Chapter Eighteen

 

 

 

“Lords Damory and Badlesmere approach, milord.”

At the wave of Lancaster’s hand, the guard bowed and slipped out of the great hall. The nobles lounging on the dais suddenly jerked to life, and the hall filled with the buzz of their excitement.

Niall remained motionless behind Lancaster’s chair, but inside his stomach clenched.

In the several days since the men had visited the bawdy house, little had changed with the nobles’ routine. They rose late, spent most of the day eating and drinking on the raised dais, droning on about their grand battle strategies and plans once they were in power, then stumbled to their chambers when they could indulge no more.

Niall and Mairin had apparently become as invisible to them as the servants, for though they both remained rooted behind Lancaster’s enormous throne, the men talked freely before them, never once even looking at them anymore. It gave them all the freedom they needed to continue gathering information—what little could be sifted from the nobles’ ramblings and grandiose boasting.

They had returned to the cave once a day to feed the pigeons—always claiming to be slipping away for a lusty tryst when they were questioned by the guards at the gate—but they hadn’t sent the Bruce another missive. With only three more chances to be in communication with him, they had to wait for something truly significant to report.

And this just might be it. Lancaster had alluded to the others that he might wish to strike against Edward soon, but had coyly insisted that they wait for the arrival of Lords Damory and Badlesmere and the reinforcements they would bring. Now it seems the lords were only just beyond the castle walls.

Niall slid a sideways glance at Mairin. She stood on the other side of Lancaster’s chair. From the subtle way her shoulders tensed, he knew her thoughts ran in the same direction as his.

They hadn’t spoken of what they’d done in the cave—kissed, tasted, and nearly more, though Niall had just managed to leash his raging desire. He almost believed he would wake and find that the whole thing had been an achingly hot dream.

But it had been blessedly, blazingly real. Yet things felt fragile between them. He feared that if he pushed too far, too soon, Mairin would turn to sand and slip through his fingers once more. He couldn’t risk destroying this unnamed connection between them.

Whatever it was, a voice of hope whispered in the back of his mind, it was growing. Several times over the last few days, he felt himself being watched, only to turn and find her dove-gray eyes lingering on him, their depths unreadable.

And she’d come to him every night. Nay, they hadn’t shared any more heated moments of passion, not even another kiss, but each evening after they’d retreated to their chamber, she would wordlessly slip into the large bed beside him and snuggle into his arms.

He held her as he would a piece of delicate stained glass, trying not to move, scarcely breathing for fear of startling her into flitting away.

 It shook him to the core to be able to enfold her against his chest every night. It was staggeringly exhilarating, yet it also felt so damn right. And he couldn’t help but notice that when the fire burned low, she didn’t draw taut at the dark shadows that lurked in the corners of the chamber as long as she was in his arms.

In those secret, precious moments lying in the soft glow of firelight with Mairin in his embrace, he wasn’t English, and she wasn’t Scottish. They were simply a man and a woman, bodies tucked together, hearts thrumming softly in unison.

Niall gave himself a little shake, forcing his thoughts back to the present. They might be only a man and a woman in the blessed privacy of their bedchamber, but now they were warriors on a mission.

The great hall’s double doors swung open and two dripping-wet nobles strode in, a gaggle of seconds-in-command shuffling behind them.

Lancaster rose, greeting the soggy, barrel-chested man of middling years first. “Lord Badlesmere. Welcome to Pontefract.” At Badlesmere’s bow, Lancaster turned to the other man, who was sharp-nosed and thin of build. “And Lord Damory. Welcome to you as well.”

Even before Damory finished his courtesy bow to Lancaster, Badlesmere straightened and fixed Lancaster with a frown. “The roads are soup, Earl. This bloody rain threatens to wash them out completely in another few days.”

“Come, get warm and dry by my fire. Refresh yourselves with food and wine.” Lancaster snapped at one of the servants who stood hunched near the door to the kitchens. “But,” he said, fixing them each with a pale stare. “I would hear what news you bring from the south before you make yourselves too comfortable.”

Damory opened his mouth to acquiesce, but Badlesmere raised a hand to halt him. He scanned the nobles on the dais, nodding to each of them in turn and murmuring a word of greeting. But when his shrewd brown eyes landed on Niall and Mairin, his mouth tightened.

“Who are they?” he demanded. “Surely not fellow members of our coalition.”

Lancaster spared them a brief glance over his shoulder. “The Bruce sent them,” he said with a dismissive wave. “They are meant to keep me alive so that our rebellion may reach its victorious conclusion.”

That seemed enough of an explanation in Lancaster’s view, but Badlesmere’s hard gaze lingered on Mairin, distrust written on his weathered features. Niall tensed, but Lancaster drew both newly arrived noblemen’s attentions back to him.

“What news?” he said again, and this time it sounded more like a command than a question.

“As I said, the roads are nigh impassable,” Badlesmere replied sourly. He shook water from his fur-trimmed cloak as if to emphasize his point.

“But you managed to bring your men with you?”

“Aye, six hundred between the two of us,” Badlesmere replied.

At that, the nobles on the dais murmured with barely-contained excitement.

“Excellent,” Lancaster said, lowering himself into his chair with a faint smile. “And what of Edward?”

“He is on the move.”

Now the other nobles shot eager grins at each other.

“He rides north with his army as we speak,” Badlesmere went on. “Last I heard, he’d reached Northampton. He aims to reclaim Doncaster and Tickhill Castles—and Pontefract.” The man lifted his wiry, dark eyebrows. “He is coming for you, Lancaster. For us all.”

Lancaster’s soft grin turned into a wolfish smile. “We’d best not keep our King waiting, then. We will march to him.”

The nobles sprang to their feet, shouting with glee and pounding each other on the shoulders as if they’d already won their civil war.

It struck Niall then that none of these men had ever truly fought in a battle. Aye, they had likely received what he never had—an education in the finer art of ornamental fighting, which nobles were taught when they were fostered out. But how many of them had ever drawn blood? How many had killed a man with his own hands?

Lancaster and likely one or two of the others had participated in a few sieges, at least. Lancaster had even been fired at, if Logan’s report had been accurate. And from what little Niall had seen of Badlesmere, the man probably had some experience on the battlefield, though it seemed to be in giving orders rather than taking them.

But beyond that, these men fancied warfare as a sort of game, a chess match in which they pushed around their pawns at will. Their pride seemed more important than the lives of the soldiers they commanded.

“You are certain our forces can match Edward’s?” Willington, the only noble to remain seated, asked Lancaster pointedly.

“With Damory and Badlesmere’s six hundred, we have nearly three thousand men,” Lancaster replied, shooting Willington a frosty look. “And de Holland waits for us in the south with at least five hundred more soldiers. He will join us when I alert him that we intend to meet Edward in open combat.”

“There is no reason to delay, then,” Hereford cut in. “The sooner we depart, the sooner we’ll be able to cut off Edward’s progress north.”

Several of the men called out their agreement.

Lancaster held up a hand to silence his over-excited nobles. “Mobilize your men,” he commanded. “And ready yourselves for the journey. If we work swiftly, we may even be able to depart this afternoon instead of having to wait for first light tomorrow.”

The great hall erupted into a flurry of activity, and the noblemen scurried from the dais to prepare themselves and their men to depart. Lancaster rose and sauntered toward the stairwell leading to his chambers, but Mairin surreptitiously caught Niall’s arm, halting him before he could follow.

“We need to get word to the Bruce. He will want to know that Lancaster is on the move, and plans to engage Edward directly.”

“That will only leave two more chances to send information to him,” Niall whispered, his gaze darting around the hall to ensure that no one was listening. Thankfully, the others were so busy with their own plans that they had been completely ignored.

“Aye,” Mairin replied, her brows lowering, “but this isnae trifling.”

Niall nodded reluctantly after a moment. “You’re right. But if Lancaster truly means to mobilize today, there may not be enough time for us to reach the cave.”

“The guards wouldnae buy a story about us sneaking off for a tryst anyway,” she murmured. “No’ at such an important moment. But dinnae fash—I have an idea.”

Unease rippled up his spine. “What is it?”

“Ye’ll see. Trust me.”

And because he had given her his word to do just that, Niall had no choice but to nod curtly before they fell in behind Lancaster.

 

*    *    *   *

 

Niall hunched into his cloak against the slicing, frigid rain.

Amazingly, they’d managed to mobilize in just over three hours. Only about two hours of gray daylight remained, but judging from the sloppy, muddy state of the roads, they would need every moment they could squeeze from the day. This trek promised to be cold, wet, and hard going.

The arrival of March had brought incessant rain, turning what was left of the snow first to slush and then to mud. And the rain showed no signs of letting up. It fell in heavy sheets, as if trying to beat the already-sodden land into submission.

Niall cast a glance at Mairin around the edge of his hood for what felt like the dozenth time. They’d only ridden out of the castle gates a quarter of an hour before, but time dragged and his nerves wound tighter as he waited to see how she planned to reach the cave.

She rode impassively on Lancaster’s other flank, her head slightly tucked against the pound of rain on her hood.

They were surrounded by the other nobles, with a hundred soldiers riding in front to protect them from an unforeseen attack, and the rest streaming behind, mostly on foot. They were forced to travel at a snail’s pace, not only because of all the foot soldiers, but also for the sake of the three-dozen wagons of supplies trailing at the back of their procession. The wagons’ progress was hampered the worst by the deeply rutted and mud-covered road.

Suddenly Mairin gasped, drawing the attention of Lancaster and a few of the nobles nearest them. She looked down at her saddle, then sank her teeth into her lip. If he didn’t know her so well, he would have feared she was in true distress. Still, his stomach coiled with trepidation. This must be the start of her plan.

“What is it?” Niall asked loud enough for those around them to hear.

“It is…I need to stop for a moment.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Naught. Only a…a woman’s issue. I dinnae need more than a moment, though.”

“Good God,” Hereford muttered in disgust.

Now they had Lancaster’s full attention. He shot her an annoyed look. “You expect me to halt a procession of nigh on three thousand soldiers because of a woman’s problem?”

“Nay,” Mairin replied quickly. “I can see myself to that copse of trees just there.” She pointed off to the west, to the stand of oaks they always rode through to get to the cave.

Niall stiffened. She’d never told him that her plan only covered her riding to the cave and sending the Bruce a missive. The thought of her setting out alone made his guts tangle with worry.

“I’ll accompany you,” he said tightly.

“Nay,” she repeated, shooting him a pointed look. “As I said, it is a woman’s matter. I can see to myself and catch up in no time.”

“Christ,” Audley interjected, giving Niall a withering look. “Beaumore thinks he can sneak in one more swiving before the Scottish hellcat’s monthly curse!”

That was met with the laughter and vulgar jests of the others. While they were distracted by their own amusement, Mairin fixed him with a hard stare. Her lips barely moved, but he made out the words she mouthed.

Trust me.

Damn it all. She was forcing his hand. Either he had to let her ride out on her own, reach the caves, send the missive, and ride back, or he had to break his vow to give her his trust.

With a muttered curse, he tilted his head almost imperceptibly. It was the only confirmation she needed.

Her shoulders hunched within her cloak as if the nobles’ taunting had embarrassed her. With a nudge to her horse’s flanks, she peeled away from the procession, then spurred toward the stand of trees.

Niall watched her out of the corner of his eye until the bare oak branches completely obscured her. Then there was naught to do but wait. An interminable stretch of time crawled by, during which he conjured every ill that could befall her on the short ride to the cave. Her horse could throw her, or go lame, and she would be stranded. Or she could be set upon by thieves—or worse.

By the time he saw a dark speck against the gray landscape riding back toward them, he had nearly driven himself mad with worry.

Mairin reined in alongside Lancaster’s flank slightly breathless, as if she’d pushed herself and her horse to make good time.

“This is why women cannot be warriors, and why they have no place in battle,” Lancaster muttered, casting a contemptuous glance at Mairin over his shoulder before facing forward once more. Little did the Earl know that he had just been outmaneuvered by the very woman he was busy disparaging.

Mairin completely ignored Lancaster. Instead, she locked eyes with Niall.

He lifted one brow in a silent question, his throat tight with concern.

She tipped her head, a victorious smile flitting across her lips before she smoothed her features once more.

It was done, thank God, and Mairin was back safe and sound.

She held his gaze for a fraction of a second longer, though, her mouth once again forming soundless words.

Thank you.

Niall’s heart tumbled against his ribs. Caring for Mairin was a precarious business. But in the deepest, most private corner of his soul, he knew he could never stop.