Page 93 of My Warrior
“What! You refuse me?” Duncan set the point of his sword on the ground and sniffed, clearly goading him. “Have you grown lazy then, Sir Lord-of-Your-Own-Castle? Do these Scots fight all your battles now?”
Holden grimaced. He couldn’t resist a challenge from his older brother, and Duncan knew it. “Fine. I’ll fetch my squire and meet you in the lists within the hour.” He added with heavy sarcasm. “Perhaps by then the sun will have come up, and we’ll actually be able to see each other.”
The battle dragged through half the morning, but wasn’t yet won when a royal messenger arrived at Blackhaugh. Calling a stalemate, the brothers adjourned from the field to take refreshment in the great hall and to hear news of Edward.
Cambria reluctantly joined the men below. She would have preferred to sleep the winter through than to face Holden’s indifference. But a royal messenger was her concern as laird of Blackhaugh. She clasped sweaty palms together as her husband mulled over the parchment bearing the king’s seal. She could guess what it said. Edward needed the de Ware sword arm again.
Cambria swallowed. She shouldn’t have cared. Even when Holden was at Blackhaugh, he wasn’t…present. Still, the thought of not seeing her husband for weeks or months, of giving birth to the babe without him near…
“It is rumored France, my lord,” the messenger was saying. “There is asylum for him there. As for the declaration, the king believes the Scots will readily assent.”
“Then Edward doesn’t know the Scots,” Holden murmured.
Cambria’s curiosity got the best of her. “Assent to what?”
Duncan told her. “Edward has declared much of the south of Scotland to be under his rule now.”
Cambria planted her fists on her hips, forgetting her despondence in her outrage. “That’s preposterous! He was to give us our own king. Does he think to eat up Scotland piece by piece like some hungry beast? Robert the Bruce’s supporters haven’t forgotten. Even now, his son David—“
“Has fled,” Holden finished. “To France.”
She was struck numb. David fled? The son of Robert the Bruce turned tail? How could he desert his own country? His father had never done so, even when it meant his death.
It was as if Holden had heard her thoughts. “The boy is likely pursuing French support for his claim to the throne.”
Perhaps, she thought, perhaps that was it. Still, she couldn’t condone David’s actions. “So who will keep the French from acquiring Scotland in turn?” she muttered in disgust.
Holden let out a sigh, fully aware she was right.
“Are you going to war?” Cambria asked, a catch in her voice.
“Nay,” Holden assured her grimly. He spoke as if to himself. “We can’t use the sword. It’s a poor diplomat. It should be the mission of a messenger, pointing out the lesser evil. We have to convince the Scots there will be a greater harmony under Edward’s own reign than that of Balliol.”
She agreed with him. But she doubted the loyalist Scots would embrace English rule as readily as Holden believed. There would be fighting. And Holden’s life would be at risk.
“Where are you going? When do you leave?”
“I’m bound for Edinburgh,” Holden said.
“The king bids us make all haste,” Duncan added.
Holden’s eyes met Cambria’s, and she almost imagined she saw a trace of regret there. “We should leave on the morrow.”
She didn’t hear the rest of the discussion about how many carts and what provisions he’d require, who’d stay behind, all the details of the journey. All she could think about was how unfair it was. She was going to have his child, damn it all, and once again they were about to be torn apart by the ravages of politics.
Ariel lifted a restless hoof, stirring the fog in swirls upon the sod. Like her master, she was impatient to leave.
Holden was sure the castle would be safe in his absence. Malcolm was more than trustworthy. Blackhaugh’s larder was well stocked. The keep was secure. There was nothing to worry about, as long as he didn’t think about… He shook his head. The sooner he left, the better.
It wasn’t that he’d tired of his new role as lord. Aye, the title came with a great deal of responsibility, but it was just the sort of challenge he welcomed. Blackhaugh was magnificent. The countryside was breathtaking, the people fast feeling like family. He couldn’t even imagine going back to England.
And it wasn’t that he thirsted for war. God knew he’d had enough of spilling blood. In his youth he’d battled anything on two legs. But now, with a holding, with a wife…
Cambria. She was the reason. He closed his eyes and pounded a fist on the bed of the arms wagon. If he let them, the images would overwhelm him again, cloud his vision and turn him into a quivering mass of fear. He couldn’t let that happen. He was off to war. He’d need all the steel nerve he possessed to keep himself and his men alive.
The arms wagon was loaded now. All the provisions had been packed. The knights, his brother’s and his own, were mounted. Horses snorted and chuffed out white feathers of breath on the damp air. Wives and mistresses winked or sobbed or kissed their men farewell. Their subdued voices floated over the pervasive creak of leather like doves’ calls in the cote. He could feel her behind him, yards away, but there, staring at his back, beckoning him wordlessly to turn toward her. He cursed under his breath. If he turned, he’d be lost. But if he didn’t…
He slowly pivoted to face her. She was the most beautiful thing on the face of the earth. Her soft gray kirtle seemed part of the mists. Her unbound hair cascaded over her shoulders like the winding roots of a Gavin oak. Her eyes, illuminated by the dark blue of her sideless surcoat, shone with wisdom and pride. And bewilderment as he continued to stare at her, motionless.
