Maids with Blades 2, page 70
He muttered a curse. This was not going to work. If Urramach didn’t drink, he would exhaust himself and collapse on the trail. And Dougal had no time to wait for him to work up a good thirst.
After several fruitless attempts at coaxing him to drink, Dougal made up his mind. As much as it pained him, for his beloved destrier had served him well, and traveling on foot would slow Dougal’s progress, the only answer was to abandon the beast.
The mac Girics would be searching for a man on horseback, after all. Without the horse, Dougal could slip in and out of the forest, concealing the signs of his passage, throwing his pursuers off his trail.
He pitched his helm, shield, chausses, and hauberk into the bushes. Chain mail might protect him in battle, but it would burden him now. Besides, he could hardly bear to look at his armor, stained red with innocent blood.
Taking only what provisions he could carry, he led Urramach back to the road. There he continued at an amble for a mile or so until he found a suitable place to leave the beast. With a heavy sigh and a bitter heart, he tied his faithful destrier to a tree. Then he shouldered his belongings and ducked into the woods, following a narrow deer trail that branched off the road.
The trail eventually opened onto a small moonlit glen. On the far side of the meadow was a wider footpath that continued in a westerly direction through the trees.
With each mile, the pines grew thicker and more menacing, until they blocked out the moonlight, and he could no longer see the trail.
Surely he was out of danger now. Far from the main road. Far from his horse. Deep in the wood.
He needed to sleep for a few hours. If sleep was possible.
After that, he’d have to eat. If he could. He’d gone days without a decent meal.
Using cracked branches and twisted rushes, he assembled a primitive snare. Perhaps while he slept, some small, hapless night creature would volunteer to be his breakfast.
Then, bundling up in his plaid, he burrowed under a bed of pine needles beside the trail.
Exhaustion made him fall asleep in moments. He was immediately drawn into a world of harrowing nightmares.
Kirkoswald was engulfed in fire. Smoke boiled out of every thatched roof, coiling like dragon’s breath into the sky. Men and women, lads and lasses—trapped in the hellish inferno inside the church—scrabbled and pounded in panic at the doors, shrieking in agony and screaming his name.
And the blonde warrior angel he’d struck down at Creagor stood in the flames of the burning church rooftop to brandish an accusing finger at him.
Chapter 3
Feiyan traveled all night before the detour brought her back to the main road. The moon sank into the west. The stars winked out. The sky faded like a bruise, from deep indigo to soft purple. In another hour, the sun would rise.
When she emerged from the wood, she was disappointed to find the road unmarked. There was no sign a rider had passed this way.
Had he taken a different road? Had he stopped somewhere for the night? Or, she wondered with a leaden heart, had he managed to elude her? Was he even now perpetrating violence on more unsuspecting victims?
Her jaw tightened with worry as she cast a reluctant gaze back down the road. She’d have to backtrack. Find the place where he’d changed direction.
After half an hour, in the pale lavender light just before dawn, she spotted the dark silhouette of his destrier beside the road. Even a hundred yards away, the beast was unmistakable.
Enormous. Black. Magnificent.
It was tethered to a tree at the edge of a croft.
Feiyan curled her fingers around the leather grip of her shoudao, the deadly single-edged sword from the Orient she wore on her hip. She had to proceed with caution.
The man may have left the horse as bait. He could very well be hiding in the woods nearby with a bow and arrows.
Or he could have availed himself of the crofter’s cottage, killing the occupants and lodging there for the night.
She slipped her blade silently out of its sheath and approached the horse with caution.
When she was a dozen yards away, she heard the creak of the cottage door. She ducked quickly behind a pine and watched as a woman with a basket emerged from the cottage.
The woman suddenly stopped in her tracks, taken aback by the sight of the strange horse at the edge of her property.
“Robert!” she called out. “Come quick!”
A tall, gangly man hobbled out the door. “What the devil?”
Feiyan froze as the couple came near for a closer look.
The villain must not be in their cottage. Maybe he’d spent the night in one of their sheds. Maybe he was lurking inside, planning to waylay them when they came to investigate. Maybe he meant to slay them in cold blood.
She waited with bated breath as the woman cooed over the beautiful beast. The man took the horse’s bridle, calming the animal with soothing speech.
The woman nodded toward the horse’s head. “What’s that?”
The man pulled out a sooty rag tucked into the bridle. “A missive?”
“Are those letters?”
“Aye. Fetch Gille Christ.”
The woman hurried off toward the stable.
Feiyan bit her lip. What if the monster was hiding inside?
She was about to shout a warning when the woman yelled out, “Gille Christ!”
A moment later, a scrawny, redheaded young lad in monk’s robes stumbled sleepily out the stable door. “Aye?”
The lad didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. No villain held a knife to his throat.
The crofter called out, “See if you can make out these letters, son.”
The lad rubbed his tonsured head, glared suspiciously at the big black horse, and then studied the scrap of cloth.
“D.O.N.U.M. E.S.T.” He frowned. “’Tis Latin.”
“What’s it say?” the woman asked.
“Donum est,” he told her. “Gift. ’Tis a gift for ye.”
The crofter stepped beyond the horse to look down the road both ways. “A gift? From whom?”
The woman seized the horse’s bridle. Already her eyes were lighting up with gratitude. Or greed. Feiyan wasn’t sure which. Certainly such a horse was not suited to pulling a crofter’s cart. But it would bring a handsome price at market.
Still, what did it mean?
Surely a brute capable of cutting down warriors in cold blood would never make a gift of his valuable destrier to a pair of poor crofters and a novice monk.
He must have sacrificed the horse to throw his pursuers off his scent. Which meant he’d proceeded on foot.
Fortunately, he’d taken as little care to disguise his own tracks as he had with the horse’s. Beside the road, leading away from the charger, were fresh depressions in the mud. Made by large boots, one with a distinct crack in the heel, they led down a deer trail into the forest.
Feiyan’s lip curled up in a calculating smile.
He’d assumed he’d be harder to track in the wilds of the woods. What he didn’t know was Feiyan was now in her element, as comfortable in the forest as a fish in water.
Still, a curious thought pestered her as she traveled silently through the wood.
How did mac Darragh—a Highlander of mindless savagery and beast-like rage—know how to read and write?
Dougal woke to the sound of frantic thrashing in the snare he’d set.
Exhaustion sat like an anvil on his chest. Still he struggled up onto his elbows. Sunlight was already filtering through the boughs of the pines. He hadn’t meant to sleep so late. But he felt as if he’d gotten no rest at all.
Again and again in his dreams, like some infernal punishment, he’d been forced to deliver the fatal blow to the blonde woman. Blindly shoving his elbow out. Driving the pommel of his claymore into her steel helm with enough force to knock it off. And then watching the spill of golden tresses as his victim—a beautiful lass—dropped to the ground.
He hadn’t intended to do it.
He wasn’t a killer of women.
He’d only meant to slaughter those who deserved death—the demons of mac Giric.
How could he have known there was a lass on the field?
Bloody hell. What kind of a clan let its lasses fight in a melee?
He snorted back his remorse, casting it off like a broken targe. It was too late for regrets. What was done was done. He’d have to suffer with the nightmares. After all, he deserved them.
But while he was awake, guilt would only burden him and slow his progress. He had to cast it off as he had his armor.
He scrubbed at his raw eyes and ruffled the dead leaves from his hair. Then he squinted into the underbrush, where a small coney was struggling in the trap.
How long had it been since he’d eaten? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t felt like eating in days. He didn’t feel like eating now.
It was just as well. The moment he unsheathed his dagger, the lucky coney nibbled through the noose of rushes around its leg and raced away. With a curse of disgust, Dougal hurled the dagger at the creature. Missing it by a yard.
He grimaced and kicked at the leaves, wishing for the hundredth time that he’d stayed in Ayr. He should never have set foot on this hostile soil. This wild part of Scotland, where coneys were as wily as foxes and lasses wielded weapons of war.
Feiyan was so weary from traveling all night and day, she could hardly place one foot in front of the other. Her eyes were gritty and sore. Her eyelids were heavy. Her bones ached. Her mind kept wandering. As she trudged along, the combination of soothing birdsong and afternoon sunlight on her face began to beckon her to sleep.
Then she stumbled across the remains of an animal snare. She grew alert at once. The villain must have left it behind.
The snare was a simple device. A pliable branch with a noose made of rushes that had been triggered by a notched twig.
He’d caught something. But there was no ash to indicate a fire.
She grimaced. Whatever he’d snared, he must have eaten raw.
But what else would she expect from a barbarian?
She’d wisely packed a bit of sustenance from the pavilion. She had little appetite, but she needed to keep up her strength. She dug in her pack and pulled out a linen-wrapped hunk of hard cheese and an oatcake.
Though she’d sworn she wouldn’t rest until she’d punished the murderous mac Darragh, she knew she’d be useless without a break.
Hunting prey while the trail was warm was wise.
Exercising patience was wiser.
She would lull the man into believing he was safe. Catch him off his guard. Surprise him when he least expected it.
She bit into an oatcake and chewed thoughtfully.
She still wasn’t sure what she’d do when she finally caught him.
Feiyan had always believed in mind over muscle. Relying on wit rather than power. Turning a foe’s own strengths against him.
In a world conquered by might, a young lass like Feiyan was viewed as small, weak, vulnerable. Such misperceptions were useful. The principles of fighting her mother Miriel had taught her—agility, evasiveness, speed, flexibility—served her well.
As her mother’s teacher Sung Li often claimed, the greatest weapon was the one no one knew you possessed.
There was no question in Feiyan’s mind she possessed the skills to take the monster down. As long as she could practice patience.
What remained in question was whether she’d allow him the opportunity to defend himself.
In her mind, he deserved death without mercy.
Hardly tasting the rest of the meal, she finished it with a swig from her aleskin.
But a full belly made her even groggier.
Lying back on the bed of pine needles, she pulled her hood down over her eyes to block out the light. A short rest would do her good, refreshing her and giving her the strength to resume the hunt.
She wouldn’t sleep long. Just a wee nap.
Chapter 4
Dougal had to eat. Soon. Even if he had no appetite.
Hunger was making him delirious. He’d begun to wonder if it was possible to snatch a bird in mid-flight or scoop up a trout from the river with his bare hands. His famished body had almost convinced him to try the plump black berries of the poisonous nightshade growing along the path.
After the slaughter at Kirkoswald, he’d been too full of grief to think of food. In his haste to ride after the murderous mac Girics, he’d had only one thought on his mind. Driving the bloodthirsty clan out of Scotland.
And now, the fact that he had killed a woman left the bitter taste of sin on his tongue. A taste that no food or drink would ever wash from his mouth.
Still, time had dulled his grief and sharpened the hunger in his belly. If he had any hope of returning home, he needed to eat. He was past waiting for a coney to wander into a snare.
He’d brought no coin with him. But he could be resourceful.
Lightheaded, he made his way back to the main road. It was a risk. In broad daylight, he’d be much easier to spot. But perhaps, without his horse and armor, he’d be unrecognizable to the mac Girics tracking him.
Pulling his hood forward and staying in the shadows of the trees that arched over the road, he walked for nigh an hour, until he heard a cart approaching behind him.
The mac Giric knights wouldn’t be traveling by cart. It was safe enough to step into the sunlight to give the driver a friendly wave.
A man and a lad, probably his son, were driving a cart loaded with peat.
For one ugly moment, Dougal consdered overpowering the pair, stealing the cart, and making his escape. No one knew him here. No one knew he was the brother of the mac Darragh laird. Here he was only a common outlaw. A woman-killer and a fugitive. What did one more crime matter?
As the cart neared, the man pulled back on the reins.
“Ho there, fine sir!” the driver called out with a tug at his hat, no doubt taking note of Dougal’s well-made boots and gambeson, his fine woolen plaid, and the jeweled dagger tucked into his sheath.
“Good day,” Dougal replied.
“May I ask where you’re headed, sir?”
It was best not to be specific. “Just travelin’ through.”
“I see. Then you might be grateful for a word of warning.”
“Aye? What’s that?”
“This forest is thick with outlaws. A man of your…standing…could prove a temptation to their sort.”
“Is that so?”
The young lad pointed at Dougal’s dagger. “Someone might want to take that. Look at the jewels, Da.”
“Aye,” the man agreed. Suddenly his eyes gleamed with something more than admiration.
“This?” Dougal’s voice was light, but he drew the blade, flipping it in his hand in an unspoken warning, just in case the driver had any unsavory motives. “Hmm. I suppose ye’re right.”
The man’s eyes glittered with enterprise as he eyed the jewels. “For a shilling,” he offered, thoughtfully stroking his chin, “I could take you to the next town.”
“A shillin’,” he pretended to muse.
It was an outrageous price, bordering on robbery. And it occurred to him again that he could probably take the cart by force. Abscond with the horse and peat and leave these two in the dust.
But the idea soured his stomach. Despite his recent failures, chivalry still burned inside his heart, preventing him from doing what was expedient. Forcing him to do what was right.
“I don’t need a ride,” he decided.
“Half a shilling,” the man revised.
Even if he’d had the coin, Dougal would never give it to a man who would take such clear and callous advantage of a stranger.
He sauntered toward the horse and patted its cheek, casually looping his hand around the bridle so the horse couldn’t bolt.
The guileless lad stood up and moved to the edge of the cart seat. “You could sit here, sir, between—”
The father, realizing he’d misjudged Dougal’s intent, took his son’s arm and pulled him back down onto the cart seat.
“You’re a thief, aren’t you?” the man grumbled. “Lucifer’s luck. I should have known.”
“Me?” Dougal scoffed. “Ye wanted a shillin’ for a ride to town. Who’s a thief?”
The man glared at him. “We’ve got nothing of value, only piles of peat.”
The lad, trying to be helpful, offered, “We do have a wee bit of silver, Da, from the last village.”
The man’s mouth tensed as he eyed Dougal’s dagger.
But Dougal replied, “I don’t want your coin.”
“You can’t take my cart.”
“I won’t.”
The man eased a protective arm around his son. “Then what do you want?”
Dougal nodded to the basket lodged between them. “Just a wee bit o’ whate’er ye have in there.”
“That’s nothin’ but our sup-” The man looked shocked for a moment. Then, making a hasty decision, he snatched up the basket and tossed it at Dougal’s head.
The instant Dougal released the bridle, throwing up his arms to block the basket, the driver slapped the reins down. The horse shot off, and the cart careened down the road so fast that the lad nearly bounced off his seat.
As they bolted away, Dougal scowled and put away his dagger. There was no need for them to panic. He only wanted a bit of food.
He hunkered down to examine the damage.
Aside from a pair of cracked apple coffyns, bruised berries, and a small chunk of bacon that would require rinsing, everything seemed sufficiently edible to his watering mouth. There was a small round of ruayn cheese, a half dozen oatcakes, and even a skin of watered wine. Gathering everything back into the basket, he returned to his less-traveled path and sat down to feast.
A full belly revived him enough to proceed several miles more. But as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the woods grew dim, the cart driver’s words returned to haunt him. Was the forest indeed “thick with outlaws”?
Though his purse was empty, Dougal mac Darragh was obviously a man of means. He had the body of a warrior and the bearing of a noble. Even the cart driver had seen that.
