“Can ye ride, man?” A stocky, blonde man asked Tavish. He nodded, and the man led Tavish from Tosia to a saddled horse at the rear.
“Ye ride with me, lass,” a voice spoke behind her. Tosia’s heart leapt into her throat as she spun around.
The rough man who’d first spoke to them stood behind her, looming impossibly large, his gruff face hinting that perchance he didn’t care for this duty. His cold, sharp eyes impaled her. Tosia swallowed, and unable to dislodge the ever-burgeoning lump in her throat, nodded instead of speaking.
With a surprisingly light touch, the dark-haired man took her elbow in one hand and led her to his destrier, a rich brown monster of a beast. His strong hands wrapped around her waist and lifted her as though she was naught more than a kitten and settled her side-seated on the front of the saddle. Then, in a nimble move for such a giant man, he swept himself into the saddle, his arms on either side of her as he gathered the reins.
No names, no introductions, nothing more than the transferring of property. Tosia longed to ask their names, learn who these men were, find some point of familiarity, but their terse visages robbed her voice from her throat. These were not men who participated in idle banter.
These were men of war on a mission, and they would not be deterred.
The silence betweenthe troupe lingered, hanging heavy in the air like the very mist itself. If the men weren’t talking, then Tosia wasn’t going to disturb that. God knew, her voice probably wouldn’t make sound, as dazed and frightened as she was.
She tilted her head to gaze northward at the snow-tipped, purple mountains peeking out from the morning mists. The mountains stood as sentinels for the Highlands, powerful warrior landscapes defending Scotland from invasion with their mere presence. Her eyes flicked to the men riding with her, sitting tall in their saddles resembling the mountains, mighty warriors ready to defend the land.
How could she, a woman who’d never been more than a few hours walk from her home, live among men such as these? She might as well take her chances in the mountains. At least she’d seen them before.
They rode for hours, chasing the sun as it coursed across the sky. ‘Twas late in the day when the charred remains of a lone, crumbling outbuilding appeared in the distance. Tosia focused on that to help her forget the agonizing soreness in her backside.
It might have been a croft or a barn at one time, and it stood forlorn in the distant. Why had it burned? Had the family made it out? The enigmatic, blackened remains wore at Tosia’s mind. Finally she couldn’t contain her curiosity, and her words burst from her mouth.
“What is that?” Tosia risked asking as she pointed her finger at the building.
The giant behind her grunted.
“That building? The burned one?” she tried again.
He shifted and grunted again. “A ruthless memory of the English, lass.”
His response only elicited more questions.
“What do you mean?” Tosia squinted, trying to see if the building bore a mark or the like, indicating its English attachments.
“The English oft preyed on the better nature of the Scots, encouraging men to find common ground by agreeing to a meeting. When the Scots arrived, gathering in anticipation of civilized discourse with the English dogs, the bastards barred the door and set the building aflame.”
Tosia gasped and grabbed her plaid cape tighter around her neck. “Nay! Surely such a thing is only lore, a story. Such atrocities, they dinna really happen?”
The man stiffened and his arms clenched against her.
“Ye think I lie?”
Tosia tore her gaze from the building and forced her eyes straight ahead. “Nay, I —”
“They happen, lass,” the austere man continued. “Wallace learned to turn the English’s tricks against them. Yet the English dogs commit this manner of crime to this day, only we Scots have become wise to the ploy. That building is one of the last times the English tried that guise against us.”
Tosia fell silent again, contemplating the man’s words. How sheltered she’d been with her mother and brother. Until the death of her father, little of conflict with the English touched her. So much death and destruction, so much pain and hatred. How did men, women, and families emerge from this with their wits about them? And here she was, riding right into the thick of this conflict, to live near the king and wed his top man. Another shudder chilled her to her bones.
“Are ye cold, lass?” the man asked.
She barely found her voice. “Nay. I’m well.”
As if he didn’t quite believe her, the man’s arm fell away, and he wiggled behind her and brought the edge of his plaid breacan around her shoulders. The wool was still warm from his body and rather than smelling of horse, which she’d expected, scents of leather and male surrounded her. A sense of security came with the plaid, false though she knew it to be, yet she welcomed its comfort.
They camped late, with Tavish close to her for assurance and warmth, and the rose in the misty light before the sun fully graced the earth. Another day of silent travel, and shortly after midday, a stone monolith rose in the brightening rays of sunlight.
Auchinleck Castle.
Present home of the king.
