Page 51 of My Warrior
“Is this about Owen again?”
“You must believe me,” she said, rushing forward to take the hauberk from his hands. “He intends to kill you.”
He hooked his thumbs inside his chausses. “As do hundreds of Highlanders. Cambria, you have to understand—“
“I don’t!” She took a deep breath. Already her temper threatened to escape its flimsy cage. “Idon’tunderstand. If you die, my clan is defenseless. Why don’t you just…leave Owen behind?”
His gaze moved from her to the narrow window, where he stared out at the night. He clenched and unclenched his fists once, and when he spoke, his voice was as somber as the gallows. “I owe you the truth. The Scots forces are vast. If we’re to win this battle, we need all the men we can take.”
He looked back to her then, and the spark of uncertainty she glimpsed in his eyes frightened her. Was there doubt that the English would win?
“Besides,” he said with a rueful smile, cupping her chin, “if I left behind every knight who’d ever threatened me, I’d have no army.”
Frustrated, she dropped his hauberk to the bed and spoke rashly. “Take me with you.”
“What?” He chuckled and frowned all at once.
She placed her palms flat on his chest. “Take me with you. I’ll watch your back.”
He cradled her head in both his hands. “I can’t take you to battle, Cambria. It’s no place for a woman.”
“I’ll stay behind the lines. I’m a keen shot with the bow. If Owen tries anything—“
“Cambria.” He kissed her forehead. His mouth felt soft, warm, not at all the mouth of a warrior. “It’s enough to risk my men. I won’t risk my wife as well.”
“But—“
“I swear to you I’ll take care,” he vowed. “I protect my own. I’ll do nothing to endanger your clan.”
But when she felt his heart beating beneath her palm, that heart whose pulse could be ceased by the single lightning slash of a blade, she thought less about her clan than she did about the husband she’d begun reluctantly to admire.
The sound of Holden’s soft, soothing snores lulled Cambria to sleep, but at the far end of the night, dark images invaded her dreams, curdling her slumber into a roiling sea of despair.
Bodies were everywhere. Bloody, broken, twisted. Writhing bodies like a vast churning ocean stretching to the far hills. Malcolm. Robbie. Graham. Her clan. She waded through them, and they grabbed for her, pleading, screaming, damning her until she clapped her hands to her ears in horror.
Before her was the one she sought, the wolf. His gray fur, tipped by silver, lay matted now with caked blood, and his black lips peeled back in a grimace of pain, exposing long, sharp teeth. His sides heaved as he struggled to draw his dying breath. When she knelt beside him, his nostrils quivered, and he turned to look at her. And then they werehiseyes, Holden’s eyes, green with flecks of gray, gazing at her in one brief flicker of hope, and then glazing over with the pale cast of death.
Anguish wrenched her heart. He was gone. The Wolf was gone. She’d failed him, failed the Gavins, and now she was utterly alone.
Whether she woke from the trauma of the dream or the sound of Holden rising, she wasn’t sure. She feigned sleep, though her heart pounded madly in her breast, and watched him through slit eyes as he dressed by the gold of the lightening sky. He winced once from his wound as he slipped the hauberk over his head, reminding her again of his mortality. He mustn’t die, she thought. She wouldn’t let him.
A moment later, Holden, with a whispered farewell and a gentle kiss to her forehead, left the chamber.
No sooner did Cambria hear the wood of the door meet the wall than she sprang from the bed, fully alert, her heart racing with purpose. She pulled a faded linen kirtle and a rough brown woolen cloak from her chest of clothes. These she quickly donned, pushing her hair back beneath the generous hood of the cloak. She tugged on her oldest leather shoes and tucked her dagger into her belt. Her longbow and arrows she’d have to cache amongst the store of weapons taken along on the journey. She slung them over her shoulder, concealing them beneath a large blanket.
Lord Holden intended to leave his brother Garth and Malcolm behind as stewards for Blackhaugh. Cambria took an extra moment to pen a missive to Malcolm, assuring him she was safe with her husband and that she was acting for the good of the clan. She knew the poor steward would not truly rest easy until she returned home, but she left the note atop her pallet nonetheless.
As she laid her hand across the pillow, she realized she still wore her wedding ring. Peasants didn’t own such things. She should slip it off and tuck it into her chest of valuables. But somehow it seemed a sacrilege, so she twisted the wolf’s head inward and pulled her sleeve low over her hand.
Cautiously, she eased through her chamber door and down the steps. She ambled through the great hall, milling about easily in her rustic garb within the maze of activity.
Knights in full armor strode regally past the scurrying servants, barking out orders for the packing of the wagons outside. Children chased after yelping hounds and were cuffed soundly for their efforts. Hastened along by jostling elbows, Cambria made her way through the courtyard to one of the supply wagons and covertly pushed her bow and quiver into it. Then she stopped by the stables long enough to smudge mud here and there over her arms, legs, and face.
“You!” someone called, and she turned with a start, remembering just in time to lower her head.
It was young Sir Myles.
“Fetch me bread and wine,” he said. Evidently he hadn’t recognized her. She was merely an idle body available to do his bidding. “Bring them to me in the armory.”
