Chapter Thirteen
“Ye best go inside,” Kyle said, turning suddenly to the gatehouse. “Prepare for the feast. I shall see ye there.”
“Who are these knights?” Laila asked, a strange, panicked expression coming over her face. Kyle had never seen her in such a state. Usually, she was confident, bold, sassy, and all of those things brought great allure. But now she looked scared, and Kyle found himself upset by that.
“I shall discover that,” Kyle said, giving her shoulder a brief touch. “Go inside.”
She gave him a worried look, then ducked her head and hurried off. Kyle felt on edge. The whole exchange in the market had embarrassed him to a degree and playing with the flirtatious relationship they had quickly developed was fun but also stressful. After the night before, he dared not push too far, for he was aware that he had made a fool of himself.
Still, her worry brought concern. He didn’t know why it bothered him so, or if he did, he tried to ignore it. Either way, knights were approaching, and so he walked toward the gatehouse.
“Hold fast!” the guard shouted, and several men on the ramparts brought up their crossbows and pointed down at the road into the castle.
“What’s this all about?” MacNear asked, surprising Kyle as he approached from the right. He had matching bruises on his face and seemed to care not about the scuffle the night before. That gave Kyle a brief reprieve from the worry that was creeping in, and he smiled at MacNear’s approach.
“I dinnae,” Kyle said. “Shall we discover together?”
“Aye,” MacNear said with a grin, “I never thanked ye for the fight last night.”
“Thanked me?” Kyle laughed back as they approached the stairs. “Here I am trying tae find an apology.”
“An apology? Ha!” MacNear cackled. “Ye thank a man for a fight, ye dinnae apologize.”
“If ye say so,” Kyle said, breaking into a wide smile as they rounded the second set of stairs.
“It wasn’t me who said so,” MacNear said back, drawing his smile into a tight, formal face. “It were ye faither.”
Kyle let the words sink in as they came to the top of the gatehouse tower. He remembered very little about his father, and even hearing those words stirred emotion.
There’s no time for that.
There was a small warband at the gates. Kyle sucked in a bit of the wind as he looked down.
“They’re dressed like English,” MacNear said, gazing down with Kyle.
“But they bear no banners,” Kyle replied.
“Mercenaries,” MacNear said, and the crossbowmen in the tower tensed their triggers.
“Hold,” Kyle said, stepping up to the rampart, then he called down, “Who goes there?”
A lone rider at the front of the small column kicked his horse forward. He wore less armor than the rest, just a mail coat with a tabard and a visored half helm, but the sword that hung by his hip was wicked, and his horse had the look of a killer.
“I am Sir Simon Blackmarch, Your Lordship,” a cool, deep voice called out from the rider. “And this is my retinue.”
“And what d’ye want, Simon Blackmarch,” Kyle shouted down. “Yer retinue dinnae look too friendly.”
Gavin came bounding up the tower stairs, panting for breath, and grabbed Kyle’s shoulder, saying, “What in hell is happening here?”
“See for yerself,” Kyle said, bobbing his head toward the war party. “These Englishmen are a bit too far North.”
“I am Sir Simon Blackmarch!” The rider called up again. “I seek only some shelter and replenishment for me and my men!”
“But what are ye doing here, Sir Blackmarch?” Gavin called. “Ye’re too far North!” Kyle smiled.
“We’re on our way to Stirling!” Simon shouted back. “Will you shelter us or not? We mustn’t delay!”
“A bit ruddy lost for Stirling,” Kyle muttered.
