Chapter 17
THE MESSAGE AND THE MOUNTAIN
It had taken hours of riding to get the shaking in her hands to stop.
The warmth from Brandon’s gloves had been the only thing to keep her sane, the only thing to push her forward.
Every time she wanted to stop, to rest, to give up running as she would now have to do for the rest of her life, she thought of all Brandon had sacrificed for her.
He had given her an escape, knowing what the Baron was capable of, what it might cost him. So she pressed on.
Night gave way to the dawn, birds rustling from their nests to sing in the morning light.
Laura was far too weary to appreciate the beauty of it all.
She had long since slowed her horse to a walk, not wanting to wear either of them out any more than she had to.
As they crept alongside the river’s edge, she fought to keep herself awake.
She was nearing the border, close enough now that she could see her homeland peeking out from behind the clifftops.
Her heart fluttered in her chest, a wave of relief, of longing, of homesickness washed over her, nearly drowning her with the emotion of it all.
“Come on, lad,” she urged the horse, clicking him into a faster pace.
She had been too overcome with everything else happening to question Brandon’s choice of mount for her to ride.
He had given her a stallion so large that she would never be able to get off it without hurting herself.
And there would be no getting back in the saddle without help from someone else or a tree to climb up first. Perhaps that had been his plan, to give her a horse she wouldn’t be able to dismount until she was safe.
At the very least, the beast had been able to handle her weight with ease, running and trotting along as though she were a feather on his back.
He snickered at the new pace, enjoying the faster movement. His tail swished in the air and Laura leaned over his neck, borrowing his heat and confidence for a moment. It was then, over the rhythmic pounding of the horse’s heartbeat and his occasional huffs, that Laura heard it.
Her body came fully alive, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She shifted ever so slightly, pulling her cape up over her head to hide her face a bit better. With a gentle nudge on the reins, she pushed the horse further into the shadows, hoping to conceal them for as long as she could.
Stopping at the edge of the tree line, Laura swore as she studied the field below.
Men, English fighters, judging from their swords and flags, were gathered in tents.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of warriors sharpening their blades and practicing their fighting skills.
In the center of it all, a large fire illuminated a table covered in papers that had half a dozen men of varying heights and strengths bending over it in focused discussions.
She swore again. The sight of it all was enough to turn her stomach sour.
“Och, nay.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath. This army was all that lay between her and the Scottish border. If she could somehow make it through, if she could just get to the Kincaid Castle as Brandon had told her to, she would be free from this.
“We are going to have to run,” she whispered to the horse, fear nearly stealing her words. “Nay, we are going to have to fly.”
He snorted in response, pawing at the ground as if he were trying to tell her that he was ready. She exhaled slowly, tightening her gloved fingers around the reins once more.
“Keep to the edge of the camp for as long as we can. Ye must go until I tell ye it is all right to stop, even if it means everything of ye.”
The horse snorted again. Laura knew she had wasted enough time as it was.
Every second she stood, there was another chance of being caught.
She clicked her tongue and snuck around the line of the camp, keeping to the trees for as long as she possibly could.
Her heart thundered until she could hardly hear over her own heartbeat.
“When I tell ye,” she whispered again, “fly.”
She counted down in her mind, lowering herself over the horse’s neck.
“Go,” she breathed, before she was entirely ready.
In a flash, the horse was moving at a break-neck speed, sprinting through the clearing as though he had understood every word she had said.
Wind whipped past her face, the hood of her cloak billowing around her face as the cold air stole her breath.
It took only a few seconds before she heard voices calling after her, men shouting to announce her presence to the others.
She said a whispered prayer that those few seconds had been enough to secure her escape.
“A rider! There!”
“Do not let her get away!”
Clanging metal and leather slapping filled the air, but Laura kept her eyes focused on the tree line in front of her.
“Faster, lad,” she encouraged. “That’s it. Faster.”
She was nearly flying already, but the sound of the English fighters grew closer behind her, and she worried it wasn’t fast enough.
The pack of letters Brandon had given her slammed into her chest with every stride the horse took.
It reminded her with every yard she covered of the task she had been set with.
She knew that Brandon would not have sent her unless her life depended on it, and the lives of a whole host of others.
The words he had written were her purpose, her mission in escaping the English. She could not fail.
“We’ve got you now,” a menacing voice growled behind her.
The threat was so low, so confident, so close, that Laura could not stop herself from twisting over her shoulder to stare down her fate.
A group of three men were on her heels, riding hard and fast enough that she could see the steam floating off their horses.
The man closest to her already had his sword unsheathed and aimed for her.
Behind him, another man notched an arrow in his bow and pointed it at her horse’s flank.
Fear, slimy and hot, boiled in her belly.
“We cannae let them get us,” she told her steed as she turned back to stare down her escape route.
A fallen log stretched across the way, directly in front of her.
On either side were bramble bushes, thick and thorny.
It was too late now to steer her horse to avoid the obstacle.
If she did, the riders behind her would be sure to catch her.
The width of the trunk had to stretch up to at least her height, had she been standing next to it.
It would take a rare creature to be able to scale its size with ease.
A feat not just any horse would be able to tackle.
Luckily for her, Brandon had seen to it that she wasn’t given just any horse.
The faster they rode, the more encouragement she whispered to the animal.
She dared one last look, an arrow whizzing by her face as she did so.
All the men who trailed after her had chosen their horses for speed, not size.
They were lean creatures. And Laura knew they were all too small to be able to scale the tree.
“Just one jump,” she promised. “One massive jump. The biggest of yer life. And then we are free. Then we will be rid of them.”
She didn’t know who she was speaking to—herself or the horse. She supposed the assurances would benefit both of them. Four more strides. Three. Two.
“This is it, lad.”
“Do not let her cross that tree!”
“Just breathe,” she exhaled gently.
“Shoot her down!”
With a determined snort, she and the horse sailed into the air, hurling over the fallen tree like it was nothing. They landed hard, jarring her bones and the letters that slammed into her chest. Her horse shook his head, snickering off the jostling but kept running all the same.
“Another one. Fire another one!”
The men shouting behind her grew quieter, their arrows landing further and further away from her.
Her heart pounded so loudly that it took her several minutes to realize they had made it into Scotland.
When she finally looked up, her breath steady and slow, to see the mountains of her homeland, tears threatened to fall once more.
Gently, she pulled back on the reins, slowing her horse to a much deserved break. They walked to the stream once more, where she let him stand in the water and drink as much as he needed to.
“That’s it, my lad. Ye did so great.” Her breath caught in her chest all over again, the relief washing over her too strong to ignore. “Thank ye. Och, ye have saved me.”
She leaned over her neck and stroked him there. This time, she did nothing to stop the tears from falling freely down her face. Her muscles ached as exhaustion clawed its way back into her bones. But she spoke again.
“Thank ye.”
They stood there, in the babbling brook, for some long minutes. She watched the sun rise over her homeland, the blue sky clear and welcoming. She rested only as long as she dared, letting the horse cool down as much as she could manage.
“It will nae be long now before they move on us,” she told the animal. “We need to get these letters to Laird Kincaid. We need to finish our task. And then we will rest.”
With a click of her tongue and a nudge of her heels, they set off again. She set a brisk pace, determined not to stop again until they reached Kincaid Castle. Until they reached true freedom.
“Heaven forbid,” Taryn whispered in horror. “Eight lords?”
“Aye,” Oliver answered, delivering the grave news with all the stoicism he could manage. “The night that Sorcha was brought into the Baron’s hall, he secured the allyship of eight lords. They have all signed his petition, and all agreed to march with him.”
“How many men will they be bringing?”
James asked the question, having clearly stepped into the role as Captain of the Guard and was taking his job quite seriously.
“Each lord has a different number. It will take a fair bit of explaining,” Oliver said by way of answer. “
“We can discuss the numbers later,” Lachlan cut in, cold fury etched into his face. “I want to ken what their plan is first. How was he able to convince so many to join him? What did he claim? What did he promise them?”
Oliver couldn’t blame them for the grueling questions. It had taken more than a few minutes for them to even allow Oliver into the war room to see their maps and plans. Had he been in Lachlan’s position, Oliver knew he would have reacted much the same, if not worse.
Should his own lands ever be under attack, he would do everything he could to ferret out as much information as he could gather.
He would want the chance to create the strongest strategy he could.
And so, he was content to give every last morsel of intelligence on the Baron’s plans to Lachlan.
He would stay and answer as many questions as he could for as long as they would let him.
“A conquest,” Oliver answered simply. “The Baron has made claims that the Scottish Lairds are savages, uncultured and dangerous to the English way of life. He has laid the blame for raids and attacks—no doubt committed by his own people—at your feet.”
“I dinnae understand,” Aila muttered, more to herself than anything, but Oliver replied all the same.
“This is not about reclaiming land for Dudley. He is not trying to increase his farmlands or tenants. I honestly do not even think this is about coin for him. He merely wants to prove that he has the muscle to stage an attack of this magnitude and win.”
His words hung in the air between them all for a long, tense moment.
“He wants all of Scotland to himself. He will start with your lands, Kincaid. And then when he has comfortably established himself here, he will start invading the rest of the lowlands.”
“How can he do that?” Aila cried out.
“He has the numbers for it,” Oliver answered solemnly.
“Tell me,” Lachlan demanded, his voice low.
The Laird had his arms braced on the desk, his shoulders taut, as if he were bracing for a lash of pain. Oliver couldn’t blame him. In more than one way, that was exactly what he was doing.
As quickly and as factually as he could, Oliver shared the run-down of the numbers that he had last seen.
He listed out the hundreds of archers and cavalry men, the thousands of foot soldiers.
He detailed Dudley’s favored battle strategies and the maps Oliver had glimpsed during his short stay at the Baron’s estate.
When he had given every last shred of information, when he had exhausted his memories and insight, he stood silently.
Lachlan sat at the head of the table, his hands still braced on the table, while James was already peering at the maps again, moving the figures of men around where he thought they would be most useful.
Aila had her eyes squeezed shut, wringing her hands as she muttered to herself.
Sorcha had turned her back to him, offering comforting words to Taryn, rubbing soothing circles on her friend’s back.
He had done this. Or, at the very least, his words had created the gloomy haze that shrouded the room. No one would so much as look his way.
Once again, he was reminded that he was the outsider here.
It had been Sorcha’s ultimatum that got him into the room.
She was the only person present to remotely trust him.
Everyone else had listened to him only because he was offering something they needed.
And now that he had completed the task, they had no need or want of him.
It couldn’t be more clear that he was standing in front of a family, united and firm. One that didn’t include him.
“If we position our foot soldiers here…” James suggested in low tones.
Lachlan’s eyes darted up to Oliver and then back to the maps.
He didn’t need to say a single word. Oliver had heard the message loud and clear—he was to be treated as a spy.
They saw him as little else. Despite all he had shared about the Baron’s vile plans, they still believed him capable of double-crossing them.
He didn’t know how to convince them that betraying their trust, betraying Sorcha’s trust, was simply impossible for him.
As James went on, proposing one plan after another, Oliver drew further into the shadows. Slowly, the others joined in the conversation, offering their insights as they recalibrated their strategies. No one looked his way again.
His work was done. Now all he could do was return home and protect his own people. Oliver left the room on silent feet, the door clicking quietly behind him.