LITMIR.BIZ

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no mere solider, but ‘Black Robert’, the most feared of English knights?

      His squire had started the rumours and songs of Black Robert. The more deeds he did, the more the rumours and songs spread. He couldn’t enter a new camp or battlefield without the name being whispered. He was lucky she did not recognise him. If she had, his sword would be through his own gut.

      They reached the bottom of the hill and walked to where she’d been digging. As they neared the bodies, she made a clearing sound in her throat.

      He waited. Although it was he who had wanted to talk, he knew why she wanted the conversation here. In the light of day, there were unflinching views of the horror. Children with their plump arms ripped off, women sliced and men face down were all lined up. Waiting to be buried with the potatoes.

      ‘Will you help me?’ she asked.

      After battles, dead bodies had simply been landscapes of war. He and his soldiers had buried many. But she was no hardened soldier. She could not have seen such atrocities before. Why would she endure such hardship?

      ‘Why do you not just leave?’

      ‘I won’t.’ She paused. ‘So, will you do it? I need to bury them and quickly.’

      ‘It would be more expedient if you burned them on a pyre,’ he said.

      She gasped. ‘They’ve seen too much fire.’

      He was not prepared for the weight of grief hovering over him. He was not prepared for any feelings. But this woman, bringing him here, was causing all the emotions of the world to stab and slice at him.

      There was no logical reason for him to be here. He had had a bad dream and suddenly he was making the journey. He massaged the back of his neck and tried to distance himself from the gnawing gripping his chest.

      But it hadn’t been a bad dream compelling him to come here. It had been a memory and one he had tried to forget.

      It had been a long time since he’d felt anger and even longer than that since he had thought of the fire. But he had done both. It was the village that troubled him.

      An entire village destroyed and his fellow Englishmen had done it. He could not shake the feeling he was responsible. If he had not been fighting a battle so near Doonhill, then all those people would be alive. They were innocent and shouldn’t have died.

      ‘So, will you bury them? Put them at peace?’ she repeated. ‘Quickly?’

      To answer her would be to commit to something he did not want. But he could not mistake the urgency in her voice. Alone and only working a couple of hours a night, she would have to be here the better part of a sennight to get all of them buried. It would make her vulnerable to more danger.

      ‘You risk much staying here as long as you have.’

      ‘’Tis their kin. I felt... Nae, I needed to let the children know their families rest peacefully.’

      It was practically a death wish for her to persist. ‘I am sure they are grateful for the efforts you have been making, but it is foolishness to remain here. The Englishmen who did this could have returned and slaughtered you all.’

      She stopped biting her lip. ‘Like you?’

      ‘I told you it was not me.’

      The haunted look in her eyes vanished. ‘Aye, but I’m not so sure I believe you. You’re obviously an English soldier and couldn’t have just been passing by.’

      He did not answer her. He didn’t need her to believe him.

      She folded her arms across her chest. ‘It is irrelevant to discuss this. They did not return and all I ask is for your help.’

      She wasn’t leaving him alone. He added stubborn to her personality. ‘Aye, but there are other dangers here. The children informed me your supplies ran out. How are you able to gather food enough to feed five?’

      ‘We’ve been surviving.’

      ‘But for how long?’

      She whirled to face him, anger bringing her to her full height. ‘I had hoped to have been done by now. I hadn’t planned on being injured. Will you help me? Because I know how precious little time I have to survive out here. I doona need you telling me. What kind of man won’t help a woman bury her kin?’

      She pushed herself forward and grabbed a spade lying on the ground. He could see it was a crude tool, hardly sufficient to do the task before them. The blade was black, the handle nothing but a roughened stick. The original handle had probably burned in the fire.

      Aye, she was stubborn, her chin was sticking out and there was a challenge to her eyes, but her lips were trembling and she was pale under her freckles.

      Cursing, he covered the distance between them and grabbed the spade from her hands. She stumbled a bit from his force and he put his hand at her elbow until she got her balance.

      ‘Your dead will be buried today,’ he growled.

      He could see her anger was quickly crumbling. She was struggling, choking on emotions and words he didn’t want to hear.

      ‘Why now? Why now are you being kind?’ Grief filled her voice.

      An image of a slender body wrapped in white and lying against green leaves flashed before him. He abruptly let go of her elbow. She lost her balance, but this time he did not touch her.

      ‘I will bury your dead,’ he repeated, his voice cold. ‘But do not mistake what I do for kindness.’

      He drove the weak spade through the tilled earth. The blade wobbled, but did not break. He could feel her standing behind him, but this time she did not interrupt him.

       Chapter Seven

      It was late in the day when Gaira stood on the crest of the valley’s hill. It was her third time to do so, but this time she had a purpose. She clenched the greenery she had gathered for the graves.

      Where she stood, she could see the garden of graves and the lake just beyond. Her eyes did not linger on the landscape, but on the man working below.

      In the heat of the day, he had taken off his clothes and wore just his braies as she had seen the English peasants do in the fields. But this man was no peasant.

      He dug with a spade and toiled at her request, but he held himself as a man used to commanding. Maybe it was the tilt of his head, his shoulders thrown back, or his sword gleaming by his feet.

      He dug deep into the dirt and threw it off to the side. Each rugged cord of his muscles was defined by each movement he made. There wasn’t an ounce of waste on him and he was thick from his neck to his calves. A woman could trace his sinews with ease.

      She felt a curious pull and her fingers were tingling again. She didn’t understand the tingling now, but she knew it wasn’t nervousness.

      She focused on his more disagreeable features: the unruly length of his hair, the scruffiness of his beard, the flat scars peppering his body from his neck down and along his arms. But it was no use. His body pleased her.

      ‘Nothing but a ragabash loun you are, Gaira of Colquhoun.’ She had more important matters than noticing Robert of Dent was a fine-looking man.

      Irritated, she took her eyes off Robert and saw new graves were dug and filled. He had even worked on the few graves she’d started. They were deeper now, the bodies more protected. In less than a day, he was done.

      He was a contrary man. She had begged him, pleaded with him, but he hadn’t taken the spade until she had given up. He’d agreed to help and she still didn’t understand why.

      And he had done it far more quickly than she would have been able to. She could only hope it was quick enough; that she had time to make it to her brothers before they

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