The man turned around and aimed his striking green eyes on him. “I know who ye are.”
“And ye?” Bertram asked him. The stranger was a Scot. That was for certain. Would Parrock hire soldiers from Scotland? They were known to be particularly violent people. “Are ye one of Parrock’s soldiers?” He glanced down at Muscle, dead on the floor. “Or somethin’ else.”
“Somethin’ else. Now move yer arse or stay here and die.” He came near and gave Bertram his hand.
With the light from the hearth behind him and the crown of raven curls around his face, the man appeared radiant, like a dark prince come to aid Bertram in his ways.
Bertram took his hand and the man pulled him to his feet. Howling ensued. He would have a permanent limp from this. He may even have to walk with a cane! How would he ever fight again? What if Lily’s friend, the Lion Heart was there at Sevenoaks?
“If ye shout—”
“I need more time to heal!” Bertram cried out, cutting him off.
“Time isna mine to give ye.”
“I canna go yet! If she is there, she will remain there. ‘Tis where she lived, too. Tell him. Tell Parrock that I need a few more days, just a few. My wound is deep.”
“I’m not Parrock’s man,” the killer told him. “But I know he wants ye dead. He thinks quite poorly of ye, so I am savin’ yer life. Now get movin’. He has more men with him and will return. I will be gone. Where will ye be?”
Bertram believed him about the commander. Parrock walked on the edge, like him, crossing over from life to death and back again. If he didn’t fear the bishop, as everyone else did, he would kill Bertram. Bertram was surprised he hadn’t already. He’d been clever not to give the commander the information he needed. Should he go with this ruffian?
“Verra well. Help me.”
With aid, Bertram dressed quickly. His breeches had not been replaced and the blood had dried around the hole. Bertram looked through it, and then at the soldier. “She is a hellcat,” he warned on a low voice, “and though she seems afraid, watch oot for her blade.”
The Scot studied him. “Ye say she was yer slave.”
“Eh, that is correct,” he said with a grunt as he fastened his belt. “She was mine and then she turned on me and wed an old man to be free of me.”
The man smiled and Bertram was tempted to look away and keep this stranger from looking clear through him.
“Ye were particularly abhorrent in her estimation, I would wager,” the man remarked, his smile deepened into a smirk with a touch of something dark behind it. “So much that she would prefer the bed of an old man over sharin’ one with ye.”
“Particularly, aye,” Bertram grinned back, exposing three missing teeth.
The Scot laughed then led Bertram out of the manor house. He killed four of Parrock’s men on the way and set fire to the manor house.
Bertram watched the outlaw in awe, happy to be traveling with him. He wanted to get away from Parrock. He had never trusted the English commander. He figured this was his best chance of escape. The outlaw knew how to fight, that much was obvious. Why, he’d killed four men with ease, not including Muscle, speed and precision. It was like watching a masterful dance. Bertram needed him to fight for him. He would pay him anything.
The Scot put Bertram’s arm around his neck, pulling the shorter man up a bit, and they hurried out through a back exit. The soldier disappeared around to the front of the house for a moment and then returned with a horse a few moments later.
Smoke was beginning to make Bertram’s eyes sting. It was too painful for him to sit astride the large stallion, but bearable if he sat sidesaddle—like a woman. If he shifted his weight to one side, his wound wasn’t so agonizing. Still, twice, he thought of going back and letting Parrock kill him.
“Scot,” he said, trying not to sound too affected and mortified when the man leaped up into the saddle behind him. Sitting between the killer’s legs was bad enough. Sitting between them sidesaddle was the worst embarrassment Bertram had ever suffered. But he owed this man his life.
“What is yer name and yer offense? Mayhap I will ask my cousin and he will grant ye a pardon.”
The killer laughed but there was no humor in his gaze, only a detached iciness that Bertram had seen somewhere before.
“I am Tristan. TristanMacPherson, and my offense is that I’m goin’ to kill the bishop, and now, ye are goin’ to help me do it.”
Bertram’s eyes opened wide staring at the Highlander. MacPherson? Bertram narrowed his eyes on him. Where had he—MacPherson. Elias MacPherson! No! This murderous mercenary couldn’t be kin to Lion Heart. His heart fainted within. Bertram would die before admitting it, but Elias MacPherson frightened him. Never had he seen anyone move so quickly once his knife was in the air—until he saw EliasMacPherson. But this one. Tristan, he said he was called. He moved even faster. His aim was to cause carnage and chaos, as the burning house and shouting men proved. He wanted to kill the bishop so killing a man of God didn’t bother him. Had Bertram been a fool to go with him? This MacPherson would never fight for him as long as his relative was alive. What were they, brothers? Cousins? Oh, was this the end of him? Bertram lamented. The pestilence didn’t kill him, would a mere man?
“Why do ye want to kill the bishop?” Bertram asked him
“Why does the bishop want to kill a babe?”
“’Tis his son.”