True Highland Spirit (13 page)

“Damn yer eyes, McNab. My brothers are all in there, ye hear me!” called the man, but he did not pursue.

Morrigan slipped her way through the throng until she was in the middle of the group of standing people. The air was hot and stale in the tent; the odor of men who traveled long in the same clothes permeated the air. The ground was covered with straw, muddy, and wet. Morrigan did not mind, the smell of rotting rushes was nothing new.

She was late to the gathering, and a man with a French accent had already begun to speak. It was hard to see him clearly, but it appeared to be Chaumont, dressed in a fine embroidered cloak. Seated at either side on the raised dais were Laird James Douglas and the steward of Scotland. It was an impressive array of prestigious persons.

“I thank you for coming to join forces against the tyranny of the English.” Chaumont said with more authority and less humor in his voice than she remembered. Of course she had been hitting the whiskey a bit hard that night. “Together we will put an end to the oppressor who takes the very food from our table and seeks to bend us to the will of England. Though these be dark days, we will stand victorious in the battle against the malice of our common foe!”

The crowd cheered, perhaps enhanced by the serving wenches who appeared at that moment to bring each man a tankard of ale. Morrigan declined. This was a time to stay sober. She squinted through the haze of the tent. Was the Frenchman truly Chaumont, or somebody else?

“Who is the man speaking?” she asked a man standing next to her.

“The Duke of Argitaine.”

And so it was. “Those Frenchies look alike,” she muttered to herself.

Several notable personages got up to speak along the same predictable vein while her comrades drank themselves into a greater appreciation for the speeches. Douglas stood along with the steward of Scotland, who was ruling in King David’s stead. Scotland’s king was still sitting in an English prison since the last time Scotland tried to invade. Morrigan wondered about the steward’s endorsement of the invasion. With the king of Scotland being held for ransom in England, invading could hardly improve the king’s tenuous situation. The steward was also King David’s nephew and currently his heir. Morrigan smiled. If the king never returned, the steward would become the king of Scotland. Ah yes, his motivation for war was clear enough.

Morrigan wanted to know the details of the plan. No Scottish invasion had ever been successful. What made them think that they could win? Finally James Douglas took the floor for a discussion on strategy. Douglas was not as tall as the duke or some of the others, but he was a hulking man and commanded many soldiers’ respect and unabashed fear.

The Douglas started to speak and a hush fell over the crowd. “As you ken, the English are attacking our French brethren. They are like the locust, which destroys all it sees. I need not remind ye o’ the massacre at Neville’s Cross or Hallidon Hill. We must stand now with our French brothers in their time of need. The English king has declared himself the king of France—what say ye to that?” The crowd obligingly hissed.

“Make no mistake, if the Sassenach king ever defeats France, he will not hesitate to use his power to dominate all o’ Scotland! King Edward will finally succeed in his goal to put himself on the throne of Scotland. What say ye to that?” The crowd booed loudly.

Morrigan waited for the actual battle plan to be revealed. Simply marching into England would end the way it always did—defeat for the Scots. One thing she did believe; Scotland would not long stand if England conquered France.

Movement from the side caught her eye. Sir Dragonet came into view and spoke quietly to the Duke of Argitaine. Dragonet stood behind the assembled titled personages, as should any good knight. He was tall, wearing armor under his surcoat. Morrigan swallowed hard and wished she had not passed the chance for a draft of ale. He was the perfect picture of a knight. Tall, straight, alert. He barely resembled the easy-moving minstrel who had played for them months ago. What would he do when he discovered she had not returned home as he asked?

“…and that is how we will begin our invasion,” said Douglas.

Morrigan snapped her attention away from the attractive young knight back to Douglas. The invasion plans. What had he said?

“So our plan is Berwick?” asked one man.

“Aye. We will take Berwick and hold it to use as a base to invade Newcastle and then York. Once we control the port o’ York, we can help ourselves to its wealth.”

“And use the money to help our brothers in France to repel King Edward,” Argitaine added.

“And what of us? If we take the riches of York, will we no’ share in the reward?” asked Morrigan, her thoughts falling from her lips as spoken words. Dragonet spotted her in the crowd. He opened his mouth slightly then shut it again, the only visible sign that he had seen her.

“And who is this young sir?” asked the Duke of Argitaine, with all the false politeness of the aristocracy.

“I am…” Morrigan hesitated. Her family name was not likely to engender a positive response. “I represent McNab.” The temperature in the room increased exponentially as the eyes of the men turned toward her.

“McNab. We are joined together in the common purpose of fighting King Edward and our English enemy. A victory against King Edward in France is a victory for the Scots as well,” said Argitaine.

“That be well and good, but it winna put bread on the table,” answered Morrigan.

“And what do ye ken about battle, McNab?” jeered a man in front of her. “Is yer clan no’ the one that refused to go to war against the English?”

“I ken that to attack England is naught but folly. Is that no’ what we did when King David invaded and got himself captured? How will we prevent the same thing from happening again?” asked Morrigan. All sets of eyes turned hostile. Men grumbled in opposition.

“What would be your plan?” Dragonet’s voice rang over the growling men.

Morrigan searched Dragonet’s face, but he revealed no emotion.

“I would attack but no’ hold. I would plunder towns, take what we want, then leave. Give King Edward a headache wondering where or when we will attack again. Keep him on the defensive and us out of a direct fight with the English soldiers, for if we face them on the field, we will most likely lose.”

The men around Morrigan stepped back, not wanting to sully their own reputations by standing in her proximity. They circled around her like wolves.

“Coward!” cried one man.

“This strategy gave us success in Nisbet,” said Morrigan.

“You speak the truth McNab,” said Chaumont, Gavin at his side. “And one thing I can surely attest, this McNab is no coward.”

Morrigan glanced at Dragonet, who was whispering to the duke.

“Are ye afeared of an honest man, Yer Grace?” Morrigan shouted over the rumbling crowd. “It worked in Nisbet. Did it no’, Laird Douglas?”

The room hushed and all eyes turned to Douglas, who shifted his weight in his seat with some discomfort. “It was successful in Nisbet, but it was never our aim to hold that town. Berwick and the castle must be taken.”

“To fight the English on the open field is folly. We shall lose,” declared Morrigan.

“Traitor!” cried a man in the crowd.

“Knave!” called another. The crowd was getting murderous.

“Please, gentlemen.” The duke raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “This man has spoken his mind. He is incorrect, but I wish him no ill will. Since you have no faith in our plans, I invite you to leave the camp and return the coin ye were given to arrive here tonight.”

Morrigan bowed without saying a word. She had said enough. The fact that the duke would never see those coins again was not a discussion she chose to have at that time. Or ever. Men glared at her and began to close in. Morrigan turned toward the door and fingered her sword hilt.

“I shall see that McNab leaves camp,” said Dragonet, his voice stern. In a moment he was behind her, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her out of the tent. The men stepped back, allowing them to pass. They exited the tent, and Morrigan breathed deep of the cool night air, a refreshing change from the hot, stifling air in the tent.

Dragonet continued to walk beside her, saying nothing. Morrigan was not sure what to think of his silence. They tramped through the large camp until the tents were not quite so crowded and they drew nearer to the outskirts, where the McNabs had been assigned a small bit of land. She had to tell the men to stop unpacking and start packing. By the saints they were going to hate her.

“Are you healed?” asked Dragonet in an undertone.

“Aye, ’tis well.” Truth was her shoulder was still healing and it pained her to move her left arm. Fortunately her left arm was not as necessary as her right, given her current occupation.

Dragonet stopped in a small, open space between the clan camps. He frowned down at her, tall and serious. “Why are you here? Why did you not go home? Do you not have all you need for your clan?”

“Aye, we are no longer in a desperate position, thanks to the ransom and the duke’s coin, which, by the way, he’s going to have a hard time ever seeing again.”

Dragonet shrugged. “So why not go home?”

“I made an oath. Perhaps you noticed that the McNabs are no’ well thought o’ in these parts. The least I can do is keep my word. I wanted to regain some honor for my clan.” Morrigan looked away into the dark gloom of the night.

“By getting yourself killed tonight?” he asked, a mischievous light in his eye.

Morrigan’s lips twitched up in spite of herself. “I suppose ye’re going to tell me ye saved me back in that tent.”

“No, no. A knight never boasts of his accomplishment. However, as an accomplished minstrel I may put the adventure into a ballad.” Dragonet smiled and his form relaxed, like the easy minstrel he once was. Morrigan returned his grin before recalling that she never smiled, unless it was to mock one of her hapless brothers.

“You told the duke to send me home.”

“But of course,” replied Dragonet without a hint of apology.

Morrigan shrugged. Perhaps it was better that way. She had offered to fight, they had refused her. She could leave with her honor intact, at least in her mind if not in those of others.

“Was I incorrect in my assessment of their invasion plans? Do I lack understanding of the finer points of war?” asked Morrigan.

Dragonet looked up at the clear night sky. Stars were in abundance, scattered across the sky like lost jewels. The silver moon cast the landscape in shades of gray. “Your conclusions, they are correct.”

“Then why was I thrown out o’ the meeting?”

“You say the things nobody wishes to hear. The English are strong, well trained, and well equipped. To have a hope of success, you must believe it is possible to win. You robbed people of this belief.”

“But going out wi’ a poor strategy is daft!”

“War is daft. A sensible person would not do it.”

Morrigan paused. It was not the answer she expected. She had been raised on the stories of glorious battles, of brave heroes and valiant warriors. “Ye are a knight. Are ye not?”

Dragonet turned back to her, his face in shadow, his eyes black. “I am many things.”

A cold wind blew against her, and she wrapped her cloak closer. “What happened to glory and honor and valor and all that rot?”

“I have known many brave men. Most lie in their graves.”

A shiver slid up her spine as the wind snaked through the sea of tents, rustling the flaps. It was the only sound. The men had retreated away from the cold into their tents, leaving them quite alone. She took a step closer.

“So why are ye here? Why no’ return to France?” she asked.

He shrugged. “To be fed and housed in the winter, it is a significant improvement over being hungry and cold.”

Morrigan nodded. “Yet surely this canna be the only way ye can provide for yerself. Why no’ go back to being a minstrel?”

Dragonet gave a lopsided smile that reminded her greatly of his more casual minstrel days. “I was never truly a minstrel, I confess. I was on the orders from the duke.”

“Aye, but what keeps ye from becoming a minstrel in truth?”

“Ah, the worn-out excuse: glory and honor and valor and all that rot.”

Morrigan smiled back into his dark eyes. “Ye are pitiful.”

Dragonet inclined his head and leaned toward her, speaking in a low tone. “Most men are, my lady.”

Despite the cold wind, Morrigan was surprisingly warm. And growing warmer with every inch she leaned closer to Dragonet.

“I, well, I should go.” Morrigan’s feet made no attempt at movement. Instead she leaned closer. Dragonet remained still, his face unreadable in the darkness.

Morrigan’s heart pounded, drawing her toward him, drowning out all rational thought. This is where she wanted to be, close to him. In vain she tried to remind herself of all the reasons she distrusted people in general, and men in particular. This man was different. He slid past her defenses. He saw her, the real lass beneath the bitter disguise, and he did something no man ever did, he accepted her. Maybe he even liked her a little, or at least he was not repulsed by her, and that was good enough.