Page 31 of So Close To Heaven
“Um, will that mess up you and your army?” she asked. “Your mission?”
“We will be delayed, aye, but I’m imagining we might also be resupplied by my friend, enough to keep us marching and fighting for many weeks.”
Ivy latched onto this, apparently pleased to know there was some benefit to him. “Okay, that’s good then, right? The trip won’t be a total waste of time for you and your army.”
“Aye, nae a waste of time at all.” He would, he knew, rather that she was settled safely.
“All right, if you’re sure. Okay,” she continued when he nodded. “Thank you. Really, I appreciate this very much.”
He nodded again, curtly now, unaccustomed to such heartfelt gratitude.
And Ivy, smiling now, rose awkwardly to her feet, even as she seemed a little more nimble now. She dusted her hands off against each other. “I’ll uh—” she pointed vaguely with her forefinger toward the camp behind him. “Thanks again.” And with that, she skirted around the tree, returning to the camp, gone from his view.
Alaric drew a deep breath and finally, wearily, rose to his feet. He bit off half the forgotten oatcake and watched Ivy’s progress, saw her return to the company of Kendrick, Blair, and Ewan.
His shoulders eased a fraction. With them, she was safe enough. For the most part, his men would guard her without even thinking about it, the way good men watched over their own. However, there were some in the ranks he’d sooner see nowhere near her, men roughened and made mean by so much violence seen and often too much ale. But those three, the lads who’d taken to her, he trusted them as much as he was able to trust anyone.
He’d just swallowed and popped the remaining oatcake into his mouth when Mathar’s shadow loomed.
“Jesu, tell me I dinna just hear what I ken I did.” Mathar’s voice was pitched low, edged with accusation. “Ye mean to drag her with us still—and march usoutsidethe war?”
Alaric turned, scowling, and finished chewing. “She canna continue at length with us, and she canna be left behind,” he confirmed.
Mathar’s brows snapped together, his scarred face creasing deep with disbelief. “God’s wounds, lad. Have ye lost your sense entirely? Wallace is dead. Too few patriots remain, and those that do will fear the cause is lost. And ye—” he stabbed a hand toward the fire where Ivy sat, her profile soft against the flame—“ye would take us out of the fight for a woman heavy with child?”
Alaric’s jaw clenched, but his voice when it came was iron, steady and deep. “I will nae have her birthing a bairn in the dirt, either with us or in some nameless village. She will be seen safely housed, made strong and able for the coming of the babe.”
Mathar barked a humorless laugh. “Ye’ll nae have—? She is nae a Scot’s wife, Alaric—mayhap naught but an English whore for all we ken,” the captain hissed. “Why risk so much for her?”
Alaric stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “'Tis nae risk to ride two days to Caeravorn. I think with my conscience, Mathar. And if ye canna stomach my command, ye’re free to ride elsewhere.”
A tense silence stretched between them. The night noises of the camp seemed to hush—the crackle of fire, the murmur of men who might be eavesdropping on the tense standoff. Mathar’s lips pressed thin, but he did not move.
At last, he spat into the dirt. “Stubborn bastard. One unknown woman shouldnae weigh more than Scotland.”
“If our cause canna bear the weight of a woman’s life,” Alaric challenged, “then we’re nae better than the English we fight.” His gaze was unwavering. “She stays with us, and we’ll move to Caeravorn on the morrow. I’ll hear nae more on the matter.”
Mathar muttered something low and foul under his breath, but he turned away, shoulders rigid, leaving Alaric standing alone.
Only then did Alaric allow himself the smallest exhale. He had made his choice, and though it would cost them time, though it might cost him the loyalty of some men, he could not do otherwise. Better their anger than the torment of abandoning her.
Chapter Nine
Ivy had not slept well. The camp had gone quiet soon enough, men rolling into cloaks and breacans, fires guttering low, but her mind refused to rest. Alaric’s words circled back again and again—Ye canna be left here... I’ll see ye safe to a friend’s house.His insistence that she remain with them, that he would go out of his way to see her to a place safe enough for her to give birth had both stunned and relieved her. Honest to God, she had fully expected that he would seize on her suggestion to remain in the town, happy to be rid of her. Instead, he had claimed her fate as part of his own, and that knowledge both steadied and strangely unsettled her.
He’d offered her a friend’s home—solid walls, a roof, maybe even women who might not look at her as if she were some mislaid oddity. The thought had warmed her enough to ease some of the cold in her chest, though the warmth did little to calm her restless turning on the hard ground.
By morning, her eyes felt gritty, her limbs heavy. The camp was already stirring by the time she woke, some coughing and wheezing, others hopping to their feet and off into the nearby trees. She slipped away quietly herself, always a bit further than the paths the soldiers took, desiring a bit of privacy to take care of her own needs beyond the camp’s edge.
When she returned, she saw a large cluster of men had gathered near the makeshift pen where the horses were kept, bodies crowding together, leaning over the ropes to see whatever had grabbed their attention.
As she drew closer, she recognized sounds of distress, not from any man, but from one of the horses. A big red destrier stamped and snorted inside the rope pen, sides heaving, sweat darkening his hide. His ears pinned back, then flicked restlessly,and he swished his tail in agitation before dropping to one knee as if to roll.
“Hold him!” someone barked, and two men rushed in, keeping the animal from thrashing fully to the ground. Other horses were cleared out of the way at the same time. Mathar was there, his scarred face drawn tight, one hand braced against the destrier’s neck as he crooned rough words to the beast.
Ivy squeezed through the knot of bodies, earning more than one annoyed glance, until she stood at the rope line. She didn’t wait for permission. Ducking beneath, she moved straight to the horse’s head, her hands outstretched, steady and unflinching despite the beast’s massive size.
“What’s happened?” she asked quickly, scanning the animal.
