Highland Warrior by Heather McCollum (the rosie project TXT) 📗

His gaze rose to the forty men before him. “All your swords and daggers must be sharp. And each man must find a sack and fill it with dry grass until it is the size of his head.” He looked to Calder. “We need whatever spears, brooms, or staffs can be found. Or anything that can be made to look like a weapon.”

Calder began to yell orders to the men who ran off in various directions. Joshua’s eyes sought Kára’s, and he saw the flush in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “Have those who stay behind prepare to flee to mainland Scotland or hide underground. The doors below the hill should be better hidden with scruff and boulders. And we need to have Asmund set up passage with your ship captain as soon as he returns from his task at sea.”

She nodded, striding across to the tavern keeper. Joshua watched her walk away, the growing distance almost like a physical ache. So much could happen to her when she was far from him. The wind blew, and he wrapped his cloak tighter around his arms.

“And what am I to do, Horseman?” Erik asked.

Joshua tore his gaze from Kára to take in the battered chief. Making him stay behind to heal would lead only to his revolt and senseless death. “We will need a protected source of fire to take with us.”

“You will send in a volley of lit arrows?”

“I know where inside the bailey they keep their hay piles and peat stacks.” He stared hard at Erik. “But ye know that not even a surging bonfire will stop a hundred trained warriors bent on blood.”

Erik’s face was grim. “We need to distract them enough to find one person.” But his look did not say that the one person was Geir.

“Ye intend to kill Robert no matter what,” Joshua said.

“He took my arm, and I will take his head,” Erik said.

There would be no sense in arguing with the chief. If someone had taken Joshua’s sword arm, he would feel the same conviction. “Do not get in my way and do not order the men whom I command, or I will take your head,” Joshua said. They stared at each other a long moment until Erik nodded and turned to walk back into the house on the hill.

Pastor John came over. “Joshua,” he said, the wind whipping his robes about. “An attack against a Stuart…” He left the statement unfinished, knowing Joshua must see the possible consequences against the Sinclairs.

Joshua fished out the small sheaf of parchment from his sash. He had composed the short letter after killing Henry Stuart at the chapel.

“I must get word to Cain. Please…” He held the letter out to the pastor.

Pastor John took it, unfolding the stiff sheet.

First Day of November 1589

Chief Sinclair and Brother,

I break my oath to you and the Sinclair clan. My actions are my own and go against your orders to support the royal Stuart family. I know that if I am found guilty in my actions, you will execute me like a traitor, and that you and Clan Sinclair remain loyal to King James and the house of Stuart. Consider me dead and lost to you.

Your unfaithful brother,

Joshua Sinclair

“Joshua,” John murmured, his head shaking the slightest as if he mourned what Joshua must do to protect his clan.

“Ye must leave within the hour.” Joshua’s gaze caught and held the young clergyman’s stare. “On my horse, Fuil.” Just like the warriors back in Caithness, Pastor John helped keep horses for Clan Sinclair. He knew how to care for them and ride.

“On your horse?”

“Aye. Ride him back to South Ronaldsay and find passage for ye and my horse back to Girnigoe Castle as quickly as possible. Ye must deliver my message to Cain. I am a rebel and working alone against the Stuart Clan here on Orkney.” A wry grin tipped up the corner of his mouth. “I am the Horseman of War, after all. ’Tis what I do and how I will die.”

“But Joshua—”

“If I live, I am no longer part of the Sinclair clan. I break my oath to Chief Cain Sinclair and find myself as enemy to his people. Do ye understand, Pastor?”

Pastor John nodded, sorrow and understanding heavy in the lines of his face. “I will go.”

Joshua clasped his arm. “Take care with my horse.” He exhaled. “And he will do about anything for a turnip.”

“You have my promise.”

Joshua watched him walk toward the barn and turned to the men hurrying about with swords and buckets to gather pitch. On the other side, down the hill where the doors to their homes sat, a group of children were being directed by Brenna, her bairn strapped to her chest. They’d found a boulder and had started the work of rolling it toward the doors.

“Bloody hell,” Joshua whispered, his gaze once again finding Kára where she directed the men along with Torben. Determination kept her arms and lips moving, hurrying the men to prepare, the thought of her son being frightened and tortured spurring her as fast as she could go.

He inhaled and walked down the hill toward her, ready to do something he’d sworn never to do—lead unprepared people into battle where they may all die.

…

Robert has Geir.

Every time the thought surfaced in Kára’s mind, her body clenched and her heart picked up its frantic race again. It was her worst nightmare come to life. “I am coming,” she whispered as she tightened the girth belt around Broch. “God, please,” she said, leaning her head into the side of her horse.

She heard Joshua walk up behind her, and the warmth of his palm over her shoulder nearly pushed the tears from her eyes. “We will get him back,” he said, and she pulled in a ragged breath, trying to stamp the dread down into her stomach where it could stew without interfering with the upcoming battle.

Kára turned