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Chapter Seventeen
Chrisdean couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier. He had been content all of his life--happy enough with what he had, but he didn’t remember a time when he had ever experienced the kind of joy that he was feeling now.
As much as he regretted it, though, the war was still looming over him and his clan, and so he felt the need to tour the rest of the villages, just to ensure that his people were well and that they were prepared for the war to come. This time, he had half a dozen men with him, along with Brock, since the farther they were from the castle, the more danger they would be in. The last thing he wanted was for he and Brock to be attacked by brigands and murdered before they could even fight in the war.
“But must ye go?” Nimue asked as Chrisdean checked the horse’s saddle. “Why canna Brock and the rest of yer men go on their own? It hasna even been a week since our wedding, Chrisdean.”
“Ach, I ken, and I’m sorry,” Chrisdean said, turning around to press a kiss on Nimue’s forehead. “I’ll make it up to ye when I return, but I must go. They’re me, people. I want to do everythin’ in me power to make sure that they’re safe.”
“I’m sure that Brock can do just fine without ye,” Nimue insisted. “Or . . . or maybe ye can take me with ye! I can see the land, and ye can do what ye need to do.”
“It isna the right time for such things, lass,” Chrisdean said. “Ye ken that we have a war to fight. The roads are na safe anymore. I dinna want ye to get hurt. But I promise ye, once everythin’ is over, I’ll show ye the land, just like I promised. And this time, ye’ll ride a horse.”
Nimue sighed, but she didn’t try to argue with Chrisdean. She simply wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace, and pressed a kiss on his lips. “Be careful,” she told him. “If the roads are as dangerous as ye say, then I dinna want anythin’ to happen to ye.”
“I’ll be fine, dinna fash yerself,” Chrisdean assured her. “Brock and the lads will be with me.”
With a final kiss on Nimue’s lips, Chrisdean was ready to go. He pulled his horse to the gates, where his men were waiting for him, and they all made their way out of the castle walls.
“I thought we’d never leave,” Brock said. “It seems like someone canna bring himself to leave his new wife behind noo.”
“I’m here, am I na?” Chrisdean asked. “Are ye in a hurry, Brock?”
“Aye, I’m in a hurry! I dinna want to be out here when it’s dark!” the other man said. “Ye’re the one who kept sayin’ that we should spend the night at the villages.”
“And we will,” Chrisdean assured him. “Ye and Nimue both worry too much.”
Chrisdean and his men rode for hours to reach the first village. When it finally appeared on the horizon, he could hear the collective sigh of relief from his men, who had gotten tired from riding for so long, and he had to admit that he was relieved, too. He wanted nothing more than a few drinks.
And then he heard a shout, one that was so loud it seemed to rip the air in two. His horse bucked, almost sending him to the ground, but he held on until he could jump off, his hand already reaching for his sword.
Sassenachs.
Chrisdean counted ten or so men, dressed in the English army uniform, coming out of the trees. His lips curled into a snarl, and he pulled his sword out of its sheath with a cry.
“Ambush!” Brock shouted. “Get yer swords, ye bastards, and strike them all down!”
His men poured themselves into the battle at Brock’s command. The air was filled with the clang of metal against metal, blade against blade, man against man. Chrisdean’s men fought bravely, never once hesitating, even if the English outnumbered them, even if they had been caught by surprise.
Chrisdean joined them, grabbing the first Englishman he could find by the back of his jacket and shoving his blade through his lower back, slashing him in two. The man gasped as the sword pierced him and turned to look at Chrisdean, his eyes wide and fearful, but he was dead before he could utter a single word. Chrisdean let go of him, and the man slid to the ground, nothing but a pile of bone and flesh.
His next foe wasn’t as easy to kill. One of the man's fellow Englishmen charged at him, his sword held high in the air. Chrisdean parried his blow before answering with one of his own, trying to back him up against a tree so that he would have nowhere to go. Jumping to the side, the man avoided him, and Chrisdean realized that he was perhaps smarter than the one he had already killed.
I always like a challenge.
Their swords met with a thundering sound, deafening to Chrisdean’s ears. They both parried each other’s blows, dancing around each other and attacking with everything they had. Chrisdean tried to jump behind him, but the man was quick to pirouette around and block his attack, which only infuriated Chrisdean.
He liked a challenge, but this man was a little too challenging.
Another parry of the man’s blows and Chrisdean quickly moved into a counterattack, one that the Englishman hadn’t been expecting. Chrisdean’s sword pierced his chest, and the Englishman dropped his sword, which fell onto the ground with a clatter.
“Chrisdean!”
Brock’s shout came too late, and when Chrisdean turned, the first thing he saw was the glint of a blade. He felt the sword slash his side, a deep, dangerous wound that Chrisdean knew could easily kill him.
They were so far from the castle, from their healer.
So far from Nimue.
