“Come on, then,” Noah hissed. “It’s ye or me, man. Ye or me. Who will it be?”
Tobey clenched his teeth, lifted his sword, and charged.
Senga stoodup in her stirrups, craning her neck.
“I can’t see him,” she whispered.
She had chosen a good spot, high on a hill beside the north corner of the convent, with the trees behind her and the battlefield laid out below.
At the moment, however, all she could see was a melee of men, mingled tartans all splattered with blood. She’d caught a glimpse of Brendan, his blood-soaked warhorse plunging through the mess of men, but now even he was gone.
“How can ye tell who is winning and who is losing?” she asked aloud.
The men behind her shifted.
“It depends, lady,” the leader responded. “Hard to tell until the end.”
The men Noah had appointed to guard her were clearly upset at being assigned to stay away from the battle. They shifted miserably on their horses, restless, and answered her questions with dull bluntness.
She sat on Bluebell, of course, whose ears were pressed down from the noise and fear of the battlefield. Sitting back down on her saddle and leaning forward, Senga smoothed the side of the mare’s neck, murmuring under her breath.
“It’s alright, lass. We’re safe. We’re safe, for now.”
If the battle starts to turn, how long should I wait before I flee? What if I run too soon? What if I don’t run soon enough?
Biting her lip, she twisted to look up at the convent. It loomed behind her, a blocky silhouette against the sky.
In a high window, she saw a shape moving, and a familiar face peered down at her. It was the Abbess, of course, her facepale against the blackness of her robes. She was watching the battle, and Senga wondered if she looked down at it as if it were one of her chessboards.
She turned back to the battle herself, straining her eyes for a glimpse of Noah.
He must be there. He must. He can’t be dead already. He can’t…
A strange whizzing sound zipped past her ear, followed by a muffledthunkand a gasp.
Spinning around, Senga saw the soldier behind her staring down in horror at his chest. A feathered arrow shaft stuck out of it, still shivering from its flight. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped bonelessly out of his saddle.
“Attack! We’re under attack!” the lead man bellowed, drawing his sword with a scrape of steel.
It was too late.
A volley of arrows came shooting through the air, and this time Senga traced them as coming from behind a huge boulder on the lip of the hill. None of the arrows struck her, although Bluebell squealed and pranced, stretching her neck, desperate to gallop.
At least half of the soldiers assigned to guard her came slipping down from their saddles, collapsing in still heaps. Dead.
More soldiers, all bearing Murray tartan, came clambering out of the woods behind them, swords glinting.
There were perhaps three or four men on horseback left to protect Senga.
“Stay behind us!” one yelled, only to be pulled down from his saddle a moment later. There wasn't room for the horses to properly charge or break into a gallop. Plunging down the rocky hillside towards the battle was a mistake, and the Murray soldiers were between her and the trees.
The last two Grahame men fought hard, stabbing downwards and making their warhorses rear up, but there were just too many enemies. They were pulled down, one by one, and that left Senga alone.
She turned her horse towards the steep slope. It was a dangerous plunge, and she would find herself going through the battlefield, but anything was better than this. Anything.
Then a hand closed around Bluebell’s bridle, yanking sideways. Bluebell’s ears flattened backwards, and she snapped, rearing. The hand disappeared, but there were more and more, more hands grabbing at the bridle, the saddle, her legs, her skirt, herhair, until she was torn bodily from the saddle.
Senga thumped gracelessly onto the ground, the ice-cold mud soaking through her clothes.
