Page 66 of A Constant Blaze

Malcolm said, “I need your word that you’ll ride with us without trying to escape.”

“Or harm us,” Muiredach added.

“Quite,” Malcolm agreed.

De Brus looked round the camp before bringing his gaze back to rest on Malcolm. “You’ve piqued my curiosity,” he said. “So, I’ll give you my word. But I need to send a message to my men.”

“No need,” Malcolm said steadily. “I suspect you’ll be back with them by midday. Certainly before dark. You can ride my wife’s horse. My wife will not,” he added, “be on it at the time.”

“She will be on foot,” Halla said sadly, “dragged along by a leading rope.”

De Brus paused, one foot in the stirrup, his face expressing shock.

Malcolm regarded her with veiled eyes. It broke her heart to realize he’d learned how to hide his smile. “Come here, errant wife,” he said softly.

Halla obeyed, though not before eyeing up Muiredach’s mount with clear speculation. Wordlessly, Malcolm lifted her into the saddle of his own horse, and she smiled, throwing her leg over the animal’s back. Malcolm mounted behind her, his arms enclosed her as he gathered in the reins.

In spite of the uncertainty and the inevitable danger ahead, Halla couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so happy.

*

Halla’s contentment seepedinto him, adding to the strange, wondrous thrill of riding with her in his arms once more. It brought back a hundred memories of narrow escapes and wild rides, evading capture, rejoining troops, or just careering about for fun. Even in the midst of war, there had been such carefree moments of fun. They’d been so young, imagined they could do anything, and still somehow stay together in this happiness.

They’d been wrong. He’d been wrong. Too confident of his own charm, he’d placed his trust in a Norman knight, not so different from the one who rode beside them now, invited him to his hall. And the man had taken him as he slept, surrounding him with an army and whisking him south into Moray before Halla and the men of Ross knew he’d gone.

More than two decades later, he’d made love to her again, ridden with her again. There was hope in that. And secret joy.

Outwardly, his attention was all on finding the raiders. It didn’t take long. As he suspected, when they rode into the shallow hills looking down on the Loch of Lintrathen, they could see a camp full of men. Some were practicing with arms, others swimming and splashing in the loch, or just lazing on the damp grass.

Leaving the horses drinking from a stream, they slithered downhill, closer to the camp, keeping low to be unseen.

“Well, they look like wild men of the north,” de Brus observed, low.

“Wild, certainly,” Malcolm agreed.

“And I’m sure they’re speaking in the Gaelic tongue. I can make out odd words.”

Muiredach said, “They speak Gaelic all over Scotland, except in Norman castles.”

“And Lothian,” Malcolm added mildly.

“Can you make them go home?” de Brus asked.

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “But they’re not MacHeths.”

“How can you tell?”

“Look at their leader,” Malcolm said. “Sitting on the chair outside the tent.”

“A dark-haired man,” de Brus allowed. “He could be their leader, from your report and others we’ve heard.”

“Look again,” Malcolm said.

“There’s no point,” de Brus said impatiently. “His head is down. I think he’s asleep. I can’t make out his face.”

Malcolm sighed and stood up. Cupping his mouth, he yelled downhill, “Hello, down there by the loch! Are you waiting for me?”

Several of the men paused and stared up in his direction. However, someone had to nudge the seated man before his head jerked up, scanning the hills. He’d been asleep. Malcolm waved to him.

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