Highland Warlord - Amy Jarecki Page 0,35
the camp. “I’m living in a cave with hundreds of men. ’Tis crude to say the least. This is no place for a woman, let alone the daughter of an earl.”
Her lovely lips parted as if she had much to say but could not bring herself to form the words. “It seems there is no place for me, then.”
“Nay, once you are in my care, there you will remain.” James groaned. “I was about to ride to the Highlands to gain an audience with the king—tell him of our progress here.”
“May I go with you?” Ailish’s eyes lit up as if she were already plotting. “Perhaps His Grace can help us find Harris. He might also suggest a place for me—and then I can send for Florrie.”
James could only imagine the king’s solution, and it included holy matrimony with some overstuffed, elderly lord. Moreover, since he’d dispatched Clifford and burned the Douglas keep, reports were the English had stepped up their patrols as well as their raids. “I’ll send a missive—advise the Bruce as to what’s happened to Lord Harris and why I’ve decided to remain here. I’ll figure a way for you to stay here until I receive word of your brother’s whereabouts.”
The furrow in Ailish’s brow eased as she wrapped her arms around James’ midriff. “I kent you would help. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”
His throat thickened as he cradled her in an embrace. Every night since he’d left the priory, he’d dreamed of having her in his arms but, deep down, he knew she mustn’t remain in Selkirk Forest for long. He prayed the king would see reason. After all, Harris was a Scottish earl, too important for the future of Scotland.
***
Seumas, a self-proclaimed squire to Sir James, sat beside Ailish as he helped her trim a stack of beans they were preparing for the evening meal. “Are ye a real nun?”
Ailish snipped a bit of stem with her eating knife. Though she continued to wear the habit, Sir James had already introduced her as a lady and had given the men a stern warning that she was under his protection. “Nay, but I’ve lived with nuns for the past six years.”
The lad tossed a bean into the pot. “That’s how long I’ve been with Hew and his wife.”
“Are you an orphan?” she asked, covering her yawn with her hand. After riding all night, she was ever so tired.
“Aye, lost my parents when Lord Clifford stormed the Douglas keep when I was a wee bairn.”
“I’m so sorry. It seems war has made too many orphans.”
“You’re not wrong there, but I aim to be a knight just like Sir James.”
“You sound like my brother.”
“Is he a lord?”
“Mm hmm. He’s an earl.”
“Holy merciful fairies. A real earl,” said the lad, his eyes round and his voice filled with awe.
Ailish chuckled. “He’s a couple of years younger than you, but I reckon you’d make fast allies.”
“And then we could both train to be knights together.”
“Indeed.” Ailish mussed the lad’s brown hair. “Tell me about Hew. He’s a Douglas man, no?”
“Aye, and he was ever so glad to see Sir James return. He’s the one who took him to Bishop Lamberton, ye ken.”
“Was he?” No wonder James seemed fond of the man. “And what do you know of the other men here?”
“Well, Davy is Hew’s son, but he’s as old as Sir James—has a wife and everything.” The lad went on to rattle off a list of names as if he were reading from a scroll. “…and I mustn’t forget Friar John. He led us to this camp—rode with William Wallace he did.”
“I am duly impressed.” Ailish had met the monk. He was in charge of the cooking and had set them to preparing the beans to go with tonight’s stew. “How many rabbits do you think it takes to feed all these men?”
The lad shrugged. “The friar uses whatever the hunters bring in. Sometimes it is not very filling, though.”
“Mayhap we can assist by gathering roots and berries.”
After she sent Seumas to the cooking tent with the beans, Ailish stretched and looked out over the camp, spotted with dozens of tents. Every man seemed to be going about his task, reminding her of a shipping port busy with the affairs of the day. If they weren’t chopping and carting wood, or putting up tents, they were making arrows, sharpening blades, or fashioning spears. A number were in the sparring ring with Torquil and at