“Idinna like it,” Roger muttered more to himself than to any of the warriors bedded down around the clearing, tartan blankets drawn over their shoulders.
He hadn’t stretched out upon the ground, but sat with his back against a tree trunk, his plaid breacan knotted at his throat and wound around him for warmth. Uneasily, he peered into the dense woods surrounding them.
Thank God at least his traveling companions had agreed with him not to build a fire, the September night air cool but not enough to cause discomfort.
Already they were deep enough into England to risk an attack by so blatantly announcing their presence with flames visible through the trees, and the near full moon didn’t help matters. He would have liked to continue on their way while most of the countryside was asleep, but he had been overruled by the other three lairds in the delegation.
“We’ve pushed hard for five days, Douglas, the men need tae rest!” had insisted Laird MacPherson, the man so rotund that it was a wonder he could hoist himself atop his mount without assistance.
As for the other two, Laird Robertson and Laird Grant, they seemed to believe that the king’s banner, a white flag of truce, and an official document from King Edward’s representatives explaining their presence in England was enough protection to ensure a safe journey to York and back again into Scotland.
Roger, though, didn’t trust any of it—and mayhap that was why King Robert had requested that he join the delegation with his dozen seasoned warriors. The others had brought men with them, too, and several from each laird were stationed around the clearing to keep watch for any trouble.
Yet they were twenty leagues into England with enemies on every side. A dangerous situation, indeed, which made Roger all the more determined to allow them only a few hours’ rest before they set out again.
“Let those fools squawk,” he said through clenched teeth as he leaned his head back against the tree trunk and allowed himself to close his eyes.
He did feel weariness, but what warrior didn’t when out upon a mission? His muscles ached from long hours in the saddle, but any discomfort was a good thing after feeling numb for weeks on end. For the first time since Sylvia’s death, he had other things on his mind than how he’d lost her—aye, to make it unscathed to York at the forefront of his thoughts. King Robert’s words to him at Dumbarton Castle had been truly spoken, though Roger had never doubted them.
“The only antidote for grief and despair is tae find some purpose that drives you, Douglas. I dinna know if I will ever see my wife again, which cuts like a sword into my heart. Tae bear it, I fight every day for Scotland’s freedom from English tyranny—and now you have accepted a mission fraught with peril, though I swear, it will make you feel alive again.”
The king’s light brown eyes had bored into Roger’s, the two of them clasping forearms in a moment of shared pain…the memory of which made him vow to himself anew that the delegation would journey to York as swiftly as possible.
Aye, he felt alive again, his muscles hurting, the ground hard and cold beneath him, the low nickering of horses lulling him if only for a short while…
“By God, what…?” A sharp snap of a branch had brought Roger at once back to his senses, the hair rising on the back of his neck. With one lunge he was on his feet and clenching the hilt of his sword as he gazed around him in the darkness.
Where were the guards that had been stationed around the clearing? MacPherson’s men, Grant’s and Robertson’s, too, and three of his own men among them? Too late, he heard the dull thud of a lifeless body dropping to the ground, and then another, a chilling certainty gripping him even as dark shapes materialized out of nowhere and descended with swords raised upon the sleeping delegation.
“We’re under attack! Get up, men—get up!”
His own sword rang out against steel as bedlam erupted, some warriors managing to throw off their blankets and jump to their feet to join in the fight. Others were trampled where they had slept as horses and riders thundered into the clearing—Laird MacPherson’s agonized scream ringing in Roger’s ears as he swung his sword wildly to the left and right.
There were so many—too many! Another horse crashing into the clearing bumped him and he fell to his knees, his knotted breacan catching in the stirrup and dragging him across the ground into the trees.
The garment tightened like a noose, Roger dropped his sword to claw desperately at his neck, gasping and coughing.
Still the horse galloped on, whinnying and snorting as if in fright. A stricken glance upward told Roger that there was no rider at all as a flashing hoof caught him hard in the ribs.
Ah, God, was his life to end this way? Not engaged in battle, but dragged through the woods over tree roots and rocks until his entire body was wracked with pain?
He struggled to breathe…struggled with one hand to reach out and grab the stirrup to try and slow the terrified animal’s pace.
In agony now, he felt himself fly over a tree stump and then everything came to a stop.
The torn breacan no longer tightened around his neck as Roger gasped for air, his face in the dirt as the pounding of hooves faded into the distance.
Far behind him he could hear men screaming, men dying—his men! He should have been fighting alongside them, his bloodied sword taking as many attackers with him before he, too, was cut down.
Yet he was too weak to even lift his head, the taste of mossy soil in his mouth.
His ribs on fire, his head throbbing from striking upon a rock, he surrendered to the blackness enveloping him…the rustle of the wind through the trees and the hoot of an owl the last thing he heard.
* * *
“We’re safe?They’re all slain?”
“Every last man. A rout if ever I’ve seen one,” came Charles de Montfort’s boastful reply to Julianna’s grandfather, who was shaking with relief in his chair. “We caught most of them sleeping—sleeping! It didn’t make sense to me until we found a document on one of the bodies, claiming they were a Scots delegation on their way to York. Fools! If they thought they would win the release of one of King Edward’s most valuable prisoners, they were sadly mistaken.”
