Highland Warlord - Amy Jarecki Page 0,54
Torquil. “Sir Henry Percy and his band of English fiends raided five Douglas crofts. Burned them. Took no prisoners.”
“God, no.”
“Me ma’s dead.”
“Jesu,” James mumbled while bile churned in his stomach. Rage pulsed through his blood. “I haven’t words.”
“Nor I.” Davy had been clenching his fists so tightly, his knuckles were white. “My wife and children were unharmed.” He blinked away tears as he looked to the rafters. “Thank God my cottage is a mile outside the village.”
They sat in silence for a time while James fumed, ready to ride like a madman and set the entire border alight. “What of Hew? I can only imagine how bereft your da must be.”
“He’s gone to bury the dead. Left Blair in charge until he returns.”
The food came but James hardly noticed. What if he’d refused to allow Lady Ailish to come on the hunt for Lord Harris?
My God, she’d be dead as well.
“One more thing,” Davy said, biting off a chunk of bread.
James glanced up.
“There’s a price on your head.”
“I glad of it.” He smirked. “Because I want them to ken I’m coming. I want them to fear the Black Douglas because after I’m finished, they’ll all know what it’s like to live in hell.”
Chapter Eighteen
Now that she had a tallow candle burning in the wall sconce, Ailish closed the fur over the window and tied it down to keep the chilly wind at bay. Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to the musky odor of tallow. After all, it was used in the priory. Beeswax candles were only brought out in the church and that was for holy days and special occasions when the bishop paid a visit.
A thud sounded at the door as if someone knocked with their boot. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Sir James.”
“Thank goodness. I’m famished.” She slid aside the bolt and opened the door. But as soon as she saw his face, she forgot her hunger. “What is it?”
He strode inside carrying a trencher with bread, cheese, an ewer, and two tankards, turned in a circle and ended up setting them on the bed. “The lads will not be able to speak to the clerk at the tollbooth until the morrow.”
“Oh, that is disappointing.” She reached for a piece of cheese and clipped it with her teeth while James strode to the window, peeked through the edge of the fur and dropped it with a grunt.
Had he told her everything? “Why do I sense there is something else on your mind?” she asked.
“First of all, the king needs my army ready to march by midsummer. And…” He raked his fingers through his black hair, making it fan about his face.
“Tell me.”
“Edward’s savages attacked a number of Douglas crofts. They spared no one.”
“No.”
Reeling, James stumbled to the bed and buried his face in his hands. “I should have been there.”
Hot prickles fired beneath her skin. What should she say? There were no words powerful enough to ease his pain. “Hew’s wife?” she whispered.
“Murdered.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He looked up, the rims of his eyes red. “It feels as if I’ve been thrown back eleven years. When will the madness ever stop? The senseless raids, the killing, the pillaging, the pointlessness of it all.”
They’d both lost so much. And James was right, there seemed to be no end in sight, mayhap not in their lifetimes.
Ailish slowly slid her hand onto his thigh.
He clutched his fists over his heart. “Whenever we retaliate, they come back with more vengeance than before. No one is safe. Not our wives, our mothers, our children. They are unfeeling, wretched, hateful barbarians and the only way to break free from Edward’s tyranny is to fight harder, and meaner, and more savagely than they.”
A tear streamed down her cheek as she slid her palm across his shoulders. “Let the pain drive you toward greatness.”
With an animalistic wail, he threw his arms around her, pressing his head against her breast. “I miss my da. I miss my ma. I missed growing up on my family’s lands, breathing the air of freedom. Our people have been oppressed since the death of King Alexander—twenty bloody, miserable years.”
“Since the year I was born,” she whispered, suddenly realizing he was right.
“I’ve pledged my life and my sword to Robert the Bruce. I ken in my heart he is the man with the mettle to lead us to freedom. But as sure as you are my witness, I will not rest another day until we have our vengeance.”
“I ken the king was