Chapter Fifteen #2
By the time Lucas Thain’s army finally arrived from the southeastern forest, dusk had deepened enough that the woods seemed to swallow much of them whole before releasing them gradually into the spare but relatively greater light directly near Avery’s house.
Morggán stood near the remains of the supper fire watching the long arrival take shape, the shifting silhouettes of riders threading carefully through the dark timber in uneven columns.
The forest itself seemed to move with men.
He glanced toward the cottage, relieved that Avery was tucked within and did not witness this, having some fairly confident idea that she wouldn’t like it, not a wee bit.
The sound differed from that of smaller companies moving camp.
There was weight behind the Thain army, same as Morggán would have if he traveled with his full army.
The churn of hundreds of hooves became a low continuous tremor beneath the surrounding noise of tack, leather, muttered orders, and exhausted horses blowing hard through their nostrils after long miles.
Somewhere deeper in the trees a mule protested sharply, while units separated and filtered toward places suitable for camp.
Morggán watched it all with grim satisfaction.
Tormod moved up beside him as more riders appeared through the trees. “This going to cause trouble?” he asked, inclining his head toward Avery’s hut. “With the lass?”
“It might.” Morggán’s gaze remained fixed on the arriving force.
A smaller cluster of mounted men separated gradually from the larger body and began angling directly toward the clearing surrounding the house.
Even at this distance Morggán recognized Lucas immediately.
Lucas Thain didn’t need heraldry or fancy clothing to be noticed.
He sat a horse like a man born upon one, larger than any man in his company, heavy-framed and immovable in the saddle, his posture carrying the same restrained severity he brought to battlefields and councils alike.
Several officers rode with him, including Airril and Peadair.
Morggán stepped forward as the riders finally entered the clearing proper.
Lucas swung down first from the saddle with an agility that belied his size, and strode directly toward Morggán who strode forward to meet him. They nodded in time, clasping forearms tightly, the Thain’s grip firm enough to bruise lesser men.
“Morggán.”
“Lucas.”
“Your timing was perfect,” Lucas said, releasing Morggán’s arm, his eyes scanning the yard, the hut, the forest, everything.
He acknowledged Tormod and then Donnchadh with a wordless nod before giving his attention to Morggán again.
“We were nae far, already east of the Earn, harrying an English supply train when your messenger found us. Three wagons burned before midday, and we’d cut down near twenty men attempting to flee.
Aye, and that was day three hounding that outfit, so there’ll be nae flour, oats, nor salted meat reaching whatever English garrison awaited it.
We relieved them besides of a fair quantity of coin meant for soldiers’ pay, which troubled me nae at all. ”
Morggán’s mouth twitched faintly. “No man alive starves an English column more efficiently than Lucas Thain.” He motioned toward the fire. “Sit yourselves down. Fergie’s still got broth and oatcakes enough for officers at least while the men settle in.”
Tormod and Alasdair motioned Lucas’s officers closer to the low-burning flames, joining the two lairds who’d taken seats.
“So, what was it?” Lucas asked Morggán. “What passed through? This forest I gather?”
Morggán nodded. “Aye, come from the south. Not a raiding party—too quiet, too disciplined. They moved by night, kept torches scarce, moved furtively, and have ye ever ken the English to do that? I’d estimate at least five hundred, likely more.”
Lucas’s expression darkened at once. “Heavy infantry?”
“Aye, and wagons besides. Supply carts slowed them in the bogs north of here. My scouts found deep wheel ruts about nine miles north.”
“Direction?” Airril asked.
“Northeast overall, and keeping to the forest.”
“That much stealth from English soldiers bodes ill,” Tormod remarked, frowning darkly.
Eòin stepped forward and crouched near the fire, dragging a stick through the dirt in front of Lucas and Morggán, sketching rough lines of hills, marshland, and tree cover.
“Here.” He marked several points. “Laird says they passed west of the loch three nights ago. Got stuck in a bog here mayhap a day ago or more. Scouts are tracking ?em now near these lower ridges.”
“If they continue northeast,” Lucas said finally, “they could be making for Caer Brae.”
Morggán’s gaze narrowed. “The garrison there is too small to warrant six hundred men.”
“Aye, but the stores within are nae,” Airril pointed out.
Morggán shook his head, having giving this plenty of thought. “Too obvious. If I were marching that many men secretly through forest and bog, I’d want something worth the trouble.” He bent and planted his finger farther northeast across Eòin’s rough markings. “Dunarraidh perhaps.”
Several expressions around the fire darkened at once.
“The Black Keep?” Tormod muttered. “That far?”
“It commands half the eastern passes,” Morggán said. “And Bruce’s supporters still move supplies through there when they can.”
Lucas considered that grimly.
Dunarraidh sat upon a high volcanic rise overlooking two major valleys and the old military road eastward.
It boasted strong walls and deep wells, and sat atop difficult ground for siege engines.
If the English intended to seize it before larger Scottish forces could consolidate nearby, speed and secrecy would matter greatly.
“Or,” Lucas said thoughtfully, “they mean to join with Harlowe’s men south of Invercaith.”
Tormod’s mouth flattened. “Jesu.”
That possibility settled heavily over the gathered officers.
Sir Cedric Harlowe had spent the better part of a year tightening English control through the eastern territories, burning smaller holdings and choking roads with mounted patrols.
Combined with another five hundred infantry, his force would become large enough to threaten nearly every Scottish stronghold between the Earn and the northern ridges.
“How many scouts shadowing them now?” Lucas asked at last.
“Eight riders rotating in pairs,” Morggán informed him. “Finlay commands them.”
Lucas nodded once approvingly. “Good. If the English mean to move cautiously, let’s see if we can slow them down yet more.”
Lucas stretched out his legs, his feet landing beside Eòin’s scratches in the dirt, and crossed his arms over his chest. He sighed, possibly weary. “My riders are spent,” he said plainly. “The horses as well. I’d sooner nae drive them through the dark unless there’s need.”
“There is need,” Morggán replied without hesitation. “But it neednae be your men.”
Tormod was already nodding before the order fully formed, lifting his hand and beckoning Donnchadh to him, ready to give out the command that was forthcoming.
“I’ll send fresh riders north,” Morggán continued. “Fast horses only. Have them find Finlay’s trackers and return before dawn if they can with an update.” He returned and gave a nod to Tormod, who then spoke quietly to Donnchadh.
“Aye,” said Lucas. “I’d rather nae commit our full force blind. Five hundred English hidden amongst forest and marsh can disappear quick”
“Aye,” Morggán agreed. “Especially if they’ve commanders clever enough to keep them quiet.”
The fire popped sharply in front of them.
As Lucas sat near the fire facing Avery’s house, and now that information had been traded and an immediate plan set into motion, he seemed to relax a bit. His dark gaze settled finally with more scrutiny than his original fleeting glance upon the hut.
The old derelict cottage looked even more unimpressive now surrounded by armed men and horses.
Firelight caught unevenly along the weathered planks and patched thatch roof, revealing all the small imperfections of a place built slowly over years by practical necessity rather than skilled hands seeking beauty.
“Whose place is this?” Lucas asked.
Morggán followed his gaze toward the house. “A lass lives here.”
Lucas’s eyes shifted back to him, one brow lifting slightly with clear curiosity now. “A lass.”
“Aye.” Morggán said, and sighed. “After Caerwyll’s disaster south of the marshes, I became separated from most of my men during the retreat. I carried away a cracked rib, a torn thigh, and little dignity, collapsed beneath a tree.”
At that, several expressions around the fire soured immediately. Peadair muttered something unpleasant beneath his breath regarding the Earl of Caerwyll, while Airril snorted outright. Lucas himself only looked grimly unsurprised.
“The man could lose a battle in broad summer daylight upon open ground,” Airril remarked flatly. “And likely blame the weather afterward.”
A few rough laughs answered that. Morggán’s own mouth twitched briefly despite himself.
“He near accomplished exactly that,” Morggán said. “He ignored counsel twice over, split his riders poorly, then panicked once the English pressed harder than expected. Half the retreat became men tripping over each other through bog and timber.”
“Rank breeds confidence far more reliably than competence,” Lucas observed.
“Aye,” Tormod muttered darkly. “And usually in inverse proportion.”
Lucas’s gaze drifted once more toward the hut. “So ye stumbled bleeding into a lass’s forest house.”
“More or less.” Morggán did not elaborate further. “She allowed me shelter while I waited on the lads finding me.”
That appeared sufficient explanation for Lucas. His attention moved on toward more practical concerns. “And the area?”