Ena’s Surrender

by Madeline Martin

  He gave a sardonic chuckle at his own hopelessly wishful thought. A stream of light cut through the darkness from above where the door upstairs had been opened. Someone was coming. The smile on his lips died and he pushed himself to his feet.

  Whatever it was, if they’d come for him, he would be ready. After all, he had no doubt this attack would be laid at his feet.

  A large man made his way downstairs with a shorter one following him. The torch in the larger one’s hand was brighter than anything Renault had seen since his arrest. It momentarily blinded him with a flash of pain. He winced and narrowed his eyes. Only then did he notice they both still wore their helms.

  “Is that him?” The taller of the two pointed to him.

  The other gasped. “Aye.”

  Renault’s breath came faster. This was it. The men would drag him from his cell and hang him amid the burning homes and dead from the Scottish raid.

  He squared his feet, determined to face his death like a man.

  Ena.

  Her name whispered through his mind like a tender caress that brought with it a flood of memories. All at once, she was alive in his mind, beautiful and strong and perfect. He would never see her again, feel her again, kiss her again. He would never have the opportunity to tell her he loved her.

  It was then his composure nearly snapped. Because for the first time in his life, he realized the honor he had been seeking hadn’t awaited him the form of a guard’s position at Kershopefoot Castle. It had been with something pure, such as having a family, and being in love.

  The truest form of honor was having others to care for and to be taken care of. He had it at his fingertips for only a split second before it’d been swiped away.

  The tall guard approached and put a key into the lock. Nay, not a key. A dagger.

  Renault hadn’t eaten anything after consuming the half-mug of ale at the tavern. Hunger left his head swimming and confusion rattled around amidst the fogginess of his thoughts. Why would a guard be using a dagger to open his cell?

  A metallic click came from the door and it swung inward. The larger guard turned from him and the other guard rushed in. Renault tensed, preparing for an assault. Until the guard spoke.

  “Renault.” The voice was sweet, feminine and melodic with its Scottish burr. Familiar.

  He staggered toward her; fearful his mind was playing tricks on him. Too scared to even hope. And yet, he had to know for certain. “Ena?”

  The soldier pulled the helm off and her lovely face came into view, her hair falling in messy waves where the strands had pulled free from her plait. “Renault. We’ve come to save ye.”

  “How did you—?”

  “No’ now.” The larger guard appeared once more with a man behind him, a Scotsman who had been captured the day before and hadn’t been put to death yet. “Put yer helm on, Ena. We must go.”

  Renault caught her face in his hands and kissed her soft, warm lips before helping her put the helm back on. He wanted more. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to reassure himself that she was there. He wanted to savor all of her and tell her that he loved her, what she meant to him.

  Only there was no time, not when every second could mean their discovery.

  The man who’d come with her was already moving toward the stairs. “We must go now.”

  “We’ll follow Bran.” Ena looked in the man’s direction and the helm wobbled on her head.

  Bran. Her brother. Gratitude welled in Renault’s chest. He had an idea of what it had taken for her brother to put his life at risk to save a man he had always considered his enemy.

  Ena took Renault’s hand in hers, clasping the chill of his fingers in the heat of her palm. Moments before he’d thought never to see Ena again, let alone face the possibility of a future with her once more.

  Bran paused at the top of the stairs and hesitated where the door remained cracked open. Renault understood his caution. It would be far more difficult to escape with two prisoners than it had been to come in dressed as English soldiers.

  “Ye have to pretend to be my prisoner,” Ena said under her breath.

  Renault nodded in understanding. If they encountered any guards, it would be a ruse that would at least get them outside the curtain walls. Hopefully.

  Bran waved his hand and the four of them eased quietly from the dungeon and down the hall.

  They continued thus through the castle, the halls absent the usual number of guards. The attack must have been detrimental to the village for the castle to be so devoid of protection. Bran held up his hand suddenly and drew back. They all pressed against a nearby wall. Footsteps echoed down the distance of the hall.

  “I want them all dead.” Renault recognized the Earl of Bothbury’s voice. “We got enough information on the Scottish Middle March from Renault before the bastard was a traitor to his own people.”

  Renault’s blood turned to ice and three sets of eyes fixed on him, bright with accusation.

  Shite.

  He looked down at Ena’s wounded expression where she stared up at him with doe-like eyes from beneath her overlarge helm. It wasn’t difficult to guess she wanted his reassurance that he hadn’t deceived them as well.

  And he couldn’t give it to her.

  For the six months before she’d met him, he had been spying on Scotland. Every day of those six months, he had spied on her and her people. He opened his mouth, but it was impossible to speak, not without revealing their location.

  There was a flash of hurt in her stare before she shifted it from him, blocking him from being able to read her expression. Not that he needed to see her. He could feel her emotions radiating off her. The hurt. The betrayal. The uncertainty in having trusted him. Mayhap even regret for having come to his rescue.

  The footsteps drew nearer, and they all pushed back against the wall as if it could somehow absorb them. Ena slipped a dagger from her belt and held it clutched in her fist.

  “On the morrow.” Bothbury’s voice was on the other side of the wall now. “I don’t care that they’ll be expecting it. I want nearly every soldier there. Send a call to arms to my deputy and have him bring his men as well.” The volume of his voice faded as he turned down the other side of the hall.

  Renault let a slow exhale of relief whisper free. If Bothbury had turned left instead of right, they would have all been discovered.

  Once it was apparent no one else remained in the hallway, they continued on. Ena and Bran could have left him behind after what they’d heard, but they did not. Even if he deserved to be abandoned. Most would have left him as the traitor he was. Not only to his own people, but to the country he’d sided with.

  The remainder of their journey out of the castle was without incident. They passed through the large doors out into the bailey, leaving them vulnerable with nowhere to hide. Fully exposed.

  They couldn’t walk fast, lest they call more attention to themselves. Instead, they kept their pace slow as each agonizing second scraped by.

  “What are you doing with those prisoners?” A voice demanded.

  The group of four froze as three soldiers strode swiftly in their direction. Renault’s heart dragged down into his stomach.

  They’d been caught.

  11

  Ena froze at the approaching soldiers, unsure of what to do. In the end, it was Bran who took charge.

  “I didn’t tell you to look up,” he growled in his English accent at the Scotsman and Renault.

  They both immediately dropped their gazes to the ground, appearing to be little more than chastened criminals on their way to be put to death. Ena recognized the Scot as Duncan—a man Bran frequently worked with during raids.

  “That’s Renault.” One of the English soldiers gestured.

  Ena gritted her teeth. Renault had betrayed his own people to save her, but before that, he’d been spying on their village. His observations were what had caused so much destruction, resulting in burned homes and destroyed lives. An ache blazed in
her heart, put there by the Earl of Bothbury’s words, and the truth of it was confirmed in Renault’s worried expression.

  “Aye,” Bran said. “’Tis Renault. That’s why I’m dragging the bastard to be strung up in the village square.” Bran smirked, shifting his weight casually to one side. “Let the people who have suffered see him agonize too, eh?”

  The bulkier of the three men narrowed his eyes. “Did the Warden give his permission?”

  “You think I’d take them without it?” Bran snorted. “If so, you don’t know the Earl of Bothbury’s wrath.”

  The man grunted and nodded, which seemed to placate the other two.

  Ena’s breath slowly exhaled from her chest, but it did little to calm her galloping heart. She would not allow her worries to be allayed until they were back in Scotland. Only then would they be safe.

  Bran didn’t bother waiting for the men’s acquiescence. He strode away from the English soldiers and shoved Duncan’s back, so the man stumbled forward. Ena did the same to Renault, pushing him to make him move onward. Only she hadn’t done it hard enough, and Renault had to play up the action to make her look more aggressive.

  They marched past the curtain wall and out into the stretch of land that connected the village with the castle.

  Freedom.

  They needed only make their way discreetly to the left where the horses were—

  “Halt.” The men charged after them.

  “What?” Bran snarled with impatience.

  “They’re not bound.” The bulky man pointed to Renault’s unsecured wrists.

  “Heaven help the man who runs from me.” Bran turned from him once more.

  “The Warden insists all prisoners be bound,” the Englishman replied. “Always.”

  “Then go talk to him,” Bran tossed over his shoulder.

  Regardless of Bran’s nonchalant demeanor, something hovered in the air, ripe with tension. Ena’s hand went for her dagger before she realized what she was doing, the movement hidden from view as Renault stood in front of her.

  “Halt,” the Englishman bellowed to Bran.

  Bran continued to walk. The hiss of a blade clearing its scabbard, however, stopped him mid-step.

  “I’d put that away if I were you,” Bran said, his voice low and menacing.

  “Get the Scot,” the Englishman said to one man before turning to the other. “Kill Renault.”

  The three of them rushed as one, blades flashing in the moonlight and reflecting the blaze of the fires still burning within the village.

  “No’ if we kill ye first,” Bran roared, dropping his English ruse.

  “Scots,” the larger man cried out. Bran raced toward him, sword drawn. The blades clashed in a ring of metal as the other two men rushed toward Ena, Duncan and Renault.

  Quickly, she grabbed her second dagger and pushed it into Renault’s hand. He accepted it, having only enough time to nod his thanks before the men were upon them.

  Duncan moved with haste, jabbing with a dagger Bran must have given him. But Ena could not watch the rest of the fight, not when their own opponent lunged at them with an arcing blade.

  Renault ducked from the blow and shoved her farther behind him.

  “Nay,” she cried out. “I willna let him kill ye.”

  “Is this why you turned your back on England?” The English soldier’s lips peeled back from his lips. “For your Scottish whore?”

  Renault roared with rage and charged at the man, which is exactly what the Englishman had intended. He lifted a rock over his head and brought it down on Renault’s temple before the dagger could slice him.

  Renault crumpled to the ground and did not move. Ena’s heart squeezed in the grip of terror.

  The Englishman lifted his sword high, preparing to strike Renault where he lay. Ena lunged forward, putting herself between Renault and the weapon. She tried to draw up her dagger, but there hadn’t been enough time to catch the sword by the hilt and stop its descent.

  The tip of the blade raked down her left shoulder and ripped a trail of fire upon her right hip. A scream filled the air, raw and primitive. Her scream.

  She sprang at him before he could bring his sword up to protect himself. The sharp edge of her dagger slid into his throat and eased through his skin. A choking sound gagged from him and a splash of hot blood gushed out over her hands. The soldier staggered back; his eyes wide with shock.

  It wasn’t until he pitched backward that she realized she’d been using him to remain upright. She fell with him, landing on top of him.

  “Ena,” Bran’s voice cried out.

  She pushed at the ground to rise, but though her arms were strong enough, the wound sapped her of the strength in her torso. Her body shuddered and she collapsed on the dead Englishman once more.

  “Ena.” This time the voice was Renault.

  Her mouth formed his name, but the sound was weak in her ears. Gentle hands rolled her over into the cradle of strong arms. The world was on fire in the distance, golden red flames and thick plumes of smoke. That fire burned all through her, white hot in its merciless intensity. Renault’s shadow hovered over her.

  “Ena.” His voice was tense with emotion. “Ena, I’m so sorry.”

  She tried to reply, but the pain of her wound was too great. It made her mind shriek with a shrillness that blotted out all other actions.

  Renault had spied for the English Middle March Warden, aye, but that was before they met. Before they knew one another, and their prejudices fell away. She wanted to tell him how she’d understood—how he’d made her believe in a future and how he’d given her life purpose beyond making meager rations into meals to survive on.

  And she wanted to tell him that she loved him.

  Her lips parted, but no words came out.

  His mouth moved with speech that came from somewhere far away, distorted by her all-consuming pain.

  She was too weak to touch him. Too weak to speak. Too weak to even stave off the velvety pull of sleep. Though she tried to fight it, her lids closed, and she slid into a place where she could no longer hurt.

  Renault’s head throbbed with a pounding ache that beat in time with his heart. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

  Nothing except Ena.

  She was motionless in his arms, her gambeson split open by the man’s blade. Blood glistened in the moonlight along her chest. So much blood.

  “Ena.” Bran fell to his knees beside Renault. He reached for his sister, his hand trembling as he pressed it to her neck. “She’s still alive. We have to get her to a healer.”

  Bran helped Renault to standing, which only made the pain in his head worse. Regardless, Renault held Ena’s scant weight in his arms and they all hastened into the forest before someone could happen upon the bodies of the men. Three horses awaited them. Bran helped get Ena onto one with Renault, then he and the Scot mounted the other two.

  A shout came from somewhere in the distance. An alarm. The bodies had been found.

  Renault held tight to Ena, mindful of her injuries, and nudged the horse onward as fast as he dared. Bran and the Scot kept pace with him, ready to protect Ena with their lives.

  Renault didn’t need anyone in front to guide him. Over the course of the past several months, he had learned every mile thanks to the countless times he had visited the various places in the Scottish Middle March—including Castleton. His stomach twisted. How many attacks had he been responsible for with the knowledge he’d provided?

  The coppery aroma of Ena’s blood mingled with her sweet, familiar scent and dug deep into his heart. He couldn’t lose her. Not before he’d had a chance to tell her how sorry he was for the times he’d betrayed Scotland. Not before he could tell her how much he truly loved her.

  Anger whipped through him. Why had she come to England to save him? She should have let him die for his crimes. She ought to have moved on with her life.

  In the distance, hooves thumped steadily over the earth. They needed to go faster. He
held tighter to Ena and gritted his teeth as he increased his horse’s speed. Bran looked to him and nodded in silent understanding.

  Ena leaned limply against Renault, her arms swinging with each step of the horse, more lifeless than he’d allow himself to admit.

  The early gray light of predawn touched the sky. They were nearly through the forest, nearly to Scotland.

  A horse broke through the forest at Renault’s side. He snapped his attention left to face his opponent. And found Walter.

  His friend regarded Ena and his brow furrowed. “Is she…?”

  “Nay,” Renault growled.

  Bran charged forward, but Renault shook his head to hold him back. Walter’s horse matched pace with Renault’s as he looked over his shoulder at the sound of racing hooves before returning his attention to Renault.

  “I didn’t want to tell them you’d struck me, Renault. They forced me to.” A muscle worked in Walter’s jaw. “They said someone saw and if I didn’t confess, then I’d be in the dungeon with you.”

  Renault shook his head. “’Tis fine.”

  “It’s not,” Walter countered angrily. “When ye return to Scotland, burn the house she lives in.” He fixed his stare on Renault, his expression earnest and fierce. “Leave something for me to take back to prove you were both in there. A charred ribbon, a bloody gambeson…”

  Renault nodded even as he inwardly cringed. Ena and Bran would lose their home because of him.

  He would make it up to them. Once Renault dug up the coin that he’d buried in the outskirts of Kershopefoot, he’d have enough to repay them for their losses.

  “Thank you, Walter,” said Renault. “I owe you.”

  “I know.” His friend winked at him, then considered Ena once more. “Have a good life, Renault. For both of us.” He gave a thoughtful smile, the one given by someone when they know they’ll never see that person again. “Go on. I’ll hold them back.”

  Renault nodded at his friend, expressing as much gratitude in the motion as was possible. Walter returned the simple sentiment and raced back in the direction of the castle and the men who followed Renault.