Clara’s Vow

by Madeline Martin

  The door rattled and swung open. A shadowed figure filled the doorway, backlit by the blaze of several fires.

  “Clara,” Reid said.

  She exhaled slowly so the little ones wouldn’t know that she had been holding her breath with anticipation. With fear.

  For if it truly had been English soldiers, there wouldn’t be much she could do to save them all.

  “Who are they?” Reid asked, nodding to her new charges.

  Clara looked down at the children hiding behind her, seeing them for the first time. Three bairns with mussed brown hair—an older lass around the age of seven, a lad of mayhap five and another small girl who appeared barely more than two with a thumb thrust in her mouth as she stared up at Clara with large, blue eyes.

  “They’ve been separated from their mother,” Clara replied.

  Reid cast a worried glance behind his shoulder where the world appeared to be entirely aflame, and she knew what he was thinking. They couldn’t stay in the cottage. It wasn’t safe. Not when so many homes were being set ablaze by the English.

  “I can get them into the forest,” Clara said with more confidence than she felt. At least there, they would be under the cover of the shadows. There would be somewhere to run if need be. They also would have more freedom to remove themselves from combat by venturing deeper into the forest, where they would be safer.

  Reid nodded. “I’ll protect ye while ye get them out of the village.”

  Clara hesitated, knowing that in protecting them, he was putting himself at great risk. She knew he was strong, and he had great skill in fighting. She had to put her trust in that, to know that he would remain safe and come back to her as he had promised.

  “I love ye,” she said softly.

  “And I ye.” He caressed her face, his expression one of longing.

  A band of tension constricted around her chest, squeezing until she felt as if she could not breathe. She turned toward the bairns and crouched to speak with them at their level. Three sets of wide eyes stared at her with fear and uncertainty.

  “We are going into the woods where it won’t be as dangerous,” she said. “When we get outside, ye need to stay by my side, aye? No running off.”

  The three nodded in unison.

  Apprehension twisted in her stomach. She didn’t even know if they could get to the forest without being seen by the English. But she had to try, at least. For it truly was their only chance to make it through the battle.

  She waved them toward her, and the two older children stepped forward, both taking hold of the hem of her gambeson. The youngest lifted her arms up in preparation to be carried, and Clara hefted the girl up, hugging her close.

  Never had Clara been charged with so precious a task as seeing her charges to safety. No matter what it took, she would not let anything happen to them.

  Reid pulled something from his pocket and handed it to the smallest girl. She examined the small carved fox and hugged it against her chest. He caressed Clara’s face one last time and nodded, to which she responded with her own silent nod.

  They were ready.

  He crept outside and glanced about before motioning for her to follow. Clara’s heart leapt into a gallop. Holding the little girl tight, she strode forward with the other two clinging to her as if they were survivors on a bit of driftwood after a shipwreck at sea.

  Outside, the fighting had spread from the center of the village through to the entirety of it. All around, men were hacking and slashing with their weapons. Bodies lay strewn about, and the ground was soaked with blood.

  Clara was grateful she’d told the children to stay by her side. Hopefully, she could prevent them from seeing most of the grim sights. The youngest tried to lift her head, but Clara settled her hand over the girl’s downy hair. “Keep yer eyes shut,” she said softly. “We’ll be in the forest soon.”

  The bairn relaxed and lay against Clara, making her weight easier to hold. Reid’s head turned from side to side as he found a path for them to follow. Clara and the children rushed as quickly as they could. They were between two cottages when a group of Englishmen rounded from another home and pointed toward them.

  “Get in the cottage,” Reid shouted.

  Clara wanted to protest, to refuse to leave his side. But with the lass in her arms and two more clinging to her in terror, she held her tongue and obeyed without hesitation.

  She spirited them all through the open door to the small, ransacked one-room home and slammed it shut, plunging them immediately into darkness. The boy began to cry, as did the girl in Clara’s arms.

  “Ye dinna need to be afraid.” The eldest lass’s voice trembled and belied the fear behind her bravery. “We have help now.”

  Outside came the clash of weapons striking one another. Clara’s heart was caught in the grip of fear. How many men were there? Four? Three?

  She hoped three, but it had happened too quickly for her to assess before she’d gotten the children into the safety of the cottage. The glow from the fires raging outside limned the doorframe and allowed a modicum of light in. Once their eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was at least enough to see by, so they were not in complete blackness.

  There was nothing Clara could do to see what transpired outside, but it didn’t mean it didn’t weigh on her mind or her heart. She could not escape the thought that Reid was putting his life on the line to save them. That he was fighting three or four men in his wounded state.

  And the odds would not be in his favor.

  There was nothing for it but to wait, helpless and frightened that she might lose everything this night.

  Taking on four men was never easy. It was significantly more difficult when exhaustion left Reid’s limbs weighty and his back burned with the pain of his unhealed wounds. Sticky wetness at his leine confirmed what he already knew; his wounds had reopened.

  He’d managed to dispatch one Englishman, but three more were still fighting him at once, their blades slashing with speed Reid could scarce keep up with. He would not give up. He pushed past the weight of his fatigue, through the agony at his back.

  For Clara.

  For the innocent bairns that he knew she would die to protect.

  He swung his sword with a growl, and a second man fell.

  Reid shoved back from the men, pausing a split second to catch his breath. The air stank of burning thatch and smoke that seared into his lungs, hovering on the edges of a nightmare that wanted to consume him.

  It would be so easy to fall prey to his fears, to let the memories unravel his resolve, and relive the terror that had robbed him of everything.

  He pulled in a deep breath, focusing his mind, moving past the fear. It took only a moment to recover himself. And it was all he needed.

  With a rush of vitality, he came at his opponents, whipping his blade to the right, and then jabbing hard to the left. Both men crumpled to the ground with their brethren.

  Reid staggered to remain upright; his body taxed from the effort of defeating the four men. His arms hung limp at his side as he tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

  The air in front of him cleared of swirling smoke, blown from his path by an unseen wind, highlighting the man who rode on horseback through the village with an aristocratic air. The caparison draped over the horse was one Reid knew well.

  A blue background with a fiery golden sun.

  Lord Rottry.

  Raw energy crackled through Reid’s body, giving vitality to his heavy limbs, and filling them with power. Everything faded around him—the fire, the smoke, the fighting and death. The only thing visible, the only thing that mattered, was Lord Rottry and the sweet promise of vengeance.

  Reid’s breath shuddered from him, a pained exhalation from a lifetime of torment, the enormity of loss and its resounding impact. His mother’s charred body with Ewan still held in her arms. His da cut down amid jeers, like sport.

  A snarl growled low in Reid’s throat. Since that day, he had not had the opportun
ity to see the baron, let alone the chance to attack.

  To kill.

  Vengeance.

  Now would be the perfect moment. Battle waged around them. Both men on opposites sides of the war. His enemy, in more ways than just one.

  Reid tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. It would taste English noble blood this night. However, his steps were halting as he moved first one foot forward and then the other.

  Clara.

  He turned back toward the cottage. It remained unmolested and free of any English guards. He had dispatched the men with relative ease despite his injuries. Surely, he could do the same of Lord Rottry.

  Reid’s gaze swept once more to the baron to find the smoke wall was billowing into place, and Lord Rottry’s horse was trotting away.

  Nay.

  This time, there were no other thoughts in Reid’s mind, save those of his parents and his brother. And the pathetic wee lad he’d been on that fateful day and how it impacted every one thereafter. His had been a life of loneliness, one seasoned with the brutality of an orphan’s survival on cruel streets.

  No family. No love. No happiness.

  Reid roared with a ferocity that tore at his throat and raced through the curling tendrils of smoke.

  The man on the horseback turned toward him, eyes narrowed. The baron had aged in the years that laid between them, his face lined, and a soft paunch where his stomach was once flat. He regarded Reid with obvious disinterest, a similar apathy as he’d possessed the day that he had ordered Reid’s entire family to be slaughtered.

  Lord Rottry waved one slender hand in the air. “Kill this vermin and let us be on our way.”

  The two men beside him turned their horses around and charged at Reid. When Reid lifted his sword and swung it, there was no pain in his back, nor was there fatigue in his muscles.

  All that consumed him was rage and hate and the savage need for vengeance.

  20

  It was the roar outside that stuck fast in Clara’s mind. The bestial cry had ripped through the cottage walls and chilled her to the marrow of her bones. The children crushed close to her at the horrible sound, the youngest one whimpering.

  “All will be well,” Clara soothed in a whisper. She held the little girl’s hand but left her right one free. Her throwing hand, the hilt of the dagger clutched in her fingers.

  But as time crept by, she began to fear that it would not be well at all. Reid had been gone too long. Or at least, she thought it might be too long. In truth, every second that she waited to learn of his fate was like the passing of an eternity.

  It might have been only five minutes, or an hour. All she knew was that her body ached from remaining tense for so long and that the need to find out what was going on bordered on desperation.

  The not knowing scraped at her raw nerves. Every cry on the other side of that door, every clang of metal, might be Reid. Those thoughts drove her to near madness.

  “I am going to check on him,” Clara said softly. “Go hide in the corner.”

  The older lass, whose name Clara had discovered was Fia, shepherded the younger two, Ian and Mairi, into the corner by an overturned table.

  Heart pounding, Clara went to the door, her dagger at the ready. She slowly released the board that latched it in place and pushed it open slightly. The surrounding fires were brilliant against her eyes, which had become acclimated to near darkness. Smoke rolled in, stinging her nostrils with its acrid odor, and she had to squint for any visibility through the heavy black-gray plumes.

  Reid was not there.

  Her pulse froze, and she frantically searched through the smoke, to no avail. Reid was nowhere to be seen.

  That roar…

  The memory of that barbaric howl sent a shiver down her spine.

  Not far in front of the cottage were several men laid out, their tunics declaring them English. Not Reid.

  Thanks be to God.

  But where was he?

  She closed the door, slid the thick board into place at its center and pressed her back to it.

  “Was he out there?” Fia asked in a hushed whisper.

  Clara shook her head. “I think we should—”

  A thud slammed into the door. Clara leapt, and Fia clapped her hand over her mouth and that of wee Mairi to ensure their silence, while Ian curled into a small ball with his head tucked into his knees.

  “Anyone in here?” an English voice taunted.

  An icy chill descended over Clara’s entire body. She looked to the children and motioned for them to get down. Fia shrank behind the overturned table, bringing her siblings with her. Clara eased to the side of the door, her dagger ready.

  Almost immediately, an axe blade splintered through the door, mere inches from Clara’s face.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth as little Fia had done to keep from crying out. Her heart slammed in a wild beat that threatened to pound free from her chest.

  “There’s someone in there,” another man said. “Or it wouldn’t be locked.”

  Clara drew in a long, slow breath and tried to clear her mind to assess the situation properly. The way Drake had taught her.

  There were two voices thus far, which implied only two men. One of which was clearly armed with a battle-axe. She still had seven daggers she could throw, and her aim was precise.

  But what she didn’t know was how many more Englishmen might be around them. If she opened the door and ran at them, she could kill two with little effort and escape to the woods with the bairns. However, if there were a group of men, they would have no chance.

  She looked back at the children as her mind whirled with the possibilities. The risk was so great.

  Ian peeked up, and all three small faces looked at her for guidance, their expressions struck with fear. Her heart crumpled.

  She could not risk their lives.

  The odor of smoke from outside became sharper, more pungent. It swept into the cottage in a choking puff. Clara covered her face with the sleeve of her gambeson, preferring to breathe in the musty sweat odor rather than fresh smoke.

  Fresh smoke.

  It wasn’t coming in from outside. It was coming from the roof.

  Her heart leapt into her throat.

  The cottage was on fire.

  She staggered back in surprise. Smoke rolled in as she recovered and raced to the children. The younger two had both begun to cry. Gray-black swells of smoke expanded over the ceiling until the whitewash disappeared entirely beneath a hazy cloud, which was swiftly filling the room.

  “We’re waiting for you,” came a menacing voice. Different than the other two.

  So, three at least, then.

  Overhead came the crackling and popping of flames as they devoured the thick thatch roof.

  Clara held the bairns as she visually searched the home for any other way that they might be able to escape besides the front door. It was far too easy to recall Reid’s experience with a burning cottage. If Clara and the children escaped outside, they would surely be cut down.

  The shutters on the windows were still too close to the door. By the time they would be able to climb out, the English would be upon them.

  She released the children and got to her feet. Mayhap she could open the door herself, or a shutter, see how many she could kill before being slain.

  If nothing else, it would allow the children to flee to safety.

  Though the two men charging at Reid were on horseback, he managed to stab one in the gullet and slashed the other’s thigh. Both were swiftly taken care of once they were on the same level as him.

  Having slain the men, he rose with his blade held at the ready. “Lord Rottry,” he bellowed. “I mean to avenge my family.”

  “Your family?” Though the man sneered with condescension, there was a wild look in his eye—one Reid knew well: fear.

  “Aye.” Reid strode toward the baron. All around him was the choking smoke of burning cottages, so much like his own. Only now, he wasn’t a yo
ung boy trapped in a nightmare. He was a warrior, a man stronger than his enemy, a man set on revenge. “Ye killed my da, a simple farmer who sought only to protect his family.”

  The baron’s horse anxiously pranced backward.

  “Guards,” Lord Rottry called.

  Reid waited a moment, his hand tight on his hilt. No men came.

  “My mum and brother were in the cottage with me when yer men set it alight,” Reid said, stepping closer still. “’Twas our screams that brought Da running from the field to help.”

  “I can’t be held responsible for what my guards do.” The baron looked about at the narrow alleyways on either side of him, all engulfed in flames from burning cottages. His soldiers had inadvertently blocked him with their destruction.

  “’Twas many years ago,” Reid said. “Ye were the one who gave the order for them to kill us all.”

  “And yet you still live.” Lord Rottry lifted a brow. “Apparently, my men weren’t as thorough then.” He spun about like the coward he was and snapped his reigns, encouraging his horse into a gallop to try to ride through the narrow path behind him.

  Reid pulled Clara’s dagger from his pocket, which he’d recovered from the melee and threw it. The blade caught Lord Rottry in the shoulder. While Reid’s aim was not as accurate as Clara’s would have been, it still sent the English baron tumbling to the ground all the same.

  The horse, free of its burden, raced off through the flaming alleys of the village.

  Lord Rottry groaned in agony but pushed himself to standing, his blade drawn. “How long have you spent dreaming of this moment, farmer’s whelp?”

  “Twenty years,” Reid said through his teeth.

  “You’re so tired, you’re stumbling,” the baron tsked. “You have blood darkening your padded armor, and you appear as though you’re going to tip over at any moment.” He smirked. “Do you really think you can beat me?”