The soldiers stared at him and then shared a brief look with one another. “Why? What do you want?”
“I want to fight in his garrison. Fight alongside his men.”
Their eyes opened in surprise and…gladness. “You fight well, Sir Torin,” one said, stepping forward. He was the one who had killed the first thief. He was the oldest of the three, mayhap ten years older than Torin. His chin was strong, his shoulders wide, and his nose looked to have been broken numerous times. He bore six different scars on his face that were visible to Torin’s eye. Some of the scars were deeper than others. “I’m Rob Adams, this is Sir John Linnington, and Geoffrey Mitchell.”
“You saved our lives,” Sir John said. “I will make certain Lord Bennett hears of your courage and skill.” He looked around at the dead bodies and ran his palm across his forehead. “You took down four men in less time than it took us to figure out what the hell had happened. You did not hesitate once.”
“Hesitation gets folks killed,” Torin told him, believing it.
The knight nodded and studied him for another moment before he spoke again. “We can use a man like you against the border reivers. Presently, the Carruthers’ and Irvines are thorns in our sides. They try to get across the border to rob us at least twice a month. No one’s cattle would be safe from them if not for us and some of the other border families.”
Torin had heard much about the reivers. The wars between Scotland and England had left the border towns and villages devastated. In order to survive, kinsmen on both sides along the north, west, and east Marches had formed small armies of raiders. They raided with no regard to any laws, save their own—they could not raid their own kin in different regions.
Torin had nothing against them, save that they gave their allegiance to whoever paid the most—which wasn’t always the Scots. They were fierce fighters with a cause. To eat. Torin understood it, but it wouldn’t stop him from killing them if he had to. He wondered if the thieves he’d killed tonight were reivers.
It didn’t matter. He was here to begin the takedown of England’s last mighty stronghold.
“You will see our porter, Charles Corbet, first,” Sir John told him. “He is the one who decides who may join the garrison. But he will require more than just my word.”
“Of course,” Torin agreed and reached into a pouch at his belt to produce a folded parchment bearing a wax stamp. “I have this letter from the Earl of Rothbury, Lord William Stone.” He had no idea, nor did he care, who the earl was. He only knew the earl lived at Lismoor Castle in Rothbury. He hadn’t broken the seal and read the letter. He’d never fought for the earl a day in his life. The Bruce had provided the letter after he likely forced Rothbury to write it. As long as it aided Torin in his cause, he didn’t care where it came from.
“Come.” Sir John urged him toward the stable. “Do you have a ride?”
Torin went to a large chestnut and white mare with feathered hoofs and a long silky white mane and tail. She was called Avalon, a name he remembered from a story in his childhood. A story his mother used to tell him.
Avalon had been patient through the night while he saw to his task. Now, as he set her free from where she was loosely tied to a post, she nudged him and he stroked her neck, giving her the attention she sought.
“That is a fine beast,” Mitchell complimented, walking around her.
“Avalon is no beast,” Torin corrected, planting a kiss on her nose when she presented it to him. “She is a lady, born with power and grace, and she is loyal only to me.”
As if to test his declaration, Mitchell reached his hand out to touch her—and almost lost two fingers.
Sir John and his companion laughed, and then Mitchell joined them and gained his own saddle.
Torin whispered into Avalon’s ear when he passed it, then leaped to his saddle.
He didn’t have to flick his reins; a slight touch of his stirrup set her running. She raced along the River Eden and past the three soldiers with her mane flowing behind her, her powerful hooves tearing up the earth.
“Dinna show off, Avalon,” Torin said, leaning in and letting his tongue roll naturally for her ears alone.
They arrived at the castle and passed through the massive gates that entered into the outer ward. Torin examined the battlements, counting how many men patrolled. There were not many. Less than twenty. He studied which men had keys and which were aware and awake though the hour was late.
They took their horses to the large stable and Torin left instructions that no one was to touch his horse. After that, he was taken to the gatehouse. He would meet the porter in the morning. Tonight, he would sleep with the rest of the men.
Torin thanked the three who had taken him in and smiled as he lay his head down to sleep. He was in.
He was taken to the keep early the next morning and hired by the porter after a careful examination of his letter of highest recommendation from Rothbury, and news of what he’d done and how he’d fought the night before.
When word came that Corbet was wanted in the great hall, Torin was dismissed and took the opportunity to investigate the rear tower and the weapons house—though he would need the key to get inside from none other than Geoffrey Mitchell, whom he couldn’t find at the moment.
In the meantime, he had other things to discover. How many men were housed here? How much food did they store in case of a siege?
But soon Sir John found him in one of the long corridors and pulled him aside. “The Hetheringtons are here. The warden has called you to the great hall to give an account of last night.”
Perfect. Torin had been waiting to meet the great defender of Carlisle Castle. He’d found that he enjoyed getting to know his victims before he took them down.
“Rowley Hetherington, the leader is here with two of…” Sir John paused with resignation in his gaze and in his voice when he continued. “…his best warriors. They say the men at the tavern last night were their kinsmen and they know we killed them. Adams has told them nothing. He says he awaits you.”
