Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] (27 page)

Chapter 18

“I saw a dead man win a fight, And I think that man was I.”

Meg stood naked in their bedchamber just as he had seen her before, with her beautiful hair hanging in shining waves to the flaring of her shapely hips.

Myriad candles made dark shadows and golden lights dance in her hair, over her skin, and on the walls of the chamber. He felt warm, and his body stirred.

Walking up behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders and shifted strands of her silky hair out of the way so he could kiss her neck under the lobe of her left ear. He felt her tremble and pulled her close to him.

Although he was certain he’d been clothed a moment ago, he wore nothing now but his tingling skin. Holding her so, he felt the heat of her against him from his chest to his loins and legs.

Her trembling increased and her breathing quickened.

She had not said a word.

Turning her gently, he tilted her chin so he could press his lips to hers. Her tongue darted out to touch his, then slid into his mouth, warm and tasting of fine wine. He was ready for her, impatient to couple, but when he reached down to see if she was ready for him, she put a hand to his wrist and stopped him.

Her trembling had ceased.

Lustful for her and eager to have his way, he tried to shift her hand aside, but her strength was like iron, and he could not move her. Looking into her eyes, he saw an expression he had seen before. It was sorrow—nay, disappointment.

He felt her emotions as if they were his, and he wondered who had dared to disappoint her so. As the thought crossed his mind, he recalled that she had once apologized for disappointing him. This was different.

Something was amiss with her, somehow. Perhaps he had disappointed her.

He struggled to think when he had seen that look before. Scenes presented themselves to his mind’s eye, one after another, as real as if he had shifted bodily back to those times. Each time, he was in bed with her, and each time he had just enjoyed his release and was beginning to uncouple from her.

The look he recalled seemed far less intense than what he had just seen but similar. If the cause was what he suspected it might be, he could do something about it. In troth, he would enjoy it. But if that was not it . . .

He smiled at her as the last scene faded from his mind’s eye, and murmured gently, “I have been thoughtless, sweetheart. But you will have your pleasure, again and again. You will come first now, I swear.”

Smiling the beautiful smile that warmed him through, she released his hand.

He picked her up and carried her to a field of flowers, wondering idly what had happened to their bed. Laying her tenderly on the soft leaves and petals, he gently spread her legs and began to show her how much pleasure he could give her.

As he moved to taste her, he heard a humming as of minstrel’s music in the distance, then whispery voices chanting an evensong to distant notes of a wavering horn. The sounds increased in volume until the words became clear . . .

“A Douglas! A Douglas!”

Wat awoke to bright moonlight, blasting horns, shouting men, frightened cattle, and noises of a fierce battle that appeared to be erupting all around him.

Meg pushed damp strands of hair from her cheeks and turned over. The room was hot and muggy, the bed too hard to induce sleep. Moonlight streamed through the narrow window. She had been lying there for hours, tormented by her thoughts and increasing fears, trying not to wake Amalie with her tossing and turning.

A sense of impending doom stirred and grew stronger as the hours passed.

For a time, she pondered Tom’s betrayal and her own dilemma, worrying about what he might do and the threats he’d made.

Although she had told Amalie she loved him because he was her brother and one ought to love everyone in one’s family, it was growing harder by the minute to love a man who had threatened to kill them both if either betrayed him.

Guilt stirred strongly when she thought about the countess and her ladies, all ignorant of their favorite minstrel’s identity and purpose.

Amalie’s voice interrupted Meg’s thoughts. “Have you slept at all?”

“No, but I hoped I was not keeping you awake.”

“It is not your fault. I’m too hot to sleep. I’ve dozed off and on, but my shift feels damp enough to wring out.”

“Take it off,” Meg recommended. She had thought of taking her own off. It was customary to sleep nude, but in a castle full of unknown men, she had felt less vulnerable wearing her shift.

“It’s too much trouble,” Amalie said. “I don’t feel well. I think my flow must be about to begin.”

Meg hoped it was. It was very late. Hers was late, too, but her pregnancy—if she
was
pregnant—would cause no scandal. Her thoughts returned to Tom.

“Why do you think Tom came here?” she asked. “Do you believe he is really spying on Douglas for the Percies?”

“I don’t doubt it, although he did not actually
say
he was spying for them,” Amalie said. “He only asked you if you’d think it was dreadful if he were.”

“But he must be,” Meg said, wondering if she was trying to persuade Amalie or persuade herself that Tom was not engaged in something worse. “Recall that he said he was doing it for the family and reminded us that the Percies
are
our family. And they are, Amalie. You cannot deny that. But it occurred to me that someone besides Douglas may be in danger. Recall who else will be here.”

“Many people will be here when Douglas returns,” Amalie said dryly.

“Including Carrick,” Meg said. “The King of Scots is old, and although Carrick is younger, everyone says he will be a weak king. But today Tom said he’d win royal favor and we’d benefit by having a strong king again, one for whom he’d have provided a great service. What if that great service is to remove Carrick before he can accept the crown? If the King of Scots has no proper heir, would it not be easier—?”

“Carrick does have a son,” Amalie reminded her.

“A mere child,” Meg said. “Was that not the very problem in England before King Richard came of age? A child on the throne always means a regency, and a regency means men fighting to control the crown. But with Carrick out of the way and . . .”

“If the English invade us, will they not simply take Carrick and his son both prisoner and rule us from London?” Amalie interjected. “Besides, who else could Tom be spying for? Everyone knows that Douglas is loyal to the King of Scots, so no one here would set spies to watch him. And as for having a strong king, Tom must have meant Richard, for although Richard may have been weak when he was a child king, with his uncles fighting to control his regency, he has taken command of England now and is leading the English army. No one thinks him weak anymore.”

“Aye, but even so . . .”

“What could we do, anyway?” Amalie sounded half-asleep now, as if she were no longer really listening, so Meg did not reply.

Very likely, Amalie was right, and Tom was serving their English cousins in hope of bringing benefit to the Murray family if the English invasion succeeded. But what if there was more to it than that?

She wished Wat were there, so she could discuss her concerns with him.

Then it occurred to her that keeping Tom’s secret meant she could not tell her husband what she had learned. As she lay trying to imagine Wat’s voice in her mind’s ear, telling her what to do, common sense returned.

Amalie was right. They could not let Tom continue doing what he was doing. Whatever that was, he was not acting alone. He had admitted that much himself. And if others were involved, danger awaited not only Douglas but very likely Carrick and many more. Meg realized she had made her decision.

If she could not speak without breaking her word, she would have to act.

Snatching up his sword, mace, and dirk, Wat had joined the shouting.

“A Douglas, a Douglas!” The words echoed through the valley, and in the distance, in response, he heard, “A Percy, a Percy!”

His lads were still scrambling for weapons and jacks-o’-plate. He had slept in his mail and boots, but none of them had time to saddle horses.

He heard Neb Duffin’s gravelly voice ordering his lads to close in behind him. Like most Scots, they were accustomed to infighting, on foot. The erstwhile raiders carried daggers, battle-axes, clubs, and maces, and they used them well.

With battle erupting on all sides of him, and aware that Neb’s men had positioned themselves to protect him and his lads, Wat charged in pursuit of the Douglas banner. Leaving his sword in its sheath across his back, he used his heavy iron mace or long dirk against anyone who tried to stop him. In close quarters, both weapons were more effective than a sword.

Someone shouted, “They’re at the riverside. They’re all afoot!”

Knowing the Scots numbered less than three thousand against eight thousand Englishmen, Wat felt a surge of near panic. But he had no time to acknowledge it before he was too busy fighting to spare any thought for fear.

Yards ahead, he saw Douglas himself, and adrenaline surged.

He pushed on, bellowing, “A Douglas!”

The full moon, already higher in the sky and thus smaller than when he had wakened, cast pale, eerie light over the scene as he fought his way onward.

With arrows raining down all around him, men from both sides fell.

English archers had won many a battle for England with their longbows, but in the poor light, amid chaos, and their numbers so much greater, he knew the odds were that more Englishmen than Scots would fall to the arrows that night.

Unlike the archers, however, Wat and other men fighting at close quarters in that moonlight could easily distinguish English light armor from the Scots’ jacks-o’-plate and mail. The Douglas banner moved forward, and Wat plunged after it, using his mace and dirk with increasing efficiency as he went.

Moments later, he stumbled, saving himself only with a wrenching leap sideways. He grimaced when he saw that he’d tripped over a kneeling man’s booted foot and had nearly fallen right on top of him.

Recognizing Sir Hugh Montgomery as one of three men kneeling beside a body, he used his dirk in swift defense against an Englishman with sword raised. The sword flailed ineffectively in such close quarters, making the fight a short one.

Only when the Englishman collapsed was Wat able to see that the body the others knelt beside was Douglas’s, bleeding profusely from a wound in the neck.

Feeling sick and catching sight of Neb not far away, he shouted, “Neb Duffin! To me!”

At Neb’s wave of acknowledgment, Wat bent close to the grim-looking Montgomery, who besides being Douglas’s cousin was also Janet Scott’s. Opposite Hugh, trying to stanch the flow of blood, was Douglas’s chaplain, Richard Lundie.

“How bad is it, Hugh?” Wat asked.

“Bad,” Hugh said. “Apparently no time to lace his cuirass properly, for he took a lance or a dirk in the back. But he told the lad with his banner to carry on. Said we must not let the damned English or our own lads know he’s fallen. Sithee, they cannot see faces in this light, and Jamie’s bonnet is like any other Scotsman’s.”

“We must get him off the field,” Wat said. “I’ve men here who can—”

“Nay then, Wat.” It was Douglas’s voice, and weak, but his words were clear.

“My lord,” Lundie pleaded, “with all respect—”

“Hotspur’s men . . . strung from here to Newcastle,” Douglas muttered, gasping. “Must be. He’s come too fast . . . attacked too soon . . . before his forces could gather. Impatience will undo him. But not if he knows . . . I’ve fallen.”

“He’s right, Wat,” Hugh said. “There’s no sign of the Bishop of Durham yet. We’ve seen only Hotspur’s banner and Sir Ralph Percy’s. And Hotspur
must
have pushed his men damned hard to get here so fast. They cannot have left Newcastle before this morning, and most of them are on foot.”

“Even the leaders are afoot now,” Wat said. “They had to leave their horses across the river, because they floundered in the bogs. Many men are bogged, too. Buccleuch and Huntly are moving to surround the English main body on this side.”

“I hope the English rot in the mud,” Hugh said wrathfully.

Looking back, Wat saw that Neb and his men, along with Wat’s lads and Montgomery’s, had formed a circle around them. All faced outward with lances and swords at the ready. Douglas was safe enough for a few moments, but what then?

“Our lads standing together here can hold the damned English off long enough to get Jamie to a place of greater safety, Hugh,” Wat urged.

“Nay, then, I’m sped,” Douglas told them, making them both lean closer to hear him. “I dreamed once that a dead man won a battle . . . but . . . never knew I’d be that man. At least I’ll not die in bed.”

“Jamie, don’t,” Wat said.

But Douglas’s eyes had shut.

His lips moved. “Tell my lass . . . I’m sorry . . . we never made a son together.”

“Sir, you’ll tell her yourself; or better, you’ll live to make many sons,” Hugh Montgomery said, signing to two of his men to carry the earl.

“Nay, Hugh, don’t waste the men,” Douglas said. “Put me under a bush, so the English don’t get me, and then go. The Douglas can yet win the day.”

Someone grabbed Wat’s arm, and whirling up, he raised his heavy mace.

“Easy, sir,” Neb Duffin shouted. “Ye’d best come. ’Tis your father . . .”

Wat nodded, cast a glance back at Montgomery and Douglas, then plunged after Neb. Whether Douglas lived or died, he had given his orders. All of them would follow his banner and fight with all they had in them to win the day. But Buccleuch would want to know what had happened. And if he needed help holding the English at the river, that was where Wat and his men belonged.

Until the sun came up, the enemy would not know Douglas had fallen, and Wat meant to be alive when it did come up. He had had his own dream, after all, and he meant to do everything in his power to see that it came true.

Meg would be waiting for him, and he would not fail her.