Chapter Thirteen

Had they been preparing to depart from Strontian, had they been fresh to or long gone from war, there would be more instructions to give and greater amounts of supplies to load ere they departed Caol. As it was, gone now more than a year from home, and with both men and supplies reduced, their preparations were limited and quickly achieved. This was not a raw troop heading off into their first foray. These men had been at the rout that was Methven, had seen the king nearly trampled and slain, had fought at Dalrigh, had engaged with both English and Scottish foes. Little encouragement did they need from their laird and commander, for they knew what lay ahead. They fought bravely for the cause and for their comrades, kinship being on of the great factors of war, Augustus believed.

Geddy was a fine captain, effortlessly commanding respect, fear, and admiration. His meticulous attention to detail ensured that no MacKenzie movement went unnoticed; he knew the composition of each unit, from the vanguard to the rear guard, and monitored the number of soldiers in the sick wagons. This dedication to understanding every facet of their operations allowed Augustus the freedom to focus on strategic planning for battle. However, knowing that King Robert would have mapped out his own strategy for the battle against Pembroke, Augustus understood that his schemes would not come into play until the battle was well under way, and adjustments, if any were needed, might need direction in the midst of the fight.

Presently, as the army maneuvered into their marching formation, Sorcha exited her cottage, draped in her long cloak and clutching a worn satchel. She looked decidedly ill-at-ease, evident in the searching gaze as her blue eyes scanned the line of mounted men. She bit her lower lip, an endearing habit of hers that revealed her bouts with indecision or anxiety. Her gaze paused when it landed on Augustus and eased a bit as she strode toward him.

Having positioned his steed just behind the vanguard, Augustus dismounted and awaited her approach, peripherally aware of all the eyes upon her—her pink cheeks betrayed that she was aware of this as well. Tension pinched her features, and she gave only a flat smile as Augustus took the bag, which was surprisingly light. Having expected it would have been bulkier, or that there would be several satchels and thus need to be stored in the provisions' wayn, he determined it might well remain with them and affixed it to the horse's flanks, opposite his own saddle bags.

"Have ye a horn for water or ale?" He asked as he knotted the straps to the saddle.

Sorcha shook her head, her blush darkening.

"We can share mine," he said. "Ye have a knife on ye?"

She nodded, patting her hip. "Yes."

When the bag was secure, he faced her. "Ye'll have to ride astride," he said. "It will be more comfortable as we'll be moving swiftly."

Another nod, another nibble on her lip as she removed her gaze, eyeing the broad back of his destrier.

Sensing her heightened agitation, Augustus took hold of her hand, drawing her gaze back to him. "Sorcha, all will be well. Ye will be reunited with Wycliffe shortly and the two of ye set aside somewhere safe ere we engage in battle. I dinna take this on lightly, the idea that ye should accompany us."

"Thank you," she said, her voice small. "But pray bear with me, as my nerves are on fire."

He grinned at her phrasing and let his gaze linger on her, his jaw tightening briefly as he was reminded of her injury, her swollen upper lip, the area showing the beginning of a purple and yellow bruise.

She was well named, ‘Sorcha' meaning bright or radiant. She was both, exuding light and beauty that stirred within him a deep desire to protect her.

Meaning to put her at ease, he assured her, "Ye'll settle in. Willna take long at all."

When he moved to assist her in mounting, she held up a hand to stall him. "I can do it," she insisted.

A soft chuckle erupted. "Nae, lass, ye canna." Unceremoniously, he lifted her by her waist and set her up on the saddle. As she swung her leg over the horse's back and settled in, adjusting herself until she was comfortable, he told her, "Ye're too small, lass, and would nae be able to reach the saddle or lift your foot as high as the stirrup."

"But shouldn't I learn how to do so?" She asked as Augustus hoisted himself up behind her.

He reached his arms around both sides of her, collecting the reins from the pommel and adjusted his own seat until her bum was nestled in his groin, likely to be hell on earth, but necessary for an easier ride.

"?Tis nae anything to learn, lass, as I imagine you've climbed atop plenty of mares." He thought this might be true, being that she was raised in a noble family. "?Tis only a matter of size and ye are simply too petite."

He glanced around, noting that all appeared ready and lifted his hand, twirling his finger around until Geddy's voice could be heard, his deep tone ringing out. "Forward march! Keep those ranks tight!"

At the head of the vanguard, Kael called out his customary, "Aaa-oooh! Off we go!"

In flawless formation, they marched with purpose, their shields, swords, and helms gleaming in the late day sun. The rhythmic sound of shoed hooves striking the earth echoed across the glen while a gentle breeze and their growing speed waved the MacKenzie banners at the front of the line.

Sorcha sat stiffly before him, her spine straight and her chin raised.

"Nae, lass," Augustus said after only half a mile, "dinna tense your body. Ye'll ache for hours afterward."

"I'm nervous," she said and did not relax her form.

"Ye still wonder if my designs are nefarious?" He asked, a bit of an edge to his voice. Aye, he was often impatient, sometimes fierce, and was renowned for his quick temper, but he was certain he'd given her no reason to have so low an opinion of him, or such high expectations that he would dishonor or harm her.

Without answering him directly, she said, "I'm worried about Grimm and his circumstance and I'm sorry that I didn't take more time to secure the home apiary by inspecting the skeps more thoroughly or reinforcing the hackles."

Relieved a wee bit by this confession, Augustus said, "I ken the bees have been around for thousands of years, lass. I surmise they might manage to hang on for a few days while you're gone."

"Will it truly only be a few days?"

"Actually, nae," he was sorry to tell her, to have misspoken. "A few days it will be simply to reach the location where we will meet the king."

Her shoulders sank a bit, and Augustus said no more, supposing that her drooped figure at least meant that her body was less rigid.

He said no more, how the battle and aftermath might last more days, or that their might be a continuation of battle if the initial fight were reckoned a draw, and he didn't remind her that they would then need several more for the return trip to Caol. And certainly he didn't mention that once reunited with Wycliffe, and under his protection, she and the baron might make their own decisions and their own path.

Eventually they climbed out of the valley, riding over the smallest beinn of an extensive range of tall hills. On the other side was the loch, shimmering under the sun dropping lower in a cloudless sky. From the vantage point of the top of the hill there was no sign of de Montfort's army and Augustus gnashed his teeth in exasperation. He neither desired to wait overlong for the earl to arrive at his leisure nor was he willing presently to consider what it would mean, and what retaliation would be required, if Lord Aldric failed to show entirely, thereby proving his lack of allegiance to Robert Bruce.

They slowed their pace on the descent, with several lads putting hands on the sides of wagons to prevent them from rolling carelessly downhill. The degree of the slope meant that Sorcha was forced to lean backward, likely imbued with a sense that she would pitch forward over the destrier's head otherwise. Augustus fitted the reins into one hand and wrapped the other around her midsection, mindful that there might live a bruise there.

Five minutes later, the last of the MacKenzie army had just reached level ground when came a thundering of horses along the trail on the east side of the loch.

Frankly, Augustus was riddled with a wee shock, hardly having believed de Montfort would show.

Breaking formation, Augustus urged his steed forward, ahead of the vanguard. Geddy and several other unit commanders followed suit, riding beside or just behind Augustus and Sorcha.

While the sight of the earl's complete numbers was impressive—Augustus frequently longed to have so many men under his command, an army of three hundred or more—De Montfort looked no more comfortable in the saddle this afternoon than he had this morning. He was a paunchy ghoul in a soldier's costume, no more fit for battle than his lady wife. Sitting upon a fine charger, wearing an elaborately decorated helm, outfitted in a bright green tabard and armor off which the sun glinted sharply, Lord Aldric looked entirely out of place, even as his retainers were similarly adorned in garish colors and armor that was likewise too shiny. One might guess the de Montfort soldiers spent the majority of their time polishing armor rather than training; clearly none of this metal had ever seen the harsh action of a battle.

With some attempt to convey his superiority, de Montfort reined in first so that Augustus and his army were compelled to ride further and arrive at him, rather than two men and their armies meeting mutually. This scarcely rankled Augustus, who was too entertained by the shock of Lord Aldric's gaze as they drew near, when the earl realized the presence of Sorcha upon the same horse as Augustus.

There could be no question now, who sponsored Sorcha's protection.

"What is this?" De Montfort challenged in a huff even before Augustus had halted his steed. "What is the beekeeper doing here? With ye?"

"I was knighted by Willam Wallace, my lord," Augustus said matter-of-factly. "He bid me pledge that I would honor my vows to protect all the loyal citizens of Scotland, most especially women and children." He waited for that to sink in before elaborating, "With her guardian imprisoned and his fate unknown at this time, it was decided to be in Sorcha's best interests to nae abide alone. Where better safe than with a knight of Willam Wallace?"

Augustus hadn't reached the advanced age of three and thirty without being able to read people. Lord Aldric's face had frozen with his shock, but there was evidence of a larger irritation, which advised Augustus that possibly the MacKenzies had now foiled some nefarious plot of the earl. The man was clearly peeved to realize that she would not be alone and vulnerable, left behind in her tiny cottage in Caol.

Regaining a bit of composure, the earl snarled disdainfully at Augustus, "Ye bring her to war?"

"I take her away from Caol," Augustus refined. "And she will be a ward of the MacKenzies and dinna fear that ye would be expected to concern yourself with her welfare as we march."

Having encountered the stone wall of Augustus's resolve, Lord Aldric turned his attention to Sorcha, leveling her with an exasperated glower, one that lengthened his long face and scorned this very unorthodox arrangement.

"And ye—what are ye thinking, lass? Ye imagine yourself safe with him, a man of war, and whom ye only just met, and nae securely ensconced in yer own home?"

"With Grimm's unjust imprisonment, I trust this man's word, that I am safer with him."

Augustus knew a certain level of pride at her strong voice and tart opinion. Geddy had the right of it—spitfire indeed.

"We've many miles to cover and little time to reach our destination," Augustus observed. "I suggest we leave off with any remaining pleasantries and make our start."

Twenty or more feet separated Augustus from de Montfort and yet he still was aware of the earl's low growl.

Lifting his face until only one saggy and crepey chin was visible, de Montfort proclaimed imperiously, "My own vanguard will take the lead, sir. Nae doubt few would argue my superior rank or that my army is more disciplined, nae to mention far greater in number." He speech as usual could be likened to the growl of an angry dog, each word snapping out with a sharp, biting edge. "My captain—nae yers—will march at the head."

"By all means, my lord," Augustus readily agreed.

Another few minutes passed, in which time the de Montfort militia moved with some disarray and shoving of horse rumps until they were finally positioned in front of the MacKenzie force.

"Why do you not challenge him when he speaks like that?" Sorcha quietly asked Augustus.

"There are greater battles to fight, lass. Nae need to expend energy where it is nae deserved. We're all going to the same place. Dinna matter if I arrive at the head of the line or nae."

When finally it was time for them to move, Augustus's army kept their formation as they fell in behind de Montfort's walking and riding troops.

"Is that true, that ye trust me?" Augustus queried after a while.

"Given that I scarcely have another choice," Sorcha answered promptly, turning her face toward the side. "I suppose I must."

"I will interpret that as an ‘aye'."

"Naturally, I supposed you might."

They rode for several miles in silence then, conversation difficult to have while they maintained a bruising pace. Augustus was easily able to keep track of Lord Aldric, his attention drawn to the distinctive helm with its comically tall crown and protruding swan"s feather. Plenty of noble commanders he'd met that he did not like, some that he outright distrusted, such as de Montfort, but he'd fought alongside them, personal grievances set aside while the fight was on. He wasn't sure he would be willing to fight alongside de Montfort, still suspecting him of duplicity at the most and spinelessness in the least. And still, he was pleased to bring to the king and to the battle with Pembroke and army more than twice what Robert Bruce was expecting. ?Twas unlikely King Robert would long endure de Montfort's faults, whatever they were in whole or in part. Less likely, the probability that the king would allow any man to act the coward in his presence.

They rode for many miles for nearly two hours when they came upon Ashgill's Pass, a narrow trail nestled between towering crags. The path was so constricted that they could only proceed three or four abreast, creating a tense atmosphere typical of such confined spaces. Augustus"s gaze darted about, ensuring the movements of de Montfort's vanguard, scanning the looming cliffs overhead, and keeping a watchful eye on the treacherous terrain underfoot, made all of jagged rock. The shadows cast by the surrounding mountains seemed to deepen the crevice, adding to the sense of foreboding that permeated the air.

Though he was distrustful of Lord Aldric, scarcely did he entertain any notion that the man would brazenly attack the MacKenzies while they marched. In a thousand years, Augustus would have imagined the earl too cowardly to even attempt a fight of any sort. True, their numbers were vastly superior to that of the MacKenzie force, but still and always, even the slightest of skirmishes could result in many casualties.

And yet from high above, small pebbles began to fall, followed almost immediately by larger rocks and small boulders. Transferring the reins to one hand, Augustus freed his targe and lifted it above his head, shielding both him and Sorcha from the onslaught of descending stones.

"Bluidy hell!" Geddy groused nearby.

A guttural scream was heard from somewhere ahead, possibly in the MacKenzie vanguard, and Augustus realized a brawl was underway. Sorcha shrunk in front of him, keeping herself low, her back pressed into his middle.

"About! About!" Augustus shouted, recognizing the trap that had been laid for them.

The men all around him began to turn at Augustus's command, and a bit of chaos ensued for the trouble wrought by the narrow confines. Horses whinnied and shields bumped. Randolph, the tanner's son, fell from his steed when clubbed by a falling boulder. He was pulled onto the horse of another. After a slight scramble, the MacKenzies faced north and began to evacuate the crevice.

Sorcha cried out when a falling rock glanced off the inside wall of the crag, shattering, sending out a spray of shale, some of which sprayed against her cheek.

Somehow, furiously, Augustus was not surprised to see that rearguard was already engaged, with de Montfort's men, in all probability men held back, to come up behind as part of the ambush.

"Hold the targe!" Augustus commanded Sorcha, needing his hands free to battle those closest and maneuver his destrier out of the melee. "Cover yourself!"

He used his newly freed hand to draw his sword, knowing he would be better served avoiding any combat, since Sorcha was in such a vulnerable position. Better it would have been to have her behind him, but no time would be allowed to make this change.

"Clear a path!" Geddy commanded his men. "Clear a path for yer laird!"

And so they did, allowing Augustus and Sorcha to pass nearly to the end of the constricted pass before he was forced to use his sword, taking off the arm of a man in a green tabard.

Dozens of men fought in front of him, backing up the enemy with the ferocity of their fight and pursuit. Sadly, while the formidable prowess and efficiency of the MacKenzies played to their advantage, the simple matter of numbers worked against them. There were simply too many de Montfort men. The fight was lost before it had begun.

"Pull back!" He roared above the sounds of clashing steel and anguished cries. "Disperse! Disperse!"

They needed to clear the passage so that those trapped previously ahead—but now behind since they'd turned about—would have an escape.

"Get her out of here!" Griffyn roared nearby. "We'll hold them off ere we run!"

It was the only choice he had. He simply could not fight efficiently with Sorcha in front of him.

He kicked the sides of his destrier, needing him to go from that a standstill to blazing speed if they stood any chance of survival.

Very soon it became clear, with so many de Montfort soldiers in pursuit that he and possibly Sorcha were particular targets. Imagining it was pre-arranged and because de Montfort hadn't known until they'd met that Sorcha would be with him, Augustus didn't imagine the assault was made solely to kidnap the lass.

Geddy's voice sounded very far away but strong and hot-blooded when he ordered, "To yer laird! To yer laird!"

At the same time, Augustus realized that they would not be allowed to ride straight and free, but instead he would be forced to fight his way clear.

His destrier was a weapon in its own right, often as deadly as his sword, crushing one de Montfort man beneath his hooves as they escaped.

A soldier discharged his spear in the direction of Augustus and Sorcha, but his hasty aim and the speed at which they were moving sent the shot wide of the mark, the lobbed spear impaled upon the earth, its end wobbling as it went no further.

While Sorcha now gripped the shield at her chest, Augustus managed the reins in one hand and his sword with the other. When another assailant was almost abreast of them, Augustus stabbed his sword with mighty force and the de Montfort man threw up his hands toward the hole in his neck and toppled over, falling from his charger.

The sword thrust of the next man did no fatal harm, Augustus causing his destrier to rear so that the man's intended aim was put off. Augustus's sword arm came down with his destrier's front hooves, the blade striking the man's shoulder with such force that it nearly cleaved his arm completely from his body.

Soon, however, they were surrounded by four or more sleek chargers, seated by crazed men wanting to be the one who felled the Rebel. Augustus used his larger destrier as a battering ram, ploughing through the throng. A blade swiped at his back but only grazed his quilted gambeson, the blade rejected by the metal plates that reinforced the vest. Another glanced off his arm and sliced his skin, but not deeply. Augustus wielded his sword deftly, unleashing a fierce counterattack, keeping his war horse constantly moving so that no blow found its mark. With swift and decisive blows, he dispatched one and then another. He kept swinging, blood pounding in his ears, and at the same time channeled the raw power of his destrier, charging forward, driving a path through the encircling but dwindling enemy horsemen with relentless force.

Yet, while he fought his way out of that tight melee, more de Montforts surged in front of them to await their coming. Augustus eyed with purpose the forest just beyond them.

His gallant destrier, long beloved and adept in battle, was no match for the overwhelming numbers coming up against him. It was only a matter of time before one of the adversaries decided to strike at the steed instead of the man. When came the blow, it was ably tossed from that group that blocked any advance into the forest, so that the lance struck the destrier directly in his broad chest. Another pierced his flanks beyond Augustus's right thigh. With the spear swaying jerkily left and right, struck into the thick flesh of the horse's chest, ?twas inevitable that he would collapse. Augustus urged him forward, wanting to at least gain the trees. "Go, boy! Get on!" He did but only for another moment, carrying his load for a few fitful leaps before he fell sharply to the earth, hurling his riders over his head, some half dozen feet short of the pine-strewn forest.

Augustus did not land fully atop Sorcha. Her smaller figure was tossed further so that when he met the earth, his shoulder collided with only her leg. The soft earth beneath him did no worse injury than to soil his face and garments. Half a second later, Augustus was on his feet, sword yet in hand, and tugging at Sorcha's wrist, hauling her upward.

Help was on the way, the blue plaids of the MacKenzies visible beyond the wall of de Montforts giving chase, but they were not close enough, and Augustus could not take on eight riders coming at him and protect Sorcha.

"Run!" He ordered, pulling her along as he did so.

?Twas all that was available to him now as a strategy. To stay and fight would only see them soon surrounded and heavily outnumbered and both of them killed—if they would be so merciful to Sorcha, though he suspected not. The river was close, possibly the falls at Glenwood as well, if his reckoning of their location was correct.

Truth be told, though Sorcha was quick, her smaller stature meant that there was no way she could possibly keep up with the strides of his long flanks, and indeed she slowed them down since he wasn't about to release her hand. He kept on though, keeping to his quickest pace so that he thought she might be flying behind him, her feet barely touching the ground as he yanked her along. Nary a cry or complaint was heard, and her fingers gripped his hand as tightly as he did hers.

His arm burned where the skin had been pierced, the outside of his thigh as well but he recognized that he was fortunate to have no graver injury. He prayed Sorcha had not suffered any other wound but a glancing blow to her arm he'd caught sight of. He forced her to run at his pace, leaping over crevices in the ground and sidestepping trees and heavier brush, ducking under low hanging boughs. His sword swayed up and down with each long step he took. They ran where horses could not, through dense brush and tightly clustered trees, but he thought his pursuers hadn't yet abandoned their chargers nor imagined a tactic that would see them outrace Augustus and Sorcha and be waiting ahead of them.

Soon he became aware, over the pounding of his heart in his ears, of the sound of the river itself and the raucous noise of water gushing over the short falls as they came upon it, running parallel to the river. Switching directions, Augustus jerked Sorcha to the left, little delayed by her stumble for his grip remained strong and his swift speed did not allow her to fall. She regained her feet just as they erupted from the trees, into the light of day, and straight in the path of a racing horse. Augustus crashed into the steed with the underside of his arm, his sword raised and cutting into the man's side. The man howled and bent over, and it wasn't until hours later that Augustus realized he should have pushed the wounded enemy from his charger and taken the horse for himself. Instead, he kept moving, dragging Sorcha under the horse's head and past that quickly-stifled opponent.

Their potential salvation lay in the fact that none of their pursuers were armed with bow and arrow.

Beyond the man and horse, Augustus came to a crashing halt as the earth ended abruptly, and he found himself standing on a precipice a dozen feet over the river. The clomping of others in pursuit spurred him along, to run along the shelf above the river, trying to gauge the depth of the water, wanting to know if a jump from this height would break limbs or worse. He looked for darkened pools where the water was not clear at all, and no bottom could be seen, imagining spots such as those would give them a four-to-six foot cushion of water to break their fall. No such place or opportunity presented itself, and the sounds of pursuit were drawing near so that Augustus paused again, sheathing his sword before dropping to his arse so that his feet hung over the ledge.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Sorcha whimpered, even as she mechanically scampered down beside him.

"Let go for just a moment when your feet hit the side," he said, and without further ado, he tugged at her hand until her bottom left the ledge. As carefully as he could manage, and using two hands, he lowered her against the side of the crag. She touched nothing but air for one brief moment until her hip bounced against the rock.

"Augustus!" She cried when she felt his hands loosening. "Noooo!"

"Drop and roll!" He shouted as instruction, hoping she managed not to roll off the three foot flat bank of the river at the bottom of the crag and directly into the swiftly moving water.

A body hurtling itself at him forced him to drop her sooner than he'd have liked. Sorcha screamed and a scraping noise and thump followed while Augustus wrestled with the man who'd idiotically leapt from his horse at Augustus rather than striking him with his blade. If it weren't for the folly of a vast number of his enemies over the years, possibly Augustus would long ago have been slain. With half his upper body hanging over the cliff, Augustus managed a tight hold on the smaller man's breastplate, able to hold him close while he pummeled his face repeatedly. When the body above him went limp, Augustus threw him off.

With little thought but that no matter how he got down there he was likely going to bruise himself, he angled his feet out and down and allowed himself to slide limply down the sharp slope of the crag side. He muttered a curse for all the places along his head, back, and thighs that met with the pointed shale. At the bottom, he couldn't stop his forward momentum and tipped over, landing hard on his knees, though he was able to plant his hands to prevent himself from eating a mouthful of dirt.

While on all fours, he paused just a moment to draw a deep and needed breath.

"Augustus," Sorcha said, and he felt her small hand on his back, "they're still coming."

He lifted his hands from the earth just as Sorcha slid her hand under his arm. He arrived on his feet just in time to duck from a lance sent through the air toward his head. Blindly assuring himself that his sword was still attached to his person and keeping half an eye on the goings-on over their head while one of de Montfort's goons raced back and forth on his charger, having no means to subdue or injure the pair below since he'd launched his lance, Augustus perused Sorcha's face and body.

"Ye guid, lass?" He asked, his chest heaving.

She nodded and glanced upward. "But now what?"

"Into the water," he said, "It'll carry us faster than our feet."

Her chest rose and fell drastically as well, her hair shooting out in all directions, her cheek and left hand decorated generously with blood, she somehow managed a shaky smile and breathy laugh. "You are trying to kill me after all," she decided.

Her quip was not misplaced, despite the disaster of the hour. Augustus knew that often, in moments of intense terror or fear, it was not uncommon for people to experience a peculiar reaction, where they might find themselves laughing or making light-hearted remarks. He'd always imagined it was how frightened people coped with fear.

Gravely, he assured her, "Twould be my greatest sin if I did."

Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, he lifted his hand, presenting his palm to her.

Without hesitation, Sorcha put her hand in his.

"Dinna let go, nae matter what."

And with that, Augustus led her into the raging river.