The bedchamber was just as she and Reid had left it, with the sheets tousled from the consummation of their marriage, where they had spent so much time loving one another. Her heart threatened to crumble at the sight.
Nay, she could not think of that now.
Instead, she quickly divested herself of her kirtle and pushed her limbs into her trews and leine.
The gambeson was enormous on her and reeked of unwashed body, but the bulk of the armor worked out well, masking her shape and the length of her braid. It also allowed her to stash her bag of herbs within the bulk. Around the padded armor, she fastened the belt Drake had specially made for her with multiple sheaths. Perfect for her daggers. If Reid did fall, hopefully she would be able to help him to safety and tend to his wounds.
Apprehension tingled along the back of her neck. What she was doing was most likely a terrible idea, one Reid did not support. But she could not allow him to go out there unaccompanied while he was still wounded.
She couldn’t sit back in a cellar and listen to the sounds of the war raging overhead, helpless to do anything to sway the outcome. Or to protect Reid.
She could not lose him.
Before leaving the chamber, she plunked the helm over her head to hide her face and hair. The thing was terribly heavy and stunk of old metal, but it would keep anyone from recognizing her.
Finally ready, she joined the other warriors in the corridor and searched for Reid. It was not an easy task when the slit in the helm greatly hindered her ability to see. Her visibility was limited to what was directly in front of her.
The weight of the belt with her daggers was considerable but necessary. Walking took some adjustment, between the immensity and burden of her armor and the inability to see properly.
How did men fight in such gear?
She kept to the sides of the wall, avoiding eye contact with anyone she passed as she wound her way to the Great Hall. Once there, a man in front of her turned round to face her and those around her.
Not just any man, her grandda.
Her heart leapt into her chest, and her quickened breath huffed inside her helm.
He looked right through her as he addressed everyone en masse. “Let’s kill the bastards.”
A cheer arose, and the crowd of men surged forward. At Ross’s side, Reid settled the helm on his head and was pushed forward with the cluster of soldiers following Lord Tavish. The men around her flowed toward the exit of the Great Hall, and even if she hadn’t meant to walk along with them, she would have had no choice.
She tried to guide her path in the cluster of men to enable her gaze to remain fixed on Reid. They poured out into the night where the air was thick with moisture, and the cold reached through the padding of her gambeson. But there was something more than that, a sense of dread that hung around them, its scent sharp and metallic.
She shivered.
The horses of the many men who had ridden to Dumbarton to fight now lingered in the courtyard. Each was being claimed now and Clara quickly climbed onto the back of a smaller steed.
Outside the gates, the shouts of men rose in a cacophony. In the distance, screams came up from the villagers, most likely those who refused to leave their homes in the hope they could prevent everything from being destroyed or stolen in the raid.
Clara’s heart squeezed at what they were losing now. She knew what such an existence felt like. When all you owned could fit in a sack tossed over one’s back.
The men around her wore stoic faces as if those horrible screams were not audible.
But suddenly, the terrified shrieks of the villagers weren’t the only sound that filled the night. Battle cries rose, followed by the clashing of steel striking against one another.
“The Douglases have joined the battle,” a guard called from the parapet.
“Open the gates, Tavish,” Clara’s grandda said in a low voice. “We’ll no’ leave them out there to die defending yer keep.”
Lord Tavish said nothing for a moment, his horse stepping anxiously from hoof to hoof under him.
Ross looked to Lord Tavish, his brows lifted, teeth bared in a grin. “Aye?”
Lord Tavish nodded grudgingly. “Aye, but the gates get closed behind us.” He addressed the men around them. “If ye mean to ride into battle, know ye willna be able to get back in until the English are vanquished.”
Once more, the men’s response was a collective cheer as energy charged through the air.
Fear tightened in Clara’s chest. While she had been prepared to go outside the castle walls, she had hoped it would not come to this. At least not yet, while the English soldiers would still be fresh and bloodthirsty.
Her gaze found Reid where he sat astride his destrier near Ross, and her heart constricted. He turned to look back to the keep. “I love ye,” he mouthed before turning away with an expression of pain.
At that moment, Clara knew that his decision to fight outside the curtain walls also meant he assumed he would not return home. He was aware of the danger, and he was taking it on to protect everyone. Including her.
The gates groaned open, and the men followed Lord Tavish like a tide. Whatever fear had paralyzed Clara loosened its hold, and she let herself get swept up with his men—beyond the gates, past the curtain walls and out to where the night was all-consuming, save for a fingernail sliver of moonlight overhead. The wind rippled tunics and whipped at their pennants, making them blend into the night like dragon’s tongues.
Clara rode through the gates out into the night, into the brunt of danger. Behind her came a reverberating thunk as the gates were closed. She tried her best to keep from losing Reid and her grandda, but it was too hard with the world so dark, and the men all moving so quickly.
Her heart raced in her chest.
This had been a terrible idea.
An appalling stench preceded their arrival to the battlefield. Were she not a healer, she might not have recognized it—the odor of blood and death, tinged with the metallic tang of fear.
Primal terror clawed at Clara, but she tried to shove it away, knowing she would need to keep her wits about her.
The men at the front of their charge merged into the wall of Englishmen, and their group slowed as men clashed into combat. Clara’s breath echoed the frenzy all around her. She could scarcely move in her armor and was nearly blind in her helm.
A house erupted in flame to her right, a brilliant glow of light that cast the battle in a red-orange glow. Her grandda was at the head of his men, swinging a battle-axe glistening with blood. And at his side was Reid, sword thrusting and swiping, his face hidden by his helm.
All at once, her fear bled away as she focused on the reason that she had put herself at such risk.
Reid.
She was here to save him, to ensure he kept the promise to come back to her when this was done, that they would have their life together. Carefully, she eased her horse to the shadows of a nearby cottage where she hoped she wouldn’t be seen yet would still be close enough to throw a dagger.
She would not lose her husband this night.
The Englishmen fell before Reid’s sword, not because they were weak, but due to the battle with the Douglases having already left them exhausted. While these Englishmen were weary from their second attack in a row, the men behind them would not be.
It was those soldiers Reid was most worried about.
He thrust his blade into a man before him and jerked it free in time to deflect another attack. It had been foolish to leave the castle, knowing he would not be allowed to return until the fight was over. But he couldn’t stand the idea of the villagers at the mercy of the English.
Every scream had made him think of his mother. His father. Ewan.
The anger flashed inside him and exploded out in a lethal jab of his blade. Lord Rottry might be somewhere in the melee.
That awareness spurred Reid into the fight, hacking and slashing his way through his enemy. Something slammed into his right side, knocking
him slightly off balance.
Mayhap it was one of Ross’s men accidentally knocked aside, or an Englishman as he fell. Whoever it was did not attack, but the damage was done regardless. The familiar pain at Reid’s back told him the injury had been ripped open again. He staggered under the agony of it but quickly righted himself and slew the Englishman in front of him lest he was perceived as feeble.
The weakest in battle were always the first to die, and he had promised Clara he would return to her.
He hefted his sword and ignored the pain at his back. A battle-axe swooped down in front of him, cleaving into the chest of a man whose mace was drawn back, his aim pointed at Reid.
Ross winked at Reid as he pulled his battle-axe free. “I canna let my Clara be a widow, aye? She’s taken a liking to ye.”
A man to the chieftain’s left speared at him, and he retaliated with a roar and a lethal strike.
Reid gritted his teeth, determined to fight his own battle, to move past the ache blazing at his back. Clara’s grandda didn’t need to protect him. Reid could bloody well do it himself.
Two men came at him at once. He managed to dodge one's attack, but the second caught him just under the ribs with a sword. Reid’s gambeson deflected the blade, but the hit was still strong enough to thump the wind momentarily from his lungs.
A dagger flew through the air and sank into the throat of one of the men Reid fought. The man collapsed forward, leaving one lone man for Reid to contend with.
Something uneasy trailed down Reid’s spine. He managed to reclaim the dagger from the dead man while blocking a blow from his living opponent. That dagger throw was no accident in the middle of combat. It had been a clean shot by someone whose aim had been intentional. Reid tamped down the prickle of fear at his suspicion and pushed back into the fray, trying to ignore the burning ache in his back with each lift of his sword.
The man he fought was eventually dispatched but another turned toward Reid and raised his war hammer. There wouldn’t be enough time for Reid to clear its path. He pulled away, but the wall of men behind him prevented him from moving. The dagger in his hand might be his salvation.
Before he had a chance to come up with retaliatory action, another dagger sailed through the air and landed at the back of the man’s hand. He screamed, and the hammer tumbled harmlessly from his grip.
This time Reid knew for certain daggers thrown so close together could not be coincidental. Which could only mean one thing.
Cold fear trickled down his spine.
Reid cursed.
“What is it?” Ross demanded at his side, battle-axe still swinging even as he tried to peer above the heads of those fighting in front of them. “Are there more of the bastards coming?”
“Nay,” Reid gritted out. “Clara is here.”
The battle-axe stopped moving for a moment. An English soldier broke through and lashed out with a sword at the chieftain.
A dagger flashed through the air between Reid and Ross and plunged into their opponent. They both looked over their shoulders toward the shadows of a lone cottage.
Ross growled under his breath. “Go to her and get her away from here. I dinna care if ye have to tie her to a bloody tree.” He glared at Reid. “Ye know what the English will do to her if they capture her.”
Nausea swirled in Reid’s stomach. He didn’t even want to think of what these violent men would do to his gentle, tender wife.
He pulled away from the fight, making his way through the Scotsmen behind him and the Englishmen who fought against them.
Footsteps sounded behind Reid. He spun about as a man whipped his war hammer through the air. Reid crouched low and thrust the dagger he’d reclaimed upward into the man’s gut. The Englishman cried out and fell forward. Reid pulled the dagger free and stuck it into the leg of his boot.
After confirming the man would not rise again, Reid ran to the shadows behind the cottage. Clara sat atop a horse in a guard’s uniform that was at least three times too large, secured with a belt glittering with dagger hilts. Her helm was missing, and her dark hair was tousled about her face where several strands had pulled free from her braid.
He knew it was Clara who had thrown those daggers. He knew it.
But seeing her there, dressed like a soldier, as a man ready to fight, to die—it cut him deeper than any injury he’d ever had.
“Clara,” he choked. “Why are ye here? I told ye to stay at the keep.”
She shook her head, eyes filling with tears. “I couldn’t stay there, helplessly waiting for ye to return. Reid, ye’re still injured.”
“I’m still a warrior,” he growled, angry at himself for his inability to fight to his full potential and that his wife felt the need to protect him.
He glanced around to ensure no one rode toward them with the intent to attack. “Ye need to return to the keep.”
“I wouldn’t be able to get through the gates,” she said. “Ye heard them when we rode out. Once we left, we wouldn’t be allowed back in until after the battle.”
Reid hissed out an exhale of irritation.
An Englishman rode by, his eyes alighting on Clara. The bastard drew his horse to a stop and reeled about, riding toward them once more, this time with intent.
“Get in the cottage, Clara,” Reid said.
She opened her mouth to protest.
“Go,” he said firmly.
She slid off her horse and pushed through the door to the cottage. Finally, she disappeared inside.
Thank God for small favors.
Jesu, the lass was going to get him killed.
Reid tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as the Englishman rode toward him. All at once, he noted the tunic the man wore, blue with a yellow sun.
Lord Rottry.
This Englishman must fight for him.
The realization was so stunning that Reid nearly missed the whoreson as he swept past.
Nearly.
His blade caught the Englishman’s calf. Reid’s opponent cried out in pain as he pitched from his horse and writhed on the ground. Reid rushed over to him.
“Do ye serve Lord Rottry?” he demanded.
The Englishman spit in Reid’s direction.
Reid put his foot on the man’s neck. “That bastard killed my whole family when I was a lad. An unarmed man, woman and child. All innocent. For sport.”
“No Scotsman is innocent,” the man croaked from beneath the hold.
“Is he here?” Reid pushed his foot harder.
The man’s eyes bulged, and he gave a frantic nod. “In the melee,” he grunted.
Reid looked toward the swarm of men as they wrested against one another for an upper hand in the battle. Suddenly, the man swept his legs against Reid in an attempt to take him down. Reid, ever ready for a fight, had his body tensed for such an attack and did not so much as flinch at the blow. But he did bring his sword down on the bastard’s neck.
His long-awaited vengeance would finally be had. But first, he needed to figure out how to get Clara to safety. She could not remain in the battle, no matter how skilled she was with her daggers.
He glanced back toward the melee once more.
Rottry was among the English, and Reid would find him.
19
Darkness pressed in on Clara from all angles within the shuttered cottage that smelled of greasy stew and smoke. Outside came the cries and calls of battle, all slightly muted by the closed door. How she longed to have even that sliver of moonlight back, anything by which to see.
The need to open the door and look out at Reid clawed at her, becoming more desperate with each passing second. But she held back, afraid that in doing so, she might distract him. Coming to the village had indeed been a mistake. One she could not undo.
The quiet gasp of a sob broke the air.
Clara stiffened.
“Who’s there?” she asked into the darkness.
The only reply was a whimper.
“Who are ye?” she asked again.
“Are ye English?” the voice was small and scared.
A child.
“Only half,” Clara said. “My husband and grandda are outside fighting with the Scottish to save the village.”
“And what of ye?” the little voice asked.
“I tried to help.” Clara closed her eyes against the pain of knowing Reid was out there and she was in here.
In truth, she felt ashamed to have followed, assuming he needed her protection. He had not.
Her husband was one of the finest men on the battlefield from what she had witnessed. His blade moved with incredible accuracy, his body powerful and strong, even with his injuries. He was beautiful to behold, graceful and confident. A true warrior if ever there was one.
No doubt her coming to “protect” him had been difficult for such a man to swallow. An insult.
“Can ye help us?” the child asked.
Us?
“Aye,” Clara said. “Of course I can.”
The scuffle of feet over the hard-packed dirt floor filled the home, and a cold, wee hand curled into hers. An ache filled her chest for these bairns who should never have been subjected to war.
“Is this yer home?” Clara asked.
“Aye,” a different child said. “Mum said she’d be back, but she hasna returned.”
“I’ll make sure ye stay safe, aye?” Clara folded her hand more firmly around the tiny fingers resting against her palm. Most likely, the children’s mother was dead.
Footsteps approached the cottage door. The child at her side tensed. “I believe that is my husband,” she spoke in as calm a voice as she could muster and released the bairn’s hand. “But I’d like ye to get behind me just in case.” She slid two daggers free from her belt, ready to attack.
For the first time in her life, she appreciated Drake’s efforts in teaching her and her sisters to fight. She had never thought she needed such a skill, that it might be the one thing that stood between herself and survival, or that she might use it to keep others safe. But then she had underestimated the brutality of the English against the Scottish. Brutality that Drake was no doubt accustomed since he’d been Captain of the Guard to an English lord on the English Scottish border.
Clara’s Vow Page 16
