Free Fortress of Mist by Sigmund Brouwer Page B

received word from our scouts. It isn’t enough to be plagued by the evils of slain white bulls and tongueless men. The Scots’ army numbers over four thousand strong.”
    Silence deepened as each man realized the implications of that news. They numbered barely three thousand. Man against man. Beast against beast. And outnumbered by a thousand. They would be fortunate to survive.
    The Earl of York, as was his due, spoke first to break the silence. “Perhaps our warrior, Thomas of Magnus, has a suggestion.”
    The implied honor nearly staggered Thomas. To receive a requestfor council among these men … yet still he wondered if the Earl of York was friend or foe. And if a foe, why would he give any honor to Thomas?
    “Thank you,” Thomas replied, more to gain time and calmness than from gratitude. To throw away this chance…
    Thomas thought hard. These men understand force and force alone. This much I have learned .
    Another thought flashed through his mind, a story of war told him by Sarah, a story from one of the books of ancient knowledge.
    He hid a grin in the darkness. Each man at the campfire waited in silence, each pair of eyes studied him.
    Finally, Thomas spoke.
    “We can defeat the Scots,” he said. “First, we must convince them we are cowards.”

K atherine’s place of encampment was set apart from the others, for many feared the knowledge that an herbalist had about plants and animals. Indeed, any herbalist had to be careful that rumors about witchcraft did not begin.
    She was alone, then, when a shadow crossed over her as she crouched to stir the coals of an almost-dead fire with a sharpened branch, green and cut recently from a sapling.
    She had known Thomas was approaching, but also knew that an old woman would not have the keen hearing and sharp vision she possessed, so she acted ignorant of his presence, even as he stood above her.
    “I have questions for you,” he said.
    She pretended she could not hear him. Not only was that in character for an old woman, but it gave her time to compose herself for when she would finally rise and look upon his face.
    Although she knew that her filthy face and the unruly long and gray hair of the wig gave her the appearance of a hag, with Thomas she wasn’t as confident of her disguise as she was when mingling with the peasants and soldiers of the camp.
    Thomas was intelligent, an observer, and a man of questions. That made it dangerous enough to be near him. She was also forced to admit to herself that she could not fight her own emotional reaction to him, but could only hope to conceal it.
    “I said,” Thomas repeated, but louder, “I have questions for you.”
    “Eh?” Katherine made an awkward turn of her head, careful to keep the gray hair across her face.
    “M’lord!” she croaked. She pretended to almost fall as she rose, making it look as though her joints ached and all movement was painful.
    She began to bow in respect.
    “Please,” he said, “find a place to sit.”
    She moved to a fallen tree and eased herself onto a place between branches that had been removed to feed fires.
    “M’lord,” she repeated. She fought the temptation to look directly into his face, knowing that it would only lead to thoughts of what it might be like to caress it with her fingers. The night before, when she had been sent as a messenger to get him from the tent for the old man, she had wanted to hold him close and feel his strong arms around her shoulders.
    “Something about the way you move,” he said, “the cadence of your voice …”
    Had he guessed so soon who she was beneath this disguise?
    “I am the herbalist you ordered to join your army on this march,” she said in the quietest voice possible. “If you have a request of me, I will do my best to oblige. But please don’t confuse me with riddles.”
    He stared for a few moments, then shook his head, more at himself than at her.
    “I’m told that, of anyone,” he said, “you might have