“Aye, run!” Father Timothy shouted. “If ye know what’s best fer ye, ye will never come back!”
Cain glanced at him and then continued on toward a clearing in which to collapse without falling on a body—or into the marshes.
They’d won. They’d beaten the English before, but nothing like today. Cain hoped England’s King Edward was watching when King Robert brought down his battle axe on Sir Henry de Bohun’s helmeted head, striking him dead.
Cain smiled, and not for the first time that day. Robert fought like a savage and Cain was proud to call him teacher.
But hell, he was exhausted. He just wanted to rest for a wee bit.
“God has given us victory!” the priest rejoiced.
Cain shook his head and held up his axe.
“What d’ye think ’twill be like tomorrow?” Father Timothy came up beside him and asked excitedly.
“I’ll let ye know when ’tis over.”
“Come on now, Cainnech.” The priest joined him sitting in the grass.
Father Timothy never called him Cain. He claimed the weight of such a name created its own beast. Cain disagreed. Being raised in the English army, by the men who’d killed his family, had created it.
“This is it. We’re close to independence. I want to be a part of the victory.”
“Ye are already a part of it,” Cain assured him. “Ye advise the king. Who else d’ye know who can say such a thing?”
“Ye,” the priest told him. “Ye advise him, as does the king’s brother, his nephew, the—”
“All right,” Cain held up his hand. “Never mind any of it. I have a few moments to rest and ye’re interruptin’. Let me put this to ye bluntly, Father. Ye willna be joinin’ me, or any of the men on the field tomorrow. I will tie ye to a tree if I must. I willna have ye fightin’. If anythin’ were to…I consider ye my…”
“Son,” the priest said softly, taking pity on Cain’s stumbling tongue. “Tomorrow is goin’ to be an historic day. God has shown me.”
“Ye see?” Cain yawned and closed his eyes. “Historic days usually involve many dyin’.”
“We will not die, Cainnech. I must help ye find her first.”
Cain opened his eyes and looked up at his friend’s filthy face. “What are ye talkin’ aboot?” He leaned up on his tired elbows. “Her who?”
“God has not revealed her name but we must find her.”
Cain scowled at him. “Why?”
Father Timothy shrugged. “Somethin’ to do with love, I suppose.”
For a moment, Cain thought his friend was trying to be humorous. But when the priest remained sober, Cain blew out a short chuckle and shook his head. Love? Never. He wasn’t meant to love. He was born to fight, to kill. He was brought up on the battlefield, unperturbed by the blood of Englishmen drying on his skin. From a young age, he’d watched the blood of loyal Scotsmen pouring out into the dark grass. He’d wanted to fight with them, for them. It fueled the only passion left in him. To kill.
“Are ye and yer God mad?” He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes. “What place is there in the ashes fer love?”
Chapter One
Northumberland
Four years later
The wail of bagpipes dragged across the shallow strath and carried along the crisp night breeze to the battlements of Lismoor Castle.
Aleysia d’Argentan closed her eyes and pulled her cloak closer around her in an effort to drive out the cold. But it was no use. The Scots were coming. They would be here by first light.
She’d always known it was only a matter of time before Robert the Bruce sent his men to the village of Rothbury. She had forfeited her brother’s estate for not acknowledging the Bruce’s kingship. She never would, even if it meant giving up her life. Robert the Bruce and his savage army were murderers and nothing more. They killed her dear brother, Giles, at Bannockburn. She hoped they all burned in hell.
But first, they were raining terror down on most of Northern England. Most recently, they’d besieged and blockaded the town of Berwick, one of King Edward’s most strategic locations.
They’d waited like snakes in the grass for the right moment to attack Berwick Castle a pair of months ago, securing lands and villages around it while they waited, killing anyone who opposed them. They didn’t fight like civilized soldiers, and poor Edward didn’t know how to combat them.
She opened her eyes. The bagpipes had stopped. She dragged her gaze across her land. It was dark. Almost the midnight hour. To the south, she could just make out the ribbon line of the River Coquet dappled in the silvery light.
To the west, the village was bathed in moonlight, its inhabitants gone from their homes. She’d met with them all over the last several weeks to discuss her plans and to have them swear by her brother’s good name not to stay and try to fight the enemy. They were to leave that to her.
Eyes fastened on the dark land before her, she didn’t breathe off rhythm when she heard the light fall of footsteps behind her.
“Is everyone out?” she asked softly without turning.
“Yes, my lady,” a man’s voice sounded behind her. “Matilda and Miss Elizabeth left after much weeping.”
Aleysia sighed into the wind. She had wept over losing them, too. The people of Lismoor and the villagers were the only family she’d had since Giles brought her here along the English border twelve years ago from Normandy. But the time for weeping was over.
“All of the staff are gone,” the man continued.
“And the guards?”
“They have reluctantly left, my lady.”
She pried her fingers off the edge of the stone wall and turned to her dear friend and one of the six older guardsmen who’d first served her father in Normandy.
“And what are you still doing here, Sir Richard?”
He bowed his head, illuminating his crown of silver hair in the moonlight. “Forgive me, my lady, but I promised your brother I would always protect you. A few Scots will not change that.”
Oh, she would not smile at him. She must remain strong and resolute to her task. Of all her father’s knights, she loved Richard the most. But she could only do this alone. She’d been training for the last four years, and long before that when the great Sir Giles trained his men and she watched and practiced everything he taught in secret. If her friend remained behind because of her and perished, she could never live with herself.
“My dear Sir Richard,” she said, her voice imbued with the tenderness she felt for him, “we have been through this more times than either of us can count. You know my wishes. You also know that I can do this—”
“With respect, my lady, some traps set in the woods and surrounding grounds will not be enough to keep them out. I will not—”
“You forget the skill you and the others have taught me?” she cut him off. Her green eyes sparked with pride. “I am an expert archer. You said so yourself. I can protect myself with a shield and defend myself with a sword. Besides, if they manage to get inside, I have planted weapons throughout and have poisoned all the wine and grain in the kitchen.” She knew she couldn’t fight a battle with hardened warriors and win. But there were other ways to kill a man.
“Aleysia,” the old knight blurted. “I never agreed to you doing this alone! ’Tis madness! I must insist that you leave with me.”
“And give up all to them?” she asked softly while a breeze blew her dark hair across her face.
“You will have your life.”
Would she? What would she have left? She would lose everyone she loved. She would be forced to live with her cousin Geoffrey in Normandy, only to be married off in the first month.
No. This was her home. She would rather die than give up her knights, and Mattie and Elizabeth, not to mention all the villagers. No, dammit. She was master of her ship. She liked it that way. She was prepared for this, confident in her prowess and abilities. But she knew Richard wouldn’t leave her.
“Perhaps, you are correct,
” she said, looking off into the distance with a slow sigh. “What can I do alone against savages? What can any of us do? I…I do not wish to see my brother so soon.”
She sniffed and looked away, mostly to keep him from seeing the satisfaction in her eyes when he agreed in his gentlest tone.
“I knew you would come to your senses, my lady. ’Tis best. I will bring your things to the doors.”
“Thank you, and Sir Richard?” She waited while he paused to look at her. “If Giles were here, he would agree that you have taken the very best care of me.”
“I will continue to do so, my lady.”
She listened to the tapping of the knight’s boots growing fainter as he left the battlements.
She felt terrible for deceiving him, but it couldn’t be helped. She would leave Lismoor with him and find an inn where she would pay the innkeeper to lock Sir Richard in his room, or she would bar his door herself. Hopefully, by the time he found her, she would have killed their enemies—one way or another—or died trying.
Emboldened by her purpose, she looked out toward the forest, where, with the help of the villagers, she had set hundreds of deadly traps.
Let them come. She was ready. She was waiting.
Turning from the wall, she made her way back inside the keep and met Sir Richard on the stairs. She didn’t look back as she walked out of Lismoor.
She would not be gone long.
A light blanket of dew covered the ground and Aleysia’s painted, hooded face. Dawn was about to break and, with any luck, Sir Richard was still asleep in his bed, unaware that she was gone.
From her carefully plotted vantage point perched high in a tree, she could see in every direction. How many would come? How many could she possibly kill by midday? She carried thirteen arrows and her dagger. Once she cut the ropes, she wouldn’t have enough time to miss—so she wouldn’t.
She tried to remain calm, but the silence was too loud. Over the past four years, she’d prepared for everything. She’d even learned to climb trees. She hadn’t been able to train for being completely alone though. She knew she would be, but she couldn’t prepare for the haunting echoes of life around her. She hated the Scots for driving out her beloved villagers and her dear friends. She had no choice but to let them go. She would bring them all back when this was over. But she had to be quick. It had already been almost a pair of months that they had been away. Some stayed with family, others with friends. They couldn’t impose much longer.
With the thought of victory firmly emblazoned in her mind, she listened to the quiet, instead of trying to drive it out.
According to rumors from Berwick, the Scots liked to attack at first light. From the sound of their pipes last eve, they were close.
Would the Bruce send more men after she killed these? Would it ever end?
Her eyes caught sight of a flock of birds rising from the treetops not far away. Such an occurrence was not a usual sight. She tensed on her perch, slowly releasing her dagger, watching.
She waited with her heart slamming against her ribs. Listening to her breath, trying to slow it down. This was real. There was no way to practice for it. An army of Scots was coming! She couldn’t panic.
She heard the sounds of horses and underbrush being trampled.
The waking forest went still as they appeared through the trees along the winding path that led to Rothbury.
Aleysia quickly determined that there were at least twenty men. Not a large army as she had feared, but enough to make her task a challenge. Besides that, they were Highlanders, the most savage of them all. The traps had to work.
She didn’t move. It wasn’t time.
She surveyed the men, trying to determine who was the leader. It didn’t take long to find him once she spotted the priest keeping pace beside him.
A priest. She almost huffed. She should shoot that Judas first for standing with the Scots.
If she did, she was sure the man riding at his side would immediately fall into action.
Patience, Aleysia. Let the traps do their work.
She watched the one who had to be the leader. He rode at the head of the group. He was a big man, with straight, broad shoulders, clad in a gray cloak over his Highland plaid. His knees were bare and his hair was long and as dark as his Scottish soul. He exuded confidence in the subtle tilt of his shadowed chin, the straightening of his spine.
For an instant, Aleysia forgot to breathe as he set his frost-filled eyes around the forest.
Don’t look up, she prayed. She prayed also that her cloak, dyed to match the colors of the trees, was enough to conceal her if he did.
He didn’t look up but as if sensing something were amiss, he paused his mount, stopping Aleysia’s heart. The priest stopped with him. Thankfully, some of his men continued onward.
Her dagger was sharp. Just a few cuts and the first rope snapped. Aleysia smiled as it released a set of small swinging boulders with sticks sharpened at both ends tied together with rope.
She quit smiling soon enough and almost lost her morning meal when the boulders met their marks and struck two riders in their heads. It was more brutal than she ever imagined and her determination faltered. But what she’d done was necessary. She hadn’t trained for four years just to go soft over death or killing when the time came. People were depending on her. She’d promised to bring them all back when it was safe again.
The thought of her friends spurred her into action. She drew back her bow and let her arrow fly into the chaos below. She hit three men before the rest realized they were being fired upon. A shout went out and shields were raised.
She took the moment of them not moving and hiding for cover to run across the thin planks she and her friends had hammered high amid the branches, connecting one tree to another.
Cradled between two thick branches, she paused and squatted. She was ahead of them now, watching them making their way forward, slowly and cautiously.
The leader held up one hand to slow his regiment and used the other to hold up his shield. She’d have to take him down but she didn’t have a clear shot yet. Just a bit closer. He was leading them. His eyes were on the ground and everything around it.
He heard the cry of a horse as it stumbled over a hidden trap to his left. His face went dark in the filtered morning light as he turned to watch the rider launch forward from his saddle onto a bed of sharpened pikes placed in the ground.
The men around him leaped back even while their leader ordered them to be still. Aleysia wanted to put an arrow into him but he protected himself well with his shield.
She climbed away instead to another group of branches, where she had a clearer angle of which rope to cut. She picked one that freed a long, sharpened pike from another nearby tree. It swooped down and went straight through a man’s chest and carried him off his horse.
“Nobody bloody move!” the leader shouted from his horse. “I will kill the next one of ye who disobeys my order! Off yer mounts! Fall in behind me! Slowly! Eyes open!”
They all dismounted and moved into a straight line behind him, leading their horses at their sides, trusting their lives to their commander’s eyes.
Aleysia waited while he led them closer to the set of traps—closer to her, until they were once again in range.
She wanted them to believe they were the ones tripping the traps. It kept them from looking up. The leader was clever, making them dismount since most of the traps were set for the height of a mounted man. He would note if spiked boulders were flying about when his men walked in his footsteps. He’d start searching the trees.
So she let the men pass beneath her without cutting any ropes. She readied her bow and nocked an arrow, though, while the last of the soldiers were led away.
She took the last man and the soldier in front of him down quietly before anyone knew. Without waiting for them to discover that their comrades were dead, she followed the rest from her canopy as they reached the meadow of arrows. So named for the one hundred arrows nock
ed and ready to fly, ready for weeks. Was it months?
Pity that all but one of the arrows would be wasted, as they were set out across the wide field. They were meant to kill many, but because all the men traveled in a single line behind their commander, only one arrow would matter—the first one—aimed at the first in line.
The more she looked at him, the more convinced she became that he was the most dangerous, the most savagely alluring man she’d ever set eyes on. It was almost a shame that he had to die.
She shook her head to clear it of any more thoughts or judgments about him. She wanted him to die. She wanted them all to die. They weren’t taking her home, her land.
She snatched an arrow from the quiver over her back and raised her bow. She was tired of waiting. If she took away their leader, her traps would take care of the rest of them.
She pulled back on the bowstring and watched him through one eye as he turned in her direction. Her fingers trembled for an instant before she released her arrow. It flew. He moved his head an instant before the arrow went through his eye.
But not completely in time to avoid the metal tip grinding against his left cheekbone.
Aleysia’s eyes opened wide. No! How could she miss?
She went still as fury flashed across his icy blue gaze. He found her in the branches. Blood dripped down his cheek. He didn’t reach for his wound but slammed his shield to the ground and reached for his bow and arrow instead.
She pulled another arrow from her quiver and nocked it but he was faster. His arrow flew…and so did Aleysia, through the trees, over planks and thick branches, on a path she’d traveled over many times before, until she was gone.
Chapter Two
“Did ye see that?” Cain didn’t wait for anyone to reply before he moved for the trees. Had his eyes deceived him? How could a man travel through the boughs with such agility and speed? Was this some sort of sorcery? No, the bastard was real and responsible for killing nine of his men—for almost killing him. He lifted his fingers to the blood on his face.
The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection Page 83
