter with Blackwood lingered.
"Enough!" Gabhran told them. "I smell the cook fires, aye. And I've an appetite for that roast venison I saw at the spit this morning."
"Go," Ruari told them both as he shifted the sword to his left hand and locked the metal fingers around it.
"I want to see how this damned thing works with a sword."
"There will be no meal for ye with so many kinsmen at the table," Angus warned.
Gabhran laid a hand at his shoulder and shook his head in silent communication against forcing the issue. He saw it still there in Ruari's eyes, the shadows of things he'd been through, Blackwood's mark on him in the loss of his hand and lower arm.
Revenge was a fearsome thing, and he knew it would either be the death of Ruari Fraser, or the English man. It was like a beast that gnawed at him, that no amount of food, wine, or the companionship of friends or family could quench.
For hours he continued to practice, shifting the sword from his right hand to the metal hand at his left--thrusting, countering, using both as he struck at the leather covered target--shaped like a man's head atop a wood pole that swung one direction, then the opposite, like a pendulum, until it was shredded from the blows with the sword, and sweat streamed down his back and chest.
The call went out from the top of the wall. Riders approached and Ruari leaned against the hilt of the sword, the tip braced at the hard-packed soil of the yard. The riders halted at the entrance to the keep, surrounded by Fraser guards.
They were covered in dust and grime. They carried no banner, nor shield, the Fraser guards taking positions along the top wall and other strategic positions, claymores and swords gleaming deadly in the midday sun.
His attention, drawn by those first shouts from guards atop the wall, Ruari's gaze swept the preparations his brother had put in place at the top of the battlements, then back to the heavy timbered gates that stood open on this market day but heavily guarded. His gaze narrowed on the men who approached, then fixed on the one who rode in the lead.
As Gabhran drew his own claymore and would have shouted orders to their kinsmen who poured from a dozen places about the yard, Ruari stayed him with a hand at his shoulder.
"I know these men."
He lowered his own sword and slowly walked toward them as they drew their horses up just outside the gates--a cautious move by those who had learned to be cautious in other places.
"By God!" Robert De Brus exclaimed as he swung down from the saddle. "So, the rumors are true. Too stubborn to die, aye?"
Ruari nodded. "Some say that is the way of it."
As his men dismounted, De Brus embraced him in a fierce hug. "And ye still wear yer armor!" he exclaimed with a nod toward his friend's left arm and hand.
"Compliments of the man who works the forge at the stables," Ruari replied, And a particularly stubborn young girl, he thought.
"You are far from home," he commented, his gaze sweeping the dirt covered men and horses.
They had obviously come a great distance with little rest, men and beasts exhausted, no less his friend, creases at his face lined with dirt and grime.
Robbie nodded. "Aye." He frowned with a glance past his friend to the clan chieftain who had come from the tower hall and stood at the steps with kinsmen surrounding him.
"I would speak with you. There are matters of grave importance." De Brus winced as he stamped the dirt from his boots
Ruari's gaze sharpened. "Ye have a wound?"
De Brus nodded. "And some of my men. Tis the matter we need to speak of."
"There is food and care for you." When he would have helped his old friend, De Brus waved him back.
"I can walk, but I'll thank you kindly for drink first then food for my men, and possibly the care of yer healer."
Alix heard the call go out from the guards. As Fraser kinsmen and clan gathered in the yard, she watched the weary men dismount their horses. Of the more than twenty men, several were injured, assisted by their companions.
Gabhran escorted their visitors to the keep, calling out orders for their horses to be fed and cared for, leading the weary, bloodied warriors into the tower hall as Morna called out to the women in the kitchens to prepare food for their guests. James Fraser, Chieftain of Clan Fraser greeted them formally.
"Welcome, you are, Robert De Brus. And your men."
Ruari walked with his friend to a nearby long table and eased him into the high-backed chair.
"You are as strong as I remember, my friend. The arm doesn't bother?"
"Or the lack of it?" Ruari sarcastically replied.
"It would give me pause on the field of battle," Robbie commented. "Tis most fearsome looking."
"I've learned the way of it," Ruari commented. "It was either that or go begging in Stirling, like the blind old men."
"Tis Stirling I've come to speak to your chieftain about."
"Drink first, and food," Ruari told him. "Then we will talk."
The injured sat at the long tables or at benches along the wall. She moved among them, the injuries more serious than the usual saddle sore, cut, or blisters. These were wounds she'd seen before, when their chieftain returned from the bloody encounter at the borderlands.
They were mostly silent, grateful for her care, only occasionally speaking of the reason that had brought them there. The most she was able to learn was that there had been an attack at Stirling bridge, Robert De Brus and his men outnumbered and forced back by a greater number of men--English soldiers!
The threat had been growing for months, English outposts appearing about the countryside. always pressing farther north from the borderlands, like a disease that spread.
At first it was rumors. Then the last merchant who had arrived by cart on his annual visit to sell his wares, spoke of the newest outposts and the English patrols he had encountered along the way.
Many evenings their chieftain had met with other clan leaders about the growing threat. Ruari had joined them, for he had a knowledge of the one whose name had been mentioned several times amid those rumors--the English king's war general, Sir John Blackwood.
Lady Brynna had helped with the injured, until she sat wearily at one table, a hand pressed low at her back. Alix had gently but firmly told her that it was enough responsibility to tend the injured, not to add birthing a babe to her duties.
"I want to help."
"Ye can best help by seeing that the women in the kitchens keep the food and drink coming to the tables, and not be bringing that bairn before its time."
She finished dressing the next wound, then picked up her basket and approached the chieftain's table.
Robert De Brus was a handsome young man with dark hair and dark eyes. The frown at his mouth, barely visible in the dark beard shifted as that dark gaze met hers.
He had seen her moving among his men, basket at hand, the sureness of her hand in binding a wound, her voice low and gentle, a welcome balm to men who had ridden hard the past several days with thoughts of their own women and children, and the dangers they all now faced.
"My gratitude for your care of my men, miss." He seized a slender hand and kissed the back of it.
"You'll forgive if I do not stand."
She pulled her hand from his. "You'll not stand at all, if you don't let me see to the wound."
He shook his head. "Tis but a small wound and no need for a pretty lass to bother over."
"Small wounds fester and rot," she bluntly replied.
"Aye." He leaned close then so that she was forced to bend over the hear him. "But it would require me to remove my brecs. You can leave the medicinals and I will tend it myself.
She stood with hand on her hip. "Remove them, or I'll cut them off. But I will tend the wound." She heard a sudden sound at her back, that sounded very much like laughter.
"Aye, Robbie, tis no use to argue with the lass.," Ruari informed his friend.
De Brus' gaze narrowed. "Then, tis no bother to me," he said with a sly grin.
"Especially with such a pretty lass."
He proceeded to slowly unlace the front of his brecs. He expected her to giggle and shrink away. Instead, she stood at the table, sorting through an assortment of muslin pouches and small clay jars. She gave no indication that she was the least intimidated, embarrassed, or impressed. He rose slightly in the chair and lowered his leather brecs to his knees, clad only in linen hose.
The cut was down the length of his thigh, obviously the result of a blade in a glancing blow. He was lucky it hadn't caused more damage.
Linen hose worn under the brecs were stained with blood. She took out a slender blade and with efficient strokes, cut them away.
"Jesu!" De Brus explained. "Be careful with that blade!"
Ruari laughed at his friend's discomfort with the blade so near that highly prized location.
"Do not argue with her, my friend. You cannot win."
The linen hose cut away, Alix was able to inspect the wound. It was the length of two hand widths, ending just above the knee. It hadn't cut into the muscle underneath but still bled badly. She rose and went to the fire at the hearth. She laid the blade among the glowing coals.
Robert De Brus' eyes narrowed as he watched every move. They widened as she retrieved the blade.
"What are ye about, lass?" he asked with growing suspicion.
"The wound must be closed, or it will continue to bleed and fester. Stitches would never hold in such a place." She looked over at Ruari.
"Ye might want to give a hand."
He circled the high-backed chair, then slipped his left arm with the fake hand, around his friend's shoulders and pinned him against the chair back. He nodded to her.
"What is this?" De Brus demanded, then the air left his lungs as she quickly drew the blade down the length of the cut, sealing it, the stench of burned flesh filling the air.
De Brus howled in pain, the Fraser hounds joining in a deafening chorus as they raced about the hall, suddenly alarmed but uncertain the source or cause for the noise.
Before he could draw breath and hurl curses that she was certain would come, she set the blade aside and quickly spread a soothing herbal balm over the wound.
Ruari released his hold on him.
"Bloody Christ!" De Brus lunged at Alix, a hand closing round her throat.
Ruari was on him, dragging him back.
"Leave off!" he warned, a blade in his right hand.
Almost nose to nose with De Brus, she braced a hand against his chest. Unlike when Ruari had come at her, De Brus' hold was uncertain. This time there wouldn't be bruises. There were other things she glimpsed in that dark gaze as a smile suddenly appeared in the thick of his beard.
Ignoring Ruari's threat, he pulled her to him and kissed her. His beard scratched her chin, his tongue thrust between her lips, and he smelled of sweat, horse, and too much wine. Then, on a softly muttered curse, he suddenly released her, grinning as he tasted blood at his lip.
Ruari seized him by the front of his tunic. "We share our wine and food!" he said, bared teeth.
"That is all."
De Brus held up his hands in surrender, but the smile was still there. "Only a simple kiss, out of gratitude."
"I accept your gratitude," Ruari informed him, returning the blade to the sheath at his boot.
"But I will not share."
Those simple words had both Alix and De Brus staring at him. De Brus was the first to recover.
"Is that the way of it?"
Ruari nodded. " Vous avez ma parole," he replied in French, a language they both understood very well
She had no idea what passed between them, nor would she even if she spoke French so great was her shock. She gathered the blade and tossed it into the basket along with the soiled linens she had used to clean De Brus' wound. She tossed a clean one at him.
"Bandage it yerself!"
She didn't look at Ruari.
Share? As if she was his? No more than a common whore? Or was it the child he still considered her to be?
She slammed the basket onto the table when she reached the kitchen, causing several glances to fasten on her.
"What are ye looking at?" she demanded as the women and young girls continued to stare at her.
"What amadan has injured himself now?" She was in no mood to be patching more wounds.
"All is well, child," her grandmother told her with a puzzled expression.
"I am no child!" Alix replied. But at the moment she felt like one that had been belittled and then set aside. Just as it had always been with Ruari Fraser.
She wanted to cry, stomp her feet, throw something, furious and disappointed all at the same time.
May the devil take them all, she thought as she retreated to the store-room adjacent to the kitchen to sort through the herbs and powders she kept there.
Ruari watched her leave, saw the set of her shoulders, the angle of her chin, and the dark color at her eyes. He knew that look, had seen it a hundred times since she was no taller than his waist. A chit of a girl, alone in the world except for her grandmother, who made her way known with boldness and a courage that was often found only in men.
The anger was there, along with something else--a raw pain. And somehow he had put it there. He knew it as surely as he knew himself. And that twisted deep inside worse than the wound at his arm that still plagued him, an ache as raw as the day Blackwood cut it off.
"She's a spirited thing," Robbie commented with a bemused expression.
"That she is," Ruari replied with no reason for her anger.
They sat at the long table with other matters that lay before them.
"You must tell us of your encounters with the English," James reminded him. "Everything you saw or heard."
They sat over goblets of wine long into the evening, and Robert De Brus with ancestors that went back to the time of William the Conqueror the same as their own, spoke of the numbers of English that had seen by men he trusted as well as those he and his men had seen.
"We approached disguised as a hunting party," he explained. Then as a parchment was laid out at the long table, he made marks where there were new English outposts where before there had only been open countryside.
"Every well-traveled wagon route--here, here, and here are controlled by the English" He made additional marks with a piece of charred wood from the fire.
"We've had word they intend to control the middle country to the edge of the highlands with their outposts."
Ruari studied the map. "They would control Stirling to Inverness, and as far south as Edinburgh with the borderlands just beyond."
"Tis said, they already control Edinburgh," De Brus told them.
James looked up at this. "The king?"
"William is at Stirling. Tis rumored that Marshal gathers an army to march on Stirling." De Brus' gaze locked with Ruari's.
"Marshal," James commented. "The son has not the wisdom of the father. William Marshal was a formidable enemy but a wise counselor. He saw no purpose in attacking north of the borderlands."
"The son is of a different blood," De Brus commented. "He is a politician and tis said easily swayed by the English lords."
"If Marshal takes Stirling and the king, it would influence many of the clans to lay down their swords," Ruari concluded.
"Aye," Robbie agreed. "Tis no secret he is convinced the clans are not strong enough to stand against him."
"Divide and conquer. " Ruari saw clearly what lay before them, as he had seen it before.
It was a well-known and effective plan. And if the clans were divided, separated by those outposts, so much easier it would be.
Thoughtful, listening to everything that was said, James spoke what they all knew, and feared.
"If he holds the king, he will be able to take all of Scotland. The weaker clans will be crushed and the others will make their bargains in exchange for their loyalty."
Ruari nodded. "We must gather the clans."