My home…How could you hurt me like this…?I thought you loved me.
Love? What the hell did he know about love? But something was making him second-guess himself. If he did this, he knew he would lose her. And the thought was making his pulse race with something akin to panic.
Bloody hell.
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Douglas turned to him. If there was anyone whose face was blacker than Robbie’s right now it was Douglas. Robbie hadn’t missed the argument he’d had with Joanna as they prepared to ride out and guessed that she didn’t approve of the course they’d set either.
“What is it?” Douglas said, looking around. They’d stopped well south of the wall to water the horses in one of the many lochs—or lakes, as the English called them—in the area. It was dark, and they planned to get some sleep before resuming their journey in the morning. The attack would come in the afternoon, giving them cover of darkness in which to get away. At least that had been the plan.
“We need to go back,” Robbie said.
Douglas was incredulous. “You are calling off the attack? Damn it, Boyd! What the hell is wrong with you? What did she say to you?”
“I’m not calling off the attack,” Robbie said. “At least not yet. But I need to make sure the lad was right about what happened. We need to go to the village and see the truth for ourselves.”
Douglas eyed him skeptically. “This is because of the lass, isn’t it?”
He would not deny it. But that was only part of it. “Bruce is counting on this truce with Clifford, and if there is any chance of holding on to it, it’s my duty to do so. No matter how much we personally hate the bastard.”
“And if you learn Clifford was responsible?”
“We will be back.”
There were a few grumbles. The men weren’t happy to be denied a chance to exact retribution for what had been done to the women and the villagers, but Robbie was their commander, and they trusted that he would not be doing this without a good reason.
He hoped to hell he had one.
It was a few hours after dark the following day when they neared Corehead, the small village tucked deep in the heart of the hills and forests of Ettrick, from where Wallace had gathered men to launch his first attack on the English nearly sixteen years before. As they crested the hill, Robbie got his first glance of the devastation. He expected to see the village razed to the ground, with nothing remaining but embers and the gruesome evidence of the slaughter that had occurred.
That wasn’t what he saw.
Douglas swore, and they exchanged a glance. From this vantage, nothing appeared to be amiss. There were no blackened burned-out shells of buildings and no bodies piled up along the street. Indeed, although it was quieter than usual, he could see that there were a few people milling about.
Robbie’s heart started to hammer.
As they drew closer, he could see a few signs of an attack. Broken shutters, tumbled fences, a few shattered pots and trampled gardens, but it appeared the whole-scale devastation that seemed certain from the boy’s account had not occurred.
Word of their arrival had spread quickly, and the villagers began to gather along the high street as they approached. To his shock and relief, he saw Deirdre and the other women coming out of one of the buildings.
“I don’t understand,” Douglas said.
“Neither do I,” Robbie answered grimly, but he had the first inkling that he’d nearly made a big mistake.
From Deirdre and the village reeve he learned just how horrible a one. The lad had been correct in what he’d seen; he just had not put it together correctly. The first party of soldiers—de Spenser and his men—had arrivedaheadof Clifford’s soldiers. Sir Henry and his soldiers had cut down nearly a score of villagers and were pulling Deirdre and the other women out of the cottage where they’d taken refuge, to tie them up and rape them for their crime of whoring with the rebels. They would have all been killed and the village set to flame—there was no doubt of that, Deirdre said—but Clifford and his men arrived and put a stop to the carnage. At first they all assumed he was there to raid as well. A few villagers tried to resist before they understood that Clifford was actually there to save them. Clifford arrested de Spenser and his men and took them back to Berwick for punishment.
Robbie listened to the accounts of the attack with a growing sense of shame, realizing the magnitude of the mistake he’d nearly made and what it might have cost him.
Had he really almost destroyed the only place that had ever been a home to Rosalin? Razed an entire village without cause? Christ, he felt ill. She would have never forgiven him. For good reason. What the hell had he been thinking? Thank God he’d realized the truth before it was too late. Before he’d done something that could not be undone.
He was suddenly anxious to return. More than anxious. There was a voice in the back of his head shouting “hurry.” He needed to get back and apologize to her, and aye, probably to Seton, too. It seemed he did need a conscience. For today had shown him just how far he’d strayed from the young warrior who’d raised his sword alongside William Wallace to fight against injustice.
On the third night after riding out of Park Castle, Rosalin and Sir Alex paused on the south bank of the river Tweed, looking across the wooden bridge to the steep White Wall on the opposite bank and the aptly named “Breakneck Stairs,” which wound up the hill to Berwick Castle.
She turned to look at the man who had risked so much to bring her here. He’d proved more of a friend than she could ever have imagined, safely leading her through the harrowing war-torn countryside.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “You can still leave me here and return.”
Sir Alex’s jaw was locked in grim determination, as it had been since the moment she’d come to him asking to be taken back to her brother. She’d been trying to talk him out of what he intended since the first night, when they’d stopped to sleep a few hours and she’d watched in horror as he took a knife to his arm. The arm where he had—or used to have—a marking much like the one Robbie had. Now the lion rampant tattoo had been obliterated by deep scores and slashes through his flesh.
