The Wolfe (12 page)

Her infatuation with William
dissolved as fear shot through her.
Sweet Jesu’
, she had been so caught
up with the captain that she hadn’t grasped the severity of the situation.

“What is happening?” she demanded
warily.

William reined his huge horse beside
Jason. He still had yet to even look at her.

“I want you to take Lady Jordan and
ride for hell to Northwood,” he ordered the young knight . “We shall try to buy
you enough time to reach safety.”

“Are they Scots?” Jordan asked
loudly so that he would have to respond. “Then mayhap I know them. One word
from me will send them away.”

He turned to her, his face obscured
by the helmet. “My lady, there are near six hundred of them, twice the rank I
carry. They have crossed the English border after us and I doubt one word from
you would send them away.”

She looked at him a long moment and
he saw her face go pale. “Are they bearing Scott tartan?” she whispered in a
strangled voice.

“Aye,” he said, spurring his horse
after his men.

Jordan’s breath caught in her
throat. She ran hot and cold with the knowledge that her father had betrayed
her.
Sweet Jesu’
, was it possible? She had always known her father to be
lust and fair, and simply could not comprehend that the man had gone back on
his word. It wasn’t true.

Her mind was reeling with disbelief.
It was a horrible, vicious mistake on William’s part. Mayhap it only looked
like Scott tartan to the untrained eye. But even as she thought that, she knew
it was impossible; William had been fighting the border wars long enough to
know the difference.

Her heart broke into a hundred
pieces. But she would not truly believe it until she saw it for herself, she
had to see it for herself.

If the worst were true, then she was
no longer a peace offering but an enemy captive. She would certainly spend the
rest of her life locked up in the tower, forgotten and hated. She had to find a
way to get away from the knight that held her and join the battle for two
reasons - to see if it was indeed her father’s army and, if so, to join them to
save her own life.

Sadly she knew that if it were true,
if it were her father’s army, then she would lose a great deal of respect for him.
To live at Northwood as a prisoner or at Langton in shame was not much of a
choice.

But she had to know. Her mind began
to form a plan borne from desperation. A thought occurred to her; she was a
woman, wasn’t she? Weren’t they said to have irresistible wiles?

Her eyes narrowed cunningly and she
stealthily removed a soft kerchief from inside her cloak and, as casually as
she could muster, let it fall to the ground.

“Sir knight,” she said sweetly. “I
seemed to have dropped my handkerchief. Would ye be good enough to retrieve it
for me?”

Jason seemed to take delight in
touching her inappropriately. His hands were on her waist, her hips, and her
buttocks as she sat against him. In fact, he caressed her buttocks rather
provocatively and she was disgusted, horribly unnerved.  When he tried to grab
her right breast, she clamped an arm down and thwarted his attempt.  Laughing
low in his throat, he slid off the destrier and bent down to pick up the kerchief.

His backside was turned up to her
and the opportunity was too good to waste. Planting her foot against the armor,
she pushed as hard as she could. Jason, weighted down by a hundred pounds of
armor, went rolling with the momentum.

Digging her heels into the destrier
as hard as she could, Jordan reigned the animal in the direction the army had
taken and prayed she could control the massive animal long enough to reach it safely.
She had to know.

The horse had pounded out nearly two
miles when she began to hear the unmistakable sounds of a battle. Screaming,
yelling, and clanging of metal on metal floated on the still-thick air. Jordan
paused, trying to follow the sounds. Her face was pinched from the exertion and
the cold air and her hair was kinking up in the damp mist, sticking to her
face, but she ignored it. Kicking the horse in the ribs, she reined it back
into the woods. The sounds were definitely emanating from in there.

She broke from the road and through
a bank of trees, racing through the dense forest before coming through the
other side and into a clearing. Her heart was pounding wildly from fear as she
yanked the snorting animal to a halt, taking moment to survey the scene.

The fog partially shrouded the armies,
making them appear like ghostly figures. She could see very little except for a
select few men sword fighting. With sweaty palms, she steered the animal along
the edge of the trees, making her way north to where she thought the Scott
skirmish lines might be. If her father were here, she had to find him.

There were a few fighting soldiers
near her; she strained to get a good look at them in the mist and saw that,
indeed, a couple were wearing Scott tartan. She felt bile rising in her throat;
Sweet Jesu’
, was it true, then? Was her father a liar? She felt sick,
wishing she could turn the horse and ride as far as it would take her until
they both tumbled into the sea and she was free from her misery. But not before
she told her father what she thought of him. All of his cursed talk of honor.

The horse was snorting and dancing
furiously. Like any good warhorse, he heard the battle and wanted to be in the
middle of it. It wasn’t too much longer before he pitched her off and went
charging headlong into the fog.

Jordan picked herself off the wet
earth and muttered a silent curse at the daft animal. She continued along her
original path, her cloth shoes quickly becoming soaked from the wet grass. She
was so distraught that she did not notice she had lost feeling in her toes.

Suddenly, she caught a glimpse that
sent her head to spinning - McKenna hunting tartan. She was more puzzled than
ever. The McKenna were not allies of the Scott’s. In fact, they were fairly
close to being an enemy. What on earth was going on here? She knew for a fact
that her father would have never sought out the McKenna for their assistance.
Or maybe he did. She didn’t know anything for sure anymore.

The sun filtered through the mist
and revealed the battle as if a curtain had suddenly been lifted. It was much
larger than Jordan had thought and she was frightened anew as she viewed the
unfurling scene.

Clinging to the trees, she picked
her way along the perimeter, trying to recognize any of the Scot soldiers. Her
despondency was growing as she saw that she could recognize no one, yet they
were fighting in her tartan.
Her
tartan. Who were these men?

Confused, she grasped hold of a Scot
pine as if it could keep her from collapsing to the ground in a heap. Her gaze
was desperate as she watched the battle unfold before her. Far off to her right
she caught sight of one of William’s knights cutting a man in two. From the
sheer size, she guessed him to be Sir Kieran.

Glints from armor reflected in the
rapidly brightening sunlight, catching her attention. She could pick out more
knights now, most on horseback, a couple on foot. She wanted to find at least
one of them, to tell them she had no idea who these soldiers were, but they
were too far away and she knew it would be foolish to leave the safety of the
trees. She had to get a message to William so that he would not think her family
was dishonorable.

And then, suddenly, he was there.

William sat atop his great warhorse,
partially shrouded by the fog, wielding his sword like the archangel Gabriel.
She watched, horrified and fascinated, as he fought effortlessly, dispatching
enemy soldiers like untried boys. It almost appeared as if he were toying with
them, but the force by which men were sent to the ground was evidence of the
pure power from William’s sword.

He was a phantom warrior sent from
the bowels of hell. His battle armor gave him a gargoyle-like appearance
through the haze. Many an enemy would engage him, sparks flying as metal
crashed upon metal with bone-jarring force, yet he would cut down one man
easily and move on to the next.

One opposing soldier came up on his
blind side, lashing out with his huge sword. Jordan’s hand flew to her mouth;
she was sure the man would make contact. Instead, she saw William bend forward just
enough for the sword to miss before answering with a back-handed parry that
caught the man in the back of the neck, bringing instant death.

Her mouth hung open, agape. William
would have had to have had eyes in the back of his skull to have landed a blow
like that.

Jordan had seen battles before, but
never in her life had she seen a soldier that moved with such grace and such
strength. The more she watched, the more she realized that he was almost moving
casually, as if he were completely at ease with what he was doing.

Half the time he kept his shield
lowered; he was so skilled that it was almost an unnecessary piece of
equipment.

William was deliberate in his
fighting. He seemed to have eyes and ears all over his person, for there was
not a man who could sneak up on him unnoticed. He set a pattern, making sure he
threw his enemy off-balance before delivering a quick, final blow. It was
simple strategy that took little time if executed right. Even his destrier was
a fighting machine; all hooves and teeth. Even though the man and his animal
were fighting separately, they moved as one. Never once did William jostle in
the saddle.

Jordan began to watch William
through new eyes. She knew him to be powerful and respected, but now she
actually knew why. A slow smile spread across her lips; he was absolutely
magnificent.

As she continued to watch, he began
to fight a man with a strange, spiky metal staff who was nearly as tall as he
was from where he sat on his horse. William was laying blow after powerful blow
on the upheld staff but was making no headway. It was like striking a tree.

Suddenly, the enemy swung the great
staff sideways and caught William in the back. He teetered for a moment but
regained his balance. Meanwhile, the giant had landed two more shattering blows
to William’s back and was making it near impossible for him to fully regain his
seat.

Panic surged through Jordan like
nothing she had ever experienced. She wildly thought to run to him and attack
the giant from behind, just enough to distract the man so that William could
kill him. But she wasn’t near large or strong enough. She continued to watch in
mounting horror as the huge enemy pounded William with his massive staff.

Then, for a few moments, William
appeared to gain the upper hand, deftly fending off the smashing blows while
landing one good enough to send blood spurting. Jordan almost relaxed until the
giant unexpectedly brought up his staff and caught William square in the head,
powerful enough to send his helmet spinning into the air.

Jordan screamed at the top of her
lungs, loud and shrill. She was convinced that she had just seen William
beheaded and her hands flew to her face as if she could block out the visual
impression. But in her mind’s eye it was as real as rain. She began to weep
uncontrollably, horrified at what she had just witnessed.

She was so grief-stricken that she
didn’t hear the shouts from the knights, informing each other that, somehow,
Lady Jordan was on the outskirts of the battlefield. Inevitably, each one of
them began to fight their way toward her.

But William was far from dead. The
blow knocked him backwards on his horse and even as dazed as he was, he managed
to bring his sword around and drive it sideways into the giant’s ribs as easily
as slicing mutton.

But he had heard the scream and the
shouts from Kieran and Michael, knowing it was Jordan who had emitted such a
terrifying shriek. God be damned. He had ordered her to Northwood; what in the
bloody hell was she doing here, in the middle of a battle? He was going to take
her over his knee when he caught up to her and….

Oh, God… she was here in a battle.

Angry as hell and scared to death
for her safety, he managed to halfway right himself in the saddle. Twisting his
spinning head, he could see her over by the trees. Fear surged through him like
a hurricane.

“Jordan.” he bellowed.

Her hands flew off her face in
stunned disbelief. “William.” she screamed.

He was trying without much success
to regain his balance; his head weighed a hundred pounds. He had to get to her
with an urgency he had never known before. Behind him, a destrier blew past
with a rush and headed straight for her. Without even looking up he knew it was
Paris; he recognized the animal’s legs.

Jordan was fixed on William as if he
were the only man on earth and failed to notice Paris as he bore down upon her.
Like an avenging angel, he swept her into his arms and rode madly for the
woods, the road, and beyond.

CHAPTER NINE

The battle was over for the moment.
Malcolm was only glad that the English had not taken any captives because the
McKenna soldiers were a stupid lot and it would not take much for one, or all
of them, to spill the truth. But it was a chance Malcolm and Dunbar had been
willing to risk for the opportunity that was at stake.