Page 35 of So Close To Heaven
Alaric angled his steed to the edge of the crag, and the English column came into full view below, neat ranks, armor bright, banners snapping. In their midst, the plumed helm of the messenger bobbed like a prize ripe for the taking.
Retreating a bit, aware that the swiftest of the foot soldiers had begun to arrive, Alaric hauled Ivy’s horse from the line and dragged her deeper into the trees.
“Here. Ye’ll keep still. If they break this way, go deeper. If nae, remain just here, dinna move. I’ll find ye when it’s done.”
She nodded quickly, wide-eyed, veins in her neck taut.
Satisfied enough, he wheeled away. He glanced over the cliff once more and a moment later gave the signal to the horn-bearer. A sharp blast split the air. Highland war cries erupted, men pouring from the trees and down the steep slope. From the ridge, arrows hissed, finding joints in English mail before the hard charge hit.
Alaric led, drawing his sword when he’d cleared the decline, his destrier plunging straight into the enemy rear. The first stroke cleaved clean through a guard’s neck; the second smashed a shield rim into splinters. Englishmen reeled, horses reared, and the neat line crumpled under the weight of the surprise attack.
He bellowed orders above the din, directing his men to press hard at the center. He saw the messenger’s guards close ranks and drove straight for them, his sword merciless. One man raised his arm to block—too slow. Alaric’s strike shattered through mail and bone, ripping the weapon from the man’s grasp.
The man’s sword spun loose, jolted high by the force of the blow. For a heartbeat it flashed above them, then came down tip-first. The steel glanced across Alaric’s forehead before clattering harmlessly to the mud. Hot pain split across his brow. Blood poured instantly, running into his eye, but Alaric pressed on.
Blood sprayed hot everywhere, the stench of iron thick. The glen rang with screams, with the grunt and clash of men often too close for clean strokes. The messenger spurred hard for the east rise, but Struan and two others cut him off, dragging himdown in a tangle of reins. His curses rang high before they stuffed a gag in his mouth.
And then, as suddenly as a storm spent, the field quieted. The last English broke and ran, arrows felling them before they reached the far slope. The ground was churned to muck, bodies strewn among heather and rock, horses stamping nervously.
A shout rose from the men as they circled the fallen messenger, who was dragged back toward his dead guard. His horse was produced, its load cut free. Straps were hacked through, leather torn, until at last a stout little chest was dragged free from where it had been bound behind the saddle. Iron-banded, the lock clung stubbornly. Struan swore, yanked a dagger from his belt, and jammed it hard into the seam. The lock snapped with a crack, and he rattled the box once in triumph before hauling it open. Inside, rolls of parchment lay atop sacks of coin, the wax seals of Edward’s chancery pressed deep into each missive. Struan’s grin widened as he pulled one free and thrust it toward Alaric.
Alaric broke the seal with his thumb, unrolling it quickly. His eyes flicked over the lines, brow furrowing as he read. He read more as Struan handed them to him, one after another, until his lips thinned.
“Financial writs,” he muttered at last, the word edged with disappointment. “Coin owed out—sheriffs, justiciars, garrison commanders. Naught that tells us more than what we already ken.” He glanced down at the chest, at the gleam of silver within. “And the coin meant to see it done.” Alaric gave one curt nod toward the box. “See it kept. Edward’s promises die here. His men will wait on pay that never comes, and men denied their due grow restless and angry.”
Mounting again, his sharp glance next found the gagged messenger, the lone survivor, save for those writhing on the ground yet, who might possibly endure as well. “Turn him out.By the time he finds a friendly face in these hills, the silver will be long in our keeping, and Edward’s men’s faith in their king the poorer for it.”
***
Having completely ignored Alaric’s command, Ivy pressed herself to the rough trunk of a pine, sap tacky under her fingers. From where she crouched she saw the whole thing, the English caught in the valley as if goldfish in a bowl, with the MacKinlay Highlanders sliding along its rim like the shadow of death.
Her eyes widened when arrows hissed out of the green in a steady stream. Horses screamed, iron rang on iron, and the Highlanders struck the English from several directions. There was no stately crash of lines—just a violent, intimate tangle of men and mounts, so many Highlanders against so few Englishmen.
She never lost sight of Alaric. He fought close, brutal, nothing wasted. Twice she saw him check his swing at the last instant to avoid his own man and turn the blade to a blunt strike; once she saw him hook an English rider’s bridle and rip the man clean out of the saddle. He was terrifying and precise and wholly himself in a way that made the breath lock in her throat.
It ended almost as abruptly as it had begun, a swift, one-sided bout.
A horse, riderless, trotted aimlessly until a Highlander caught its head and soothed it. A man on the ground coughed a wet sound and went still. Ivy could find no downed or dead MacKinlay man and breathed a sigh of relief.
It was then she realized how tightly she’d gripped the tree, for how her hands and fingers ached. She made herself unclench them, sap stringing between her fingers.
She watched as they tore booty from a horse, how they rifled through it, rolled scrolls being passed to Alaric for his perusal.
A minute later—unbelievably, possibly not more than ten minutes since the MacKinlays had descended into the valley—Alaric mounted and angled his steed in her direction, as if he would return already. For a mad second she was frozen until she recalled she wasn’t where he’d told her to be, and raced back to her mare, left tied to the very tree Alaric had taken her to.
Of course, she wasn’t able to vault into the saddle so easily, but she had found her seat, reins in hand, by the time Alaric and the army began to show themselves through the trees.
Alaric broke from the line, riding straight toward her.
Her breath caught. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, but it was the line of red that stole her words—a vivid slash of blood running from his brow, down into his eye and around the outside of it. She flinched, her stomach twisting at the sight.
“You’re bleeding,” she blurted as he drew near.
He gave her the briefest glance. “A scratch.” He waved her forward. “Come.”
“Alaric, that isnota scratch—it’s a hole,” she protested anxiously, though followed obediently. “It needs to be stitched.”
He cut her off with a shake of his head. “We’ve nae time for such fuss. It’s nae ever safe to remain too long near the fight.”
