She would have made the sign of the cross if she thought it would protect her. But nothing could protect her from these men.
Brigands.Pirates.Barbarians. She’d thought the names for the Scot warriors an exaggeration. But they weren’t. The raiders looked nothing like the gleaming mail-clad English knights with their colorful surcoats and banners. They wore darkened helms and crude black leather warcoats, some riveted with bits of steel. A few wore mail coifs, but those, too, were blackened. But most terrifying of all were the weapons that seemed strapped to every inch of their massive chests. She’d never seen so many poleaxes, swords, hammers, and spears in her life.
If the knights were figures of faerie tales, the Scots were creatures of nightmares. They looked rough, violent, and utterly deadly. No wonder the Scot raiders had been compared to the Vikings. The terror her ancestors must have felt watching the longboats approach their shores must be the same her countrymen felt now seeing the wild Scots ride across the border.
She could see only a handful of them, but it was enough. All thoughts of getting out of the way or hiding fell to the wayside.
“We have to get to the castle,” she said to Meg and the terrified servants. Behind the castle walls they would be protected. Norham Castle was one of the most impenetrable strongholds in the Borders, nearly as impenetrable as Berwick Castle. “We’ll be safe there,” she assured the wide-eyed little girl. “With Roger and the rest of the men.”
Unfortunately, Roger wasn’t in the castle.
No sooner had Rosalin grabbed Meg’s hand and plunged into the crowd, the two attendants following, than she heard the fierce pounding of hooves ahead of her.
Oh God, no, please don’t let it be…
But her prayer wasn’t answered. In the blur of knights and men-at-arms riding past them, she caught sight of her nephew near the rear of the party. They must have been already approaching to meet her and Meg when they realized what was happening.
How many of Cliff’s men had accompanied them? She hadn’t counted earlier. Twenty? Maybe a few more?
Against how many of the enemy? She didn’t know; she just prayed it would be enough.
The crash of steel on steel was deafening—and much closer than she’d anticipated. A few women in the crowd let out terrified shrieks. One of the serving women started to cry behind her. The smoke was thickening, turning the skies to night.
Rosalin glanced down the street and not forty feet away, her brother’s men were exchanging blows of their swords with the attackers. She heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the Scots were outnumbered by about two to one. And thankfully, Roger, at the rear, was nowhere near the fighting.
But her relief didn’t last long. Within an instant, two of her brother’s household knights fell beneath the enemies’ swords. She cried out in horror. Some of her brother’s fiercest champions had just been cut down like butter.
She forced her gaze away. Though she desperately wanted to watch and make sure Roger was all right, she had to get Meg to safety.
Rosalin tried to forge through the crowd that had slowed as people turned to watch—as she had—the unfolding battle happening just a short distance away. A few voices rang out around her, offering encouraging words, if a bit colorfully, to the English soldiers. She forced herself not to look as she concentrated on getting Meg to safety.
Meg, however, was still watching. They’d just reached the place where the road funneled into the village and headed up the hill to the castle when she let out a cry and tried to pull away.
Rosalin turned around. “What is it, Meg? What’s wrong?”
The little girl pointed toward the village. “The brigand has Roger.”
Rosalin’s heart dropped like a stone. Through the swarm of people still trying to fight their way out of the village, through the dust of battle, through the black smoke and flames now engulfing the village, she could see that Meg spoke true. Roger had been unhorsed, and he was being held up by the scruff of his neck like a pup by one of the rebels.
An eye for an eye. Clifford was going to lose his mind.
Robbie smiled from behind the cold steel of his darkened helm as he watched one of Northern England’s most important villages go up in flames. He felt nothing but satisfaction for a job well done. Pity had been burned out of him a long time ago.
Maybe it had been his sister’s rape, or his brother’s execution, or the miles and miles of Scottish scorched earth he’d seen left in the wake of an English army, the bodies of people who’d dared to disagree with their English overlords, torn apart by horses, the heads of his friends on gates, or any of the other countless atrocities he’d witnessed since the first, when he’d seen his father’s burned body hanging from the rafters. But somewhere in the past fifteen years, his hatred for all things English was complete.
And no one epitomized England for him more than Robert Clifford.SirRobert Clifford, he amended. Clifford was just one more English bastard in a long line who wore his knighthood like a cloak of hypocrisy, as if he could hide the injustice of tyranny behind a shimmering shield of chivalry.
It wasn’t just the opportunistic attempt to conquer their land and usurp the throne of a sovereign nation—although that was enough. Never far from Robbie’s mind was the friend who’d lost his life under Clifford’s command. Thomas Keith, his kinsman and boyhood companion, had escaped from Kildrummy prison only to die two days later. For Thomas, their rescue had come too late. The beating that he’d suffered at the hand of Clifford’s soldier had proved too much.
Robbie frowned as another memory struck. He supposed there was one exception to his hatred of all things English. He could still remember his shock at looking up from that hellish pit where he’d thought to spend his last night and realizing that not only was his savior a woman, she was alsoEnglish. He had assumed their guardian angel (what his men had taken to calling the person bringing them food) was one of the Scottish serving lasses who’d remained at the castle when it was taken.
Another memory followed. This one of the softest, sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. Lips that had been completelywrongfor him to taste in the first place. Thanks to the cloak and the darkness he’d seen her face only in shadows, but if the lass had been eighteen, he’d drink the swill the English called brandy for a week.
Even after six years, he still couldn’t say why he’d done it. Maybe because she was so young and innocent, and he’d been living in hell for so long. Maybe because he’d realized why she’d helped him and had been unexpectedly touched. It wasn’t the first time a young lass had thought herself enamored, but it sure as hell had been the most opportune. He’d wanted to thank her. He still did. But after all these years of trying to find out who she was, he almost wondered whether he’d imagined her.
Strange that he still thought of her at all, especially when the memory invoked thoughts of what had been some of the darkest days of his life.
Thanks to Clifford.
