The Highlander On The Run (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 1) Page 6

  “We can go down now?” his lieutenant interrupted, making him wince.

  “Don’t shout,” he chided. “And I think that’s a terrible idea.”

  “Fine,” McNeil said angrily, surprising Alexander with the welling bitterness in his stare. “We’ll do it your way, eh? You, the high-and-mighty Lord Alexander…what do you suggest, my lord?”

  “That’s enough,” Alexander warned. His arm had tensed, and he held it down in a physical exertion of will, resisting the overwhelming urge to strike out. “McNeil…”

  “Oh, do it your way,” he grunted, and, before Alexander could stop him, he shouldered past, heading toward the valley.

  “Wait!” Alexander hissed. He strode after him, his hand tightening on his belt, where he wore the dagger he’d sharpened nightly. He would attack the fellow if he kept this up. He couldn’t let him ruin everything!

  He just needs to stop in the pathway at the wrong moment, and our whole enterprise is finished.

  The royal riding party would be passing through the woods soon. Just five men, two woodsmen and the King. The rest of the woodsmen and the hounds would be following by later, giving the king a chance to enjoy his ride and talk with his chosen company.

  “It would be the perfect moment – the one we’ve waited for.”

  They could easily overwhelm the party, shoot the king with a crossbow, and blend away instantly. It was perfect.

  But McNeil, and his arrogant pride! He was going to ruin everything!

  Stomach clenching, Alexander started to run.

  McNeil was a fast tracker, one of the reasons Alexander respected him enough to include him in the band in the beginning. Lithe and quick, he had passed along the pathway faster than Alexander would have imagined. Looking from one mist-clad tree-trunk to another, the visibility restricted to a hand’s length ahead, he sought and failed to find the dark color of McNeil’s hair.

  Swearing, crashing through the undergrowth, knowing he was making himself a target every second, Alexander hurried down the hill, smelling the sharp scent of bracken, skidding on wet leaf-mold.

  Slipping, he caught sight of McNeil twenty minutes later, as they finally reached the valley floor.

  He froze.

  Horsemen – four at least – were coming down the pathway. He looked left and right, desperate to escape. On the other side of the path, face white, eyes huge, he saw Brogan.

  “No!” Brogan yelled; the tatty linen flag he’d brought along bundled on his arm. He looked close to tears. “Not yet! Sir! Wait…”

  Alexander tensed, reaching for McNeil, who was almost in the middle of the pathway. Then, before he could do a thing, the sound of horse’s hoofs split their hearing.

  “Out of the way!” a man roared. “How dare you stand in the way! This is the king!”

  Alexander felt his blood curdle with rage, hearing a whip crack. He looked up and, through the haze of fury, saw a tall man with pale brown, curling hair, his tall back straight, posture ramrod-stiff. He got the fleeting impression of a narrow, cold face and icy blue eyes and then the world exploded into star bursts as something hit.

  “No!” he yelled, stumbling forward. He saw hoofs looming close, and heard somebody laugh. Then, before he had rightly thought about what he was going to do, he pushed down, sprang upright, and drew his dagger, whirling.

  Screaming a wordless cry, he fell on the man closest. He felt his dagger strike a mail gauntlet, and then heard someone shouting, loud.

  “Stop it, sir!” Brogan screamed, grabbing him and dragging him off. “They’re all armed and armored. Go!”

  “But…” Alexander panted, struggling back into the bracken, Brogan gripping his shoulders and pulling him. “But, the ambush…”

  “We were surprised, sir,” Brogan said. He was crying, swift tears falling scalding hot. He glared at Alexander. “Sir, what happened?” he shouted. “Why did you come down?”

  “McNeil,” Alexander hissed angrily.

  “McNeil is here?”

  “He was there,” Alexander jerked his head angrily towards the clearing. At this stage, he didn’t think he cared if McNeil had been slaughtered by the lords. He was more angered than he’d ever been in his life. His whole body thrummed with it.

  “There they are! Get them!” a voice shouted harshly in Gaelic. Alexander looked round, heart thudding.

  “Better go,” he said.

  Together, hand in hand, they ran out of the clearing.

  “They’ll chase us all day,” Brogan hissed, keeping up with Alexander. He was a good runner, Alexander thought, but he could see he was already feeling strain. He tensed, looking around.

  “We’ll find the stream…crossing it, they’ll lose our tracks. And then…”

  His sergeant shook his head. He’d gone white. “They have dogs, sir,” he said. “On that side of the stream. That’s what you said they planned to do…”

  Alexander closed his eyes, feeling desperate. They were standing on a rise, which was the only reason the horsemen weren’t already bearing down. Charging uphill, through thick undergrowth, was time consuming. He looked around. They could either climb the slope, a long, arduous process, and get back to the road, or they could try to cut through the forest and avoid the hunters.

  The former ran the risk that the horsemen would simply double back onto the road and outflank them, reaching the hilltop long before they did, and setting a trap. The latter plan was risky, but faster.

  “Let’s go down.”

  As they slid back below the tree line, Alexander’s mind teemed. They had to find somewhere to hide, to lay low for an hour while the foresters searched the woodlands. He didn’t think they’d find the barn they’d used – it had their goods and horses, but it was five miles away! There was no way they’d reach it without being seen.

  “They’re getting closer, sir,” the sergeant hissed.

  “I know,” Alexander agreed. He could hear the horses, thundering up the path and, closer, the hunting horn. The men with dogs had come from the castle, and now they were calling to the king’s party, seeking to meet.

  All they need to do is signal distress and those woodsmen will let loose the dogs and then we may as well lie down and die.

  He felt his heart clench as the sound went up; a low, wavering keen of a hunting horn.

  “Bollocks.”

  Alexander nodded, brow raised, as his sergeant swore.

  “Aye, lad,” he whispered grimly.

  Together, they looked around the woods. The sound of the hoofs had receded on their right, meaning that the king’s party had joined the road. Which way they would take it was anyone’s guess: up the hill, to waylay them, or just along the road to Inverkeith.

  And we can’t risk it, he thought desperately.

  “Come on,” he said, gripping his sergeant’s wrist. “We’d better go.”

  They ran.

  The baying of hounds could be heard, distant still, but getting closer. It drifted through the mist chilled air, a sound to freeze a man.

  “They’re getting closer,” Brogan breathed.

  “Aye, Brogan,” he whispered. “I can hear it.”

  They stopped, as Brogan doubled over, wheezing hard. He looked up at Alexander, eyes damp and watery.

  “I can’t…” he breathed. “I can’t keep up.”

  “We’re going to walk,” Alexander said swiftly. “We don’t have to go far.”

  Brogan stared at him. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To the castle.”

  Alexander walked grimly forward; ears unmoved by his companion’s loud protests. He knew this was likely a stupid plan, but it was the only plan they had. Either they got caught by the hunters, walked into the king’s party, or starved or froze to death hiding in the woodlands. If they went back to the castle, nobody would think to look for them there. It was a crazy idea, he knew. However, it was the best thing he could think of.

  “Sir, you should go on alone,” Brogan suggested, making hi
m stop in his tracks. “Leave me. Rejoin McNorrie and the lads.”

  “That’s enough.”

  Alexander glared at the lad, and was relieved to see him acquiesce.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Whatever he might feel, Alexander would never abandon one of his own trusted men. He felt a twinge of guilt at McNeil, but smothered it down harshly. The man had been arrogant, driven by his need to be right. He had sealed his own death.

  “If we go at this rate, we’ll be there in an hour,” Alexander said encouragingly. “And why would they send the dogs the way they came?”

  “I hope they won’t,” Brogan said softly.

  “You’re a fine comforter, you.” Alexander chuckled.

  They walked on silently as possible. The mist clung to Alexander’s cloak, making it heavy with damp. He could feel it condensing on his face, gluing his eyelashes. He walked on, shivering with cold.

  He could hear Brogan behind him, the lad making little attempt at silence as they went ahead. His feet crunched and cracked on twigs and pebbles, and Alexander could hear his ragged breathing.

  I’ll be lucky if the lad makes it, he thought.

  He was glad they were heading to the castle. Mayhap the safe place there would be safe, after all.

  Anything’s better than these woodlands.

  Crunching down the pebble-strewn path, abandoning quiet in favor of speed, they set off at a jog towards the castle.

  When they got there, it was early afternoon. Alexander looked up at the gate. It seemed a later hour than it was, for the sky was dark with cloud, the mist giving way to rain.

  “Who goes there?”

  “It’s me, you wool-stuffed fool,” he disparaged the guardsman cheerfully. “Brune, the woodsman.”

  “Why’re you here, Brune?” the guard called down, annoyed. “You should be out there with the rest. Sounds like they need help.”

  “Help?” Alexander called back, heart thudding. They had to let them in! Before the party returned. The hunters hadn’t seen them, so would give them less trouble, but the king and his men..? They had a good chance to get a good look. With bad luck, they’d be recognized.

  Then they would be dead men.

  “What are you talking about?” Brogan wheezed. He sounded badly hurt and Alexander felt worried.

  “The hunting party,” the guard shouted down. “They had a lad run back to fetch more men. Said the king was in danger. They’d been ambushed.”

  “Ambushed?” Alexander yelled back. He tried to sound surprised.

  “Aye. When fellers leap out of the trees,” the guard called back, rudely. “Where have you lads been? In the woods?”

  “We’ve been swimming with the wee fishes,” Brogan countered sarcastically. “Where do you think we’ve been?”

  “Anyway, we need to get in,” Alexander said swiftly. “We need horses. What use are we on foot? It’ll take an hour just to reach the place the king must have reached by now.”

  “True,” the guard called down. Alexander could see an uncertain frown. He bit his lip, praying the fellow believed his stroke of inspiration. To his utter relief, he nodded.

  “Fine” he yelled. “Come and get horses. And then you can get lost. I’m sick o’ the both o’ ye.”

  “Suits me,” Alexander called up jauntily.

  Looking at each other round-eyed, the two of them headed under the low archway and into the courtyard. They were in.

  Alexander looked round the gloomy space, eyes roving, searching for the barn she’d mentioned the night before. It had come to him in a flash of inspiration, but, now that they were here, doubts crept in. Where was the place? Was it secure?

  “Where are we going to go, sir?” Brogan whispered. He sounded tense.

  “A barn,” Alexander said ruefully. “Near a gatehouse. Can you see it?”

  “There?” his companion pointed hopefully.

  “Where?” Alexander squinted, then shook his head at himself, defeat warring with relief. “Oh. Yes, I reckon.”

  Falling into step beside Brogan, they walked as casually as they could to the barn.

  They reached the door just as the horn sounded in the courtyard.

  “What’s that?” Brogan said.

  “Get in!” Alexander hissed. “Lie down. On the floor. Now.”

  The door creaked as it slammed. It was dark inside, and it smelled like old moldering cloth. Alexander stifled a cough. He lay down on the floor. Beside him, Brogan lay too.

  “The King’s party was ambushed! Send out reinforcements!”

  Alexander met Brogan’s eyes. All he could see in the darkness was the whites of them, round and staring. They shared a meaningful glance. On the floor, Alexander felt Brogan’s hand stretch out for his. He gripped it briefly. His own heart was thudding with fear.

  “Just in time,” Brogan whispered.

  “Aye.”

  They lay in the silence and the scent of sacking. Around them, the world exploded into sound and haste. Horns sounded in the courtyard, and men ran to and fro. Horses ran past. Somebody yelled.

  Alexander resisted the urge to look out – there were no windows, but there was a knot in the wood of the door he could spy through.

  “We need more men!” somebody yelled. “Rendell? Stewart? Come on wi’ ye!”

  Alexander lay there, tense and shivering, while the sound of tramping feet first grew louder, then diminished.

  After what seemed like an age, the castle lapsed to silence.

  “Sir..?” Brogan whispered, when the silence had stretched a while.

  “Aye?”

  “What do we do now..?”

  “We wait,” Alexander said. He was stiff and sore. He grunted, drawing his knees up to his chest, then sat upright, leaning against the wall. His body felt washed out, as if he’d been wrung out with the laundered sheets.

  “What do we wait for?” Brogan asked. He was leaning against the opposite wall. If Alexander slit his eyes, he could just make out the shape of his sergeant. He looked as slumped and drained as he felt.

  “Until we can sneak out,” Alexander shrugged.

  “How do we know?”

  Alexander didn’t answer. He had no idea himself. He had led them here, knowing they’d be safe, for the moment. How they were supposed to get out, he didn’t know. To all intents and purpose, they were trapped.

  Until he could think of something.

  FEAR AND FINDING

  “Just a bit more off the back,” Lord Arnott said.

  Addie swallowed hard. “Yes, milord.”

  She was shaking, though she couldn’t have said why she was so out of sorts. The room was close, the window covered with a thick velvet curtain, the light coming from two tall beeswax candles. The familiar scents and sounds of her trade – the spiced scent of the hair pomade, the brisk snip of silver scissors – did not calm her nerves.

  “And if you could put more of that lotion on my shoulders?” the lord continued. “I reckon it has a grand effect on the skin.”

  Addie gulped. “Yes, milord.”

  It was Lord Arnot who unnerved her – though always polite and mannerly, he exuded a smooth, satin-soft threat. She finished trimming his hair – a rich pale brown, woven with a few grays – and then brushed the damp strands of hair off his shoulders.

  He was good-looking in a long-limbed, remote way. All the same, there was something sinister and threatening about him that she could not like.

  “You know, Addie,” he murmured, as she reached for the lotion, tensing before she touched his bare skin, “I sometimes fancy we should get to know one another better. Hm?”

  Addie knew he could see her face reflected in the mirror, so she schooled herself to neutrality. Inside, her heart was thudding like a drum, her stomach clenching with nausea.

  “Mayhap, milord,” she said.

  He laughed, though it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I think the thought disturbs you. Am I right?”

  “Mayhap, milord.”

  T
his time, he swiveled round in the chair. She tensed, glad she had put the scissors away – he could have been cut, and that could have lost her the job, or worse.

  “You are nervous, are you not?” he whispered. His eyes – the glittering green of murky water – held hers. She felt like a mouse must feel, watched by a hawk.

  “No, milord.”

  He smiled. “Oh, but you are,” he murmured. His eyes hardened, and she could see he’d taken offense.

  “No, milord.”

  She backed away, first one pace, then another. He stood.

  “I’m not accustomed to such reluctant manners,” he said. His posture had changed – from loose-limbed ease, he’d tensed and looked down at her now with a menacing air.

  “Milord, I…”

  “Milord!” a servant called from outside the door. A light knock sounded, then repeated.

  “What?” he shouted, twisting to the door.

  “Apologies, milord,” the voice outside said nervously. “But we have need of your guidance. On a matter of urgent need.”

  “Oh, for…” he rolled his eyes. He shot a meaningful glance at Addie. “Our conversation is not over,” he said.

  Then, before Addie could say anything – protest, acquiescence or otherwise – he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

  “Whew.”

  Addie leaned against the wall with a long sigh. She had stopped shaking, and felt drained and weary. She reached for her tools – the dish of pomade, the silver comb, the scissors – and packed them away, hands unsteady, into her bag.

  “What if he wasn’t called away?”

  The thought plagued her. This was one aspect of her trade her father had not considered, when he recommended it. She was obliged to be alone in chambers with men – mostly unscrupulous men, used to having their own way.

  She hurried to the door and closed it softly behind her.

  In the still room, she sat down heavily on the bench. Mrs. Murree, who made the simples and other things used in the castle, was not there. The fire was burning low, the rich scent of herbs flavoring the air. Addie breathed in sharply, letting the scent drift down into her lungs. She leaned forward on the work bench, suddenly exhausted.