Page 59 of My Warrior
She only stared mutely, grateful that he made no mention of the previous night. At her silence, he cleared his throat and slipped into his more natural tone of command.
“You’ll stay well away from the fighting when it begins. I don’t know what weapons you’ve squirreled away for yourself, but they’ll remain where they are. Do you understand?”
She gave him a sidelong glance. How did he know her so well? “Afraid I’ll turn my weapons on you?”
“Nay,” he assured her, his eyes flickering with mild amusement as he turned to go. “Your own life would be forfeit were you to raise a hand against me. And I don’t think you’d be so foolish as to deprive your clan of their laird.”
After he’d left, she removed her torn kirtle and slipped the new gown over her head. It was blue woad, a peasant’s shade, and it clung annoyingly to her every curve, but at least it was whole. She donned her cloak, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the pavilion.
To her relief, everyone seemed much too busy to notice her. The servants were breaking camp, and the air vibrated with the sounds of rattling cookpots and swishing skirts, the clank of armor plate, the squeak of harness and cart, and snatches of conversation about the impending battle.
Gone was the levity of the previous day. In accordance with the king’s plan, war would begin on the morrow. The knights mounted up and rode in silence, the only herald of their passing the creak of rolling wagons and the constant drumming of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed earth. Deep into the land of the Scots they rode, and with each passing hour, the silence grew more complete, until by nightfall, the only noises in the camp were the soft snores of foot soldiers and the nervous snuffling of horses.
Holden, unable to sleep, polished his sword by the light of the stars. Tonight his blade gleamed. Tomorrow it would be stained with Scots blood. And God willing, he’d live to polish it again.
He’d met briefly with Edward. The king, after heartily toasting Holden for his strategic acquisition of a Scots bride, had divulged his strategy for acquiring Berwick.
The reports of the enemy’s strength gave Holden pause. Strategically, all was in the Scots’ favor. They vastly outnumbered the English. This was their soil, and it was a well-known fact that soldiers fought better in defense of their own land. To add to the challenge, Holden had to watch for betrayal in his own ranks.
Holden slowly tilted his sword’s hilt till it reflected a band of moonlight onto a spider’s web stretched between blades of grass. So precariously the thing hung, frail and fleeting, an intricate work of weaving suspended by a single thread.
Thus was Holden’s world.
He believed Cambria now, or at least believed that she believed. But he could do nothing about it. He couldn’t openly accuse his own knight…yet. Holden wouldn’t burden the king on the eve of a great battle with trivial wrongs he could right himself at a more suitable time. He did intend to right them. But at present there was no substantial proof of Owen’s crime other than Cambria’s word, and Holden had to be absolutely certain of his man’s guilt before he raised the hand of justice. It could be that Owen’s actions today might serve to tighten the noose around his own neck. After all, the best way to catch a fox with blood on its paws, to make sure it would never kill again, was to keep a close watch on the dovecote.
In the meantime, he had to keep Owen away from the king. One rumor from the bastard’s lying lips accusing Holden’s new bride of Roger’s murder could destroy everything he’d labored for at Blackhaugh.
So Holden walked that fragile web and, like the vigilant spider sitting in its midst, acted as the keeper of the delicate balance.
The night had ripened to the color of a plump fig by the time Holden sheathed his sword and sought out his pallet with a branch lit by the last coals of the fire. Cambria had gone to bed hours before, and when he heard her slow, even breathing beneath the coverlet, he felt a twinge of regret that she wasn’t awake. He’d treated her callously the past night, and he wished to make amends. He would have liked to speak to her about the battle to come or have her fuss over his chain mail. He would have liked to give her a chaste kiss good night. He smiled ruefully. It wasn’t so bad possessing a wife.
As he began to undress, he heard her breathing change. She whimpered softly, twitching in her sleep with some fearful dream. He held his makeshift candle close. Her brow was troubled, and she murmured in the cryptic language only dreams can decipher. He wondered if he should wake her.
Cambria still saw them, even when she buried her head in her hands. Their anguish seeped through her fingers, through her eyelids, infesting her mind. The dying, too numerous to count, covered the hills, pleading in agony, their stiffening limbs welcoming death’s claw, their glazed eyes staring, staring…
Someone called her name. She turned toward the voice. Before her stood her father—living, breathing, a paradox amidst the expanse of spreading death. With a cry of joy, she stepped forward to go to him. But before she could take a second step, a great wolf appeared at Laird Angus’s flank, a wolf with paws as large as a man’s head and green eyes as chilling as a winter loch.
Without a second thought, she swung her bow from off her shoulder and nocked an arrow into place, aiming for the beast’s heart. But her father held up his hand to ward her off, and she hesitated. In that instant, a shrouded figure like an enormous dark raven swooped between them, and before she could cry out, drove a bladed talon into the laird’s chest. He fell silently to the ground.
The wolf ambled to the laird’s side, sniffed at the motionless body, then raised his head and let out a mournful cry. Cambria clapped her hands to her ears and began to tremble uncontrollably. Soon her own piteous cry joined the call of the wolf, rising on the air like a bagpipe’s lament.
Then someone was shaking her, shouting at her, words muffled and distant. The thick fog of dreams dispersed only gradually, and she flinched as the light of a single flame burned away the last vestiges of the nightmare.
The Wolf looked down upon her, his face clouded with concern. He turned her chin toward him, commanding her attention.
“What is it, Cambria?” he demanded. “Are you in pain?”
She stared up at her husband, his face made demonic by the shifting shadows.
“Blood,” she breathed. “So much blood. My father—
“Shh. It’s all right. You’ve only had—“
“And the screams—“
“A dream, Cambria,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair back from her brow.
“There was a wolf…fierce…terrible…” She shuddered. The wolf had had Holden’s eyes, and yet…
