Diana Cosby (14 page)

Too easy would it be to care for her. Care? God’s teeth, a pathetic word, but to look deeper held its own dangers.

Griffin exhaled. “Rois—”

“’Tis Lord Brom,” a panicked voice called, followed by the snort of a horse reined too fast.

Rois spun toward the voice, trembled. “Da.”

Angus! Griffin caught Rois’s hand, and ran toward camp. As they broke the shield of fir, a lone rider, streaks of dirt staining his face, eyes frantic, halted his mount before the gathering men.

“What news do you bring?” Griffin asked.

The mounted knight turned, his eyes narrowing on Griffin, then softening when they found Rois. “Lady Rois, ’tis your father.”

Rois jerked her hand free from Griffin and ran to the Scot. “Is he worse?”

“Aye, my lady, he has taken a serious turn.” Grief played upon the Scot’s face as he struggled to speak. “He calls your name.”

Eyes wide with fear, Rois spun toward Griffin. “I must see him immediately.”

“Rois, your father requested you to stay away.” He faced the knight.

“How far is Lord Brom?” Griffin asked, estimating how long it would take to travel in his mind.

“A few hours,” the Scot replied.

Hours? Time he didn’t have. Once he received word from de Moray he was ready to leave, they would depart for Cumbuskenneth Abbey. However much he wished, for now, he could not take her to see her father.

A murmur rose from nearby. After glancing back, men shuffled aside.

Sir Lochlann nudged his way through the crowd. “What is going on?” Relief swept Rois. “Lochlann, ’tis Da. He is—” Her voice broke. “He calls for me.”

“Christ’s blood.” Lochlann met Griffin’s eyes. “I know you prepare to leave with de Moray. I will take her to see her father.”

Anger stormed Griffin. “You will take her nowhere.”

Lochlann’s eyes burned with challenge. “What kind of husband allows his wife to worry while her father may lie dying? I say, ’tis one who doesna give a damn, or a man who is naught but a bastard.”

“I owe you no explanation, Sir Lochlann,” Griffin stated, concealing his anger. He refused to give the Scot the outburst he sought. But as he was surrounded by rebels who already resented his presence, to attack Lochlann could sway the others to turn on him. Already he walked a fine line, and refused in any way to endanger Rois. “Rois will stay with me. While I am gone, you will guard her. No more.”

Face pale with shock, Rois stepped back. “I will see my da. Nor you, nor any other, will stop me.”

The Scots gathering round eyed Griffin with malice.

“He bade you to remain with me until his return,” Griffin said, damning that he could not take her and tend to Angus as well.

“He made the request when he was strong,” Rois countered, emotion dredging her voice, “before the battle, before an English blade found its mark.”

“I always keep my vows, Rois. A vow I will keep now, a vow given to the father of my wife.”

“You would deprive the lass of seeing her father,” Sir Lochlann snarled, “a man who may be dying with his last breath?”

Rois gasped, then began to shake.

Against the murmurs of dissent amongst the warriors, Griffin held the Scot’s gaze, if possible despising the bastard more. Deprive her? Well he knew the torment of lives destroyed. Because of his foolishness, his parents lay dead. What he would not have given to have been there for his sister during the traumatic time, to have offered support. Support he wished to give Rois now.

“You canna keep me from seeing him,” Rois stated.

Griffin hesitated, torn between Lord Brom’s request to keep Rois by his side and wishing for her to see her father possibly for the last time. If Sir Lochlann spoke the truth.

“Blasted Sassenach. You have the compassion of a bog worm,” Sir Lochlann spat. “I am taking Rois to see her father.”

Grumbles of agreement rippled through the crowd of Scots. Faces tense, their eyes darkened with fury.

God’s teeth, could this situation grow worse? Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. “She goes nowhere without me.”

Eyes raw with misery met Griffin’s. “I must see my da, Griffin. I have known Lochlann since he was a child. He will keep me safe.”

“The way he offered protection to the woman within the tavern two years past?” Griffin demanded.

“Griffin”—her body trembled as she struggled for control—“we speak of my father.”

“I know who we speak of,” Griffin stated, “and to whom I offer my trust.”

Sir Lochlann grunted. “Trust?”

A commotion started from behind the group. The Scots stepped back. One of de Moray’s personal guards pushed forward. “Lord Monceaux, Lord Andrew wishes to depart.”

Bedamned!

Rois clasped his arm. “Griffin, I will be safe with Lochlann.” Griffin met the Scot’s hard gaze with a silent threat.

“Trust me to make the right decisions,” Rois urged.

Green eyes as fragile as a spring morning watched. He silently cursed, furious he must leave.

“We will ride with several Scots,” Sir Lochlann said, his voice hard. “Know I would never jeopardize Rois’s life. Ever.”

The truth, Griffin mused. The Scot wanted her. Would do anything to get her.

De Moray’s man stepped forward. “Lord Monceaux?”

“Tell Lord Andrew I will be there in but a moment,” Griffin replied.

“Aye, my lord.” The knight turned, pushed his way through the crowd.

Griffin took Rois’s hands, damned his decision. God’s teeth, he was a fool. “I will be gone but days.”

Relief swept her face. “You are giving your blessing to my traveling to see Da?”

“Aye.” He shot the Scot a warning look. “God help you, Lochlann, if upon my return I hear you have slighted her in any manner—”

Rois stiffened. “Griffin—”

“Those are my terms, Scot.”

Sir Lochlann’s jaw tightened. “Rois will be well protected.”

Everything in Griffin screamed for him to keep her with him, but with the battle past and the English still fleeing south to the safety of England, the threat to her from King Edward’s troops was minimal. More important, if Rois rode with him as they brought her cousin to the abbey and Lord Brom died, never would she forgive him.

“Upon my return from Cumbuskenneth Abbey,” Griffin said, “where shall I find you?”

“At Stirling Bridge,” Sir Lochlann replied, “along the eastern boundary where the rebels have camped to tend to the wounded.”

Unease built inside Griffin as he drew Rois in his arms. “I will be gone but a few days. Be safe.”

“We will be fine,” Rois said. “Godspeed, my husband. Know I await your return with news of my cousin.”

Griffin hesitated. Did Rois realize she’d acknowledged him as her husband before the Scots? With her emotional guard shattered by her worry for her father, had she exposed her desire for their marriage to be real?

“I will return for you, Rois.” Leaving no doubt to whom Rois belonged, Griffin drew her into a hard kiss. He’d made the best decision he could, but he still worried for her safety. Without another word, he strode to where knights and riders mounted their steeds in preparation for the journey.

He glanced at Rois, who watched him, her vulnerability easy to read. He’d chosen right to allow her to see her father. Not that his gut agreed, but then, how did one allow a wife to ride with a man for whom you held naught but contempt?

“Lord Monceaux,” a knight called.

Griffin accepted the reins of his steed, nodded toward de Moray, who was secured on the litter ready to travel, then mounted.

Several Scots kicked their horses forward, the slow pace dictated by their leader’s condition.

Branches brushed Griffin as he started through the shield of trees to move beside the rebel leader. Between the fragrant, needled limbs, he caught glimpses of Rois as she watched him go. A keening built in his chest, an emptiness he’d rarely experienced.

He would miss her.

An odd thought when he would be gone mere days. Except the days ahead seemed as if a tremendous amount of time. He shook his head. One would think he was a man in love.

Impossible.

Logic guided his emotions. How could a man come to know Rois and not care? Confident he’d solved the unsettling question, he guided his mount alongside his wounded friend and, step by slow methodical step, headed toward Cumbuskenneth Abbey.

 

Dark clouds churned overhead smothering the rays of the late afternoon sun. Another cold gust battered Rois as she rode across Abbey Craig next to Lochlann. She tugged her cape tighter, struggling against the emotions warring in her soul.
Please God, let Da live.
Let her every fear be for naught. When she reached Da, let him gaze upon her with a smile and a familiar twinkle in his eyes.

They rode past a body made unrecognizable by the smear of decaying blood coating his face.

Nausea crept up her throat, and her wish faded against the slap of reality. Tears threatening, she scanned the land, the trees an ominous backdrop against the whip of wind and rain-blackened clouds.

“Sorry I am, Rois, for having to ride through where we fought the English,” Lochlann said. “If we had ridden around, we would have lost another day.”

Throat tight, she shook her head. “There is nothing easy about war.”

Lochlann grimaced. “Aye. No one truly wins.”

On that they both agreed.

In the distance the battered remnants of Stirling Bridge jutted toward the sky, rugged pillars once the foundation of a formidable bridge. Now, the sturdy expanse lay in a disjointed heap. Bloated bodies floated at the river’s edge. Near the banks, congealed swaths of blood smeared the frostbitten grass in a hideous display.

“How much farther until we reach Da?” she asked, fighting to ignore the bodies scattered about, their garb identifying them as English.

“A short way. If you wish,” Lochlann said, “you can ride with me.”

However tempted to lean on her friend, this she must do on her own. She patted her mare’s neck. “My thanks, but I am fine.”

“Are you?”

She ignored the brisk cut of his words. Worry culled his ire. “I didna know Stirling Bridge would be in such shambles.” As horrified to learn as she was fascinated, Rois needed to know. “You explained that the English decided to cross here, but how did Stirling Bridge end up destroyed?”

Pride filled her friend’s face. “’Twas a brilliant strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“Indeed. With the thousands of armed knights against us, never should we have won.”

“Aye.”

“First,” Lochlann explained, “de Warenne sent two Dominican friars to ask de Moray and Wallace if they would cede.”

“Cede?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Was he mad? Never would de Moray or Wallace cede.”

“Indeed.” Lochlann rubbed his jaw, drooped his hand. “Regardless, Wallace told the friars to return to de Warenne and inform him that they were here nae to make peace, but to free Scotland.”

A smile touched her mouth, with ease envisioning Wallace sending the Friars on their way.

“When English infantry began to cross,” Lochlann continued, “they left their flank pitifully exposed. Once de Moray and Wallace determined enough English had made their way over, they sent rebels to collapse the pillars beneath the bridge, cleaving the English army in two. Many of the bastards drowned, but those stranded on the north side were cut down, their reinforcements on the southern shore helpless, to watch us reap our vengeance.”

Rois closed her eyes, screams of the dying too clear in her mind. “God in heaven.”

“Feel no sorrow for the bastards. Be proud of the Scots. ’Twas their wit that drove the English scum back.”

Her heart filled with sadness at the death and devastation of so many, she looked at her friend. “Proud I am, but the loss on both sides is enormous.”

His mouth tightened. “More so had we lost.”

The condemnation in her friend’s voice underscored the grief he’d suffered through the battle. “You are right.”

“The bodies you see strewn about would be but a pittance if the English had been victorious,” Lochlann stated. “Had they overpowered us, they would have continued northward. As with their butchery at Berwick, they would have spared nae a man, woman, or child. And in their wake, left naught but careless destruction of life, and the homes leveled beneath the blaze of fire.”

The stories of the carnage at Berwick came to mind. Indeed, the greed of King Edward knew nae limits. To him, a country’s boundary defined naught but the next land to concur.

For now, the English king was at war in Flanders. When he returned to England and learned of Stirling Bridge, then what? Rois made the sign of the cross.
God help us all.
However much she wished otherwise, Scotland had far from seen the last of the English monarch.

And what of her cousin? Griffin would still be en route with him to Cumbuskenneth Abbey. Had Andrew begun to fever?

Her heart pounded as they rode up the spill of land cluttered with trees, brush, and bodies. As they crested the brae, before a thick swath of fir, her father’s flag came into view. Relief swept her, followed by fear.
Please let us find him well.

Lochlann pointed toward a stand of fir. “Lord Brom is camped within the trees.”

Rois kneed her steed into a canter; Lochlann rode at her side.

Several lengths from the trees, a guard stepped forward. Recognition flashed in his eyes. “Lady Rois?” Then he glanced toward Lochlann with a grimace.

Unease filtered through Rois. Why would the guard act apprehensive? He must have known Lochlann had ridden to bring her to see her father . . . Fear shoved through her. Had her father’s state degraded?

Her body trembling, Rois dismounted. She ran toward the break in the trees.

“Rois,” Lochlann called.

Branches whipped her face, but she didn’t care. Naught mattered except seeing her da. She shoved aside the next limb, and a sturdy tent came into view. Afraid to see him, more afraid nae to, she took a deep breath and ducked inside.

Near the center of the interior, a fire blazed. Thick smoke swirled against the tent’s peak where it churned out of a hole and into the murky afternoon sky. Wrapped within a blanket in the far corner, her father lay with his eyes closed and his face twisted in agony.

“Da?”

A frown wrinkled his brow, then slowly, as if in an act of immense will, he opened his eyes. The agony there almost brought her to her knees.

“Rois?”

His whisper-thin voice had her rushing to kneel beside him. “I am here.”

His mouth worked, then he gave a feeble exhale.

She uncapped her pouch of water, lifted it to his lips. “Drink. Please.” She helped him take several sips, and then set the cured leather sack aside.

Misery-wracked eyes darkened. “Wh-why have you come?”

Before she could answer, the tent flap slapped open. Lochlann stepped inside.

Her father began to shake as he tried to lift his head. Tired eyes narrowed. “She was to stay with her husband.”

Lochlann held fast. “She is your daughter and deserves to see you.”

“Enough,” Rois said. “Now is nae the time to argue.” She gave her father a gentle look. “Nor are you in any condition to do so.”

Her father crumpled back against his makeshift bed. “You . . . You sh-should nae have come.”

“’Tis too late.” Rois steadied herself. “Let me see your wounds.”

Her father tugged the cover snug, but his hand trembled from the effort. “They are better.”

Nerves shot through her. “Has a healer tended to your wounds?”

Wizened brows narrowed. “Rois—”

“Truth,” she interrupted. Damn him, she had to know!

“His wounds are infected,” Lochlann stated.

Her father shot Lochlann a withering glance. “A healer has c-cleansed the wounds several times as well as bound them with a poultice of goldenseal and sage.”