Roger leaned over and ruffled his sister’s hair fondly. “You’ve the right of it, brat. Father has the area well defended. Bruce wouldn’t dare attack. Hell, I’d wager even the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer Boyd would turn tail and run before facing Father’s men.”
Rosalin’s heart slammed against her ribs at the mention ofhisname. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence, as the name of Bruce’s ruthless enforcer seemed to be mentioned nearly as often as Robert Bruce, Bruce’s phantoms, or the Black Douglas.
Everyone had heard of Robbie Boyd. He was one of the most hated, reviled, and feared men in England.
The familiar guilt rose inside her, twisting her stomach in knots. She hadn’t known…she hadn’t realized that the man she was releasing was Robbie Boyd. Even at that time, he’d already made a name for himself, having fought alongside William Wallace in the early days of the war. It was said that Wallace trusted him so implicitly, he left Boyd in charge of his army in his stead, even though Boyd was not yet twenty years old at the time.
Setting one of Wallace’s key commanders free was bad enough, but in the intervening six years it had become so much worse. While fighting for Bruce, Boyd’s reputation had grown to prodigious proportions. Even far from the war in London they spoke of him with a strange mixture of terror, awe, and revulsion.
Unknowingly, she had helped free one of Scotland’s most notorious rebels. Every story she heard—and there were a lot of them—weighed on her, making her question whether what she’d done was right.
At first, she hadn’t second-guessed herself. The man she’d watched for weeks couldn’t be as black-hearted as they said. There was good in him—he had a noble heart—she was certain of it. But over the years, as the stories took on a more sinister cast, her certainty wavered. Had her attraction to him blinded her to the truth? Had the star-filled gaze of a young girl in the throes of her first infatuation made her see things that weren’t there?
She didn’t want to think so, but the certainty she’d once known had long since faded.
Her only consolation was that her brother never suspected her role in the infamous prisoner’s escape. Boyd had kept his word—on both counts. He made it appear as if his men had overpowered the soldiers and then freed him, and he hadn’t killed any of her brother’s men. Ironically, that had become the part that troubled her brother the most: why had one of the most fierce, ruthless warriors in Scotland not killed men when he had the chance? Especially after Boyd’s forbearance in killing had not been rewarded before. Her brother didn’t like inconsistencies or mysteries, and for years she’d lived in fear that he would discover her part in the escape.
Hunting Boyd down had become personal for Cliff. That he had once held one of Bruce’s fiercest brigands and let him slip through his fingers was the one stain on an otherwise unblemished military career.
Cliff would be furious if he ever learned the truth. And worse, he would be disappointed—something she couldn’t bear to contemplate. Her brother was the one constant in her life, and his approval—his love—meant everything to her. He could never learn what she’d done.
“I hope they try,” Meg said. “Then Father will slay them and take their heads and stick them on the gate, and everyone will see them as they pass into the castle and know that Father is the greatest knight in England. Nay,” she turned around so Rosalin could see her fierce little face, “in Christendom.”
Roger laughed and ruffled her hair again before riding forward to join his friends. Rosalin hoped that would be the end of it, but unfortunately the men proceeded to recount some of the more horrific stories and deeds attributed to the Black Douglas and Robbie Boyd. The story of what had become known as the Douglas larder was the worst. All those men killed, tossed in the tower, and then burned? She shivered.
How could a man with the boyish nickname of Robbie do such horrible things? It couldn’t be true.
Eventually she had to ask Roger to stop—he was upsetting his sister—but in truth it was she that he was upsetting. Meg, who had been devouring every word, protested, but Rosalin distracted her by letting her hold the reins for a while and teaching her how to make the small movements of her hands to steer the horse.
It took less than a half hour to reach the village. While Rosalin and Meg and the two attendants who’d accompanied them were left to explore the many stalls of the fair lined up along the high street of the village, Roger and the rest of her brother’s men rode up the hill to the castle to meet with the commander of the garrison, presumably to discuss what they always discussed: war and Robert Bruce.
It was a chilly morning, and as the day drew on, it became even colder as the gray skies descended around them. Though she and Meg both wore hooded cloaks, Rosalin decided to purchase a couple of extra wool plaids for the ride back to Berwick.
Cognizant of the time approaching for them to meet Roger and the other soldiers, she quickly picked two weaves in soft blues, greens, and grays. She had just finished bundling them both up when she heard a strange shout.
Normally, she wouldn’t have paid it any mind—fairs were often loud and boisterous—but something about it sent an icy chill trickling down her spine.
Meg must have sensed something unusual as well. “What was that?”
They were standing at the far end of the high street, near where they were supposed to meet Roger, and it was difficult to see through the crowds and stalls to the other end of the village where the sound had come from. “I don’t know, sweeting. Probably nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. No sooner had she spoken than more cries rang out. In an instant, the already chaotic and crowded fair broke out into utter pandemonium.
She grabbed the arm of a woman who was running past her. “What is happening?” she asked.
The woman’s face was white with fear. “An attack, m’lady. The rebels are raiding the fair!”
Stunned, Rosalin immediately released her arm and the woman disappeared in the sea of people who’d flooded the street and were pouring toward them. It couldn’t be an attack. Not in the middle of the day. Not inNorham. Not even the Scots would dare flout her brother’s authority like that.
But they had—were. Oh God, what was she going to do?
She froze, having never been so scared in her life. A shout of “fire!” only added to the fear.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp tug on her hand. “Aunt Rosalin?”
Gazing down into the small, trying-not-to-look-frightened but obviously terrified face of her niece, Rosalin’s head instantly cleared. She schooled her features, showing none of the fear she felt inside. Meg needed her. “There is nothing to worry about, sweeting, the bad men won’t hurt—”
She stopped. Her mouth gaped.Dear God in heaven. Behind the sea of moving people, she caught her first glimpse of the invaders and everything she’d been about to say—everything shethoughtshe knew about warriors, knights, and soldiers—fizzled out like a torch dunked in water.
