likeroaringlions | Scotland! pt 2

Scotland! pt 2

They do reach the Clyde by nightfall, though too late to cross at the ford. There's just light enough left for hunting: dusk, with rabbits coming out. William has them a supper in no time. And the rain has stopped, more or less. A dry-enough night for a cooking fire, and it's not a bad prospect, spreading out the sheepskins and blankets to sleep on.

Cold, though. It would have been nicer traveling a month ago, or even just a couple of weeks.

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"Not if it will turn thee from thy purpose." Picturing glorious things is fun!

Harry glances down at William. He's still sitting up, his arms resting on his knees.

Yes, it's plain from the way William smiles into the fire that he's on top of the picturing-glorious-things situation. (Suppose the Nevilles do come swarming after him, ring his castle; suppose he holds them off, rallying the frightened castle people; suppose he goes out to fight, one on one, man on man; suppose he wins; suppose he has the choice, whether to kill his man or spare him and hold him prisoner...) "Too much to ask you to join me on a raid, isn't it," he asks abruptly.

"It is." He's almost tempted. Almost. "I do not fight Englishmen for sport."

"Aye, fair enough," he says without any heat. "I'd fight another Scot for just about any reason--but not because an Englishman told me to."

He rolls onto his back in a comfortable stretch, and then heaves himself up to sit, bits of dead leaves in his hair. "Well. You figure we should keep watch tonight?"

"I think it best. We have little worth the taking, save the horses. But rest you first," he says. "And I shall take the watch."

William makes some polite noises about offering to take first watch, etc., but before long he's rolling himself up in his plaid, curled up next to Hotspur.

With one hand on his sword. There's people out there that would kill them for the blankets, let alone the horses.

It's a few hours later when Harry lays a firm but careful hand on William's shoulder and gently shakes him awake.

"Quiet, now," he murmurs. His hand his on his sword; there are voices not far off.

He wakes on an indrawn breath. His first thought is that he's needed for Jamie, but it clears instantly and he's rolling onto his feet. "How many? Do you know?" His voice is pitched as low as Hotspur's.

Harry shakes his head. "I know not." He grins. "I cannot tell one Scot from another."

"Just remember you're for the Douglas this time, not against." He can't tell either: the voices have stopped--

(Have the horses been taken? No, there's Parsnip's whinny.)

(This is real, it's really happening. He has a clear-headed moment to ask himself: Do I want to run? But the fear that he'd been afraid he would feel isn't there.)

(He should follow Percy's lead. Percy knows what he's about.)

--people are shouting all around them.

Percy knows what he's about. He looks ready to spring and he's grinning wide.

And here they are-- not that many, but then again they're only two. But who's got time for counting, there's a fight.

There are at least three of them. William's sure of that. There might be more. But he sees two men facing Hotspur, and he sees another man making for the horses, and that's the one he runs for. He slashes out at the man's back, and there's blood. The man whirls, falls. There's a blow to William's arm. He's already bringing his sword around. No--that man's gone, Percy has him. The first man--no--he's scrambling onto his feet--a general call to run, run--

--and oh. Ha. HA, he's suddenly facing Harry Percy, bloody sword to bloody sword, and all he can hear is his own heartbeat.

"Thou didst well!" Harry cries. In a moment he'll be disappointed it was over so quickly, but not quite yet. "Passing well!"

He taps the flat of his sword against Harry's, just for the thrill of the contact. And then he's laughing. "Christ, Mother of Christ, we just--" Won! They won! "We--Jesus, Harry."

"There were but three or four!" But he can't help but laugh, too. "There, now-- thou has bloodied thy sword."

"Aye, I have." The man had run away after. He'll probably live? William can't care very much.

It's only when he goes to wipe his sword that he realizes he's bloodied his arm as well. A longish slice. Not hurting yet. He shows Harry and laughs.

"Thou shouldst see it cleaned," Harry says, and that's definitely Joly's voice somewhere in the back of his head reminding him to do so.

"S'pose I should." He's in no rush; he steps over to the horses to calm them. But they don't like the smell of blood on him and set their ears back and sidle away. William laughs again. "What's wrong, you lot? Don't recognize me?"

Ha. Horses, fucking idiot horses. He runs his clean hand down Strawberry's neck despite her discomfort. "--All right, I'll wash up. Which way is that stream?" It's still dark; the whole adventure has been lit by the moon. What time is it, midnight? One?

"We'll go together," Harry says, bending to untie the horses as he says it. "We know not if any others yet linger."

"Ach, those poor bastards, they're a mile off by now and still running." But it's a fair point.

He should stand away from the uneasy horses--look for the stream nearby--but he can't be bothered, and it's all too funny. When Harry straightens, he slings an arm around his shoulders.

"Thou didst well!" Harry says, happy to let him. He knows it's a touch patronizing, but he can't help it. How is it possible, to be eighteen and never fought a man before?

"'Course I did. I'm a Douglas. Take to it like a duck to water." He has fought before, but as a member of a larger group under someone else's direction, tagging along on raids and frightening farmers. Not the same. Not the same.

He rests his forehead on Harry's shoulder for a moment, pressing into him, nudging, one moment more before shaking himself off and making in earnest for the stream to clean up. "No sense trying to sleep again tonight," he calls as he goes. "Want to ride on? There's moonlight enough."

"Let us do so," Harry agrees. He's still humming with energy from the fight-- if only it had been harder, if only it had been longer, if only it had been over something interesting--

He hangs back a bit with the horses. "Hast need of any help?"

"Eh, I'm all right...can't say the same for my shirt." There's that stream. It had looked clear enough by the evening light when they'd picked a spot to camp; it should be all right to drink from and wash in. Jesus, he's thirsty, all at once. And now, pulling off his shirt, the cut starts to sting properly. Tomorrow it'll hurt...

"I half want to chase after them," he says, loud enough to carry to Hotspur. "Just to--Christ, I don't know." Just to keep moving.

"Ay," Harry laughs. "But let them flee. They are but robbers-- there is no honor in such a chase."

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