Edwin slapped them both on the back. “God speed you,” he whispered.
Morcar gripped his hand. “To victory,” he said, then he was gone, racing across the open with Albie on his heels, lost in the engulfing blackness of the night.
At the moat Albie waited, handing Morcar the one end of a rope bridge. Morcar waded in, grinned once at the icy cold, a flashing of white teeth, then plunged on and swam for the far side. When he had reached it he tied the end of the rope bridge to a plank in the wall. Twenty minutes later a dozen men had crossed, with the rest waiting their turn.
When half their number had joined them beneath the keep’s wall, the sky was just faintly lightening, dark now, but not ebony. Morcar gathered his dozen men around him. “Where is Albie?” he asked, looking for his second-in-command.
No one knew where he was, and Morcar felt both worry that something had befallen him and a frisson of nameless fear. He could not wait. They must be within the walls before dawn. “We go,” he said, raising his sword.
The door was open, and Morcar smiled briefly, intending to thank Beth in the way he knew best. He slipped through, his men on his heels. He was four steps into the bailey when he saw a glinting of steel, but it was too late.
He turned to meet the attack, sword lifted, when he felt the blade piercing his side. There was a deafening roar all around him as Normans materialized from the shadows, engaging his men. He felt his own sword slicing flesh as the word sliced through his mind— betrayed. We have been betrayed.
Edwin was in the thick of battle in the inner bailey. His heart was sick with the disaster surrounding him. Saxons lay slain everywhere, yet still a dozen fought, as he did. He knew they had been betrayed.
He thrust his blade into the heart of his opponent, only to feel a blade enter his hip. Whirling, he met this new attack, his face grim, determined. He instantly recognized his foe, who also recognized him. ’Twas Le Chante—Ceidre’s husband.
Edwin met parry for parry furiously, with determination and skill. Guy, like himself, was covered with blood. Their blades clashed. Guy was tired, Edwin saw, and, like himself, wounded, bleeding from the shoulder. Another blow from Edwin’s sword forced the younger man against the wall, off balance. Edwin did not hesitate. He skewered him.
He paused, panting, not watching as Guy sank to the ground with a moan. They had lost. He would weep later. He saw no sign of his brother. He knew he must escape—as long as he remained alive, there was hope of another rebellion, hope of victory. Yet he was also on the keep’s steps—and his sister was within.
He was a fool if he tried to free her. His duty was to Aelfgar.
Rolfe paused, panting, his sword in hand. It dripped blood. He himself was unscathed. The battle was all but over, he thought, surveying the bailey grimly. His men were in control, driving the last of the Saxons to the wall. The rebels lay slaughtered, a few of his own men among the corpses. Yet he saw at a glance that he had suffered very few losses. There was no rejoicing. He was too pumped up with the battle, still alert, rigid with tension.
Where were the leaders, Edwin and Morcar?
Unable to stop himself, his glance strayed upward, toward the tower chamber where Ceidre was. She, of course, was safe, for no Saxon had penetrated the keep. He thought he could discern her by the arrow slit, and resolutely he pulled his glance away. Gripping his sword with renewed determination, he turned the corner of the keep and began a thorough search for the rebel leaders.
His gaze scanned everywhere, passing over the dead and dying and the few pairs of soldiers still engaged in combat. Then, like a pendulum, his glance swung backward over the path it had traveled, backward, over blood and gore, dirt and stone, the inert and the active, backward—to Guy.
Rolfe cried out.
Guy lay unmoving, and his mail hauberk was crimson with blood.
Rolfe ran to him and dropped to his knees. “Guy! Guy!” And before his hands even cupped his face, he knew he was dead.
He held his best friend’s face, blinking back the hot rush of tears. “Guy,” he croaked. “Aahhh.” He hesitated, then abruptly pulled him up against his chest. Still he fought the goddamn urge to weep.
“My friend,” he said hoarsely. “God keeps you now.”
Ceidre stayed near the arrow slit, watching, horrified. What remained of the fighting was on the other side of the tower, and she could barely see the last of the battle, just a few men thrusting swords and swinging maces, a few dead, mutilated bodies on the ground. But she had seen Rolfe earlier, wielding his sword methodically, fatally. He had decapitated a Saxon in one slicing blow, then turned to meet another Saxon about to stab him from behind, easily turning this new opponent back, then dismembering him, finally piercing his heart. Ceidre had watched because she was afraid—afraid for her brothers, who were out there somewhere, and afraid for Rolfe.
When she had seen the Saxon coming up behind him as he was engaged, she had screamed in warning. She doubted he had heard. When he had killed his attacker, she had wept in relief.
He was no longer in sight, yet below her a few men still fought, and she watched, praying.
Her door swung open; she whirled.
“Edwin!”
He was bleeding, limping, bloody sword in hand, but he was alive. “We must go, come with me!” he shouted.
She, who had always obeyed her brother unquestioningly, hesitated. Her mind was full with one thought—Rolfe.
“Come,” he cried, grabbing her arm.
Edwin was authority, the Norman hated her, and she could not decide—she went with him. Together they ran down the stairs. The hall was empty, but outside could be heard the shouts of men, the moans of pain, the ringing of swords.
