Chapter One
Scottishborder—summer 1388
“SweetMary, Sorcha, I cannae go downthere.”
SorchaHay understood her pretty cousin Margaret’s hesitation, one bred of a horrorshe shared. At the base of the small, windswept hill they stood upon sprawledthe men who had fallen in the latest skirmish between Sir James Douglas and theEnglish Lord “Hotspur” Percy of Northumberland. It was a bloody squabble. Thisone had been over a banner which the Scots had stolen while raiding in England,causing Hotspur to vow to get it back. Word was that the Scots had won, evencapturing Hotspur himself, but it had cost them Sir James Douglas, a braveknight. Sorcha doubted that many of the men scattered on the rocky ground belowher felt particularly victorious as they breathed their last.
Agust of wind slapped a hank of her thick chestnut hair across her face. Shewelcomed the way it obscured her view for a moment. The sight of so many deadmen was a painful one. She was also terrified that one of the broken figures onthe ground was her brother Dougal. A heavy sigh escaped her as she moresecurely tied her hair back with a length of blackened leather. She could notgive in to her own fears and weaknesses. She had to be strong.
Firmlytaking the plump and timid Margaret by one dimpled hand, Sorcha tugged herpale, wide-eyed cousin down the rocky hillside. In her other hand she clutchedthe worn reins of her sturdy Highland pony Bansith. She prayed she would notneed her little horse to carry Dougal’s body back to Dunweare.
Thehuman scavengers were already approaching the dead. If Dougal was down thereand still alive, Sorcha knew she had to find him before they did. Any man stillclinging to life would swiftly have his throat cut even as his pockets werestripped clean. The cold-eyed men and women who scurried over such battlefieldswanted no witnesses to their ghoulish thievery. Sorcha hoped she and Margarethad the skill to act as debased as the scavengers.
Inan attempt to ease some of her fears, she briefly touched the small bow andquiver of arrows she carried on her back. She and Margaret also wore swords anddaggers made specifically for them by their clever armorer Robert. They werenot totally helpless.
“Thosecorpse-robbing corbies will kill us,” whispered Margaret, tugging her thick,dull-brown cloak more tightly around her voluptuous figure.
“Notif we join in their thievery,” answered Sorcha.
“Nay?If they have no qualms about cutting the throats of helpless, dying men, whyshould they be troubled about killing us?”
“Iam not saying they arenae dangerous, but if we go about the business of pickingo’er the corpses as if we do so all the time, they will probably ignore us.”Sorcha stopped by the body of a young man, thinking sadly of how short his lifehad been.
“Icannae touch him.”
“Thenhold Bansith’s reins, Margaret, and keep a very close eye on those scavengers.”
AsMargaret took the reins, Sorcha crouched by the young man’s body. Murmuring aprayer for his soul, she gently closed his empty, staring eyes, careful not tolet the others roaming the field see her acting so kindly. She collected up hissword, dagger, and all else of any value, silently promising the youth that shewould do her best to see that his belongings were returned to his kinsmen.Sorcha took careful note of his appearance, her only real clue to his identity,before putting her booty in the panniers slung over the strong back of herpony. Reluctantly, her stomach knotting as she fought down queasiness, shemoved to the next man.
Sorchadid not stop by every man, performing the distasteful task of stealing from thedead only enough to assuage the keen suspicions of the scavengers. All thewhile she and Margaret looked for Dougal, but without success. By the time shecrouched by the fifth man she felt forced to rob, she was feeling distinctlyill. Although she found some cause for relief in not finding Dougal’s body, shewas still worried about his fate. It would be a particularly cruel twist offate to stain her soul with the crime of robbing the slain men only to have toleave the field with no certain knowledge of what had happened to her brother.
“Thismon is verra finely dressed,” Sorcha murmured then froze, her hands still uponthe ornate buckle of his scabbard, as his broad chest rose and fell with a deepbreath.
“Touchthat sword, ye foul, thieving corbie, and I will send ye straight to hell,” theman said in a deep, soft voice made hoarse with pain.
Shecould not fully stifle a soft cry of alarm as he clasped her wrist in one largehand, the mail of his gauntlet cutting into her skin. A quick glance atMargaret told her that her cousin was too intent on watching the scavengers tonotice her current difficulty. Trying to hide her fear, Sorcha looked at theman, shivering inwardly over the fury glittering in his pain-clouded dark greeneyes.
“Yedinnae have the strength to kill every corbie slinking o’er this bloodiedfield, my fine knight,” she whispered.
“EreI die, I can make sure that a few of you will ne’er pick at a mon’ s bonesagain.”
“Aye,and yewilldie if those other corbies ken that ye are still alive.Howbeit, if ye will heed me ye might yet leave this cursed field alive.”
“Whoare ye talking to, Sorcha?” asked Margaret.
“Weel,cousin, if ye will babble at me at all the appropriate times, mayhaps theothers will believe I am talking to you,” replied Sorcha.
“Isthat mon alive?”
“Aye,for the moment.” After another swift peek at Margaret assured Sorcha that thegirl had the sense not to stare at her, Sorcha looked back at the knight. “Thefirst thing ye can do, sir, is to let me go about the ill deed of robbing you.”
“Oh,aye? So ye can steal all I own more easily ere ye cut my throat?” he snarled.
“Nay,fool, so the other thieves slinking o’er the battlefield dinnae ken that ye arealive. We could all be slain then, for they will realize that Margaret and Iarenotwhat we pretend to be.” She did not waver beneath his hardstare. “Ye had best decide quickly. They will soon wonder why I linger here.”Despite the tension of the moment, Sorcha almost smiled as she heard Margaretderide Dougal in colorful terms for his insistence upon joining the never endingbattle against the English.
“Whyis that girl talking to you?” grumbled the man.
“Sothat the others dinnae guess that ye still have the breath to speak,” repliedSorcha. “After all, we both ken that they are watching us, and I must betalking to someone. Ye are supposed to be dead.”
