The Rose and The Warrior (6 page)

It was much later when Roarke finally spoke, sensing that she, like he, could not sleep. “Even if his leg is not broken, it is certain he is finished with riding,” he observed quietly.

Silence stretched between them.

“I know,” Melantha finally admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

“Then why do you fight so hard to save him?”

He could not see her clearly through the darkness, but he knew she had begun to stroke her horse. “One does not reward a friend for years of loyalty and service by getting rid of him the minute he is no longer of value. Morvyn deserves more than that.”

“But if tomorrow he cannot stand, what will you do?”

“He will stand,” Melantha assured him fiercely. “And then I will take him home, where he belongs.”

“To what end?” persisted Roarke, trying to understand. “His days of carrying you on his back are finished.”

“He will rest until his leg has healed,” Melantha replied, “and then he can spend the rest of his days grazing in meadows, feeling the sun warm his coat, and watching as one season turns into another. That is far more fitting than to cut his throat and leave him to rot alone in these woods.”

“He will slow your journey to your holding.”

“I don't expect a MacTier to understand,” she retaliated scornfully. “You would leave one of your own men to die, if taking him with you meant you would be inconvenienced.”

“I am a warrior. I do not have the luxury of fretting over one injured soldier or horse. I make my decisions based on the greater benefit to my men and my clan. That is what a leader does.”

“I am also a leader,” Melantha informed him coolly. “Don't forget, MacTier, I am the infamous Falcon your laird sent you to capture. I have led my men on dozens of raids, and each time we have all returned safely. And I would no sooner leave one of my men behind, or my horse, than I would take out my sword and run them through with it. To do so would not only be despicably selfish, it would also be cowardly.”

Roarke closed his eyes, dismissing her as he prepared to get some sleep.

The lass was scarcely more than a child, an unruly girl playing at being a brigand and a thief, so she could bring some pretty treasures home to her clan and impress them with her prowess. She could not possibly understand the unfathomably ugly decisions a warrior had to make as he fought to honor his clan and protect the men fighting alongside him.

But as he listened to the gentle whisper of her voice soothing her injured horse, he could not help but be moved by her misguided compassion.

And feel strangely guilty that tomorrow he would seize her and drag her back to his laird for retribution.

C
HAPTER
3

“By God, lass, ye've got the touch!”

“He's not fully standing yet, Magnus,” said Colin, watching as Melantha slowly coaxed her horse to his feet. “We don't know if he can walk.”

“You'll walk, won't you, lad?” asked Melantha softly as she rubbed the animal's injured leg. “You're just afraid to put your weight on your leg because you remember how terribly it pained you yesterday—but you're better now, aren't you?” She eased his heavy foot to the ground. “There, you see? That barely hurts at all.”

Morvyn gingerly shifted some weight on his tightly bandaged limb.

Then he whickered and drew it back up again.

Roarke cursed silently.

“Now, that won't do,” Melantha admonished, laying her hands firmly upon Morvyn's leg. “I know it's sore, but the swelling is down and we've got to get moving, so I need you to be a brave lad and endure it until we get home. Come, now, I'll help you, all right?” She eased the aching limb to the ground once more.

Everyone held their breath as Morvyn tentatively placed his hoof on the ground, keeping all of his weight on his other legs.

“There's a good fellow,” praised Melantha, stroking his silky nose. “Now let's try a little step.”

She took hold of his bridle and slowly walked forward. Morvyn stretched his neck as far as he could without actually moving. When Melantha kept walking, he had no choice but to take a faltering step with her.

“Look!” exclaimed Lewis. “He's walking!”

“Melantha said he would, didn't she?” demanded Finlay, as if there had never been any doubt.

“Aye, she did!” Magnus slapped Colin heartily on the back. “And when that lass makes up her mind about something, there's no use tellin' her she can't have it!”

Roarke watched with relief as Melantha led her beloved horse in a circle through the trees. The poor beast was slow and limping, but his tightly swathed leg was taking the burden of his weight relatively well, which meant the bone was not broken after all.

“I was sure that horse was finished yesterday,” mused Donald, shaking his head in amazement. “I'd have wagered money on it.”

“As would I,” admitted Myles. “But she was determined he would walk, wasn't she?”

“Aye,” said Roarke. “She was.”

“That horse is a warrior,” observed Eric with gruff approval. “A warrior forces himself not to think of his pain.”

“That's a good lad,” murmured Melantha, caressing Morvyn behind the ears. “That's my good, brave lad.” She gave Colin a triumphant smile. “As long as we move slowly and give him time to rest, he'll be fine.”

Colin nodded. “Then let's be off. At this rate it will take us all day to get home.”

“I'll ride with you,” said Melantha, leading her horse over to him. “Morvyn can follow behind us.”

“All right, then, lads, up ye go,” said Magnus, gesturing to Roarke and his men. “There's a long ride ahead, but fear not—I've plenty more tales to keep ye entertained!”

“Wonderful,” Roarke muttered, awkwardly hoisting himself up onto his horse.

The little party set out, its cumbersome pace dictated entirely by Morvyn. This meant they plodded along at scarcely more than a walk, stopping every couple of miles to enable the limping beast to rest. Not once did any of Melantha's men complain or question the wisdom of her decision. Instead they seemed genuinely delighted that the hobbling creature was faring as well as it was, and took turns assuring Melantha that once they were home Morvyn would soon be as fit as ever. Whatever weaknesses the Falcon may have had as a leader, it was clear her men respected her enough to abide by her decisions, even when it meant saving a crippled horse that would never be of use to anyone again.

Had the decision been his, Roarke would have cut the limping creature's throat and left it to die in the cool, fragrant green of the forest.

“They're back!”

“The Falcon has returned!”

The first excited cries startled Roarke as they reverberated from high within the branches over his head. Melantha's people had a decided propensity for hiding up in trees, he reflected.

Curiosity to see the Falcon's holding, coupled with a lack of opportunity to escape, had ultimately made Roarke resign himself to the prospect of being presented to Melantha's clan as a prisoner. This had the benefit of enabling him to lead a force back to retrieve all of the valuables that had been stolen from his clan. Within minutes the news of their arrival was rippling far beyond the woods, and by the time they emerged from the forest people were racing toward them, their smiling faces flushed with excitement.

“ 'Tis good to be home again.” Magnus sighed happily.

Roarke stared in confusion at the castle rising before him.

He had not wasted any time contemplating the appearance of the Falcon's holding. Nevertheless, he was completely unprepared for the crumbling pile of stones standing precariously in the middle of a scrubby field. He scanned the rest of the meadow, searching for the keep that was actually being used by these people. There was nothing more except a scattering of small, bleak cottages dotting the dry grasses. At least a half dozen of these had been reduced to roofless walls and blackened rubble, apparently consumed by fire. The other cottages were a patchwork of old stone and new, with fresh thatch covering the rooftops. Evidently these huts had also recently been claimed by fire, but Melantha's people had managed to salvage them.

“Recognize this place?” demanded Colin sarcastically.

Roarke rode slowly toward the forlorn looking castle, saying nothing.

It seemed the stronghold had once been an attractive structure of salmon-colored stone that was quite different from the bleak gray fortresses to which Roarke was accustomed. Enormous care had been taken to quarry rock of this pleasing color, and the effect was a building that rose warmly against the lavender and slate of the early evening sky. He could easily imagine how handsome the holding had been before it fell into such sad disrepair, especially when the surrounding fields were green and the sun lit the stone to a fiery glow. The rock itself had been neatly cut and artfully pieced together around many large windows, which although attractive, instantly struck Roarke as a weakness. Even the gate was handsomely framed with an intricate arch of beautifully arranged stone, giving the entrance an elegant, welcoming look, as opposed to the forbidding countenance it should have manifested. There were four high, rounded towers of handsome proportions, but like the rest of the fortress they were scarred and decrepit—the result of too many attacks and the unforgiving wear of time. It baffled Roarke that no one here had thought to orchestrate the castle's repair. Perhaps these people lacked either the skill or the initiative to undertake such a mammoth task.

They rode through the black jaws of the gate and entered the courtyard, where Melantha's people were excitedly scrambling to assemble themselves. Their ruddy faces were bright with pleasure, making it clear that the return of the Falcon and her band was cause for celebration. Some of them had raised cups of ale into the air, while a bent, white-haired fellow who looked even more ancient than Magnus had balanced himself precariously on a small platform and was now awkwardly struggling to hoist his bagpipes onto his bony shoulder. There was a palpable energy to the people as they poured from the castle, hastily adjusting their gowns and plaids in a valiant attempt to improve their rather peculiar appearance.

They were clad in gowns, shirts, tunics, and plaids of every quality and description, from the absolutely threadbare to the costliest and finest. Men were dressed in tattered brown and green plaids that had been paired with intricately embroidered, ill-fitting shirts, or handsome plaids of varying colors were draped over tunics that seemed little better than rags. The women were predominantly garbed in drab gowns of worn wool, over which many of them had tied colorful sashes and shawls of rare silk. Several older women even wore elegantly stitched gowns of exquisite beauty, but it was eminently clear from their poor fit that these dresses had not been created with the present wearer in mind. Roarke noticed that most of the clan's footwear was cracked and worn, but there were a number of men sporting heavy deerskin boots that seemed a size or two too large, and some women garbed in tattered dresses had squeezed their feet into richly ornamented slippers. All the men had dirks strapped to their waists and handsomely crafted swords gleaming at their sides. But a closer inspection revealed that the hilts were pocked with gaping, empty sockets where jewels had once nested.

The children also wore ragged plaids and gowns, and had either bare feet or rough scraps of leather bound to their soles with thin cord. It was the children's faces, however, that most disturbed Roarke. Although well scrubbed and lit with anticipation, they invariably bore the same hollowed cheeks and sharply defined jaws that Roarke had noticed in Melantha. These children also knew the cruel ache of hunger, at a time in their life when they needed wholesome food in abundance.

A few members of the clan suddenly noticed the bound wrists of Roarke and his men. Their expressions grew wary, and some of the women grabbed their children and moved protectively in front of them. Roarke wondered at the obvious alarm. Certainly in their current position, stripped of their weapons and with their hands bound, he and his men posed little threat to them.

“Good Lord, Melantha,” sputtered a tiny, shriveled-looking man who shuffled forward from the crowd, “what in the name of St. Columba have you brought home this time?”

“I bring you two sacks of hares and birds, Laird MacKillon,” replied Melantha, climbing down from Colin's horse and tossing the sacks onto the ground. “And four pairs of boots, eight dirks, eight leather satchels, five pounds of oats, two good blankets, two wooden cups, and four good swords.” She retrieved two more sacks from Finlay and Lewis and threw them down. “Magnus will see to it that it is divided as fairly as possible.”

Roarke recalled how Melantha had refused to sample even a small portion of the meat she and Colin had killed. As he looked at the thin faces of the children staring hungrily at the bags filled with game, the reason for her restraint was amply clear.

Everything the Falcon's band either killed or stole was brought here and divided among the members of their clan.

“Well, now, that's splendid,” praised Laird MacKillon, bobbing his white head happily. “Simply splendid.” He turned to his people. “Let's raise a cheer to the Falcon and her men, who have once again brought us wonderful gifts.”

A restrained cheer rose into the air, tempered by the crowd's concern over Roarke and his warriors.

“Splendid!” praised Laird MacKillon, apparently oblivious to his people's lack of enthusiasm. “Thor, are you ready?”

“Aye.” The old man on the platform took his mouthpiece between his lips and inhaled a wheezy breath.

An unbearable whining blasted through the air. Mercifully, the piece was cut short when the elder suddenly broke into a phlegmy fit of coughing. While this was infinitely better than the screech of the pipes, Roarke grew concerned that the ancient musician was going to expire from lack of air, topple off the platform and smash his head open.

“Here, Thor,” called a scrawny young boy who rushed toward him with a cup.

The old man grabbed the goblet and greedily downed its contents. Then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and released an impressive belch.

“Thank you,” he said, cheerfully waving up at the sky. “You know I'll not mind going when my time has come, but t'would be a wretched shame for it to end in the middle of such a glorious piece of music.” He belched loudly again. “That ale has nearly done the trick, Keith,” he said to the lad, “but I'd best have another cup just to be safe.”

The boy took his goblet and ran off to fill it again.