Knight's Blood (29 page)
Authors: Julianne Lee
Tags: #Kidnapping, #Science Fiction, #Fantasy fiction, #Married people, #Scotland, #General, #Fantasy, #Children - Crimes against, #Fighter pilots, #Fiction, #Time travel
“There are English towns north of here.” Trefor came all the way into the tent and closed the flap behind him, and Alex returned his attention to the map.
“More of them to the south. Fat and smug ones. Ones who think they’re safe from us Scots.”
“You’re no Scot. You don’t buy into this independence stuff, do you?”
Alex glanced at Trefor again. “You don’t?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, you and I happen to know we’re going to win.”
Eventually.
The work they were doing just then wouldn’t be finished for another decade or so, when the English king would be pushed back to his own country, but they would eventually win.
Eventually.
The work they were doing just then wouldn’t be finished for another decade or so, when the English king would be pushed back to his own country, but they would eventually win.
“You and James care about that stuff. Not me.”
Alex nodded. “That’s right. You don’t believe in anything but getting your way.”
Trefor’s weight shifted in his impatience. “I want to meet my mother. So shoot me. She’s reported north of here. If you don’t take your men, I’ll take mine.”
“Bad idea. You don’t have enough men to play John Wayne and charge to the rescue. Assuming this wendigo creature with the long hair and painted face really is your mother.” He tried to imagine Lindsay with her face covered in woad, and couldn’t.
“How can you think she’s not?”
“I knew her. She’s not like that. Lindsay was a tough woman, but she wasn’t a maniac. She was . . .” Memories of his wife tumbled into Alex’s head, and for a moment he couldn’t speak for the emotions they stirred.
“Was. You said she
was
. Like she’s dead.”
was
. Like she’s dead.”
Alex sighed. “I don’t know what she is, dead or alive or even living in this century yet. But I do know she’s not like the woman in that letter. She was . . .
is
. . . gentle at heart and not given to over-the-top displays of violence. She’s giving and forgiving. She showed me how to know what was best for you . . .”
is
. . . gentle at heart and not given to over-the-top displays of violence. She’s giving and forgiving. She showed me how to know what was best for you . . .”
Trefor’s eyes narrowed.
Alex sat up. “You couldn’t know. There were circumstances you’ve never been told, and I don’t care to go into it.”
“Uh-huh.”
The attitude chafed Alex, and he shifted in his seat. “But the bottom line on Lindsay is that this thing they talk about can’t be her.”
“I expect you wouldn’t want her back if it was.” Again the accusing voice.
“Of course I would. It’s just not her. It can’t be.”
“I say it is, and I’m going to take my men and go find her.”
“You’ll be wiped out before you can get near her.”
“A chance I’ve got to take.” Trefor ducked out of the tent, and Alex set aside the map to rise and follow.
“Where are you going?”
“To wave bye-bye to James.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“Trefor—”
A sharp pain slashed the back of Alex’s head and a swooshing noise came from nowhere. A nearby tree went
thunk
. “Ow!” Alex’s hand went to the pain and he ducked on instinct though it was far too late for that. He looked up at the tree, where a crossbow bolt stuck in the trunk, well embedded. Blood smeared his fingers. He’d been shot.
thunk
. “Ow!” Alex’s hand went to the pain and he ducked on instinct though it was far too late for that. He looked up at the tree, where a crossbow bolt stuck in the trunk, well embedded. Blood smeared his fingers. He’d been shot.
Alex turned to the direction from which the bolt had come, and heard rustling in the bracken and gorse among the forest trees. In an instant he was off and running through the brush, guided by the rustling and trampled bracken. But the attacker had a head start, and Alex couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of green plaid off in the distance, only a tiny patch flashing once among branches and fronds. Then, as the fleeing man gained ground, the rustling came to an end, leaving Alex to follow the broken growth as best he could. He came to a burn.
There he stopped and listened, but heard nothing other than the running of water over rocks in the stream bed. He searched it for wet marks on otherwise dry stones at the surface, but found nothing. The rocks at the bottom were undisturbed. No sign anyone had even stepped into the water, and no indication of exit on the other side. So he retraced the trail, looking for a spot he may have missed where his attacker veered. Nothing. Again he stilled himself and listened. Nothing. Soon even the birds in the trees above went back to their birdly conversation. The quarry was lost.
Green plaid. Whoever it was had been wearing a green plaid. The color meant nothing, for green and brown patterns were commonly used for camouflage and none of the clans who wore tartan had yet caught on to the idea of sett patterns to identify themselves. But it did mean that the attacker had probably been a Highlander. Definitely not English, and probably not Lowland Scot, though some of Alex’s Lowland knights wore plaids since coming to Eilean Aonarach.
A trickle tickled the back of Alex’s neck, and he touched his fingers to find blood running freely from the scalp wound. It smarted but wasn’t deep enough for the slightly nauseated feeling that would have suggested a bone wound and a nicked skull. He was lucky the bolt hadn’t plunged straight into his ear and out the other side.
Alex wiped his smeared hand on his surcoat as he made his way back to camp, and only then realized Trefor had not followed him into the woods to chase the assailant. Some backup. When Alex emerged from the trees, he found a cluster of his men gathered around Trefor, who held the bolt he’d pulled from the tree. Hector, Gregor, and the others dropped their discussion of the missile and looked up at Alex as he approached.
Trefor said, “Didn’t catch him?”
“Nope. Lost him at the burn. Good of you to help out.”
Trefor grimaced, then handed over the bolt. “You’re lucky.”
“I’d be luckier if someone weren’t shooting at me.” Alex took the bolt to examine it. There was nothing unusual about it, and no telling who had loosed it. He broke it over his knee and threw the pieces into a cluster of bracken, then touched a tender finger to the wound on the back of his head. The bleeding was slowing and would soon stop, having soaked his sark and the collar of his tunic. The damp, sticky linen and wool clinging to his neck gave him the creeps, so he headed for his tent to clean up, leaving the others to stand around and debate who the would-be assassin might be. He figured he needed stitches and ordered Gregor to find the woman among James’ camp followers who was good at that.
Alex didn’t like that Trefor seemed so nonchalant about this. He also didn’t like that Mike was nowhere around. Mike didn’t wear a plaid, green or otherwise, but that meant nothing. Whoever had shot that bolt would have donned the blanket to blend into the greenery, and could have gotten it anywhere. There were plenty of plaids to be borrowed or stolen from Alex’s knights.
The woman with needle and thread entered the tent behind Gregor, who brought a leather bowl filled with water and a linen cloth and set them on a folding camp table for Alex. The earl stripped to the waist and wet the cloth, then began dabbing blood from his neck and back. Gregor hurried to find a fresh shirt for him and wash out the spot on the tunic in the burn. Hector came from the talk with the other men, as Alex was bent over to have his scalp sewn back together.
“What in the name of all that is holy was that about?” Hector was nearly apoplectic.
The first poke of the needle smarted like fire. Alex drew a deep breath and knew it would become worse as she went and his skin sensitized to the pain. He concentrated on breathing. “Search me.”
For a moment Hector puzzled over Alex’s response, then he seemed to get it. “Ah. You say you don’t know.”
“Right. That was a complete surprise. Came from nowhere.” That he could have been taken so much by surprise made him feel a little stupid.
“I daresay, though, you might have an idea. A guess.”
Alex could guess but didn’t want to say.
Trefor.
He wondered whether Hector would make the same guess. “I couldn’t say a name.”
Trefor.
He wondered whether Hector would make the same guess. “I couldn’t say a name.”
“Not out loud, in any case. But who else among us would do away with you? And you can be certain it was one of our own number.”
Alex shut his eyes and let the pain of the stitches distract him from the knot in his gut. It loosened as expected and breathing became easier. “Sometimes it’s hard for a man to know who his enemies are.”
“Sometimes a man’s enemies are the people closest to him.”
Alex straightened to see Hector’s face, and the woman with the thread attached to his head stood back and waited patiently until she could continue. He saw a sadness in Hector that told him his nominal brother also hated he was talking about another MacNeil.
“He was with me when it happened.”
“He has men who obey him.”
Mike.
Alex wished he knew where Mike was just then.
Mike.
Alex wished he knew where Mike was just then.
“Trefor didn’t do it, and he had nothing to do with it.” A minute ago Alex had been thinking the same thing as Hector, but now he couldn’t countenance the idea that his son would try to have him killed. “He couldn’t. I’m his father.”
“Many sons have done away with their fathers, and Trefor is not known for his love for anyone other than that Bhrochan woman. He doesn’t think of you as his father in any case. He thinks he has none, and therefore has no loyalty to you, nor the clan, nor anyone else but himself. And possibly Morag, but even at that I would have doubt.”
“Trefor wouldn’t sneak around like that. He’d come at me with a sword if he wanted to kill me. In fact, I bet he’d relish a public confrontation if he thought he could defeat me.”
“You have more faith in him than anyone here.”
Alex wondered what Hector had heard. “What do you know of it? What has been said?”
“James has mentioned him. It’s been said that Trefor is your greatest weakness.”
“I’m sure he meant politically, not physically.”
“Is there a difference? All life is political. If Trefor wishes to see you dead, it surely is for his own advancement. What quicker and more sure way to have what he wants than to remove you from his path?”
“He wouldn’t inherit. He knows he’s not in line for my title, and could never be. Nobody would believe he’s my son even if he tried to claim it, and the newly created title wouldn’t go to anyone but a descendant.”
“But the land. Does he understand that with no heir everything you have in addition to the title would revert to the crown on your death? The land, the lairdship, the castle? The
cairn
?” That last seemed to carry more weight with Hector than Alex might have expected, and he wondered what the story was about the stack of rocks over the remains of their ancestor. “Even your chattel would become the property of the king. Does he know that? He would gain nothing.”
cairn
?” That last seemed to carry more weight with Hector than Alex might have expected, and he wondered what the story was about the stack of rocks over the remains of their ancestor. “Even your chattel would become the property of the king. Does he know that? He would gain nothing.”
Alex replied, “Yes, he knows.” But then he thought about that. Trefor knew it, but did Mike? And did Trefor truly understand that all land belonged to the king and use of it was strictly governed by one’s relationship with that king? He remembered how long it had taken himself to fully comprehend property was not sacrosanct here as it was where he came from. The Magna Carta had been signed the century before, but they were still a long way from the concept that all men were created equal and entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. A man’s home wasn’t necessarily his castle, and even the castles changed hands with alarming ease. Could it be Trefor thought there was a way to slip into Eilean Aonarach after Alex’s death?
If Trefor hadn’t known the assault was coming, why wasn’t he more outraged than he was? It was a hard question to answer, and it gnawed at Alex the more he tried to find reasons for the behavior. “Mike,” he said. “It’s Mike who wants me dead.”
“To what end?”
Alex shrugged and knew he was grasping at straws. “Nobody can say he’s the brightest crayon in the box.” Hector gave him a puzzled frown and Alex translated. “He’s rather stupid.”
“He fights well.”
“He fights like a bear. He plunges in and flails about, and frightens off his opponents. One day he’s going to encounter an Englishman who isn’t a coward, and then he’ll be dead.”
Hector only grunted at that.
“In any case, I’m thinking Mike could be the one who shot at me.”
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