“What are you driving on at?” Sir Gretchen asked. “They are just some rabble to be driven off. We will dispatch them with ease.”
“I suspect not, Sir Gretchen,” Simon said. “There is something greater at work here, and I mean to make use of it.”
“Make use of it?” Sir Gretchen gawked. “There is no reasoning with a Scotsman, and I do not intend to buy my way from some rag-tag highlanders.”
“That is not my intention either,” Simon said. “Do as I told you. Keep your men in order, and do not act without my word.”
“You mean to ride willingly into an ambush?” Sir Gretchen asked, squinting at Simon with a glimpse of venom in his eyes.
“I do,” Simon replied. “I suspect there is more to these brigands than meets the eye.”
“This is rubbish,” Sir Gretchen said, spitting again. “I will not lose men to your foolishness.”
“You will do as I say, Sir Gretchen,” Simon barked back. “Or did you already forget your purse?”
“Gold does not buy my men’s lives so easily,” Sir Gretchen countered. “This is foolhardy.”
“That is exactly what gold does,” Simon shot back. His hand dropped to the hilt of his wicked longsword, and Sir Gretchen suddenly became very still, waiting for his next move. “Get your men in line.”
The two knights stared at each other, each one sizing up the other’s intentions silently. Simon looked deep into the sellsword’s eyes, imparting the dreaded reputation he had built over the years, and he saw Sir Gretchen back down.
“Very well,” Sir Gretchen said with a snort. “We will follow your madness a bit further.”
“Indeed,” Simon snarled. “Let’s ride.”
The company pressed on along the road, riding in cautious silence, every man’s eyes darting about as they came closer to the rolling belt of trees before them. The cold Scottish wind blew about, fluttering their loose tabards and hair, and Simon looked pointedly at the road winding into the trees.
“How much further?” he asked the scout.
“Two hundred paces, maybe less,” the scout whispered back.
Simon watched the trees around them as they plunged into the forest. They were thin, clustered in scattered groves, but connected by a thick layer of underbrush and tall grass. The wind blew through the stalks, and the greenery danced around them as leaves fluttered past.
After about a hundred paces, Simon reached into his riding cloak and brought forth a sash, which he held above his head and waved slowly in the strong breeze. Sir Gretchen’s eyes widened as he did so, but Simon shot him a threatening look to still his tongue.
“Come out, highlanders!” Simon called into the trees. “I wish only to speak with you!”
There was a shuffling around them, and suddenly a horde of Scotsmen appeared, rising from the brush and stepping out from behind trees. The scout had not lied. They looked dismal, ragged and worn, but their axes and spears looked sharp and ready. Simon held up his fist and brought the company to a halt, the men shifting everywhere with anxiety as their hands went to their swords and their lances.
“Hold!” Simon called back, and he looked again to Sir Gretchen, commanding him with his icy stare.
“Hold, he said!” Sir Gretchen called back. “Hold fast!”
“That’s an awful lot o’ Englishmen this far north,” a man said, stepping out of the brush into the center of the road. He was older, but not ancient, with years of experience in warfare and the wilds shining from his deep green eyes. His clothes hung loosely about his broad shoulders, and his dark hair was tied into long braids that fell down his back. In his hand, he held a longsword, the quality of which marked him as a rich man, or at least, a man that used to be rich.
“We do not mean you harm,” Simon said, looking at the man squarely. He dismounted and handed the scout his horse’s reins. Simon took a few slow steps toward the Scotsman, his hands open and out before him.
“Strange thing tae say with all those lances,” the Scotsman shot back. When Simon was within a few paces, the Scotsman raised his sword toward him. “That’s close enough.”
“My name is Sir Simon Blackmarch,” Simon said, coming to a stop, looking the Scotsman in the eyes rather than at the point of his sword. “I am here on an errand for my master.”
“Must be a hell o’ an errand,” the Scot snorted, lowering the sword a bit.
“We mean only to travel carefully,” Simon replied.
“And look where that’s got ye,” the Scot laughed back.
“I know you,” Simon said, looking the man up and down twice.
