by Emma Prince
And they were beginning to cross over Burton’s main bridge to set after the fleeing rebels.
Lancaster’s normally stoic face began to turn a deep red as he watched. He remained silent, but the hand holding his reins shook with impotent rage.
Hereford coughed, apparently no longer willing or able to wait on Lancaster to regain his composure and find his tongue to give an order. “It seems our reprieve is to be short-lived. They mean to pursue us. We had best hie north to Pontefract.”
“What of the rest of our men?” Badlesmere asked flatly.
A few dozen of the soldiers who’d been first to hear Lancaster’s cry to retreat had begun to reach the top of the hill now. They stood panting and slump-shouldered at the feet of the nobles, some bloodied from battle. But many hundreds still hadn’t reached the hillside yet.
“They can find their own way to Pontefract,” Hereford replied. “We have no way to feed an army on the three-day trek anyway.”
At that, Willington huffed a curse and shook his head in disgust.
Mairin barely managed to bite down on a curse of her own. She had no loyalty or affection for the English soldiers who’d been summoned for Lancaster’s cause, but they’d put their lives in the hands of these men. Because of the nobles’ whims, men had fought and died. And this was how they were repaid? Abandoned to fend for themselves, yet expected to return to Pontefract—on their own, without food or shelter—to fight for Lancaster’s cause yet again?
Any soldiers who would follow them back to Pontefract likely didn’t have anywhere else to go, for they faced another long and grueling march from whence they’d come, but this time without any supplies whatsoever. And their leaders didn’t care a whit about them beyond how they could be used to increase their wealth and power. A fresh wave of revulsion for Lancaster and his ilk curdled in Mairin’s stomach.
For his part, Lancaster seemed to accept Hereford’s decisions as his own. He straightened in the saddle, drawing a deep breath as if to fortify himself. But as he turned his horse to lead his straggling army northward once more, his gaze snagged on the small village of Burton, which sat just on the other side of the hill.
It was little more than a collection of three dozen or so thatch-roofed huts—the shops and homes of those who lived in the town and claimed the bridge as their own before Lancaster and Edward’s armies had arrived.
Lancaster’s gaze lingered for a moment before he turned to one of the foot soldiers. “Find my man Bruin—you know him?”
The foot soldier nodded mutely. Bruin must have been well-known—and mayhap feared—amongst the army. Though Mairin couldn’t call forth a face to go with the name, she remembered Lancaster’s earlier mention of using the man to punish de Holland for his betrayal.
“He will have survived, undoubtedly,” Lancaster muttered, scanning the thin stream of soldiers still making their way toward the hillside. He focused on the foot soldier once more. “The village,” he said evenly. “Tell Bruin to burn it.”
“What?” Belatedly, Mairin realized she’d spoken aloud.
“Nay,” Niall hissed at the same moment.
Lancaster shifted his attention to the two of them, his gaze cold and contemptuous.
“Would one of you prefer to give the order to Bruin?” he asked acidly.
She ignored the question, trying to understand if she’d somehow misinterpreted what he meant to do. “Ye are…ye are going to put fire to yer own village?”
“It is not my village. And aye, I mean to burn it to the ground.”
“But those are your countrymen,” Niall breathed in disbelief. “Innocent Englishmen—and women and children!”
Distantly, Mairin realized they had drawn the stares of the other nobles. Some wore expressions of confusion at Niall and Mairin’s audacity in questioning one so far above them in station. Others were clearly impatient to be away from this place, their disinterest in the fate of the village evident.
Lancaster openly sneered at Niall. “For a warrior, you are shockingly naïve, Beaumore. Burton has fallen to Edward. He will use the village—its food, supplies, livestock, and manpower—to aid him in his pursuit of us. But if we destroy it, Edward cannot turn it to his advantage.”
Rage dawned on Mairin like a blazing red sun. He truly thought of the innocents in the village as naught more than pawns in his war game with Edward, to be moved—or removed—to his own liking.
“Besides,” Lancaster sniffed. “None in the village came to our aid or offered their support these last three days. They aren’t our allies. That makes them our enemies.” He waved at the foot soldier. “Go. Find Bruin. Tell him to fire the village.”
But Niall caught Lancaster’s wrist, his grip so tight that his knuckles blanched. “Nay,” he ground out again. “You can’t do that to your own people.”
“Unhand me!” Lancaster snapped, ripping his wrist from Niall’s grasp. “And do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do. I am the future King of England!”
Lancaster slapped his reins and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks before Niall could speak or reach for him again. As the Earl shot northward, the other nobles fell in behind him, and the remaining soldiers began trudging after.
Both Niall and Mairin remained rooted, letting the soldiers stream around them. Mairin swallowed several times, but she could not dislodge the knot in her throat or the stone sitting in her stomach. Up until now, she’d ridden the surge of energy from the battle, followed by her blazing rage at Lancaster’s callous order to burn the village. But a terrible numbness was beginning to settle over her like a thick, deadening fog.
She lifted her gaze to Niall, praying he would know what to do, how to make this right.
A muscle in his jaw leapt as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He stared straight forward, his mouth set in a thin, flat line and his brows lowered. His eyes were tight with pain.
“We…” he began, but he had to clear his throat before going on. “We must remain close to Lancaster.”
He shook his head once the words were out, as if he still couldn’t accept them, but he didn’t say more.
She knew what he left unspoken, though. They had to stay at Lancaster’s side—which meant abandoning the village to be fired. Their mission had to come first. Lancaster’s life was more important than the innocents in Burton.
Every fiber of her rebelled against that idea. Lancaster wasn’t worth the shite on the bottom of her horse’s hoof. Yet the sickening fact was, this civil war and the Bruce’s plans to use it to his benefit were bigger than one village. The Bruce hadn’t sent them to England lightly. The cause for Scotland’s true and complete freedom depended on them keeping Lancaster alive.
Mairin squeezed her eyes shut. Niall was right. They had to remain close to Lancaster—and forsake Burton village.
With her eyes still closed, she gave a single nod. When she opened them, her gaze met Niall’s. The grimness of his features mirrored her own.
“We will see this mission through,” he ground out. “But we will also find a way to right Lancaster’s wrongs. I vow it.”
Without another word, they spurred their horses into a gallop and shot after Lancaster.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Niall paced along Pontefract Castle’s outermost battlements, his eyes fixed to the west. His gaze scoured the barren, brown landscape ceaselessly for signs of Mairin’s return.
He’d thought things had reached their lowest possible point after Lancaster’s disastrous attempt to hold Burton Bridge, his order to burn the town, and their flight north, but it seemed things could grow even worse still.
They, along with the nobles and several hundred bedraggled, hungry foot soldiers, had arrived at Pontefract as a charcoal dusk had fallen the night before.
With the coming of a weak gray dawn this morning, Niall and Mairin had concocted an elaborate excuse to allow her to slip from the castle and ride to the cave where their remaining two messenger pigeons waited. But the castle wa
s in such disarray that they hadn’t needed their story, and Mairin had been able to pass through the gates unquestioned and unnoticed.
Niall had argued against being separated from her, for Lancaster’s entire rebellion was in utter chaos. Niall didn’t trust the exhausted, aimless soldiers who still remained at the castle not to do something dangerous.
What was more, Lancaster had veritably bled men on the grueling three-day return journey to Pontefract. Dozens of soldiers seemed to desert every hour, disaffected and close to starving. They’d slipped into the trees or darted across winter-bare fields as what was left of Lancaster’s army had marched north. Niall feared the hillsides and caves closest to the castle would be rife with listless men willing to lash out against anyone who crossed their path—especially a woman riding alone.
But Mairin had rightly reminded him that not only was she more knowledgeable and skilled when it came to tending the birds, but also that she could handle herself should someone attempt to cause trouble for her.
Still, it went against every instinct he had to leave her unprotected.
She had only been gone an hour, but the time had stretched hellishly in Niall’s mind. Heavy purple clouds were beginning to gather off to the west. A vicious storm would be upon them in a few hours. Why hadn’t she returned yet? If something happened to her—
Just then, he spotted her as she broke through the leafless stand of trees not far from the castle’s outer wall. His heart lurched in relief. She appeared unharmed as she rode at a trot toward the castle, her whisky-colored braid bouncing on her back and her slight form sitting in the saddle with ease.
She approached the smaller of the castle’s two gates, which was still open from when she’d departed. Niall strode down the battlement stairs to meet her in the outer bailey. He caught her horse’s reins as she slowed to a halt and swung down from the saddle.
“All is well?” Niall asked, keeping his voice low despite the fact that none of the downtrodden soldiers who huddled in the bailey paid them any mind.
“Aye,” she replied, giving him a nod. “Both birds were still there, and seemed in good health.”
She’d confessed to Niall the night before that she was worried for the pigeons. Before they’d left to face Edward, she’d given them several pouches worth of food, but they’d been left untended for more than a sennight. Given how important the birds were to their mission, they were lucky they’d both remained in the cave unharmed and healthy.
“And the missive?” he murmured.
They’d agreed it was essential to alert the Bruce to not only Lancaster’s failure at Burton Bridge, but their return to Pontefract with severely diminished forces. It only left them one more chance to communicate with the Bruce, but given the way the rebellion was swiftly approaching complete failure, they might not have much left to report anyway.
“Sent,” Mairin confirmed. “I included Edward’s victory at Burton and our position and numbers now. And the firing of Burton village.” She met his eyes then. They were flinty with pain and anger. “The Bruce cannae do aught for those villagers now, but I wanted him to ken what kind of man he has made an alliance with, even if it is only for show.”
Niall moved closer, bending his head so that he could hold her gaze. “We have to keep faith in this mission—and in the Bruce. We do not know all that he plans. The only thing we can do is stay close to Lancaster and ensure he and this damn rebellion remain alive.”
Yet even as he spoke, Niall wasn’t sure if the words were more for Mairin or himself. His own confidence in their mission was already threadbare and threatening to snap completely. This was supposed to have been his chance to prove himself to the others, to show just how unfailing his loyalty to the Bruce and his cause was. But now he feared he was in danger of losing whatever honor and faithfulness he’d once thought he possessed.
The Bruce’s true aims were beyond his comprehension. All he knew anymore was that Lancaster had killed innocent men, women, and children. And in doing naught to stop him, he and Mairin were implicated now, too.
Mairin’s only response to his reassurance was to tighten her mouth. He led her and her horse to the stables, where they left the animal with a lad. Then they continued on toward the inner bailey.
What a difference a little more than a sennight had made on the scene they walked through. Before, both the inner and outer baileys had teemed with nearly three thousand men eager and restless to take up their weapons and fight.
Now, less than seven hundred remained. Those who’d managed to make the trek back to the castle were mud-stained, exhausted, and hungry. They had done little more this morning than huddle around a few fires and mutter amongst themselves.
“Any news of Willington?” Mairin asked quietly as they walked.
The old nobleman hadn’t arrived at Pontefract last night with the others. When daylight had broken that morning, none of his few hundred men had been among the soldiers filling Pontefract’s outer bailey, either. Though the other nobles would not speak of it for fear of rousing Lancaster’s rage, Niall guessed that Willington, who had always been the most cautious and least satisfied with Lancaster’s leadership, had absconded, taking his men with him.
“Nay, there has been no sign of him since you departed for the cave,” Niall replied. “The others seem to have accepted that he has abandoned their cause. A scout arrived not five minutes before you, though.”
“We had best get to the great hall then,” she said grimly, lengthening her stride.
When they slipped into the great hall, the scout already stood before the raised dais, where the dwindled group of nobles sat bleak-faced as they listened.
“…to confirm that de Holland has indeed rejoined King Edward,” the short, thickset scout was saying. “Word is that he always intended to wait in Dalbury, biding his time to see which side was triumphant at Burton Bridge, then throw his support behind the victor.”
“Bloody feckless bastard!” Lancaster hissed, pounding his fist on the arm of his enormous throne.
Mairin closed the great hall’s door quietly behind her and moved to step toward the dais, but Niall caught her arm. At her questioning look, he gave her a single shake of his head. He didn’t doubt her ability to put Lancaster in his place if he dared to lash out at her, but nor did he want her standing beside him when his temper ran so high. Instead, they lingered in the shadows before the door, free to listen unnoticed.
“What of Willington?” Hereford, who was somewhat more composed than Lancaster, asked.
The scout clasped his hands behind his back. “He and a few hundred of his men were spotted riding west this morn—back to his own keep.”
“I am surrounded by traitors,” Lancaster growled. “Should I expect the same of de Ferrers? He should have been here by now.”
By the way the scout shifted on his feet, Niall knew there was more bad news coming.
“You are aware that Lord de Ferrers maintains a very particular breed of cattle on his lands, are you not, sire? All white, but with black ears?”
“What the hell do cows have to do with this?” Lancaster demanded.
“It seems…” The scout cleared his throat before continuing. “It seems that earlier this year, an all-black calf was born, the first ever produced from his herd. Lord de Ferrers has taken it as an ill portent…an omen of death and destruction for the de Ferrers house in light of his support for you over King Edward.”
Lancaster picked up his silver goblet and hurled it across the hall. It landed with a clatter on the stones not far from the scout. He snarled a string of foul oaths, cursing de Ferrers, de Holland, Willington, the King, and anyone or anything else he deemed his enemy.
“Control yourself, man,” Badlesmere muttered, casting a disdainful glance at Lancaster before returning his attention to the scout. “Is there aught else to report?”
“Aye, sire,” the scout said reluctantly. “Tickhill and Doncaster Castles…they have both fallen to Edward.”
; “What?” Audley spoke for the first time, his eyes rounding. He turned to Lancaster. “You said our hold on those keeps was rock-solid. You said de Mortimer and Clifford could not fail.”
“With the Earls of Kent and Surrey uniting with Edward, his forces are now over six thousand strong,” the scout interjected. “And growing. More have joined him on his march north. The King’s army is…” The scout ducked his head. “The King’s army is less than a day from reaching Pontefract, sire.”
“But we are safe here,” Audley said, though it seemed to be more of a question. His gaze darted over the other nobles, looking for reassurance. “Pontefract is impenetrable. The towers…and the double wall…the two baileys alone would be…” When no one answered him, Audley trailed off. He flopped back into his chair, his face drawn with shock.
“We will not be able to hold off an army of six thousand,” Hereford murmured, glancing at Badlesmere. “Not with so few men left. Not even from behind Pontefract’s walls.”
Badlesmere and Hereford exchanged a long look. Though Lancaster didn’t seem to notice, Niall did. As Lancaster had increasingly fallen into fits of outrage, Badlesmere and Hereford had quietly taken over, making decisions and guiding Lancaster’s actions when he was too blinded by wrath to do so on his own.
Badlesmere gave Hereford a subtle nod, then turned to Lancaster. “We must abandon Pontefract, Earl,” he said gravely.
Lancaster turned burning eyes on him. “That is madness. It would be a signal far and wide that Edward had forced us to turn tail and flee.”
“I believe that ship has already sailed, Thomas,” Hereford said quietly.
Lancaster jerked his pale gaze to Hereford. “Where would we even go? If Pontefract cannot be held against Edward, no castle in all of England can.”
“It is true, I know of no stronghold with a force of seven hundred men that could hold out for long against an army of six thousand,” Hereford replied. “But we have one last chance for aid. Robert the Bruce has promised to stand by us.”
