Free Knight's Blood by Julianne Lee Page B

interesting life among those who harass England.” She knew, if the year was anywhere near 1314, there were still Scottish men at arms making forays across the border into England. Noblemen, most notably James Douglas, First Earl of Douglas, took raiding parties south in an effort to convince England’s Edward II he had no business north of the Tweed.
     
    One of the men at the table, the first one who had spoken, sat up in his chair and leaned forward to lay his palms on the table and look her straight in the face. “Would you take plunder for your only pay?”
     
    “No. I would take what I find, and three loaves of bread a day besides. And mead.” Working on straight commission was a bad idea in any century, and she didn’t intend to starve while waiting for the next raid. Surely these guys were being fed by their master during downtimes, and she didn’t care to let herself be shorted.
     
    The knight grunted. “And are we to trust you’re worth your keep? Can ye fight?”
     
    Lindsay snorted. “If not, I’ll be dead in the next foray and no longer a bother to you. The sooner we ride into England, the less stake my master will have in my success.”
     
    The men looked to their leader, who considered her words then nodded. “Aye. If you can fight, we’ll be glad to have you.”
     
    “I’ll need to borrow a horse until I can reive one of my own.”
     
    The knight sat back. “You’ve no horse? Nor arms? No squire?”
     
    “Only what you see before you.” It suddenly occurred to her she hadn’t brought a bedroll, and she mentally kicked herself. “Stake me for the first raid, and I’ll reward the favor.”
     
    Clearly the guy didn’t care for this development, and he frowned and grumbled. “Did your master at Eilean Aonarach not pay you sufficiently?”
     
    Lindsay grunted and made herself lie. “My master is a close man and that is why I broke alliance with him. In my service to him, as squire and knight, I’m left with naught but my sword and mail. I’ve fought well and hard, and have not been properly rewarded. That’s why I seek better fortune elsewhere.”
     
    The knight gave that hard consideration. But finally he shifted in his seat and said with some reluctance, “Very well, then. You’ll have one of my horses until the next raid. Then you’ll either have your own or you’ll be on foot. Again.” The disparagement was thick in his voice, for a knight on foot was not really a knight at all.
     
    Lindsay let the insult slide, lifted her cup in agreement to the deal, and drank. Again she resisted a grimace at the dreadfully sweet wine. The men introduced themselves, and the unkempt, dark-haired one in charge turned out to be called Jenkins. His accent seemed from all over, and by his dress and demeanor she guessed his origins—and possibly his loyalties—were as diffuse. She pegged him for a hardcore mercenary, the sort she hoped they thought she was.
     
    The men drank and talked for a while longer, then made their way to their camp. It was not far from Scone, tucked into a small hollow among a stand of oak and pine. One of the men loaned Lindsay a blanket for the night. After a trip into the woods to relieve herself and to change and bury her blood-soaked towel in private, she rolled herself up in the borrowed blanket on the hard ground near one of the fires and dropped into a not particularly restful sleep. Images of Nemed came, and in her imagination she fought and killed the slanty-eyed, pointy-eared monster. Over and over.
     
    The following morning she was introduced to the commander of the company. He was a big blond guy, and called himself An Reubair, which she recognized as a nickname in Gaelic. The Robber . He had a look about him that struck her as odd. Something about him wasn’t quite right. Like the one who had recruited her, the commander was extra scruffy and had very long, thick hair, and that was expected. His dress was rich but not fancy; at his throat he wore