Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (24 page)

The reports of the enemy’s strength gave Holden pause. Strategically, all was in the Scots’ favor. They vastly outnumbered the English. This was their soil, and it was a well-known fact that soldiers fought better in defense of their own land. To add to the challenge, Holden had to watch for betrayal in his own ranks.

Holden slowly tilted his sword’s hilt till it reflected a band of moonlight onto a spider’s web stretched between blades of grass. So precariously the thing hung, frail and fleeting, an intricate work of weaving suspended by a single thread.

Thus was Holden’s world.

He believed Cambria now, or at least believed that she believed. But he could do nothing about it. He couldn’t openly accuse his own knight…yet. Holden wouldn’t burden the king on the eve of a great battle with trivial wrongs he could right himself at a more suitable time. He did intend to right them. But at present there was no substantial proof of Owen’s crime other than Cambria’s word, and Holden had to be absolutely certain of his man’s guilt before he raised the hand of justice. It could be that Owen’s actions today might serve to tighten the noose around his own neck. After all, the best way to catch a fox with blood on its paws, to make sure it would never kill again, was to keep a close watch on the dovecote.

In the meantime, he had to keep Owen away from the king. One rumor from the bastard’s lying lips accusing Holden’s new bride of Roger’s murder could destroy everything he’d labored for at Blackhaugh.

So Holden walked that fragile web and, like the vigilant spider sitting in its midst, acted as the keeper of the delicate balance.

The night had ripened to the color of a plump fig by the time Holden sheathed his sword and sought out his pallet with a branch lit by the last coals of the fire. Cambria had gone to bed hours before, and when he heard her slow, even breathing beneath the coverlet, he felt a twinge of regret that she wasn’t awake. He’d treated her callously the past night, and he wished to make amends. He would have liked to speak to her about the battle to come or have her fuss over his chain mail. He would have liked to give her a chaste kiss good night. He smiled ruefully. It wasn’t so bad possessing a wife.

As he began to undress, he heard her breathing change. She whimpered softly, twitching in her sleep with some fearful dream. He held his makeshift candle close. Her brow was troubled, and she murmured in the cryptic language only dreams can decipher. He wondered if he should wake her.

Cambria still saw them, even when she buried her head in her hands. Their anguish seeped through her fingers, through her eyelids, infesting her mind. The dying, too numerous to count, covered the hills, pleading in agony, their stiffening limbs welcoming death’s claw, their glazed eyes staring, staring…

Someone called her name. She turned toward the voice. Before her stood her father—living, breathing, a paradox amidst the expanse of spreading death. With a cry of joy, she stepped forward to go to him. But before she could take a second step, a great wolf appeared at Laird Angus’s flank, a wolf with paws as large as a man’s head and green eyes as chilling as a winter loch.

Without a second thought, she swung her bow from off her shoulder and nocked an arrow into place, aiming for the beast’s heart. But her father held up his hand to ward her off, and she hesitated. In that instant, a shrouded figure like an enormous dark raven swooped between them, and before she could cry out, drove a bladed talon into the laird’s chest. He fell silently to the ground.

The wolf ambled to the laird’s side, sniffed at the motionless body, then raised his head and let out a mournful cry. Cambria clapped her hands to her ears and began to tremble uncontrollably. Soon her own piteous cry joined the call of the wolf, rising on the air like a bagpipe’s lament.

Then someone was shaking her, shouting at her, words muffled and distant. The thick fog of dreams dispersed only gradually, and she flinched as the light of a single flame burned away the last vestiges of the nightmare.

The Wolf looked down upon her, his face clouded with concern. He turned her chin toward him, commanding her attention.

“What is it, Cambria?” he demanded. “Are you in pain?”

She stared up at her husband, his face made demonic by the shifting shadows.

“Blood,” she breathed. “So much blood. My father—

“Shh. It’s all right. You’ve only had—“

“And the screams—“

“A dream, Cambria,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair back from her brow.

“There was a wolf…fierce…terrible…” She shuddered. The wolf had had Holden’s eyes, and yet…

“Shh. You’re safe now.”

She frowned. “It wasn’t the wolf.”

“It was only a dream.”

“Nay. Nay. It was more than that.” She searched his eyes, seeking some glimmer of treachery, but finding only the truth. “It wasn’t the wolf who killed my father. The wolf meant to
save
him.”

Holden stroked her forehead, his callused fingers curiously comforting. She’d veiled Holden with a pall of blame since the beginning, but now she saw him with fresh eyes.

“You meant to
save
him,” she said, and the words were like an enchantment, dispelling the last threads of the dark shroud surrounding her husband, revealing a man who was a stranger to her, a man who was at once both thrilling and terrifying.

Holden jammed the point of his sword into the ground to make the shape of the cross. He knelt in the dust, clasping his hands before him, and watched for a moment as the sun struggled up over the distant hill. His knights were up early as well, honing swords, donning armor, and quietly reviewing their battle plans.

Holden had never felt so reluctant to go to war.

He wasn’t afraid. Fear wasn’t in his arsenal. Aye, the Scots outnumbered them, but he was confident the English would win. What most concerned him was the cost of the battle.

Contrary to what most believed of the Wolf, as much as he loved fighting, he had little affection for war. War cut down too many youths scarcely grown into their mail and too many old warriors with strong arms but failing sight. He was weary of killing. And, for the first time in his life, he was lucidly aware of his own mortality.

That awareness startled him. He’d never valued his life all that much. He was a second son. War was his occupation. He’d thought little of his fate, only bedded whomever was convenient, ate the meat of fresh kill, and battled another man’s enemies when he was told.

Now he was a lord in his own right. He had a wife and the promise of a future. He needed to survive this battle and all the battles to come, not for Edward, not even for the illustrious name of de Ware, but for the sake of the irritating little Scots sprite he couldn’t banish from his thoughts.

Damn it all, he wanted to make love to Cambria, true love. What he’d seen in her eyes last night after the dream—the softening, the acceptance—he wanted to see that again. He’d melted inside when she’d looked at him like that. Winning her heart had felt more glorious than any victory he’d won on the battlefield.

Now he needed to make restitution for the wretched way he’d courted her, to show her the chivalrous side of the Wolf, to woo her gently, as she deserved. And, with a fervor that made him tremble, he realized he wanted to make children with her. How his brother Duncan would laugh at that, the idea that the Wolf might wish to be tethered by a family.

But it was true, and by God, he couldn’t let Edward’s skirmish take that away from him.

He closed his eyes, praying for a quick end to the battle. Then he made the sign of the cross and kissed the pommel of his sword. The sun was up. It was time to face the enemy.

Cambria checked the dagger tucked into her belt for the tenth time. She supposed her bow and arrows would have to wait until the battle was underway, since she couldn’t let Holden catch her with weapons.

He’d clap her in irons if he knew how she disobeyed him. But she had to do everything in her power to protect him, even if it was against his will. After all, he was the overlord of Blackhaugh. He was the guardian of her clan. And, she thought, her heart skipping a beat as she recalled the tenderness and comfort he’d shown her last night, he was her husband.

For a long while she’d fought a growing admiration for the Wolf, for his strength, his fairness, his diplomacy. She’d denied an increasing attraction to the man who could put a catch in her breath with a coy wink, a crooked smile, or the nervous clench of his fist, all because she believed him guilty of her father’s murder. Now her spirit, relieved of that shadow, felt as light as thistledown.

There was no question of loyalty now. She’d do everything in her power to preserve the life of Holden de Ware.

She’d never seen him so serious, so focused as he looked now. No wonder the man had never lost a battle. He exuded and inspired confidence in his knights, organizing them skillfully into an efficient, precise fighting force. However, she also knew this single-minded drive might well be his undoing. His quest for victory in battle might well leave him inattentive to dangers from within the ranks. She’d warned him, but she suspected he’d taken the warning lightly, for Owen still moved freely about. And now the mad, distracted gaze in Owen’s eyes had returned, boding ill.

Somewhere up ahead, Halidon Hill, the last rise before Berwick, awaited in dew-covered innocence. As the company rode forward, a thrumming began in Cambria’s body, a thrill of eager restlessness. She’d never witnessed a full-scale battle, only the melees arranged at tournaments as entertainments and the frequent cattle raids that were more mischief than bloodsport. Her stomach churned with nervous excitement.

At long last, near the edge of the dense forest, Holden raised a hand to stop their progress. In the distance, crossing the field like a wash of wind rustling the heather, waved the plaids of a thousand Scotsmen.

The Scots hadn’t waited at Berwick for the invaders to lay siege. They’d surprised their attackers, marching boldly across Halidon Hill to greet the English with swords.

Holden cursed, and then began shouting urgent commands, rousing his men to action. Swiftly, they lined up along the rise—archers at the fore, foot soldiers following, mounted knights behind. Between the opposing hillsides dipped marshy grassland. The horses wouldn’t be of much use on the slippery ground.

While the servants retreated to the woods to prepare litters for the wounded, Cambria retrieved her weapons and furtively followed the men-at-arms. She crept to a place amid the pines where the oxen were tethered. This position gave her a clear view of the battlefield, as well as concealing her. From the trees, she could see the distant Scots forming a schiltron upon the opposing hill, the oval ring of spears looking impenetrable. Fear dried her mouth. There were clearly far more of them than English soldiers.

Holden clucked to his steed, moving to the fore of his knights. Settling his helm into place over his head, he turned and waited for the king’s sign.

An eerie silence fell over the land. Only an occasional sparrow’s chirp or the buzz of an insect intruded upon the stillness. A lone bagpipe from the opposite hill began its mournful wail, a Siren to be resisted as Cambria’s heart was drawn to its familiar call. In unison, the Scots rebels began to advance, their subdued plaids flapping like a single flag of heather patchwork. The English, less eager to leave their high vantage point, held their place with the archers at the fore.

All the pride of Robert the Bruce and all the pain of long-suffered oppression echoed in the plaintive cry of the pipes as the schiltron approached like a great spiny beast. The boasting voices of Scots soldiers could be heard as they neared, goading one another to a quicker pace, a fiercer aggression, growing louder and louder until they were a rumbling across the field. Then, incited by zealous chieftains into recklessness, they rushed headlong onto the marshland.

Cambria gasped in disbelief. It was a foolhardy advance. Anyone could see that. The Scots had made themselves easy targets for the English archers, who fired over the front line of their schiltron and rained shafts down onto the men behind. One by one, the Scots fell under the storm of arrows, writhing and screaming with pain as they were struck. Still the beast relentlessly, futilely, advanced.

Cambria felt sick as she watched the inevitable slaughter of her countrymen. Nothing could have prepared her for the horrifying spectacle. Hundreds of fine young Scots were slain in the first terrible moments, while there seemed to be no casualties at all among the English.

Holden scowled, unable to fathom what he was seeing. If the Scots’ first move was irresponsible, their second strategy was sheer lunacy. The remaining rebels began to ascend the hill held by the English. They apparently thought to intimidate the English with their bravado, but they did nothing but walk into the weapons of the enemy. He was disgusted by their rashness, aghast at the needless sacrifice of human lives.

The Scots who managed to survive the archers were easily dispatched by the foot soldiers and men-at-arms wielding axe, mace, and sword. In fact, Holden did little actual fighting himself, as the mounted knights were the last line of defense.

The battle was a massacre. The proud Scots refused to surrender. Within moments there were less than half of them left fighting the English.

Cambria dug her fingernails into the pine bark, so stunned by the dreadful carnage that she almost overlooked Owen’s furtive movement toward Lord Holden.

Holden and Guy had dismounted and were embroiled in combat with two desperate rebels. Guy had slain one of them and mortally wounded the other. Just as Holden claimed the soldier’s life with a merciful blow of his broadsword, Owen moved forward, dagger drawn. In that instant, Cambria stepped from the shelter of the trees and fitted an arrow to her bow.

She held her breath. She’d never slain a man, but she couldn’t stand by and watch Holden fall to this traitor’s blade. As Owen drew back his arm to strike, she aimed for his evil heart, pulled the bowstring back hard, and sent the shaft flying.