Marsailli tumbled to the floor, losing her grip on the needles. She scrambled, trying to regain her footing, but he kicked her. One of his large boots sailed into her gut and she crashed to the ground. Completely breathless.
“Cease!”
Marsailli lay on the ground with her back to the tent entrance, her legs and arms curled around her aching belly, but she recognized the voice of the midwife.
“She is but a child,” the other woman shouted. “Leave her be.”
Giric spat on Marsailli, then spun and tackled the midwife. He brought her to her knees with a well-placed blow and then relentlessly pursued his advantage. His fists flew with deadly aim, and the older woman shrieked in agony as he struck her repeatedly about the head. Again and again.
Marsailli attempted to stop him, dragging herself across the floor to strike him on the leg. But he shoved her aside with ease and continued to beat on the midwife. With distressing speed and a final, pummeling blow, he silenced Magda’s cries.
Marsailli couldn’t move. She could barely breathe.
She jammed her eyes shut, dreading the moment when the Bear’s fists turned on her.
But he merely leaned over her, grabbed the jug of ale, and flopped down on his bed.
“I’ll need a new midwife now,” he said grimly. Then he downed cup after cup of ale, until his eyes drifted shut and loud snores fluttered his lips.
Marsailli waited until she was certain he was asleep, and then she grabbed a few belongings, crept from the tent, and slipped into the night. Her gut was bruised and several of her ribs were painful to touch, but she was alive. Which was more than she could say for the midwife. Marsailli said a prayer for the dead woman’s soul, and then scrambled over a slide of shale and headed for the bottom of the crag.
Chapter 12
They scaled the crag under cover of darkness. Niall MacCurran, a skilled woodsman with a keen sense of sight, led the Black Warriors up the rocks under a cloudy, moonless sky. Bran found himself climbing alongside a gruff bowman by the name of Cormac.
“Mounting cliffs in the dark of night,” the archer grumbled quietly, “is becoming a bloody bad habit.”
Bran had no extra breath to spare him a response—Niall ascended the peak at a grueling pace. They reached the summit in record time and took out the posted sentries with little effort.
“Lazy Sassenachs,” Cormac muttered as he toed the unconscious body of one of the guards. He unhooked his bow from his shoulders—a smooth curve of solid ashwood—and nocked an arrow. Taking his cue from Niall’s hand signal, he led the way around the basin to the other side of the rocks.
Bran had spent most of his early years in the forest, living the life of a brigand. He knew the value of a well-placed foot and a silent approach, but the Black Warriors were in a league unto themselves. They made not a single sound as they traversed the ridge. Every movement was spare and efficient, every boot carefully planted.
In no time at all, they had completely surrounded the English encampment.
Bran peered down through the rocks at the quiet group of tents. Most of the mercenaries were asleep—only a handful of men sat before the fires, keeping watch. The horses at the far end of the plateau were moving restlessly, and they would soon alert the Englishmen to the presence of danger.
It was time to make their move.
With a quick strike of flint, Bran signaled the rest of his men, who waited on the path, and they swarmed the entrance, creating a blockade. The only way out of the basin now was through the rocks, and Niall’s men controlled that egress. In unison, the Black Warriors launched their arrows, planting warning shots into the ground at well-placed intervals.
The plateau erupted in a frenzy of fear as the mercenaries realized they were under attack.
“Hold your fire,” Bran called to the men in the rocks. To the Englishmen in the basin, he said, “Surrender now and no blood shall be spilled.”
At the far end of the basin, near the path leading to the burn, a huge man strolled out of his tent. Firelight flickered over his features, including the rough scar on the left side of his face. Giric. “There will be no surrender—unless it is yours. Archers, to the center.”
Some thirty bowmen dashed to the center of the plateau, their longbows at the ready.
“Fire at will,” Giric ordered.
And with that command, the battle began in earnest. As arrows flew in both directions, the bulk of Giric’s men charged the soldiers blocking their exit. Sword met sword, arrow met arrow. The Black Warriors held the advantage in both visibility and position. Even against the powerful draw of the longbows, they made quick and decisive gains.
Amid the furor, Bran searched the plateau for some sign of Marsailli. But there were no women among the faces he spied, no high-pitched voices amid the sounds below. If she remained in the camp, it wasn’t immediately clear where she was.
His gaze fell upon the huge frame of Giric. The mighty Englishman was cutting a swath through Dougal’s men. Bran nudged Cormac’s shoulder and pointed.
“Take that man down,” he said, “and the battle will be won.”
