The minutes tolled slowly. Kenneth could see the anxiousness on the faces of the men around him as they waited for the first sounds. The familiar battle scent of fear laced with anticipation hung in the air.
Finally, a fierce battle cry tore through the night, and a moment later, there was the answering clash of steel. Felton sprang from his position on the opposite side of Percy and began barking commands. His men took off in all directions, fanning around the attack to cut off all means of escape.
Kenneth, Percy, and Felton approached slowly, taking care not to alert Bruce’s man of their presence.
Percy’s men were good, he’d give them that. For Englishmen they were doing a damned find job of imitating Bruce’s “furtive” methods. If this had been a real attack, the Highland Guard might have been in trouble.
But his friends knew what was coming, and they’d be ready.
Finally, Kenneth and the English reached a turn in the road where they could see the battle. About a hundred feet ahead of them, pandemonium reigned. Swords, pikes, axes, hammers—a symphony of weaponry flashed like a lightning storm in the night air before them. If he hadn’t known better, the sight of Bruce’s “phantoms” would have taken him aback as well. Wrapped in dark plaids, with their blackened faces, helms, mail coifs, and cotuns, the Highland Guard did indeed look like wraiths, flying through the night air in a whirl of death and destruction. He noticed more than one man startle beside him.
“They’re only men,” Percy reminded them softly, but there might have been a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Then he stood, brandishing his sword about his head. “For England!” he shouted, leading the charge.
Only Kenneth hesitated. He looked around to where Felton had instructed the young earl to remain, protected by a half-dozen soldiers who would prevent the Guard from escaping to the south. “Remember,” he warned the lad. “Stay back, and out of the way.”
Wide-eyed, transfixed by his first glimpse of battle, David nodded.
Kenneth raced forward, taking his position on the east flank where Percy was shouting out his commands. The Highland Guard had already fought their way through the first line of defense—the soldiers protecting the cart—and Percy was ordering the outer line forward, tightening the noose.
The plan was for the Highland Guard to create a hole in the defense and slip through before the English were in position. It should have been simple enough. With Percy’s remaining men spread all around, the eight guardsmen could easily defeat the dozen or so closest men and slip into the cover of darkness.
But something was wrong. The Guard was taking too long.
It took Kenneth a minute to realize that one of the Guard had been injured—Seton, maybe?—it was too dark to tell. The guardsman nearest him—this one he had no problem recognizing, Boyd’s powerful form being impossible to mistake—was locked in battle with three of Felton’s men and couldn’t break free of them. MacKay was trying to make his way over to help them, but Felton had seen what was happening and ordered a handful of his men to stop him.
Unfortunately, Seton—he was sure it was he now—Boyd, and MacKay were on the opposite side of the road from the rest of the Guard, and the time for creating that hole was quickly disappearing. The noose was tightening and would become harder and harder to break through.
Timing was everything, and they were losing it. Kenneth was trying to think of a way to help without making it obvious, but his own position on the outer line beside Percy hampered him.
Then things went from bad to worse. Improvising, the Guard decided to make two holes. MacGregor, Campbell, MacLean, and Lamont broke through the line in the northwest and escaped along the planned route through the high pass. MacKay, Boyd, and Seton would take the backup route along the river. Splitting up made sense. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that between the three guardsmen and escape was the young Earl of Atholl.
Would they be able to tell in the darkness it was only a lad? The boy was tall already, and with his mail and helm …
Ah hell.
“Get back!” Kenneth shouted, but the boy was too far away and the din of battle too loud for him to hear the warning.
Realizing the danger, Felton had moved his men around to protect the boy. The added men were making it harder for the three guardsmen to break through and giving Percy the delay he needed.
“Don’t let them escape!” Percy shouted, ordering the rest of his men to circle around from behind.
MacKay, Boyd, and the wounded Seton were fighting their way forward, but they needed to hurry up. The rest of the army was closing in fast. They only had a handful of seconds to get away.
One by one, they cut through the men standing before the boy. The earl was trying to back up, but he wasn’t moving away fast enough. Felton was doing his best to fend off MacKay, but the others were no match for Boyd, and even an injured Seton.
Finally, they had their hole. Seton and Boyd slipped through and headed for the edge of the hillside.
“Stop them, Felton!” Percy shouted. “They’re getting away!”
Percy’s champion was good, but MacKay was better. He feigned a swing of his sword from the right, but at the last minute dropped his hands, spun, and delivered a blow from the opposite side, sending Felton careening to the ground on his arse.
Kenneth didn’t have time to enjoy the moment, however. MacKay was past Felton and headed for the others when he saw the lad—except he didn’t know it was a lad. He thought he was just one more soldier in his way.
Kenneth was almost there.
MacKay lifted his sword.
“Nayyyy!” Kenneth shouted, leaping through the air, his own sword raised to block the blow meant for David.
His gaze met MacKay’s shocked one as their swords clashed right before the terrified boy’s face. Unfortunately, due to the angle and the fact that Kenneth was flying through the air, the swords did not meet squarely, and the blade of MacKay’s two-handed long sword skidded sharply off the blade and into Kenneth’s arm.
The shot of pain and hot pulse of blood told him the powerful slice of MacKay’s blade had found a narrow gap between the sleeve of his habergeon and gauntlet and penetrated the padding underneath to find flesh. Quite a bit of flesh, he suspected, feeling the amount of blood seeping through as he tried to staunch it with his gauntleted hand.
Kenneth hoped he was the only one to hear his brother-in-law swear and mutter a hasty apology in Gaelic before disappearing into the darkness.
Moments later, Kenneth heard a splash below and knew his friends were safe.
Not surprisingly, not one of the Englishmen attempted to jump off the cliff to go after them.
Thirteen
For the better part of two days, Mary had plenty of time to consider what she should do. With Sir Adam in constant attendance to the Earl of Cornwall and Davey having accompanied Lord Percy, Sir John, and—to her surprise—Sir Kenneth on some last-minute journey to Roxburgh (at least she thought it was Roxburgh, though Sir Adam had been unusually vague), she’d been left largely to herself.
Although she was certainly eager to avoid Sir Kenneth, and truth be told Sir John as well, she wanted to tell Sir Adam and Davey of her plans to return to Ponteland as soon as possible.
Her chest squeezed at the thought of leaving so soon after arriving. It wasn’t fair. She’d just begun to make inroads with her son, just started to get to know him, and he had to show up and ruin everything.
Mary’s first instinct had been to toss a few items in a bag that night and find the nearest ship to take her to France. But once the initial shock of seeing Kenneth Sutherland in all his too-handsome glory in England had passed, she’d calmed down. Well, at least enough not to run to the stables and jump on the first horse.
There was no reason to be scared, she told herself. No reason to overreact or do anything rash. Perhaps he did not mean to stay long?
But Mary knew that even a few days was too much to risk. She would return to Ponteland on the prete
xt of attending to a matter with the estate and return to Berwick and Davey as soon as she was able. As soon as he was gone.
After that …
Her chest squeezed again.
After that, she would see.
Her hands instinctively went to her stomach. She would do whatever she had to do to protect her unborn child.
The child she hadn’t planned for.
The child she’d never allowed herself to think was possible.
The child that for one moment she hadn’t wanted. What would she do? She wasn’t married. The babe would be branded a bastard and she a whore.
But those few moments of fear had faded quickly and joy had set in. Joy that permeated every bone, every fiber of her being. Joy at the miracle she’d been given. A baby. A second chance to be a mother. In the face of such a gift, no matter how illicitly given, everything else had seemed secondary.
Mary may not have been able to prevent them from taking her first child, but this one would be different.
She did not delude herself that it would be easy, nor did she minimize the difficulties that needed to be overcome, but she was determined to do whatever was needed to keep her child.
It would not be the first time a woman had given birth out of the bonds of wedlock. As long as she was careful, as long as there was a pretext to believe in, they might whisper and wonder, but what else could they do?
France was to be her pretext. It was somewhere she could retire beyond the eyes of Edward’s court. The child would be a foundling she’d brought back to England with her.
Some might suspect the truth, but Lady Mary of Mar, the widowed Countess of Atholl, in the far, war-torn north—far away from London—was hardly likely to provoke much gossip. She’d been ostracized before when it had been no fault of her own, so she could withstand anything for her child.
There was an added benefit to her plan. As a foundling, the child would be beneath the scrutiny of any king, English or Scot. The babe would be hers. No one could take it away.
Except for one person.
The chill that hadn’t left her bones since the moment she’d seen him standing in the Hall made her shiver. If Sir Kenneth discovered the truth, he could threaten everything. Perhaps he wouldn’t care—God knows he might have fathered hundreds of bastards, given his reputation—but something warned her differently. There was more to her “perfect man for sin” than she’d initially thought.
She’d never considered telling him. With him in Scotland loyal to Bruce, what was the point? But now that he was here …
Nay. She shook off the thought. It was too late. The child didn’t change anything. “What does that have to do with us?” She couldn’t go through that again. Sir Kenneth was still too much like her husband, and—she thought of the silly pang that had tightened in her chest when she’d seen him—she was still too much the girl who would let him break her heart.
But it was going to be hard to leave Davey. She’d also hoped to have a chance to extend the search for her sister to Berwick-upon-Tweed. She consoled herself that it would not be for long. Davey would be too busy with his duties to Lord Percy to miss her, and Janet …
Her sister could be anywhere. Even in France.
Mary was walking back to her chamber after breaking her fast when she learned that Percy and the others had returned. But when she asked one of the other squires where she could find Davey, the lad said that he’d gone to Sir Adam’s chamber with the doctor. In a burst of panic, Mary raced across the courtyard to the Constable’s Tower, which housed many of the higher-ranking noblemen.
Although a royal castle, Berwick was primarily used as an administration center and garrison. But with the call to arms, the important border castle that had already seen more than its share of war could hold only a small portion of the three thousand knights, men-at-arms, and servants who were expected to heed the king’s call to muster. It was, she suspected, an indication of Sir Adam’s favor that she had been given a room in the massive donjon tower with her attendants and a few of the other ladies.
By the time she’d climbed the three levels of stairs to Sir Adam’s chamber, she was gasping for breath. Not bothering to knock, she opened the door. “Davey, are you all—”
She froze. Three faces turned toward her. Davey, an older man who she assumed was the doctor, and the very last man she wanted to see: Sir Kenneth Sutherland.
—right? she finished the thought. But it was clear Davey was fine. He was standing to the side as the doctor finished wrapping a piece of cloth around Sir Kenneth’s forearm. He was the one who was injured, not her son.
Realizing they were all still staring at her, heat rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I heard a physician had been sent for, and I thought it was for Davey.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” her son said, embarrassed.
She smiled at him tenderly. “I can see that.”
Her gaze turned to Sir Kenneth, although she was careful not to let it linger as he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Memories of that tanned, muscular chest haunted her, and she feared her face would show every one of her sinful dreams. Good God, he was even more powerfully muscled than before! What had he been doing, lifting rocks the whole time?
She quickly shifted her gaze, her mouth dry. “I hope it is not serious?”
“As I was assuring your son, I’m fine. Isn’t that right, Welford?”
The older man frowned, two darts of blue narrowing under bushy white brows. “As long as it does not fester. The barber seems to have been adept with his iron.” The disdain in his voice gave the impression that this was not always the case. “It has stopped the bleeding at least for now. But it was a wide, deep gash, and I may need to seal it again.”
Mary shuddered, thinking of the pain of a hot iron seared across an open wound.
Kenneth waved him off and shrugged a linen shirt over his head, enabling Mary to breathe again. “It will be fine.”
The physician had obviously dealt with stubborn, too-tough warriors before. He gathered his belongings and started toward the door. “If it hurts, there is a medicine I can—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I know, I know, it will not hurt.” He muttered something under his breath as he left, shutting the door behind him.
Mary was tempted to go after him, but not without her son. What was he doing in here, anyway? And how had Sir Kenneth been injured? “Davey, perhaps we should leave Sir Kenneth to see to his injury. I’m anxious to hear about your journey to Roxburgh.”
He gave her an odd look. “We didn’t go to Roxburgh. We went to the Ettrick Forest to catch Bruce’s phantoms.”
For the second time that morning, the color drained from Mary’s face. “You what?”
Not realizing the state of panic he’d thrown her in, Davey went on. “Hell’s gates, it was something! We almost had them, thanks to Sir Kenneth.” He shook his head in boyish amazement. “I’ve never seen men fight like that. At least I think they were men. It was difficult to tell, until the one got close enough when he came at me with his sword.”
Mary was grateful that the edge of the bed was so near, because her legs suddenly didn’t feel strong enough to hold her. She sank onto the soft mattress, grabbing one of the four wooden posts to steady herself.
Davey was oblivious and opened his mouth to continue, but Sir Kenneth cut him off. “You’re frightening your mother, lad. Perhaps you might share your stories with your fellow squires instead?”
The boy’s eyes lit up with excitement. It was obvious that the prospect of telling battle stories to an appreciative audience was too tempting to resist. “If you are sure you don’t need anything?” It was Mary’s turn to frown. Why was Davey being so attentive to Sir Kenneth? “Do you need help with your armor?” he asked.
“I don’t think I will be wearing armor for a while, but I’m sure your mother can get me anything I need.” Mary shot him a glare, not mistaking the innuendo. “Go,” he said to Davey. “I’ll see you in the yard in a few minutes.”
&
nbsp; Davey raced by her but she stopped him. “Wait,” she said, catching him by the arm. She reached out and gently smoothed his hair back from his face. She gave him a tender smile. “You have a smudge on your brow.” She tried to wipe it away with her thumb.
For a moment, he seemed to sink into the caress, enjoying the motherly contact. But then he startled and twisted his head away. “Don’t!” He cast a mortified glance to Kenneth. “It’s nothing.”
Before she could think how to respond, he darted out of the room.
The rejection, though understandable, stung. Thirteen-year-old boys didn’t need their faces wiped by their mother. No matter how desperately she longed to go back to recapture his lost childhood, she could not.
Not with Davey at least.
“When I was his age, everything my parents did was embarrassing to me—especially my mother. Now I’d give anything to have her fussing over me.”
Mary stiffened, not realizing how carefully he’d been watching her—or how much her expression must have given away. Embarrassed and yet strangely moved by his effort to soothe her. “She died?”
He nodded. “Some years back.”
Not liking the moment of connection—or perhaps liking it too much—she changed the subject to the one that had been bothering her. “Why are you here in Sir Adam’s chambers, and why was Davey with you?”
He reached for a black leather surcote that had been tossed on the back of the wooden chair and started the somewhat tricky proposition of putting it on with a bandaged arm. She resisted the urge to offer to help, knowing she shouldn’t get too close to him.
She thought he might be avoiding her question, but finally he said, “I’m staying with Sir Adam and the boy offered to help.” He arched a brow speculatively. “I could ask the same of you.”
She blushed, knowing he had a point. She shouldn’t have come to Sir Adam’s chamber alone. “Sir Adam is an old friend of my husband’s—and of mine.”
“Then it seems we have something in common. Sir Adam’s father fought with my grandfather in the last crusade. I’ve known him since I was a lad. I fostered with his nephew.”