agony-laden scream.
Pulse racing, Alesone looked where the voices had come from, in search of the knights. A distance away stood another stand of fir trees.
Go! ’Twas death to linger.
And if she fled, whoever suffered Sir Huwe’s brand of twisted brutality would die like Grisel.
With quiet steps she crept to the trees. Between the breaks in the needled boughs, she caught sight of the burly knight’s back.
From her limited view, she couldna see if his detestable friend aided him with whomever he tortured. Little doubt the vermin was near. Like wolves, bad blood traveled in packs.
She withdrew her bow, nocked an arrow, then edged closer.
Another knight, ill-kempt, walked into view.
Her skin crawled with disgust.
With a curse, Sir Huwe hauled the man who lay sprawled on the ground to his feet. “The king is camped nearby; tell us where!”
Blood streaked the prisoner’s swollen face. He remained silent.
“Let me kill him,” the scrawny man spat. “He is naught but a traitor to Lord Comyn.”
Their captor struggled to break free. “King Robert is Scotland’s rightful sovereign.”
“Rightful sovereign.” Sir Huwe grunted. “The Bruce murdered his rival at the church of the Greyfriars to ensure he received the crown.” His fingers tightened on the man’s garb. “Tell us where he is or die!”
Alesone straightened, stepped into the opening, drew back the bowstring, and aimed. “Leave him.”
Sir Huwe’s gaze shifted to her. Surprise darkened to recognition. Thick brows narrowed. “You are a fool to dare threaten me.”
“Move back,” she ordered, praying he didna see her trembling, “and I will allow you to walk away, which is more mercy than you showed Grisel.”
With a cold smile, he shoved the wounded man to the ground, strode toward her. “Like you, she deserved none.”
Bastard! She released the shaft.
The arrow drove through the knight’s heart. On a gasp, Sir Huwe collapsed.
Outrage reddened his accomplice’s face. He withdrew his sword, charged.
Her second arrow plunged deep into his chest.
Face ashen, he stumbled back, dropping to the ground with a thud.
After ensuring nay others were in sight, Alesone secured her bow, then hurried to the injured man. “I am a healer.” She knelt by his side, tore a strip from her garb, and pressed the cloth against the large gash across his shoulder.
Pain-filled eyes held hers. “You must leave! A contingent of Comyn’s troops wait beyond the corrie. I was on my way back to warn…” The stranger’s face paled.
“King Robert. I heard you. Dinna worry,” she said as she secured his broken arm. “I am loyal to the Bruce.”
His body sagged with relief. “The king must be informed of the threat.”
“Aye.” She assisted him to his feet. “Can you walk?”
He nodded. “My name is Sir Deargh.”
“I am called Alesone.” With one last look around, she helped him into the shield of trees.
* * *
Firelight illuminated the powerful sovereign’s face, that of a warrior, a man renowned for his tactical expertise. Fighting to steady her nerves, Alesone curtsied before Scotland’s king. “’Tis an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Rise, Mistress Alesone,” Robert Bruce said.
Exhausted, she stood, relieved they’d arrived before the last rays of sunlight faded.
The crackle of the campfire melded with the murmurs of men outside the tent as the king settled in a sturdy but unadorned wooden chair. He motioned for her to sit on a bench paces away. “You saved the life of one of my knights. For that I thank you.”
She clenched the ring in her palm. “I am a healer. I did naught but come to the aid of a wounded warrior.”
“Which explains your actions in part.” He paused. “My knight could have been a criminal.”
“A worry I would have considered, Your Grace, had I not heard his attackers demand that he reveal your camp’s location. Both men serve Lord Comyn.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, and then his gaze narrowed. “How would you know their allegiance?”
“My loyalties lie with you, Your Grace,” she rushed out, aware that with but a word he could name her a traitor and order her hanged.
“From my man’s account, I believe your claim.” The Bruce rubbed his chin. “You are brave to have faced down two knights alone.”
Brave? Nay, furious.
“Tell me, why are you in the forest without protection when Scotland is at war?”
She drew an unsteady breath. “’Tis complicated.”
A frown worked his brow, and he leaned back. “I have time.”
Against the crackle of the fire, Alesone met the king’s eyes, found sincerity, patience, and intellect. Grisel’s dying words rolled through her. Though the healer had saved the Bruce, would his pledge given to her those many years ago override Alesone’s blood tie to his enemy?
As smoke curled from the flames, she explained how Grisel had taken her in as a child, gave a brief history over the years, and told him how two days earlier she’d returned to her home and found the woman who’d raised her beaten and dying. And how, with her last breath, Grisel had revealed those behind her attack.
Face solemn, the Bruce held her gaze. “What did she do to incite their outrage?”
Tears burned in Alesone’s throat as she struggled with the loss, with the knowledge that she’d never again see Grisel. “I found one of your knights wounded and hid him in our hut. Until Comyn’s men demanded entry, neither she nor I believed anyone was aware of his presence. Before they broke into her home, she helped your knight slip out through a secret passage. Loyal to you, she stalled the men while your knight escaped.” She paused, angled her chin. “Neither will I apologize for killing any of Comyn’s men.”
“Nor should you.” A frown deepened on his brow. “You are alone and on the run?”
“I am.”
“You travel to relations?”
“Nay.” Alesone damned the waver in her voice.
He
