After eight nights the loss of sleep was catching up with her, but Rosalin managed a smile. “Well enough, Lenore. Nothing a few extra hours of sleep won’t cure. I fear I’ve been staying up with my brother and the earl—”
A shout from the courtyard below made her stop what she’d been about to say.
“I wonder what that is all about,” Lenore said.
But Rosalin had already jumped from the chair and raced to the window. Her heart stopped, a strangled cry escaping from between her lips before she could smother it with her hand. The red-haired rebel was kneeling in the dirt, holding his side where one of the soldiers must have struck him. The cloth and pieces of beef and bread that she’d smuggled out to them last night were strewn on the ground in front of him. The soldier was shouting at him, using his fists and the back of his hand to punctuate his words.
It wasn’t hard to guess what he was asking.
The red-haired man shook his head and the soldier hit him again—this time with so much force his head snapped back and blood sprayed around him like a bubble that had popped.
He crumpled to the ground.
She cried out in horror, and Lenore tried to pull her away. “Come away, m’lady. Those vile beasts are not fit for your eyes. Brigands and barbarians, that’s what they are. I hope your brother draws and quarters every one of them!”
Rosalin barely heard her words. She shook her off, crying out again as she sensed—sheknew—what the Scot would do. He roared forward, tossing off the two soldiers who’d been holding him as if they were poppets. His fist slammed into the jaw of the soldier who’d beaten his friend. The soldier had barely hit the ground when the Scot was over him, driving his powerful fist into him again and again like a battering ram until the soldier lay motionless on the ground.
It seemed there was a stunned pause before the courtyard erupted in chaos.
Lenore gasped in horror from behind her. “The prisoners are attacking!”
“No. Oh God, no,” Rosalin groaned softly as the melee ensued.What have I done?
The Scot fought like a man possessed, like one of those berserkers of Norse legend. Using nothing but his hands, he fended off half a dozen of her brother’s men. Each time one of them tried to get hold of him, he made some kind of quick maneuver and twisted out of the man’s grasp. Usually the soldiers ended up on their backs. The blond-haired prisoner had managed to grab one of the hammers used to take down the wall and had taken a position at the Scot’s flank. Together they were a two-man army.
One by one the other prisoners were subdued, but the two men seemed as if they could hold off capture forever.
But of course they couldn’t. Without armor and proper weaponry, all it took was one well-placed pike in the side of the blond-haired warrior, and one powerful hit of the hammer on the ribs of the Scot, and the English had regained the upper hand.
Her heart was pounding. Tears were streaming from her eyes as her brother’s soldiers surrounded the two men.
God in heaven, they are going to kill them!
Without thinking of what she was doing, only knowing she had to put a stop to the fighting, she raced down the stairs, heedless of Lenore’s worried cries behind her. She reached the yard only moments after her brother and his men, two of whom prevented her from going farther than a few feet beyond the tower door. “You shouldn’t be here, my lady,” one of the men said. “Go back to the tower. This will all be over soon.”
That was exactly what she feared.
“I need to see my brother.” She tried to look around one of the men, but with the crowd of people who’d flooded the courtyard she couldn’t see anything.
She heard her brother’s voice from up ahead. “What is the meaning of this?”
A series of English voices responded with “stealing food,” “find out,” and “Scots attacked.”
“Your man was beating a man to death for something he could not answer. He would have killed him had I not stopped him.”
The sound of the deep, powerful voice reverberated through her like a clap of thunder, jolting in its intensity. It was her Scot; she knew it.
Her brother said something she couldn’t hear and a few more English voices went back and forth.
Then her brother spoke again. “Take him to the pit, where he won’t incite a damned riot.”
“Is this your English justice, Clifford?” that deep voice sneered. “Killing a man for defending someone who could not fight back? I could have taken a dozen of your men with me—next time I will.”
Rosalin tried to push through again, but one of the men—a knight who she thought was named Thomas—forcibly held her back. “Your brother won’t like you being here, my lady. You need to get back to the tower.”
“But what will happen to them?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Why, they’ll be executed, of course.”
