Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1)

by Madeline Martin

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Her eyes widened, but he was too quick, and she too surprised, for her to stop him. He fled the room, slammed the door shut and clapped the beam over it, locking it into place. She screamed on the other side, begging him to let her out.

  “Forgive me, Marin.” His throat hurt to speak, but he pushed past it. “I canna lose ye.”

  She pounded at the door in response, but he'd already turned his back and was heading in the direction of the readied troops. Anice held the sisters in place, her head bowed as she spoke in low tones to them. It was odd to see the second eldest sister without her large beast who had been left within the keep to ensure his safety in the upcoming battle.

  Bran pulled his focus from the sisters and steeled himself for the battle ahead. He had the portcullis raised, and together with Sir Richard and Drake at his sides, he led the men out on to the open field to fight.

  In the distance, the Grahams leapt to their horses, ready to fight at the moment's notice. One broke off at a full gallop in the opposite direction. Most likely to get reinforcements.

  Damn.

  “Sir Richard,” Bran bellowed.

  The soldier nodded and veered his horse out of the group to follow the lone reiver. Though older, Richard was the fastest rider they had, and Bran knew he'd rather die than see the castle fall. He would not fail.

  He could not. For if Graham reinforcements arrived, they were all dead.

  Marin pounded on the door until her arms ached, and still she continued to slam her fists against the solid wood. Had the window not been so narrow, she would have climbed through it. She'd actually tried but had found it impossible to even wriggle her torso through.

  Her cries were left unanswered: first when Bran walked away, then as the thunder of footsteps passed as the men marched to their waiting horses. The groan of the portcullis opened, and all those heavy feet and hooves painstakingly made their way out beyond the castle walls.

  Marin had switched to kicking the door then, slamming her foot against the solid frame repeatedly until her thighs burned. Each solid hit let in a seam of light, but never resulted in the door swinging open.

  The groan of the portcullis sounded again, followed by the hearty thunk of the gate closing. Only then, in the absence of sound and soldiers was there a clatter of wood at the door before it creaked open.

  Anice stood in the open doorway, her face pinched with anxious uncertainty. “Forgive me, Sister.”

  “How could you?” The cut of betrayal gave her words volume enough to echo out over the empty cobblestones.

  Anice flinched. But Marin pushed past her to the gates, which were fully closed.

  Marin knew well enough they wouldn't be opening again. Not until after the battle. If they won.

  She stalked toward the stairs leading up to the battlements where the archers stood at the ready. If she could not be part of the battle, she would at least watch it play out.

  “I couldn't lose you too,” Anice called out to her.

  Marin stopped.

  “We lost Papa,” Anice said. “I lost Timothy. I couldn't…” her voice cracked and tugged at a wounded place in Marin's soul.

  “I couldn't lose you too,” Anice repeated softly.

  “And so, you have not.” Marin said it gently but resumed her trek to the battlements. Such offenses were not easily forgiven. Not when one skilled soldier could turn the favor of the battle.

  Cat stood at the head of the archers; her slender figure so small beside them that she appeared far younger than her sixteen years. She cast a glance back at Marin, her eyes wide with anxiety. “They’re coming.”

  Marin rushed to the crenulations in time to see the two forces charging at one another, horses at the front and men on foot running at a wild pace in the back. Leading the band of men was Bran. He rode on his horse with easy confidence, his face fixed toward his enemy.

  The summer breeze blew against the grass, sending waves rippling over the long blades. Overhead the sky was a perfect blue with clouds like stretched wool. It was a day for a banquet beneath a copse of trees, not for a battle and death.

  Shouts rose up from either side, carried to her on the wind. It sparked her warrior's blood and sent her pulse racing. Her muscles ached with the need to be there with her men, racing toward the enemy. She clenched her hands into fists and pressed them hard into the stonework of the wall, as if that might somehow ease her angst.

  The men increased their pace as they got closer. Marin tensed.

  “Ready your arrows.” Cat lifted her hand.

  A dozen bows creaked. The reivers and soldiers below crashed together in a cacophony of ringing metal, clattering shields and cries of effort and pain.

  “Launch!” Cat drew her hand down and nocked her own arrow. The release of her weapon was soundless beneath the terrible roar of battle.

  Bran had managed to stay on his horse, his battle axe glinting in the golden light of the sun. He filled her thoughts as she recalled the way he'd looked just before locking her in the stables. His gaze had been so desperate, emotion shining in his eyes, as if it tore at his heart to leave her.

  I love ye.

  She had replayed those words in her head again and again, savoring them, clinging to them.

  Already several bodies fell to the ground, some Grahams in their plain gambesons, some bearing the Werrick coat of arms.

  Marin's heart snagged in her throat. Her men. Ones who had protected her all these years and now made the greatest sacrifice to see her and her people safe.

  She put a hand to her mouth to cover her sobs. Her tears could not be so easily squelched. She watched the entirety of the battle and yet kept focused on where Bran led their army with commendable bravery.

  He remained at the front line. His movements were as powerful as they were lethal. His strokes were rhythmic in a smooth repetitive motion she knew well enough from her own time in such melee. He operated on well-honed instinct, pausing only to aid a fellow soldier or reiver, the way he'd done as they were side-by-side when they'd saved her sisters.

  But to observe him like this, from a spectator’s place, he was magnificent.

  A Graham pulled his blade free and spun to face Bran's back. Marin clutched at the stonework beneath her hands, but before she could even draw a full breath to call out his name in warning, a white fletched arrow sailed toward the man and hit him in the eye. The Graham fell to the ground, no longer a threat.

  Cat did not pause to appreciate her own incredible shot, not when her fingers were flying from plucking and firing with abandon. Despite Bran being saved by her sister's extraordinary talent, the tension did not leave Marin's shoulders. Watching the fight unfold was the greatest hell she'd ever endured.

  When she was among her men, she had the element of control, inasmuch as one could wield during the chaos of war. At Bran's side, she could keep his back guarded, ensuring his safety. Instead, she was confined to the battlements in the weighty trappings of useless chainmail, completely and utterly helpless.

  Each man in her livery who fell dragged at her heart and left her wondering what she might have done to prevent the death, had she been among her men. Where she belonged.

  Anger fired through her again. She wanted to scream out her frustration until her throat bled. When this battle was done, she would ensure Bran got a good piece of her mind.

  Her heart squeezed at the thought of seeing him again. God, how she wanted to see him again. After she kissed him senseless, she decided. That was when she would give him a good piece of her mind.

  Several more of the Werrick coat of arms fell to the ground, and then several more. The battle was turning in the favor of the Grahams.

  She shot an anxious look to the gates. They could open them and partially raise the portcullis ever so slightly. Enough for the men to scramble underneath. Enough for Bran to be safe.

  When her gaze settled back to the field, her blood ran cold. The Grahams were easily consuming the W
errick men. The battle would not last much longer.

  Movement on the horizon pulled her horrified attention from the fighting. Men lined up along the crest of a hill in the distance. A good number of men.

  The cool blood in her veins turned to ice. The Grahams had brought reinforcements.

  “Marin, we must go.” Cat pulled at her.

  But Marin could not leave, not when her feet were rooted to the stone ground. “Bran,” she whispered.

  He continued to fight, oblivious of the men soon heading in his direction. Heedless of the impending slaughter. She had not told him she loved him when he left. She had shouted curses at him she hadn’t meant, and she never, never told him she loved him.

  She shook her head and the world swirled in a blur of colors.

  “Forgive me, Marin,” Cat said in her sweet voice. “We must. The women and children need us.”

  A small hand pulled at Marin's, leading her away. Before she could disappear completely, she jerked her face back toward the battlefield and took one last long look at her husband, knowing it would be her last.

  28

  Bran was in the full glory of combat. His movements glided in rhythm with the countless motions he'd practiced since he was a youth, and his senses were tuned in to everything around him. While his heightened awareness focused him, it was impossible to not hear the grunts and pathetic cries of the dying coming from behind and beside him.

  The odor of death clung in his nostrils, tinged with the metallic note of fear. He roared with energy and swept his axe down with all his might. It sank into the skull of the man attempting to plunge a sword into his side. The man fell and another took his place, forcing Bran a step backward.

  Bran gritted his teeth. It was not the first time he'd moved back. In fact, he had been steadily pushed in the direction of the castle with each man he killed or maimed. Ahead of him, the carpet of bodies grew larger, many colored with the Werrick livery.

  Beside him, Drake's sword whipped and jabbed effortlessly, the weapon light in the warrior's grip. “They keep pushing us back,” Drake said between attacks. “Is it so we can see how many of our men have died?”

  “Aye.” Bran jerked his battle axe upward to block a blow aimed at his face. “’Tis meant to fluster us.” He readjusted his grip and swung his axe into the man's neck.

  Drake slid him a glance and plunged with his blade once more.

  The tactic wouldn't work on Bran, or Drake, or even most of the castle’s soldiers. His reivers were another story altogether. Already many of them had been restless within the keep. Even as they'd run out for battle, several had slipped away. Whether they survived or not, he did not know, but he wagered he'd see some of the fine coat of arms cloth for sale in the market in the future.

  And there would be a future, because he would win this battle, damn it. He would see Ena saved, and he would see his wife again.

  Once she forgave him, of course.

  “Let's kill these bastards and go home,” Bran gritted out.

  Drake bellowed out a war cry in response and speared the man in front of him. Together they fought on, empowered with the need for victory.

  Movement caught in Bran's periphery. A considerable amount of movement. It pulled his attention momentarily from the fight. He was not alone. A unified respite hummed through the melee at the cluster of a few dozen soldiers rushing toward them. They did not cry out as they descended. Nay, they were silent, their faces grimacing with savagery. Their armor was tarnished and spattered, their clothing beneath unkempt.

  Bran's heart fell at the state of their dress. These were not soldiers who happened upon them to help. They were more reivers. The reinforcements had come through, and they were Grahams.

  All around Marin came the cries of heartbroken women and their fearful children. The few men who remained behind held somber, desolate expressions at their own sealed fates.

  Bernard made his way from person to person, offering his blessing and his ear. The awkward priest had cast aside his public discomfort and prayed so fervently with each desperate soul that his bald head glistened with his efforts.

  The thick stone walls of the castle left it impossible to hear the fight raging on. Part of her was grateful for the reprieve from the cries of the dying, and yet part of her wanted to cling to the battle, to the men who were still alive. Panic threatened to break her, fear for those who fought for them and for the man she loved. But she swallowed it down and remained resolute. Her people needed her. As lady of the castle, she had to remain strong.

  Everyone had been accounted for and were gathered in the great hall. Everyone save Leila and Isla. Marin rushed to her sisters’ shared chamber and found the girl curled up by the hearth once more, her chainmail glinting in the firelight.

  “We must go,” Marin said with urgency. “The reivers have brought reinforcements. Leila, the castle will fall.”

  Leila shook her head.

  Panic jabbed hot at Marin. “There are lives depending on us.”

  Her youngest sister slid a gaze to the seat beside her where Isla sat. “You may leave us,” Leila said, as if it were the simplest decision.

  “I will not leave you.” Marin came around the chair and reached for her sister.

  Leila simply shook her head. “It isn't as it seems.”

  “It isn't as it seems?” Marin shook her head, her nerves scraped raw and her patience expired. “That makes no sense.”

  Isla lay a sympathetic hand on Marin’s shoulder. “Yer sister knows more than any of us ever will.”

  But Marin had seen the battle being lost with her own eyes, as clearly as she'd seen the reiver’s reinforcements arrive. It was all too certain what lay in store for Bran and the men he led. There would be no escape.

  She clenched her fists. This hope her sister tried to offer was too much, especially when such loss would be Marin’s destruction. She pressed her hand over her chest, but the pain burning there did not cease.

  “Is Marin here?” Ella's voice cut through Marin's lamentation. “You must come. Quick!”

  Marin stared in bewilderment.

  “Come, child.” Isla's gnarled hands grasped Marin's shoulder with surprising strength and hefted her to her feet.

  Marin staggered forward on legs she did not trust. “What is it?”

  Ella twirled and came to a stop with a lovely smile. “A miracle.”

  Bran's body tensed at the onslaught of the new army. Their men would be fresh and bloodthirsty, not worn down from the endless swinging and blocking of their weapons.

  “Dinna stop fighting, men.” Bran swung his axe down. “We do this for Werrick Castle, for the women and children, for those that we love. We do this for us.”

  The men at his side remained there, both soldiers and reivers alike. Together they braced as the army fell upon them. The first of the new soldiers attacked, thrusting his blade with savage strength into a Graham. The man staggered, a look of surprise on his face, and toppled to the ground.

  The second new warrior attacked another Graham, while the first found yet another to kill. They were helping.

  No doubt for a ridiculous fee that would be charged once the battle was won. It was common of mercenaries low on work to force their need upon hapless souls in order to earn their living.

  Though at this point, Bran would pay them what they asked, no matter the price. Their safety meant that of the people within the castle walls.

  Bran pulled his axe from the dead Graham in front of him and glanced at the new men fighting at their side. Their chainmail was even filthier up close, layered in mud and black slime. Beneath it all was a coat of arms. Through the muck, a green background was bisected by a yellow stripe with a black bird emblazoned on its front.

  Bran's body tingled.

  The Earl of Werrick’s soldiers were home from Berwick. A Graham knocked into Bran, nearly sending him to the ground. Bran shoved the man to create space between them, enough for the blade of an axe, and swiftly ended his life
.

  If the men were alive, then perhaps… He surveyed the men fighting and found one in particular who was surrounded by soldiers. Guarded. The way one might do for an earl.

  Bran's heart raced. Marin's father might truly be alive.

  The battle had turned in their favor. Bran's forces were the ones pushing their enemy backward now, allowing them to see the rapidly growing number of dead Grahams. The men at the back of the battle began to break away and leave, choosing to flee and live.

  Soon their enemy was no more, with most dead and many more running.

  “We'll be back.” An aged man with long gray and white hair glared at Bran. “Ye mark our word, we will be back.”

  The words of a coward to be sure. Bran hefted his axe and the man turned with haste to flee.

  All around him rose the shouts of victory, cheering until voices went hoarse. Brethren greeted one another and reunions were had. The crowd of men had begun to move as a solid mass in the direction of the castle.

  Bran fixed his gaze on the man he suspected might be the earl. The man removed his helm to reveal a head of silver hair. Sir Richard was at his side in an instant, saying something Bran could not make out. At least, not until the possible earl's face hardened and an icy blue gaze slid in his direction.

  Shite.

  Bran had never been one to back down. He shifted toward the earl, preparing to march over to him when a hand caught his chest, stopping him.

  Drake caught his eye and shook his head. “Better to do it in front of yer wife,” he said in a low voice.

  “I'll no' hide behind my wife's skirts,” Bran snarled.

  “Better that than lying dead at her feet.” Drake nudged him forward with his shoulder. “Ye took the castle by force and have married his eldest daughter. Many of his men are dead because of battles that wouldn't have happened were it not for ye.”

  Bran groaned. “When ye word it in such a manner…”

  Drake did not reply, but instead urged him forward.