by Cathy MacRae
“Aye.” Thom lifted his mug. “To reiving!” he shouted.
The room roared. “Reiving!”
“Grab yer hoods and saddle yer horses! This night, we ride to the Border!”
Simon couldn’t sleep. Restless and tired was no way to spend the night, and even Kaily’s charms had failed to keep him in his bed. He paced slowly along the parapet, nodding to the soldiers as he passed. The full moon overhead gave the creatures of the night full rein over the field and woods. A stag, his antlers large enough to be seen at a distance, slowly stalked the rise beyond the burn. A hunting bird soared soundlessly overhead, the shadow of his wings sweeping across the moon-bright ground.
Simon’s tension eased as he viewed the land surrounding the keep. The wall was repaired, though he would begin a larger, wider wall as soon as workmen could be found. Grass beginning to green again as the weather warmed, swept out from the wall, a swath of open land that allowed no one to hide.
“We could ride to the village if ye cannot sleep.” Garin noted, appearing on the wall.
“Have cook set aside something for us to take with us. I believe I will fare better with a horse beneath me and a purpose ahead than brooding over the walls.”
“The sun will be up anon. I will ready a dozen men to ride with us.”
“Don’t make us appear too fierce.” Simon smiled. “Firm, capable, but not so fierce workers will not dare return with us.”
Garin laughed. “Aye. No frightening yon villagers.”
They chatted amicably as they saddled their horses and added bags of cheese, bread, and dried jerky to break their fast. There was a small inn to eat a noon meal, though if resentment toward the English was still high in the village, Simon and his men would be ravenous by nightfall.
Simon accepted his sword from the armorer then slid it into the sheath at his belt. He checked the placement of daggers and added a mace to a strap on his saddle, while his soldiers attended their weapons. The moon had settled behind the trees and the sky lightened toward dawn when they rode into the village of Friar’s Hill.
Iseabal glanced up at the sound of hoof beats coming down the road behind them. Her heart skipped a beat. She whirled. “Quick! Aggie, Hew, get Ewan off the road!”
The village was only a short distance away, but there was no time to try to reach safety. In the pre-dawn light, they were too visible on the road, and they’d never outrun the galloping horses. Aggie stepped inside a cluster of three saplings, dragging Ewan with her. She knelt, sweeping her cloak around them for added protection. Shep crouched next to Ewan, lips curled to expose long white fangs. Hew peered from the protection of scrub, his weathered, lined face almost perfectly hidden in the crisscross of shadows.
Iseabal took a stance behind the broad trunk of a tree. Horses swept past. Iseabal held her breath, praying they would not be seen. Praying Ewan would remain silent, that Shep would not bark a challenge. Had James’s men tracked them here?
Her fingers brushed against the slender, braided wool sling hanging at her belt. It gave her courage, for her elder brother—may he rest in peace—had thought it adequate as a lass’ weapon and insisted she spend hours practicing. It still amused her to keep her skills sharp, and she’d brought it to hunt rabbits along their journey.
She drew the braided cord from her belt and slipped her finger through the loop at one end. Kneeling, she felt about for a handful of small stones and slipped one inside the cradle at the midpoint then palmed the thick knot at the other end.
The drum of hooves rumbled to a halt too close for comfort.
Dogs barked. Shouts of surprise rose. Sheep bleated. The din pounded her ears.
English raiders in Friar’s Hill? Iseabal gripped the sling letting it sway gently, ready to loose the stone at a moment’s notice.
Shouts from the other side of the village captured her attention. Grim satisfaction twisted her lips. The English will regret their decision to raid this night.
The noise increased. Steel clanged. A woman screamed. Visions of the battle at Eaglesmuir rose in her memory and she closed her eyes, attempting to blot out the sight that hovered in her mind. Hoof beats drew near. Angry shouts. The whistle of steel and the sloppy sound of a sword cutting deep into flesh. Shouts of victory and cries of pain pierced the night.
Iseabal’s eyes flew open. Wide-eyed, she edged to her left enough to peer about the tree trunk. Pale sunlight glinted off unsheathed swords and axes. Horses’ harnesses jingled. Bodies littered the ground.
The battle was over in a matter of minutes. A few riders pelted up the road, their shaggy ponies’ ears flattened, nostrils flared wide. Two men were pulled roughly to their feet, hands bound by men wearing bright metal helmets.
They arenae Scots. Iseabal’s heart stuttered. Those were Scottish ponies fleeing north. Do the English hold Friar Hill?
Their plan for sheltering safely with Aggie’s family evaporated as Iseabal realized they now stood on English soil. Her anticipation of finding sanctuary lurched into fear for their lives.
Simon wiped his bloody blade on the cloak of a dead Scot. He had no idea who would claim responsibility for this raid, but he’d find out soon enough.
“Search the area! Bring any survivors to me.”
“My lord! A woman in the trees!”
A dog barked, challenging the soldier. The man drew his sword and stalked toward the trees. The woman stepped from her shelter, blading her body sideways, something in her hand. Simon shouted a warning. She swung her arm in an arc, something long and slender fluttering from her hand. The soldier collapsed to the ground with a grunt.
Simon’s chin jerked in surprise.
“What the . . .?”
He stared at the downed man then back at the woman. She was gone.
“Find her!” he shouted. Three soldiers rushed past, lining the road, peering into the woods with care.
A dog darted from the dense scrub and launched himself at one of the men. The soldier flung his arm up with a cry. The flash of black and white fur disappeared into the woods. Blood dripped from the soldier’s forearm.
This was to have been a simple visit with the villagers. Simon’s men carried weapons, but had not worn full armor. Simon swore. He would not make this mistake again.
The area was in an uproar. Men dashed into the woods, stealth abandoned. Another soldier cried out.
“Damn!” Simon glanced at his men fanned out behind him. A Scot stood defiantly between two soldiers, upper arms grasped firmly in leathered hands. Another sat sprawl-legged on the ground. Garin pointed to the road.
“They have her.”
Simon stared. His men may have captured the woman, but she’d not made it easy. One soldier limped down the road, another held a palm to his forehead. Two soldiers gripped the woman’s arms, one to either side. Even secured she shrugged first one shoulder then the other, as if they’d release her.
Behind her straggled an old woman, a wizened old man, and a lad of young years.
Scruffy group of Scots. It wasn’t worth punishing them for defiance. He doubted his men wished to report they’d almost been bested by this ragged group. He’d give them a stern warning and send them on their way.
Simon stepped closer. A soldier shoved the woman’s hood away and Simon found himself staring into the greenest eyes he’d ever . . . he shook his astonishment away.
“Bring her to the keep.”
Chapter Six
Iseabal froze. Fear and anger had blinded her, but the sight of the blond Englishman stopped her as effectively as a slap in the face.
It couldnae be. It isnae.
The sun was barely up and she was exhausted. That was the explanation. For whatever reason, the man before her looked very much like the man she’d rescued from a battlefield five years earlier. An English knight she’d never thought to see again. Yet, here he stood.
She must keep her wits about her.
She squared her shoulders and gave a subtle shake of her head when Aggie bro
ught her attention to Ewan, needing Aggie to keep the lad at her side. The lad’s features were all Maxwell, but his angelic blond hair was an exact replica of the man before her.
Ewan began to cry. Iseabal glanced about, looking for Shep.
“Where is the lad’s dog?” she demanded.
The soldiers exchanged glances. “He’s in the trees yon. He should come ’round soon.”
Iseabal bristled. “Ye injured a lad’s dog?”
A man held up his bleeding arm. “He bit me.”
“He was protecting the lad!” Iseabal fired back.
Simon de Bretteby raised a hand. “Find the dog.”
He gave Iseabal a long look and she regretted bringing Ewan to his attention. The boy and dog had formed a close bond, and Ewan had relied on Shep during the past tumultuous weeks. Shep often calmed Ewan when neither Iseabal nor Aggie could, and when Iseabal must be away from him, shielding him from the anger and fear at Eaglesmuir as her da lay dying, then as James had taken over the keep. To lose Shep was unthinkable.
Aggie folded Ewan against her skirts and Hew shuffled from one foot to another.
Simon glanced over his shoulder. “Get the injured and prisoners back to the keep.”
A half dozen or so English soldiers loaded the horses and rode away, leaving an armed escort behind. A moment later, a man strode from the woods, Shep draped over his shoulders. The dog stirred at Ewan’s shout. The soldier placed the dog on the ground where he stood, feet spread a bit, tail wagging gently as Ewan threw his arms about his neck and buried his face in the soft fur.
“Ye will come with me.”
Simon’s command doused Iseabal’s relief at seeing Shep returned to Ewan. She tilted her head forward, allowing straggling hair to fall about her face, hoping Simon hadn’t recognized her, knowing from the look he’d given her and the tone of his words his curiosity was at least piqued.
There was no future for us five years ago, though I was foolish enough to think I’d follow him anywhere. Nothing good can come of this now.
She could have struggled again, could have made it not worth their trouble to set her upon a horse. Refused to be taken to the keep, for Simon had no reason to detain her. But her defiance impacted Ewan, Hew, and Aggie, and she would barter for their freedom first.
Memories assailed Simon on the ride back to North Hall.
Was this why he’d dreamed of Iseabal lately? She clearly had followed the natural course for a woman, taking her from the bloom of womanhood to motherhood. Though the light was yet low, it kissed her pale skin, enhanced the glow of her eyes. She was changed, certainly, her figure—what he could determine from the drape of her cloak—now ripe in the places once slender and young. He’d no expectation she would be the same girl he’d known five years earlier. It was clear she was married, perhaps loved. The child was enough to prove he had no right to her after he’d abandoned her . . . .
Damn. He hadn’t wanted to leave her. But what else could he have done? He’d been a knight sworn to the de Wylde brothers, his duty to The Saint suspended as he retreated to the monastery to heal. Bringing a Scottish lass to an English keep hadn’t seemed his best option.
He glanced at the mounted men next to him, captives carefully distributed among them. It was all he could do to keep from insisting she ride with him instead of his captain. That was one folly he managed to avoid. But seeing her seated before Garin tweaked his ire.
The sun was bright as they dismounted and led their prisoners into the hall. The two Scottish reivers were shoved into a corner where a soldier examined their wounds. Simon’s eyes followed the woman and the small group at her heels. After noticing the calming effect the dog had on the boy, he decided not to order the beast from the room. A crying child was all he needed to push his morning beyond endurance. An unexpected attack by raiding Scots, one man dead, another wounded. Not at all how he’d envisioned his search for provisions and workers.
Garin stood close, his words for Simon’s ears only. “I left two men tracking a blood trail through the woods. I will let ye know when the villain is found.”
“I care not if he is brought back dead or alive.”
Garin gave a curt nod and retreated from the room.
Simon sat in the lord’s chair and surveyed his captives.
“Come forward.”
Light flickered from torches on the wall and sunlight fell through arrow slits in the thick walls. Candles added their glow to the open room. There was little chance he could miss the defiant tilt of Iseabal’s chin at his command. A soldier lifted a hand to her shoulder when she failed to obey, but Simon shook his head and the man’s hand fell away.
“I wish to speak with ye, Iseabal. Please step forward where we needn’t shout at one another.”
Still she hesitated, though she did not deny her name. Smoothing her hair from her face, she moved forward to stand before him.
He smothered a grin. She’d been hiding from him. Which meant she knew full well who he was. Was her visit planned? Did she have anything in common with the raiders? It was ridiculous to think she’d risk an old man and woman, and her son . . . .
His mood changed abruptly. She was a Scot. Everything she did was suspect.
“What are ye doing here?”
She arched a fine brow. “At yer invitation, m’lord.”
He frowned. “Damnit, Iseabal, I don’t mean at the keep. What are ye doing so far from home? Why are ye on the road at night?”
She shrugged. “’Tis nae so far. Aggie has kin in Friar’s Hill.”
He nodded at the old woman. “Her kin? What of yours?”
Iseabal glanced about the room. Men, still bristling with weapons, sat and stood about. Two men awaited their fate in the corner of the room, though she was heartened to see one had been accorded a bandage about his head. Simon clearly had a bit of humanity about him. Or mayhap he wished to save the men for a different fate.
One of the bound men grinned at her and she took a step back in shock. Was she so exhausted she imagined he was one of James’s men? He would not have traveled this far. Would he?
Simon cleared his throat and Iseabal jerked her attention to answering his question.
“As I said, Aggie has kin in the village. We wished to visit.”
“Nothing more?”
“Ye cannae hold me here. We have done nothing wrong.” Her voice sharpened. Ewan wailed and broke from Aggie’s grip. Ignoring Shep, he plunged into Iseabal’s arms. She lifted him and he clung tightly to her, his body shaking.
“He has seen things this night a child shouldnae see. Let us go.”
Aggie stepped hesitantly to her side, clearly upset by the battle they’d found themselves in the midst of, only a shadow of her normal assured self.
“There is naught more we can tell ye. I must see to my son, my friends. Ye may be a hardened warrior, but they are gentle folk. And a wee lad who has endured too much.”
Simon’s intent gaze lingered on her, then swept to Ewan. “Escort them to the village. See to it they are reunited with their kin.”
Relief sagged Iseabal’s body. She accepted the soldier’s company, admitting she’d been shaken by the deadly raid.
Aggie led them to the edge of the village to a small croft where sheep clustered in small pens next to a low shed. New lambs bleated and tottered on wobbly legs beneath the bellies of their recently sheared dams. The tang of animal urine mingled with scent of fresh grass and the earthy aroma of dung. A wagon, partially filled with refuse, a two-pronged wooden fork leaning against it, stood to one side.
A stout woman appeared in the doorway of the low building, wiping her hands and forearms with a strip of old linen, her skirts tucked up in her belt to keep them out of the churned mud of the pen. A single lamb tottered at her heels.
“Mary!” Aggie cried. The woman gave a startled shout then rushed through the milling sheep. She maneuvered through the gate and managed to latch it without so much as a lamb slipping past and flung her arms abou
t Aggie.
“’Tis good to see ye, Sister,” she said, pulling back with a grin. “And who have we here?” Her grin disappeared. “Consortin’ with the English, are ye?”
“Lads from the keep,” Aggie answered with a dismissive wave. “We ran into a bit of trouble this morning—in the middle of a raid, we were—and the lord himself sent these braw lads to be certain we arrived safely.”
Mary harrumphed. “They are in good hands,” she said, her voice rising. “I will see to it they come to no harm.”
The soldiers paused, but wheeled their horses about at Iseabal’s nod. She stepped forward.
“I am Iseabal Maxwell. Aggie has been Ewan’s nurse since he was born, and my friend before that. She has spoken of ye fondly over the years.”
Mary grinned. “Which is to mean she has offered ye a place to stay here with me and mine. Och, an extra hand is always welcome, especially at lambing, and we’ve enough food to fill yer bellies as well. Clyde has gone with the dogs for ewes who dinnae come down from the hills last week.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Wil-me-lad is cleaning the pens.”
“I’m grateful to ye, Mary. We willnae be a bother, and are pleased to do whatever work is needed. Mayhap Shep will be of help as well. He is a good sheepdog.” Iseabal’s chest tightened. Aggie had been right to lead them here. Her sister had made them welcome, and tears threatened behind Iseabal’s eyes to realize they once again had a home.
Ewan wiggled down and hurried to the low fence. He dropped to his knees and poked his hand through the rails. The lamb that had followed Mary from the small barn grabbed his fingers between his lips and suckled hard. Ewan laughed and squirmed.
Iseabal’s heart swelled. It would be a wonderful home.
Simon paced the dim corridor to the cell where the prisoners were held. Damned Scots. Their raid had cost him a seriously wounded knight as well as the deaths of two villagers. Justice would be swift.
Garin approached. “The trail led nowhere. I have sent others to scour the area, but it appears the wounded Scot has escaped.”
