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 in Norham. 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 she thought she knew about warriors, knights, and soldiers—fizzled out like a torch dunked in water.
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. Sir Robert 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 also English. 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 completely wrong for 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 l
ass 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.
But Robbie would bring the English baron to heel in the end, of that he was damned sure. The arrogant bastard wasn’t going to be able to ignore this. Such a bold attack right in the heart of his “realm” was a direct affront to Clifford’s authority and would prove to him there was nothing they wouldn’t dare. It would bring him to the table. He’d sign the damned truce and pay the two thousand pounds just like all the others.
Carrying off an attack of such magnitude in the shadow of one of the largest English garrisons in the Borders was a daring proposition even for one of the elite members of the Highland Guard. But Robbie had planned everything down to the smallest detail. He always did. It was part of why Bruce’s war had been so successful. They’d learned from Wallace’s successes and not only built on them but improved them. The terrifying, wild “pirate” raids of which the English accused them had become extremely disciplined and well-organized professionally waged attacks.
And so far everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned. Well, except for the soldiers. But his men were dealing with the unexpected resistance. Quite quickly, it appeared—even though they were out-manned by at least two to one.
He smiled again. This might not be a mission dangerous enough for the Highland Guard, but the men Robbie had brought with him were his own, and he’d taught them well.
Though tempted to join the fun himself, he was in charge and had to stand back and make sure nothing went wrong.
With one eye on the battle taking place down the street, he watched while two of his men loaded the grain, goods, and coin that would fund the king’s army for the next few months onto the sumpter horses they’d brought for that purpose. With the exception of a few chickens, they didn’t bother with the livestock. It would only slow them down, and unlike their typical raids conducted well away from any castle, for this they were going to need to disappear fast.
He stiffened as Seton, who’d been overseeing the men setting the fires, approached. From his angry stride, Robbie guessed what he was going to say.
“I thought you said no one would be hurt.”
Robbie clenched his jaw. “I gave the same orders as the king: no one is to be hurt unless they resist. It’s a mercy, I’ll point out, not often returned by your English countrymen. But as you can see,” he pointed to the soldiers, “they are resisting.”
Seton’s face was hidden behind his helm, but Robbie saw his eyes narrow at the word countrymen. Though raised in Scotland, Seton had been born in England, where most of his family’s lands were, and Robbie never let him forget it.
But they’d been partners for too long for Seton to be so easily baited. “I told you this was a bad idea. It’s too dangerous. But Clifford tweaked your pride, so now you have to tweak his. Even if we all end up swinging from the gibbet.”
Robbie’s jaw clenched even harder. He was well aware of Seton’s feelings on the matter. What had started out as an ill-fated partnership between them in the Highland Guard had never materialized into anything else, despite their leader Tor “Chief” MacLeod’s intent. They’d learned to tolerate each other, work together, and rely on each other when they had to, but they would never see eye to eye.
If anything, the tension between them had gotten worse since their unfortunate pairing in the early days of the war. Seton’s dissatisfaction with how they were winning this war had been growing for some time. But if they’d played knights the way Seton wanted, they’d still be outlaws “lost” in the damned Isles.
“This isn’t about pride,” Robbie said, annoyed in spite of his vow not to let Seton get to him. “I’m doing my job. Bruce needs the food and the truce. If you have a problem, take it up with the king.”
“I intend to.”
The two men faced off against each other, as had happened too many damned times to count. Finally, Seton stepped back—as had also happened too many times to count. Seton might have been born in England, but being raised in Scotland had given him some sense. He knew better than to challenge Robbie. His reputation had been well earned.
Seton shook his head, gazing at all the destruction around him. “Where the hell is the justice in this?”
The question hadn’t been directed at him, but he answered anyway. “An eye for an eye—that’s the only justice the English understand. Looking for anything else only makes you naive.”
“Better naive than dead.” Seton held Robbie’s gaze. “Or as good as dead.”
Robbie’s eyes narrowed. What the hell did he mean by that?
Before he could ask, Seton said, “We have what we need. We should go in case any more of Clifford’s men are about.”
It took Robbie a moment to realize what Seton meant, but when he looked back down the street at the soldiers his men were battling, he recognized what he hadn’t noticed before: the arms of some of Clifford’s household knights.
God’s bones, this was even better than he could have hoped for! A raid right in the heart of Clifford’s dominion and defeating a force of his men?
He smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be leaving soon enough. The men are almost done.”
He instructed the two men loading the horses to finish up, helping to fasten the last sacks himself.
Seton had left to gather the rest of the men, when one of Robbie’s men came racing toward him. Despite the helm, Robbie recognized him instantly from his slight build. Malcolm Stewart, a distant kinsmen of his, might be only seventeen, and half the size of most of the men around him, but he fought with the heart of a lion.
“Captain,” he said anxiously. “We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Sir Alexander has Clifford’s son.”
Robbie stilled. In the din of the battle taking place all around him, he thought he hadn’t heard him right. “What did you say?”
“Lord Fraser has Clifford’s son.”
Robbie muttered a curse as if it were a prayer. He couldn’t believe it. Was it possible? Could fortune have shined on him so brightly? “What the hell is the problem? Take him!”
Having Clifford’s son as a hostage would leave the English commander no choice. Clifford would have to accede to their demands.
Robbie couldn’t have planned for anything more perfect.
“That’s not the problem. The problem is the lady, Captain. She won’t let go of the boy and Sir Alexander doesn’t want to hurt her.”
As much as he liked MacLeod’s young brother by marriage, Alexander Fraser was a knight and like his English counterparts, chivalrous to a fault.
Robbie scanned the battle. Not seeing them, he realized that they must be away from the main part of the army. “Take me to them.”
But they’d taken only a few steps before Robbie heard a sound that told him their fortune had just changed.
“The gate!” Seton shouted in warning.
Robbie swore. “I see it.”
The English garrison had apparently decided to leave the comfort and protection of their stone walls and come to their countrymen’s aid, probably because of the lad.
Robbie and his men had overstayed their welcome. But he had no intention of leaving the boy behind. He could see him now—and the plaid-cloaked problem. The woman had her back to him, but she was clutching the boy, trying to pu
ll him away from an obviously uncomfortable Fraser, who was doing his best to try to detach her from the boy without being too rough and equally obviously having a difficult time of it.
The woman was tenacious; Robbie would give her that. She wouldn’t let go. He’d recalled a few of the sort at the Highland Games.
He swore again, glancing at the hill. The soldiers from the castle were closing in quickly.
His mouth fell in a hard line. They didn’t have time for this. He would take care of the problem himself.
Three
Rosalin had to do something, as clearly no one else could. The one knight who was close enough to come to Roger’s aid was deep in a fight for his own life. Her brother’s men—battle-hardened knights and men-at-arms—were being cut down as if they were wet-behind-the-ears squires. Roger was a wet-behind-the-ears squire. He wouldn’t last longer than it took the warrior to swing his massive two-handed sword.
She knelt down and took Meg by the shoulders. “I’m going to get Roger.”
“I want to go—”
Anticipating the little girl’s instincts—probably because they were her own—Rosalin cut her off. “I need your help. I need you to run as fast as you can up that hill and tell them that they must send soldiers. Tell them that Lord Clifford’s son is in danger. Can you do that?”
Meg nodded uncertainly.
Not willing to rely on the child to keep her promise, Rosalin saw her safely entrusted to the arms of the sturdier of the two attendants, with a stern warning to not let her go until they’d reached the safety of the closed gate.
Rosalin didn’t think she’d ever run so fast. She prayed every second it took her to wind her way through the crowd and cross the distance to her nephew. Don’t let me be too late…