Chapter Eleven

“The westerners have shifted their lines, ponies, chariots and all, some distance closer to us.” Brude imparted the unwelcome news in a low voice, his head inclined toward that of his tribeschief. His dark eyes looked troubled and angry.

They had met together at nightfall around the fire in the chief’s hut, Brude and his small band of companions having just returned from a scouting foray. They kept their voices down in an effort to guard the news—for now—from the others in the room.

True sat at Barta’s side in one of the places at the fire, even though Brude had given him a scathing look when he came in. Within reach of his hand, Barta listened avidly and spoke before Radoc could.

“You see, Father—I was not completely wrong when I sought to wound them. Now they have once more acted on their aggression.”

Radoc glared at her. “You were wrong, for you did not weigh the cost. Six men dead, do you forget? And your good hound.”

True felt pain spear through Barta in response to her father’s words. “How could I forget?”

“Then hush and listen. We know very well the Gaels are aggressors and never satisfied with what they have taken. Even a fool understands that. It does not mean we take mad chances.”

He switched his gaze back to Brude. “Where are they located now?”

“Just this side of where Barta made her raid.”

The others gathered around the fire, including Wick, grunted unhappily.

“Far too near,” Wick declared.

Brude nodded. “Any closer and we’ll be able to smell their stink.” He leveled his gaze on Radoc. “What are your orders, Chief?”

Radoc pondered it, a scowl heavy on his brow. “As I see it, we have three choices: attack them, fall back, or wait and do nothing for now.”

Despair flooded Barta—True could feel that also. She said, “I say fight. This is a good settlement, and winter approaches. Do we truly wish to abandon another piece of our land to them?”

“No,” Radoc answered starkly, “but potential losses must be weighed.”

“We fall back and back,” Brude protested, “giving them our land a length at a time. Where will it end? With our backs to the eastern sea?”

Radoc fixed his young warrior with a hard stare. “Would you rather be overrun and see our children enslaved? Or our women”—he nodded at Barta—“used by those rutting boars?”

Urgast, one of Brude’s company, said slowly, “Already it is autumn. Surely they will leave off their campaign come winter. They always have, in the past.”

“But they will seize all the territory they can before then.”

“Not more than they think they can hold,” Gant put in grimly. “We are able to raid them in winter and have done so in the past with some success.”

“We are able to raid them now,” Barta said impetuously, and True’s gaze flew to her. “Which is just what I sought to do…”

“With damaging consequences.” Radoc verbally slapped her down. “Any such decisions, Daughter, will be made jointly among us, do you understand? No more haring off on your own.”

“Yes, Father.” Barta’s eyes fell, but True sensed no meekness in her.

“Can you not approach the chief of your tribe and ask him to join with us?” Radoc looked at True. “If we are to make a bold stand before winter, before the Gaels take another step onto our land, we will need more men.”

Arrested, True returned his look but did not speak.

Radoc continued, “I feel if we can make a stand here and now, drive the Gaels back some distance, we will then have the winter to arrange for more allies and recover our strength. For we know very well that in spring they will come at us again. Surely if Master True returns home and pleads the benefits to all Caledonii of an alliance, his chief will agree to join with us.”

Ah, now what was he to say? Had the Lady foreseen this? If so, she had failed to prepare him.

“My tribe also struggles to hold their border in the north.”

“Along the Moray?”

“Yes.”

Wick looked at Radoc. “Perhaps, Father, it is time we moved north and joined them there.”

“You mean surrender? Give up our ancestral lands to the invaders?”

Wick’s expression twisted. “It is a bitter draught to swallow, Father. I am no more eager than you to abandon the graves of our ancestors. But that is perhaps better than joining our bones with theirs before another year passes.”

Radoc pushed himself up with a roar. “I never believed I would hear my own son express a wish to run.”

Wick leaped to his feet. “It is not the desire to run but to survive. With each defeat, with the loss of every warrior, we become weaker.”

Radoc raised himself into a half crouch—the best he could achieve—using the brawn of his arms. “What we hold may yet be wrested from us, but I refuse to surrender it to those vermin.”

Wick flashed in return, “Stay here and die then! It is all your stubbornness will win you.”

He crashed from the hut, and for a terrible moment Radoc sat like a man struck. In the past, as True well remembered, Master Wick had sometimes disagreed with his father, yet he had never before defied him openly.

Essa approached the hearth and leaned close to Radoc. “What is this, husband?”

“Our son challenges me!”

Essa glanced at the other members of Wick’s party. “It is not like Wick to prove defiant.”

“He thinks himself ready to make my decisions.” Radoc too glared at the young warriors. “Perhaps you all do.”

Without a word, the men got to their feet and filed from the hut.

Radoc took it like a blow to the face; he reared back and fury filled his eyes. True, watching carefully, saw Essa place her fingers on her husband’s shoulder.

“The two of you are bound to disagree, my love. He will give it some thought before returning and bending his knee to you as he always has before.”

“You think so? I think the day will come when he will go his own way. I feel it here, in my heart.” Radoc turned his burning eyes on Barta. “And you, Daughter, with all your impetuosity—which of us will you follow then?”

“You know my loyalty is yours, Father,” Barta replied. But her fingers twitched in True’s like a bird trapped in a snare, and he knew she did not feel as certain as she would have Radoc believe.

****

“What is this? Mistress, what are you about?”

Morning had come once again. True had spent the night at Pith’s hut but had gone looking for Barta at once after helping the old man up and giving him his breakfast. He had not found her at Radoc’s hut—neither had Master Wick come home—and had searched the settlement for her, at last following his instincts and locating her near the edge of the trees, kneeling.

She glanced at him over her shoulder when he spoke but did not rise. Her fingers fluttered over the objects on the ground in front of her and her distress rushed at him.

“It is a kind of memorial, this.”

True looked farther and felt as if he’d been kicked in the heart. He recognized these objects: an old leather ball he’d chased more times than any hound had a right to wish; a rug; and a braided leather lead. All had once belonged to him—when he ran on four paws.

“Ah.” The non-word slipped between his lips helplessly.

She caressed the lead with soft strokes. “These things belonged to one who meant all the world to me.”

True quivered where he stood. “A fallen warrior?”

“Yes—though he was not a man but a hound, the finest hound that ever ran beside a woman. Dead now. Gone.”

Not gone, True thought, but said only, “Why do you make yourself sad mourning over his belongings?”

“Because his death was my fault. And I could not bring his body home.” Two slow tears ran down her cheeks. “I do not know, even, what happened to his body. Did the westerners take it? Did wolves come and drag it away before I could? But then, why only his? Our other dead lay waiting for us to collect them.”

True hunkered down on his heels beside her. “Why do you worry for his flesh? That was not him. Surely his truth lay in his spirit.”

That made her look at him. “Yes, and what a spirit, bright as the sun. That was his mother’s name, you know: Bright.”

“Yes.”

“Constant he was, and so full of joy. All he ever needed in order to feel glad was my company.”

“And why does that grieve you? You were together a long time.”

“Not long enough. I ache for him here, inside.” She pressed her hands to her heart. “There is a yawning empty place I don’t think I can ever fill.”

“This hound of yours…”

“Loyal. His name matched his heart.”

“Loyal would not wish to see you mourning over his things.”

“Likely not.” She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. “But what am I to do with this grief? And the guilt.”

“Guilt?”

Again she stared into True’s face, her eyes awash with tears. “I have told you, it was my fault. I called for the raid that night against the advice of my brother and others of the warriors. I persuaded good friends to steal away behind their backs. I thought we could slap the Gaels hard, show them why they should intrude no farther.”

Her fingers closed convulsively on the lead. “Now they have taken the land anyway. My friends—and Loyal—died for naught.”

True dropped his gaze, unable to meet the grief he saw in her eyes—unable to think of words that might comfort her.

She went on wretchedly, “There is no going back and changing any of it. Wick and Father are both angry, and with good reason. I should have lost my own life during that battle as punishment for my foolishness. Instead, Loyal and the others paid the price. How am I ever to forgive myself?”

True searched his thoughts and struggled to express them through the difficult medium of language. In the past he would have thrust his head beneath her hand; words seemed so much harder to him.

“Would he not forgive you, this Loyal?”

Her gaze flew to his. For an instant they connected spirit to spirit so strongly he felt sure she must recognize him. The promise he’d extracted from the Lady returned to him—if Barta guessed who he was, he could tell her all.

But Barta said only, “He would.”

“Then I do believe it would grieve him to see you weeping now.”

She smiled wanly, pain bright in her eyes. “I do not weep often, I assure you—warriors rarely weep. And yes, Loyal hated it when I did. He would lick the tears from my face.”

True reached out and brushed the moisture from her cheek with his thumb. When he touched her, sensation once more rushed through him—warmth, delight, and that wondrous feeling of belonging. The pieces of his life so recently scattered came together for a few precious moments.

She leaned closer to him, still gazing into his eyes. “And what am I to do with this gaping hole where my heart used to be?”

“Get another hound?” he suggested.

“Never. No other can ever fill his place.”

“Then, Mistress, you must wait for your grief to subside.”

She shuddered, and more tears came. Following pure instinct now, he drew her into his arms and let his lips follow their tracks. She tasted of salt and bliss. He closed his eyes for an instant, love flooding him. He needed only this.

But what of Barta?

She tensed for one brief instant and went still in his arms. He distinctly felt something break inside her before she leaned against his shoulder and turned her face. Her lips met his.

And what wonder was this? A sharpening of sensation, immediate and bright—emotion like none he’d ever tasted. A staggering wave of desire.

Toward his mistress? No, no, and no. He belonged to her, but not that way.

She quivered in his arms, pressed her lips more closely against his, and parted them. Her flavor surged upon him, like that he’d tasted in the past yet a hundred times stronger and beyond pleasing.

Shock caused him to withdraw. Once more they stared into one another’s eyes. True felt the silver cord that had always joined them flare and tighten.

“Ah,” Barta breathed. Only that one word, but True understood. His world had once more altered impossibly.