1
Southwest of Dunbar, 1650
“We should never have come down from Doon Hill,” Owen McCulloch grumbled, near blind in the driving rain that pelted the forest, turning any hope of a trail or path into an indistinct mass of churned, wet mud.
His friend and man-at-arms, Sawyer Connelly, just grinned and tilted his head up to the downpour. “Och, what could ye be gripin’ for when there’s fresh Scottish rain on yer face and a heart still beatin’ in yer chest? We’re the lucky ones, M’Laird.”
“Lucky?” Owen winced as his horse stumbled over a ditch, jolting his arm and chest. The former was lashed up in a makeshift sling while his ribs throbbed, feeling like they were about to pierce right through his lungs. A few were definitely broken, if the bruising beneath his torn shirt was any sort of indication.
Sawyer shrugged. “We’ll be back in the north in a day or two, M’Laird, so we can lick our wounds with some hearty food and plenty nips of whiskey. I’d rather be doin’ that than shiverin’ and starvin’ in an English gaol, would ye nae?”
“Can ye set our defeat aside so easily, Lad?” Owen shook his head. “We were thoroughly—” He brought his horse to an abrupt halt and held up his good hand, urging Sawyer to a standstill.
A strange sound drifted through the heavy patter of rainfall: a muffled crunch of undergrowth, coming from somewhere to the right.
“What is it?” Sawyer whispered.
“I cannae be certain,” Owen murmured back, squinting into the darkness of the forest. It had been three days since the Battle of Dunbar’s conclusion, and though most of the victorious English army had marched west toward Edinburgh with their Scottish captives, there were no assurances that people lurking in the woodland were countrymen.
Sawyer slowly drew his broadsword, as both men had lost their pistols in the battle. Even if they had still had them, there was a good chance that the gunpowder would not ignite in such wet conditions.
The sound came again, but it seemed to originate from the left, this time. With the darkness of night, the torrential rain, and Owen’s swollen eye competing to diminish his sight, he had to rely upon his gut instinct… and it did not spell good tidings.There was a hushed furtiveness to the noise, though anyone with the benefit of shelter could see they were Scottish. And if the people in the trees were also Scottish, they would make themselves known, once they had realized that.
They’re nay friends of ours.
“We’ve got one last fight, I reckon,” Owen hissed, drawing his own broadsword. His sword hand was injured but, fortunately, he was skilled with both. He merely preferred his right.
Sawyer nodded. “Aye, M’Laird. Ye cannae mistake that Sassenach stench.”
No sooner had they drawn their weapons than the danger in the forest shot out of their not-so-secret hiding places. A surge of shifting, clanking, roaring darkness that poured onto the vanished path, wielding swords which beaded with rainwater that Owen would not turn red with his or Sawyer’s blood.
“Alive!” someone shouted in the unmistakable accent of an Englishman. “Remember, alive!”
Owen understood the word but not the context, as his horse reared in alarm at the sudden sweep of enemies. The war horse was built for withstanding battles, but not an ambush like this.
“Sawyer!” Owen barked, feeling himself slip from the saddle. Had both his arms been in good health, he might have been ableto hold on. Instead, there was nothing he could do but give into the fall and hope for a soft landing.
“M’Laird!” Sawyer yelled back, jumping down from his own horse to come to Owen’s aid, at the very moment that Owen’s back collided with the muddy ground.
Covered by the darkness and the trees, it had been impossible to gauge how many enemies were hiding there. Now, it seemed like an entire army had Owen surrounded, as he struggled to raise himself from the sucking, squelching mud.
Nevertheless, he struck forward with his broadsword, using the motion to rock up into a sitting position. At the same time, Sawyer crashed through the barricade of enemy soldiers, swinging his blade like a madman. The distraction gave Owen a moment to lumber to his feet, unhindered, and he wasted no time joining Sawyer in their two-man resistance.
“Careful, men!” that same English voice bellowed through the storm. “Remember your orders!”
Indeed, it seemed strange that the attackers were not fighting back with the full weight of their advantage. They clearly had the numbers to make this an easy victory, yet they were striking and parrying with a hesitancy that puzzled Owen. Why were they acting defensively when they should have been fighting offensively?
“M’Laird! The trees! We need to get into the—” Sawyer’s frantic cries were severed sharply, followed by a guttural grunt and the sound of something collapsing into the mud.
Owen’s head whipped around as he dragged his hand over his eyes, desperate to clear the water away so he could see his friend. But there was no sign of Sawyer among the looming figures who closed in around Owen. Rather too quickly, this had become a resistance of one.
“Ye won yer battle!” Owen rasped, turning around and around to keep a watchful eye over the circle of men that surrounded him. “Let us be on our way!”
A figure stepped out of the circle. “We can’t do that, Mr. McCulloch.”
“Pardon?” Owen’s eyebrows rose in surprise, for the last thing he had expected was to hear these wretches call him by name. Even if they had gotten it slightly wrong.
“You are to come with us,” the leader of the group said firmly.
