Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) (32 page)

Jeanette and Malcolm sat not far down the tunnel, whispering low enough that Scotia could not make out their words, while Scotia murmured a prayer that the MacAlpin clan and their allies would prevail in the coming war and that they would all be returned safely to their true homes. And then she turned her attention away from what had been and toward what she meant to reclaim.

“It is right to be nervous, love,” Duncan said quietly from where he sat beside her.

“I ken that.” She immediately regretted the snap in her voice and reached for his hand. “I still wish that you had returned to the caves. You are not well enough for battle yet.”

“I am well enough for my role in it, but I cannot lie and say it does not warm my heart that you are concerned for me.” He squeezed her hand.

“You are as sappy as a lass sometimes.” She looked at him, and though she could not make out any of his features in the darkness, she knew if he could see the stupidly happy smile on her face it
would tell him just how deep her feelings for him ran. “You must promise me,” she said, turning serious once more, “that you will stay by my side, no matter what happens. I almost lost you once. I do not ken what I would do if you were taken from me now when we’ve only found our way to each other.”

“I promise. I will stay by your side, but I do not promise that I will sit by quietly, especially if the barrier does not work—”

“It will work.”

“—or is breached.”

“That will not happen either,” she said, “but if it does”—she reached down and reassured herself that her sword was still attached to her belt—“we will all be fighting for our lives.”

“And you must let me protect you if it comes to that, you and the other Guardians, of course. Nothing must happen to the three of you. If this battle goes badly, you three must live to continue the fight.”

She wished, and not for the first time, that Jeanette’s gift of vision had revealed something of the coming battle, but she had not been able to see anything of it. Scotia thought perhaps it was Jeanette’s fear of what she might see that blocked her gift, and could only hope that in the midst of the battle she could wrest Jeanette’s vision from her and wield it as she had done at the Story Stone when the need arose.

“Let us focus on what we must do, Duncan,” she said, trying to get the thought of all that could go wrong out of her mind. ’Twas bad enough that even if they won this battle, they still had to erect the Highland Targe and keep it in place long enough to repel the inevitable next wave of soldiers sent by King Edward to capture Nicholas, the Guardians, the Targe, and this route into and through the Highlands, without the specter of losing more of the people she loved. She was not denying that she would most certainly lose people in the coming day, but she refused to dwell on it.

Duncan went silent beside her but did not release her hand.

N
ICHOLAS, DRESSED IN
the bloody clothes and dented helm of one of the soldiers who had been killed earlier that day, made his way through the moonless night quickly and quietly to the English camp sheltered in the lee of the castle wall. He lost no time in assessing the defenses of the camp. As he expected, those in plain sight were alert, and several of those hidden by the forest that grew thickly almost to the edge of the camp on the west were as well, but there were always one or two guards who attended to their posts with a lax attention. Once he found those he finalized his plans to infiltrate the camp, learn what he could from Lord Sherwood before killing him, and, if all went as he hoped, lure some of the soldiers into the trap awaiting them, evening the numbers for the coming battle.

When the time was right, he slipped past the guards and made his way into the camp, nodding to the few men who sat next to flickering fires, as if he knew them, while taking count of as many men as he could see, both awake and asleep in their blankets. No one questioned his appearance in the camp.

Before he arrived outside what was clearly Lord Sherwood’s tent, the only one in the camp, he took advantage of the dark and adjusted his posture. He bent over a little and wrapped one arm over his stomach where the worst of the bloodstains were, and then shuffled up to the guard, who seemed to be drowsing on his feet.

“I need to speak to his lordship,” Nicholas said in his best Nottinghamshire accent, taking care to slur his words as an injured soldier would. “My scouting party was attacked. I have information the lord will want.”

The guard looked him up and down. “Do not bleed on his carpet,” the man said. “He cannot stand that.”

Nicholas nodded and made as if to part the tent flaps, but instead he brought the stone he had hidden in his hand down on the back of the man’s head hard enough to drop him with only a quiet
oof
. Nicholas pulled him into the deeper shadow beside the tent and quickly arranged him so anyone who might see him would think him sleeping.

As he slipped inside the tent he was confronted with a space that should have been lavishly appointed, but then he remembered that the carts of goods and supplies had been left behind on the road and were surely in the care of the Scots at this point. The few things that some poor soul had no doubt hauled into the glen on his back—the carpet, thick and ornately decorated, a silver cup that sat on the ground next to an empty bottle of wine, and the leader of this band of soldiers wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, asleep on that carpet—reminded him of all he had left behind when he had chosen to remain in the Highlands with Rowan. It pleased him that he did not miss any of the trappings he had once coveted.

“My lord?” Nicholas said, drawing his dagger and covering the man’s mouth with his hand. “I think ’tis time you awoke.”

“Y
OU WILL NEVER
get away with this.” Lord Sherwood glared up at Nicholas, who had him pinned where he’d slept, his dagger at the man’s throat. “I know exactly who you are, spy. I know there is a price on your head, and I intend to deliver it to King Edward.”

“That might be a wee bit difficult, as I intend to keep it where it is.” Nicholas covered the man’s mouth again as he listened to a rustling outside. “It appears you’ve lost at least ten men, Sherwood, and you’ll lose the rest soon. The MacAlpins dinna look kindly on the English.”

“Then why are you still here, fitz Hugh?”

“Ah, see, that is the problem, you think I am English, when the truth is I am the MacAlpin. Nicholas MacAlpin, chief of the MacAlpins of Dunlairig.”

“I care not what you call yourself,” Lord Sherwood hissed, as he glared up at Nicholas. “We will take you and the red-haired witch, as well as the hunk of rock that seems to be what started all of this, for the king. And when that is accomplished, we will rid the world of each and every savage who claims to be a MacAlpin. This glen, and that castle, will belong to King Edward before this day is through.”

Nicholas made to slice the man’s neck open when Sherwood managed to grab his hand and pull the blade away from his skin.

“Guards! Guards!” he shouted, but before anyone could come to his aid, Nicholas tried to twist free of the man’s grasp. Sherwood’s grip was far stronger than Nicholas had imagined. They grappled for control of the dagger, rolling back and forth over the carpet as each worked to stab the other. Nicholas heard the pounding of several men running toward the tent and knew he would have to take Sherwood another time. He rolled with Sherwood toward the back side of the tent, ending up on top of the Englishman, then used every bit of strength he had to raise the dagger. Instead of plunging it into the other man’s chest, he twisted it so it ripped into the canvas, then he pushed it down enough to open a tear big enough for him to get through, but Sherwood was still gripping his wrist and had a hand at Nicholas’s throat as three men rushed into the tent.

“Guards, take him!” Sherwood shouted.

Nicholas took a deep breath and managed to throw the dagger out through the tear in the tent. Then he called on every bit of strength he had and launched himself off Sherwood and dove out through the same tear, rolling as he hit the ground, then racing through the camp, knocking over anything and everything he could as he passed. He grabbed a torch and tossed it into the midst of soldiers sleeping near the cold remains of a fire, then made sure
as many soldiers as possible saw him as he dashed out of the camp and headed up the ben as fast as his legs could take him.

“Do you think they will follow you?” Jock asked from behind a tree when Nicholas arrived at their rendezvous.

“I did my best to grab everyone’s attention, so I expect they will. Is everything prepared?”

“Aye, Nicholas,” Uilliam said, “we but need those daft English to take the bait. Did you learn what you needed to?”

“Aye, he knows naught of any Guardians except my Rowan, and he does not seem to ken what she can do. Our secret weapon is still secret from the king. Unfortunately, Sherwood still lives.”

The three of them waited, and Nicholas took advantage of the calm before the storm to steady his breath and prepare for the next part of the plan.

Torches flared in the distance, but it quickly became apparent that no one followed him.

“Damnation.”

“You need to get to the castle,” Uilliam said to Nicholas. “The sun will be rising soon. Look, the sky is growing lighter already. You have riled the wasp nest, leave the rest to us.”

“I had hoped we’d cull a few more soldiers before we had to face them in daylight. Do what you can, Uilliam, Jock. I will see you in the bailey ere long.” Nicholas took off at a run, heading for the bolt-hole tunnel and the next stage of the plan.

T
HE OWL CALL
quietly flew down the tunnel, and Scotia could hear Rowan sigh.

“He is here,” Rowan said. “Nicholas is here.”

“Malcolm, Jeanette, go now!” Scotia said, hating the necessity for the Guardians to split up, even for a short time.

“We will be back as soon as we can,” Malcolm said as he lit a lantern and handed it to Jeanette. “Lead the way, angel.”

J
EANETTE LED
M
ALCOLM
up the steep, narrow stair that wrapped around the tower between the inner and the outer wall. It had only one door at the bottom of the tower and one at the top. She and Rowan had discovered it once when they were children. She had not been down the stairs ever since. But she had used the small landing at the top to store the Chronicles of the Guardians, for that landing was just inside the secret door in her mother’s solar.