Chapter Sixteen

The wind proved a nuisance, whipping through her hair and disheveling the strands around her face. She tried to gather it all to one side and hold it there, but her efforts were futile against the persistence of the brisk wind. Finally, she drew up the hood of her cloak and pulled it close around her face and knew some relief. She was thankful for the plaid that Augustus had requested for her. Before he'd laid it around her shoulders, she'd had a difficult time imagining that she might ever be warm again.

As did every man in their party, Sorcha tirelessly scanned the horizon, her eyes darting from one direction to another in search of their missing comrades. Over the head of the gray charger, lush green hills rolled on endlessly, presenting a daunting challenge.

Despite her focus on the task at hand, Sorcha couldn't shake the unease that gnawed at her whenever she stole glances at Grimm—dammit, Richard Wycliffe, she needed to keep reminding herself—sometimes riding fairly close to the gray horse. He'd been a constant presence in her life for more than a year, yet now, knowing the truth of his identity and hearing his voice often while they rode, she felt as though she hardly knew him at all. The realization left her feeling unsettled and adrift, questioning the nature of their friendship, and unable to help herself, wondering what other secrets he might be hiding.

Admittedly, he appeared quite natural in the saddle, as well attuned to the steed beneath him as Augustus was. For a while, Grimm rode directly in front of Sorcha and Augustus, and she found herself staring at his wide back and dark hair with fresh eyes, and once more she suffered some distaste for the fact that he'd not trusted her with the astonishing facts of his name and heritage and ability to speak.

Augustus bent his head and his voice whispered close to her ear. "Dinna hold onto anger, lass. He did what was necessary to survive, as ye or any other might have."

She tensed a bit, wondering how Augustus had been able to read her mind, and certainly not enjoying the fact that he could so accurately.

Soon, a stretch of uneven terrain, thick with vegetation, required them to slow, to navigate carefully to avoid accidents. Augustus caught up with Grimm and allowed the horse to proceed at the same speed as Grimm's.

"The lass is worried, Wycliffe, that ye might have suffered irreparably down in that dungeon," Augustus stunned her by saying.

Grimm laid his dark eyes on her, one corner of his mouth quirked. "And why does the lass not express this herself?"

"Aye, to that, ye ken she's still nae speaking to ye," Augustus responded.

"I did not say that—and I did not—" she stopped abruptly, deciding she might not be speaking to Augustus either right now! How dare he!

Encouraging Augustus's foolishness, Grimm said, "You may tell the lass that I suffered no lasting effects. I daresay if Lord Aldric hadn't been occupied by other concerns, those which you brought to him, my lord, he might have found time to harass his prisoner."

"I will let her know," Augustus stated.

Sorcha knew for certain now he was making fun of her. If she did not need to hang onto Augustus and the pommel to steady her seat, she'd have crossed her arms over her chest in crossness. As it was, she murmured petulantly, "It pleases me so much that the two of you find such humor in the whole affair."

In truth, she was undeniably unnerved by how different Grimm was behaving. He was not the same man she knew, she decided, but seemed instead so much less drowned by torture. Or had she only imagined that, his bouts with melancholy and the greater anguish?

She rationalized that in all likelihood, being able to finally speak and because of recent events that nearly saw him in dire straits, he might have been stirred to life, to this...normal person. Sadly, she did not know this man. Sorcha was certain that the minute he spoke, she'd lost her friend. Her sadness over this was nearly shattering.

Biting her lip, she wrestled with a question burning inside her, which was pitted against her serious desire to not speak to him, her childish attempt to punish him for hurting her.

Curiosity won out over annoyance.

"Was there...was there ever a time when you really struggled not to speak?" She guessed she might have gone batty if she ever found herself bereft of her voice.

He did not answer, which drew her gaze to him as he rode beside her and Augustus. He might have been waiting for her attention, because he did finally answer when she met his eyes, the intensity of his dark eyes as telling as his words.

"Every day, Sorcha. The fight to remain silent was a constant battle."

Though he faced the path ahead of them once the words had been spoken, Sorcha stared at him a moment longer.

He wasn't so very different from Augustus in one regard—possibly many, but only one that she could detect thus far: he used his face and mouth to great effect, able to utter volumes without speaking a word.

While they were still proceeding slowly, Grimm turned and looked at Augustus, saying cryptically, "The unholy carnage of Lord Aldric's ambush, while horrific, might have roused a purpose within me. The screaming voices now shout for justice."

Sorcha could only guess at what he meant, but Augustus's prompt reply suggested he knew for sure.

"And yet ye're still English," Augustus reminded him.

Grimm shook his head. "I'm a man who abhors all things unnatural and ruinous, deceit and treachery, the greed behind war, frivolous deaths."

"Will you fight for right? With the MacKenzies?"

"I will abide for a while," Grimm declared, "until de Montfort gets his due."

"Verra well," said Augustus, "and dinna mind if we put ye to guid use."

"Little choice you have," Grimm commented. "At this point, I wouldn't bet against ye taking up beggars, lepers, and old women."

"If they can fight—if they possess fury enough about those who practice such villainy: deceit, treachery, mayhem wrought by greed—I'd put a sword in their hands, too."

Sorcha lent only half an ear as their conversation continued, having instead latched onto Grimm's intention to remain only so long as it took to lay siege to Ironwood.

Grimm would leave. Not once since she'd known him had she entertained any thought or idea that he might. While she didn't give much thought to the future, save for things related to her bees and her own needs—weather, her plans to grow her hives, when she might next eat—she'd not ever considered that one day Grimm would walk out of her life.

He couldn't stay in Caol, no matter the outcome of Augustus's plot for revenge against Lord Aldric. He was an accused rapist, and whether or not the accusation was disproven, he would not find welcome in Caol. Or rather, would find demonstrably less welcome than he'd known so far.

She wasn't brave enough presently to ask him if he'd been planning for some time his departure.

Her entire life had changed in an instant, gone up in smoke, she realized; nothing would or could ever be the same. And what will I do? She wondered.

"I sense a disturbance in ye," Augustus said at length, when Grimm had moved forward and paced himself with Angus.

"I haven't said a word in five minutes," she defended, still agitated by so many things out of her control.

"I can feel it in ye. Ye tense or slouch depending on yer thoughts. And what has ye so dispirited now?"

She debated only a moment before revealing, "My life...everything is different now, in ruins."

"Was it nae ruined when ye left home? Was it nae devastated when ye got word yer man had fallen in battle?"

"My life improved dramatically when I left home," she countered easily. "But yes, when I learned about Finn, when the notice came to Caol with all the names of the men lost to war, I felt as if all the life had been sucked out of me. So, aye, I'm rather peeved about having another upset. It isn't fair. Haven't I endured enough? What more tragedy awaits?"

"Ye believe these things are measurable," he asked mildly, "and everyone must suffer their fair share of grief and pain and tragedy, but no more than that?"

"I have no idea how it works. I'm simply saying I've had enough."

"And yet ye will endure, as ye have. And aye, more heartache might arrive at yer doorstep and ye'll endure that as well."

"Over and over until I die, is what yer saying?" She asked tartly, unmoved by his stoicism.

"Ye sing yer mournful song and I ken that's ye, living in the past, lamenting the loss of that life and that man, but lass, it dinna really open the door for anything but more grief to come yer way."

"A very philosophical rebel you are," she sneered, unwilling to be admonished by this man, the Rebel.

"Ye ken I speak true, that living in the past is nae really living."

"It's a little difficult to embrace what's come to my door now, sir."

"?Tis nae the end, mayhap nae anything changes, but if ye dinna see opportunity in what has—"

"You say all that to remind me—annoyingly so—that I must think positively."

"Aye, ye can boil it down to that. At the verra least, lass, embrace what comes lest ye perish—in body or spirit—for trying to avoid it."

"Embrace...what?" she asked.

"Ye might be pleased that Wycliffe can speak, and that he finally did," Augustus suggested. "Ye might ken you've got youth and beauty yet on yer side—"

She snorted at this. What good had that done her?

"—ye might be grateful ye were nae on the receiving end of any blade."

She conceded that point internally, knowing she had only Augustus to thank for that. She was grateful for him, for more than only that, for what he'd done for Grimm as well.

"You might consider that what occurred in Caol—losing your hives to the storm, enduring the townsfolk"s mistreatment, and learning for certain of de Montfort"s treachery—could be a sign to make a fresh start in a new location."

Of course, it was possible that he was right. But she didn't much feel like admitting it. And frankly, did he—a powerful man with resources, who likely had never not once in his life ever been the victim—have any idea how difficult that was for a lone woman to accomplish?

She wanted the conversation done. She didn't want to discuss this with Augustus, who seemed to have an answer for everything. She much preferred him brooding and terse.

"Can you not simply let me wallow for a while?" She asked. "Without chirping in my ear that every problem has a solution? Can't I just be morose for a wee bit?"

He chuckled, which subdued a bit of her irritation, the rich sound having such an effect on her.

"Aye, I can do that, lass."

Sorcha folded into herself. Despite the flippancy she projected, she was in fact reluctant to exhibit any more of that deplorable melancholy and woe. She truly abhorred when she allowed herself to be brought so low. And yet, Embrace what comes lest ye perish? Hmph.

She gave a start and clutched instinctively at Augustus's hand around her waist when he drew hard on the reins. Someone's mount close behind them snorted his displeasure, likely having been stopped abruptly as well.

"Look," Augustus said, directing gazes to the berm beyond a narrow and meandering stream, more than thirty yards away. "Riders."

The raised bank was shrouded in tall brush and the occasional birch tree, but scores of shoulders and heads were visible above the tallest vegetation.

The entire party halted, waiting. Upon these endless, undulating knolls, their party could not go unnoticed.

Though it was not yet possible to identify faces, one horse and rider turned toward them, breaking through the brush to stand just beyond the stream.

A loud and familiar voice echoed across the glen. "Bluidy lost sheep! Where the hell ye been?"

"Jesu! The auld bastard!" Angus said, chortling either at Geddy's shout or the very fact that the captain of the MacKenzies had survived. "?Ow many times ?ave I said: the auld man canna be kilt!"

Several whoops and hollers sounded out, coming from both groups, all of them filled with cheer. Sorcha gasped with delight at the sheer number of men that emerged from what appeared to be a hedgerow of brush, so many more than she would have ever guessed able to have survived Lord Aldric's ambush.

Little did she know these MacKenzie men in truth, save for Augustus who was still an enigma to her, but she found herself roused from her melancholy and smiling as both parties began to race toward one another.

"Yah," Augustus urged his steed, a lightness detected in his tone.

As they came together, none dismounted, but allowed horses to converge, fusing deeply into the other group as men on both sides celebrated their rediscovered comrades. Augustus and Geddy rode straight at each other, the first to meet, and clasped forearms and held on for many seconds.

"Jesu, and ye've got the lass and the oaf, too!" Geddy exclaimed, even as he kept his gaze on Augustus, the much younger laird. "I kent ye were dead, believed I'd come across yer quarters, strewn about Caol when I went back to slay de Montfort."

Sorcha blanched at the image imagined from Geddy's words. The auld man, as Angus had called him, appeared much as his laird did, unkempt and covered in stains of blood and cuts to his breastplate and breeches, and still he managed to convey a robust figure, broad and strong, wholly indestructible.

"I kent ye dead as well," Augustus remarked. "Could nae imagine an outlet for ye, either going forward or back out of the pass."

"Was on yer tail, fighting right behind ye," Geddy informed him, "but as ye rode straight away from the pass, I went right, taking on a guid following. Our destriers were nae ever goin' to outrun their coursers, but aye, pulling them all apart, separating them as we did, at the front and the back, was the key. We were naught but fish in a pool waiting to be speared inside the crevice. Outside of that, I ken we could handle them, two or three at a time, each of us." He turned his attention to Sorcha, winking at her. "Death's been knocking for years at my door, lass. I just tell ?im I'm nae at home."

Her smile returned at this proud witticism and Sorcha said, with great sincerity, "A wise decision, sir, for which we are all thankful."

He accepted this, a broad grin creasing his craggy features. The smile faded, however, as quickly as it came.

"Och, but those gone, Aug," he lamented, and began to list the names of those who hadn't survived. "Colin, Daffy, the lad Eagan, Brodie, Niamh the fisher, Finnigan the weaver's son, Colle the wheelwright—Jesu, too many and how will we make de Montfort pay?"

To have names put to the dead nearly broke her heart. She hadn't been introduced to but a few of Augustus's men of course, save for Colin, who had once responded to Augustus's call and had come running, his bright red hair flopping about his head, his expression eager.

Augustus's hands tightened on the reins and around her middle at the mention of specific names, and her heart ached for the sorrow that surely dwelt in him, having led his men into that ambush.

"We aim to supply ourselves hereabouts," Augustus answered, "and march straight away for Ironwood. Wycliffe has tossed us a boon, as he'd heard mention of tunnels beneath the keep that open up outside the curtain wall. In we'll go and we'll nae depart until I've severed de Montfort's head from his body."

Geddy nodded enthusiastically. "And aye, will we nae rest easier when his head's rolling on the floor." He glanced around a bit, beyond the combined reunited army, which by now had settled down—many were close and silent, attending this conversation—and squinted along the western horizon. "Seems I recall this area and nearby sits a burgh or market town."

"Aye, we kent the same," agreed Augustus. "Angus believes it's just there," he said, pointing toward a wall of trees, "beyond the forest."

Indecision gnawed at Sorcha, for what she knew that they were only guessing at. She swallowed thickly and announced, "Tis Gylmyne, and it's actually there," she said, pointing a bit east of where Augustus had indicated.

Several curious gazes were aimed her way.

"And if it's Tuesday—I believe it is—then the market is taking place," she added, and then held her breath, praying that no one questioned her knowledge of this.

Though one of Geddy's brows was raised in conjecture, he did not put forth the obvious query.

"To Gylmyne it is," Augustus called out, his words felt along her back.

As Augustus wheeled the horse forward, Sorcha heard Angus caution Grimm somewhere behind them, "And best keep yer Englishness to yerself inside the burgh."

The forest was naught more than half a mile wide, and not more than a quarter hour was needed to pass through the trees. Beyond that, the pathing leading into Gylmyne twisted and turned through verdant fields and a sparse wooded vale. Sorcha's gaze swept over the outline of Gylmyne as it gradually came into view, stone and timber buildings rising against a backdrop of white-capped beinns. The bustle of market day was evident even from afar, with colorful stalls and bustling crowds dotting the landscape.

As they neared, Sorcha considered the scene with a mix of familiarity and dread, but not with any nostalgia for the place she had eagerly left behind.

Stalls lined the cobbled street, displaying an array of goods and wares, including fresh cut meats, handmade leather bits, and plenty of baked goods. Vibrant colors and lively chatter saturated High Street. The air was filled with the aroma of savory meats, baked bread, and fragrant spices. Market vendors called out to passersby, enticing them to visit their stalls. Memories of her childhood were stirred, but they were memories she had long since buried.

Fairly quickly, as the long line of MacKenzie soldiers made their way, two by two, down High Street, there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. The lively chatter and laughter of market day faltered as they passed, replaced by hushed whispers and wary glances. Townsfolk and vendors alike paused in their activities, their expressions guarded, as they watched the unfamiliar sight of armed soldiers marching along their street. The tension could not be ignored, and Sorcha felt it down to her bones. Unconsciously, she buried herself a bit more in the MacKenzie cloak.

Neither Augustus nor any of his army seemed unnerved by either the attention or the wariness aimed at them.

"Let's find the livery," Augustus said mildly, "and sell these extra steeds."

At the center of the town square stood the mercat cross, a stone pillar adorned with intricate carvings, where merchants paid their toll. The mercat cross was also the site where the herald called out news, where public rejoicings and lesser punishments were announced and performed. Executions as punishment, though rare in Gylmyne, took place outside of town, upon the hillock known as Scourge Hill.

The initial hush that fell upon Gylmyne with the arrival of the MacKenzies was short-lived. It wasn"t long before the vibrant clamor of the market resumed, reassured by the absence of any ominous intent from the passing soldiers.

The livery was at the far end of the market and knew its own commotion for all the horses ridden to town and kept here. Augustus reined in amid a sea of horses, his eyes scanning the scene. The soldiers were given leave by Geddy to do as they pleased within the market, with the warning, "And dinna make me regret letting ye loose!"

Augustus dismounted leisurely, keeping one hand on the reins, his fist on the part of the saddle he'd vacated.

"Ye might wish to stretch yer legs, "he guessed, "but I dinna suggest ye gambol about while I see to some business, unless Wycliffe would escort ye."

Sorcha shook her head, silently bemoaning the loss of his warmth at her back and having no desire to get about the market. "I'll wait here."

He narrowed his eyes broodingly at her but said nothing before handing the reins to her. "I'll nae be long."

She idled away the minutes taking in the active scene all around her, so different from the persistent dullness of Caol. Despite the activity around her, Sorcha felt a distinct sense of detachment from the town and its people. Gylmyne may have looked familiar, but it held no warmth or comfort for her.

As Sorcha"s gaze swept over the crowd, her heart skipped a beat, aghast to discover among the throngs of people, her own mother and sister. Stricken by this discovery, she stared unabashedly at the pair, who were arm in arm as they considered the wares offered in a booth directly across the cobbled street from the livery.

Unconsciously, her hands tightened on the reins.

While her mother appeared to have changed not at all, was still that austere figure with a perennially severe expression and adorned in her customary pious wimple, her younger sister, Gelis, who would be almost seventeen now, had grown significantly. How beautiful she was, with her white-blonde hair and delicate features. A softness melted Sorcha's heart, recalling Gelis's sweet voice and her generous spirit. She knew a bit of shame, for having abandoned Gelis and brother to her parents' overbearing and oft harsh household. Though it was possible that what was true then remained so now: it had always and only been Sorcha who'd borne the brunt of their disapproval, displeasure, and recrimination.

Her father, Gospatric Reid, was a tyrant inside his home, pompous and domineering, deeply devoted to the Church, and all too eager to administer punishment to any who broke the laws of God. Her mother, Bessetta, despite the stern fa?ade, was as meek and timid as her husband was loud and brutal. Long ago Sorcha had known a great sympathy for her mother, being married to such a militant tormentor, but as she grew into adulthood, she began to understand that her mother was relieved, almost pleased, when Sorcha had begun to bear the brunt of Gospatric Reid's rage and aggression. She had been forced to be present at all of Sorcha's punishments, many of which involved a willow rod, and hadn't on any of those occasions, as far as Sorcha knew, shed a tear, offered a defense, nor begged mercy for her child. She'd stood and watched, her hands folded calmly before her, her lips thin with displeasure, while the rod was administered to her daughter's back.

She was startled out of her unhappy reverie by the return of Augustus and Geddy, but she did not turn in their direction as they approached, speaking quietly to each other.

And yet the content of their conversation pulled at her awareness as they arrived at their horses. She kept her gaze on her mother and sister, though, as she listened to Geddy speaking with some urgency to Augustus.

"That was de Montfort's doing and nae yer own."

"God as my witness, Geddy," Augustus said, his voice nearly agonized, "I kent at most—if he tried anything—he would wait until we reached the king. He'd want to ken the Bruce's location. And aye, he might have attempted something there, once we met with the king, but he'd be outnumbered at that time, and be trounced easily."

"Aye, and we talked about it, and I agreed," Geddy responded. "We canna be faulted for failing to understand how desperate he was to keep his true allegiance from the king. And likely, we'll nae ever ken why he acted when he did—ye or I, we'd want to get to the king, at least ascertain his whereabouts—shite, I was certain he'd have waited until the battle with Pembroke was under way and ambush us then, all the king's army, hemming us in between himself and Pembroke. Lad, ye canna harass yerself with guilt. Ye ken it has nae place, nae in this war, and nae with regard to men such as de Montfort."

Still observing Bessetta and Gelis, who were in the midst of a purchase of some textiles, Sorcha's heart constricted with compassion for Augustus, recognizing the depth of his suffering, struggling to come to terms with what he considered the consequences of his orders.

Briefly, she removed her gaze from the pair across the street as Augustus approached but could find no obvious trauma etched on his rugged features; he appeared as brooding and fierce as always.

He paused a moment at her side, collecting the reins from her. She returned her gaze to her mother and sister, filled with as much anticipation and fear that they might see her.

Bessetta and Gelis Reid completed their purchase and turned away from the merchants stall at the exact same moment that Augustus lifted his hands, gripping both the pommel and the back of the saddle in order to gain his seat. Though aware of his proximity, the fact that he didn't immediately climb onto the horse's back did not register with Sorcha.

Instead, she froze as Gelis spotted Sorcha almost immediately, her gaze likely drawn to the number of horses gathered near the livery, and possibly to Sorcha because she was the only person seated atop any of the horses.

The eyes of her younger sister widened in recognition, surprise and a quickly-birthed longing evident on her face as she stared at Sorcha with her jaw slightly agape. Wordlessly, Gelis tugged at her mother's sleeve and pointed discreetly at Sorcha, who held her breath, awaiting her mother's reaction.

Bessetta Reid followed her daughter's direction and Sorcha's gaze clashed with blue eyes not so different than her own. Again she held her breath, searching for any hint of warmth or joy in her mother's expression.

She didn't quite understand that her search was painted with a brush of hope, didn't realize this until any possibility of a reunion was squashed when Bessetta looked her over, her gaze scathing. With a thin-lipped glance, Bessetta Reid raised her chin and averted her gaze, pretending not to recognize Sorcha amidst the ragtag army of the MacKenzies.

Sorcha considered what her mother saw: her wayward daughter atop a war horse, with Augustus's hands familiarly set around her, Sorcha sitting vulgarly astride with her calves bare to any onlooker, and her entire person undoubtedly disheveled beyond civility.

Sorcha experienced a sharp stab of pain as she watched her mother and sister hurry along the cobbles, away from the textile vendor. Although years had passed, the rift between them seemed as wide as ever. There had not been the tiniest hint of joy on her mother's face at seeing her daughter, for even knowing that she lived.

Though Bessetta pulled Gelis along with her, her sister sent back a gaze filled with shock and yearning, which tugged at Sorcha"s heart. Though for a moment only twenty or so feet had separated them, the emotional distance between them felt insurmountable.

Her vision blurred and her lips trembled.

"Sorcha," Augustus said at her side, bringing her awareness of him into focus again.

She blinked and met his gaze, belatedly aware of the concern of his tone, the tone softer than any she'd ever heard from him.

"Ye look as if ye've seen a ghost," he said, his brow furrowed, "and have become one yerself, white as snow ye are."

Sorcha loosened her clamped lips and gave her regard to the horse's mane, absently stroking the coarse hair there, reflecting upon the sighting and the pain in her heart.

Shouldn't a mother love her daughter?

"If the ghost wears a blue léine and linen wimple, I might be tempted to believe she is related to ye. I've nae ever seen blue eyes such as yers outside of Gylmyne, just now possessed by that woman and the younger lass."

Swallowing thickly, Sorcha replied without looking at Augustus.

"I don't know that woman," she lied.