Chapter 22 #2
“Because Dudley has proven himself to be incapable of following the law, he cannot be considered a worthy upholder of the law. So his rulings of injustice against Laird Lachlan Kincaid are empty, as are any contracts he might have had with Lady Taryn McGregor. His pursuit of them, his claims of their crimes, are built on lies. He has no right to be here, and neither do any of you.”
A handful of the men behind her let out their cheers of agreement. Their fists punched the air, letting the English know just how unwanted their presence here was.
“Now,” Oliver continued, throwing a hand of his own to quiet the Scottish forces. “I am sure you are intelligent enough to know what this all means for you. One could argue that you are all only here out of duty and loyal obligation to your master.”
Having found his stride, Oliver put a hand on the commander’s shoulder, one that was near enough to comfort and friendship that Sorcha almost wondered if Oliver knew the man.
She crept closer, keeping her guard up. The rest of their forces might be caught up in the tale Oliver was weaving, but with Lachlan focused purely on his wife, and Taryn and James on the other corner of the field, she was the only one close enough to help defend Oliver should the need arise.
Underneath all of his convincing speeches and the shifting atmosphere of both sides, there was still a thrum of distrust, of hatred that wouldn’t vanish simply because of a few well-spoken words. Even the contents of the letters weren’t enough to quell their fury entirely.
Dudley’s sneer from the shadows proved that.
With a flick of his hand, he waved two men forward, their horses clopping across the red smeared battlefield and towards Oliver.
Sorcha’s hand readjusted its grip on her sword as her eyes sought Taryn’s.
With a pointed gaze, Sorcha directed Taryn’s attention to the coming guard, relieved when her friend notched another arrow while still holding the bow by her leg in feign casualty.
“However,” Oliver said, his eyes locked on the Baron and the approaching warriors as well. “It would just as easily be argued that you all now know the contents of these letters and the extent of the Baron’s crimes. I would have no shortage of witnesses to prove such a thing.”
He gestured to the courtyard full of eyes and ears.
“So, now that you have been made aware of such things, and as loyal subjects of the crown, I am sure that none of you will wish to continue in these baseless attacks here. Not unless you wish to be considered complicit in the Baron’s crimes and tried for treason right alongside him.
I must warn you, they do not reserve the more comfortable cells in the tower for commanders and soldiers. Those only go to the former nobility.”
The guard looked from Oliver to the Baron and back to Oliver again, eyeing where Oliver had dared to put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
She could nearly hear the commander think everything Oliver had said over, weighing his options.
She stopped her sly patrol through the crowd, landing beside his horse.
It was as close as she dared to get, not wanting to break the spell Oliver had them all under.
“How am I supposed to know that any of this will happen?” the Englishman asked.
“You could be bluffing. The letters are real enough, I will grant you that. But what makes you so sure that the Crown would come after any of us. As you say, we are mere soldiers, following orders. We were commanded to fight, to come here and march on this castle. Should we pick up our swords again, I would argue that we were simply doing the work we have been hired and ordered to do. Is that not what loyal subjects do? What makes you so sure that the Crown council would even bother to look our way?”
The man’s questions sent tension rising through the air again. Metal clinked as each man shifted their weight, readying themselves to fight. Sorcha held her breath. But Oliver let out a laugh, dry and humorless but no less shocking.
“You are a smart man,” Oliver nodded, still chuckling as he spoke, “I will give you that. You ask all the same questions I might have asked should I have found myself in your shoes.”
In a split second, all mirth from Oliver’s face vanished.
In its place was the same cool detachment he had worn when she had first met him.
He was every inch the proud nobleman, speaking with authority few others on the field could have ever summoned.
The hard planes of his face made his penetrating stare that much colder.
He looked terrifying, every inch of his six plus foot frame rising as his broad shoulders widened that much further.
With every passing heartbeat, the commanding officer shrunk.
Her eyes darted to the guards on horseback and then to Dudley. They were all antsy, all waiting to see how Oliver would respond. When he finally did, Sorcha had never felt so proud.
“You and I do not know each other very well, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt,” Oliver told the man sharply. “I know you do not mean to be petulant with your questions. But I also know myself. So allow me to illuminate the full picture of the situation for you.”
He slung his arm over his shoulder again and adjusted his grip on his sword, swinging the weapon through the air as he gestured with his hands.
“I am a tenacious man, you see. Once I have my mind set on something, there is very little that will prevent me from going after it. And there is nothing I want more than justice for my friends, here. So should you make the mistake of continuing this fight, I will have you know that any man left standing when we are done with you, will take his life into his own hands. Because I will spend the rest of my own life, making sure that each and every one of you is hunted down and made to pay for your crimes. I will not stop until I am satisfied that justice has been served. As is my duty and responsibility given to me by the King, himself.”
Oliver’s threat hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood and fear. Sorcha had to stop herself from smiling too broadly at his courage, at his lionheart. She instead stroked the horse’s neck, trying to keep herself and the beast calm.
The commander shifted his weight on his feet, as did the rest of the redcoats. Slowly, he turned to face Oliver, straightening his shoulders with a nod.
“It is as you say, my lord,” the Englishman said, bowing in deference to Oliver’s threats as well as his noble standing.
Then, pointing to the men on horseback and a handful of others, the commander gave an order that sent Sorcha’s heart soaring.
“You there, fetch the traitor. Bring him here so that the Marquess and Laird Kincaid might see fit what to do with him.”
His words rang out across the field, signaling the end of the battle for all to hear. Relief coursed through her veins. But as his orders traveled through the air, Sorcha realized things were far from over.
Just as the soldiers turned to carry out the commander’s orders, Dudley, and the four men who stood beside him, still kicked their horses into a dead sprint.
They raced towards the courtyard where both armies stood untied.
Just as she was sure the five men were going to charge into the fray, Dudley, and his horde pulled on his reins and turned his stallion sharply to the right, and then disappeared into the forest.