Conquer the night, p.11
Conquer the Night, page 11
“Ingrid, I didn’t want them slain.”
“They betrayed you, lady.”
“I ordered them to surrender. I had thought I had a chance to escape when they came to the chapel … but there was no chance. No man down there betrayed me. They did exactly as I ordered them.”
“You are too kind, my lady.”
“There is nothing kind in justice, Ingrid,” she said. “Life is a far more precious commodity than most men seem to know.”
“But, my lady! What will Lord Darrow have to say?” Ingrid demanded with real distress.
“I don’t know. I don’t at all,” Kyra admitted. “But tell me quickly, what is happening now? It’s well past midday.”
“Aye, and maybe we’ll be back to normal again, my lady!” Ingrid said. She looked around herself, as if afraid that the castle walls had suddenly sprouted ears. “There was a huge cry and scuffle going on below. Men arming themselves, running out of the gates, some of them going for their horses! Something is surely taking place. Why, my lady, I believe that Lord Darrow is coming back to rescue you from these heathens!”
“What?”
“I’m quite certain the guard saw something … there was much activity in the courtyard! Why, who else could it be, but Darrow coming back for you?”
Kinsey! She had warned the outlaw that he’d be gutted and quartered—she’d had no idea it might happen so quickly.
Maybe he could best Kinsey. Or maybe it wasn’t Kinsey who had come at all. He would certainly not come riding rashly to her rescue!
She had to find out what was happening. She stared at Ingrid for a moment, then whirled around. In a large trunk she found an old pair of her father’s breeches, a shirt—far too big, but what matter?—and a tunic. She dressed quickly, winding her hair in a knot at her nape.
“My lady, what are you doing?”
“I’m going out.”
“There’s a guard on duty at the door.”
“Um … they thought they could spare a man, did they?” she murmured. “Still, it will not be one of his best men. Here, help me!”
She rushed to the bed and began to plump up pillows beneath the linen sheets. She covered the long mound she had created with furs. “There … now, Ingrid, you must call to the man to help stoke the fire. And keep telling him to be quiet, that I am sleeping, that I must be rested when Sir Arryn returns.”
“Oh, my lady! You want me to act out such a fabrication? Oh, I cannot!”
“You must! Now, Ingrid, I’m going to the door. I’m opening the door, see; Ingrid, you must help me!”
Ingrid was still flushed and afraid. Shaking her head, Kyra threw open the door, hiding behind it. “Aye, woman, what is it?” came a male voice.
“The fire has died. My lady sleeps, but I see her shiver now and again. You must stoke up a new fire; Sir Arryn will not want to return to a sick and sneezing … companion.”
For all her protesting, Ingrid did very well. The man who walked into the room was tall and lanky and had a limp; Kyra realized that he was probably recovering from a battle wound. He wasn’t a young man, nor one of the outlaws she had seen as yet, but his features were sad and serious, his eyes deep brown like his hair, and she was almost sorry that she meant to cause him trouble.
When he walked into the room, she sped out. She started down the stairs, but at the exit to the parapets were two men on watch. She bit her lip, weighing her chances of getting past them.
She could see better from atop the tower.
Down …
She couldn’t go down!
She turned and fled—up, rather than down, yet all the while she was thinking that there was no escape from the heights….
Other than a plunge into the river.
CHAPTER SIX
Arryn had taken a position on the steady branch of an old oak, watching. His men were within the trees and around them. William Wallace had made something of a base for himself in Selkirk Forest, and Arryn had learned, from disappearing into the forest on many an occasion, that it was a good place to be when numbers were suspect. He could accost the party when it reached the end of the road. He didn’t intend to lose the day—he wanted the supply wagons. But just in case …
He and his men could disappear into the forest as well.
“Arryn!” Patrick called down to him from a higher branch.
“Aye, Patrick!”
“They’ll be perhaps another twenty minutes. They’ve a bad wheel on one of the wagons. It’s bogging them down.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Twenty … thirty maybe. That I can see. There’s a large covered wagon as well—could be covering a number of men.”
“Will you order our archer to fire before they reach us, to give us that element of surprise?” John, on the next branch, asked him.
“Nay, we’ll give them a chance to put down their arms.”
“We’ll have more prisoners than men of our own,” John commented.
“Aye, and we’ll need to see what our new companions do as well!” Arryn said softly, indicating Tyler and some of the other men from the castle. He had purposely kept them grouped together to keep an eye on them. They were, however, a short distance from his archers, downward and southward, should they repent their newfound loyalty.
“Arryn!” Jay called quietly from across the road.
“Aye?”
“What if we must flee?”
“Then we shall flee.”
“But … but …”
“But what?”
“What of Lady Kyra?”
“She will be rescued into the arms of her betrothed.”
“You mean to leave her to him?”
Arryn wasn’t sure if John was aghast that he would give up such a prize—or that he would leave the “poor” girl behind. He frowned, feeling a strange tension. He did not want to leave her behind. He didn’t intend to lose this battle; they had men at the castle still. But a prearranged signal, a burning arrow, would warn them to leave.
And still …
“Tyler! Tyler Miller.”
“Aye, Sir Arryn?”
“You and Ragnor ride back to the castle quickly. Come back with Lady Kyra.”
“Aye, sir!”
Was he making a mistake? If Tyler meant to cause trouble …
Ragnor would be with him. He was allowing one of his best men to leave when battle was imminent. But maybe this was more important.
Ragnor seemed to think so as well. He leapt down from his perch in the trees, lifted a hand and nodded, and mounted alongside Tyler. The two started off toward the castle.
Arryn looked up. The sun was already beginning to set.
“Arryn, they’re coming!” Patrick called down.
And he could hear them: the whinny of horses, the sound of the Norman French that was still the accepted language among these men. They sounded at their ease. If this was a trap, they were not expecting one in return.
He stood, balancing on the branch, looking down as they reached a point in the road right before him.
“Bon soir!” he called.
Their leader wore a conical helmet with an open faceplate. He reined in quickly, searching the woods for sight of the man who had accosted him.
“Good sirs, good evening!” Arryn called. “We are all around you, and would spare your lives if you would share your treasures.”
“Outlaws! Heathen Scottish outlaws!” one of the men shouted, drawing his sword.
“Surrender your arms!” Arryn offered.
“Surrender!” the leader with the conical helmet roared. He began to laugh, studying the Scots where they perched in the trees. “Surrender? To a band of outlaws who will soon be carrion for vultures?”
“My lord, you are laughing at us. In all fairness, I should warn you: I have taken the castle. Is Darrow among you?” Arryn inquired.
The man’s eyes narrowed on Arryn. “My lord Darrow is not with us, but he’ll be pleased when he returns to find you spitted and roasting over an open fire.”
“It’s the Graham!” another of the men said, recognizing Arryn and urging his mount closer to the leader’s.
“Aye, not a Graham, my fine English sirs—there’s two of us!” John called out, his voice deep and dangerous. “And we shall see who will burn this time!”
“To arms!” the Englishman thundered.
John looked at Arryn, who nodded quickly.
“Archers!” his cousin shouted.
And before the English could do more than draw their arms, a rain of arrows flew across the darkening sky.
Men screamed, shouted, roared with anger….
“Now!” Arryn cried.
And one by one, like hail from the sky, they began to drop down on soldiers below, who broke ranks, stumbling for cover as they tried to dodge the rain of arrows while drawing their swords to counterattack. They were well trained and well disciplined, and reinforcements did come bursting from the large, canvas-covered conveyance in the middle of the line of supply wagons. Arryn was glad of his order that they wear no mail, for in the confined space they had the advantage of speed and maneuverability; his men had learned from the very beginning to find the weaknesses in English armor, going for the throats of men, beneath the arms where the plate was divided, along the sides where mail did not completely mesh.
Arryn met two opponents, big, burly fellows both, huge and awkward in their heavy plate armor, and both snarling and overconfident, until they fell to the speed of his sword. When he turned as the last fell, he nodded a grateful acknowledgment to his cousin, who had stopped a third man at his back; then he saw the leader of the men charging toward him on foot, and he let the man come, and come closer, and closer. He deftly moved in time to let the man come crashing into the oak; then he ducked swiftly when the Englishman turned with his sword swinging wildly.
“You’re still welcome to surrender,” Arryn said, jumping back.
The man swung again with a roar.
“Does that mean, sir, you’ll not give in?” Arryn inquired softly.
“I’ll see you in hell, heathen!”
“So let it be,” Arryn said. He rose with his own weapon pointed skyward, and caught the man dead center in the throat. The defiant braggart fell without a whimper.
Arryn retrieved his sword and spun just in time to slash a man through the middle who had meant to render him through the head. He stepped aside quickly, drawing his sword back at the ready once again, but saw that the battle had ended. He stood in a forest of blood. Men lay in a tangle of dirt, mail, mud, and flesh. Looking across the road he saw Jay grabbing a man who would flee for his horse; his men seemed to be standing for the most part. Patrick nursed an injured shoulder, but he nodded that he was all right as Arryn looked to him with an arched brow.
He quickly surveyed the men standing, mostly his own. The men who had been the castle guard at Seacairn had not turned against them when it had appeared that the English would have the superior force.
At the sound of hoofbeats, he turned quickly.
Ragnor and Tyler had returned to the scene of the skirmish. Arryn sheathed his sword and strode toward the two of them as they reined in their horses.
“Arryn! She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone!” Ragnor said.
Arryn couldn’t help but rivet his eyes quickly on Tyler. “Sir! I swear, I knew nothing of it! Nor did the man you left on guard.”
Arryn shouted for John to see to the survivors and their own men. He called for Pict, and his well-trained war-horse trotted in from the copse where he’d been left. Leaping upon the stallion, he slapped his thighs against the animal’s haunches, and they tore back toward the castle.
Kyra had never been afraid of heights—she did, in fact, love to be high. Although her father had been granted the lordship of Seacairn soon after her birth, she had still spent much of her time growing up in London, and there she had loved to visit the beautiful Norman churches and explore the lengths of the catwalks. She’d been a guest at the Tower frequently enough, and loved the view of the landscape from there, just as she loved to visit the castle at Stirling, and look across the distance of the rolling fields as they undulated into the more distant mountains.
Even at Seacairn, this view from the highest point of the tower was magnificent. The river stretched away forever, so it seemed, and in the sunset, it was cast into a dazzling display of sparkling color. Darkness came quickly once it settled, but in the late afternoon, the colors were glorious as they painted water, field, and sky.
Tonight was especially beautiful. It was a pity she could not take time to enjoy the simple splendor and deceptive peace of it all….
For there was a man upon the tower, naturally, keeping a keen eye on the surroundings of Seacairn.
Careful not to make a sound and to keep her distance from him, Kyra tried to surmise what was happening. The high tower here gave full view to all of the surrounding countryside. She looked anxiously to the road from the northeast, and felt fear settle in. The trees shielded most of the activity, but between branches and trees she could see that men had returned to Seacairn, that baggage wagons littered the roads ….
Along with bodies.
Her heart shuddered and seemed to skip a beat. Kinsey had returned, she thought. And even as she watched, riders broke out from the trees. Their heads were bent and they rode hard, two at first, followed by more.
Who?
The guard at this high point had moved close to the low wall. Kyra moved silently behind him, and far to his right, using one of the four brick pillars that supported the low wall as a shield. She bent over the wall, trying to see.
If the sun were only still out …
God in heaven, who was coming?
“My lady!”
Startled that she had been seen, she twisted around. She saw Arryn’s man coming toward her.
And, to her horror, she felt the wall behind her giving. She tried to straighten, tried to catch herself.
No one had leaned against this sector of the wall in a hundred years! she thought in dismay.
She reached out instinctively; brick crumpled in her hands. She hadn’t intended it, but suddenly she was pitching over the wall.
From the outer wall, Arryn saw Kyra go sailing toward the water.
It appeared to be a perfect dive.
“She’s mad!” he cried, reining in Pict. Then he spurred his horse, certain that the fool had broken her neck, and if not, then she would plummet to the depths and drown—freeze.
He raced around the outer wall, reaching the river where it veered from the castle. He couldn’t see her. He looked up. Guy of Wick stared down from the tower, pointing. Arryn saw where she had landed; he cast off his mantle, scabbard, and sword and plunged in.
The river was bitingly cold, deep, and swift, a fact for which the inhabitants of the castle were usually grateful, since it removed the waste that might be stagnant in a protective moat. But the water was dark as well, thick with undergrowth in places, and in plunging from such a height, she might easily become entangled and trapped. She might be knocked unconscious.…
Fool! If she died, she deserved it! he told himself, furious—and afraid. And ever more furious that he was so afraid. Was she trying to kill herself? Or was she so desperate to reach Kinsey Darrow that she would attempt any idiot’s scheme?
He dived into the water, searched in the stygian darkness, then surfaced. Again, and again. He refused to give up.
He was vaguely aware that Ragnor had reached him, and others, and that they, too, had plunged into the river after her.
Then he heard shouting; Guy from the tower high above. He spun in the cold water and saw her. On her own she had risen and swum to the opposite bank. She had emerged and, soaked and panting, stood on the embankment. She rose to her full height, still gasping in air. She was dressed in some ridiculous male’s outfit she had surely seized from her late father’s coffers, and the material molded to her form as she stood there shivering, regaining her breath.
And then she saw him, met his eyes, froze as they stared at one another.
And at that moment he wanted to throttle her. There was far too much defiance in her, and far too much that …
Appealed. The brilliance of her eyes, catching the dying light of the river. The clothing that clung like a second skin to her perfect form. Even the length of her hair, tangled with sea grasses.
She turned to run.
In seconds he was out of the water. She was fast and fleet, but she had made a death-defying dive and surfaced in ice-cold water and swum hard against it. Despite the lead she had on him, he was quickly behind her. She cried out before he touched her, aware that he was there. He threw his arms around her, bringing them both down. They fell on the hillside and tumbled down the grass. In the end, he pinned her down, staring at her. She was soaked, covered in grass now, and shaking. And still her eyes met his with that same green defiance.
“Get … get … get …” She gasped, and could say no more. Her eyes closed.
“I should just let you kill yourself!”
Her eyes flew open. She shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself!”
“Then you’re an idiot, pulling such a stunt to reach Darrow. Why? To warn him? Of what? He’ll know we’re here soon enough. Just to get away?”
“Oh, you’re an idiot! I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
“So you were trying to reach Darrow!” he lashed out angrily.
“No!”
“Liar!” His anger was such that he almost struck her. He pulled back and realized that he was mostly angry with himself. Damn him, why the hell did he care? Why was he still shaking with relief just because she was all right?
She flinched, still shaking, her teeth still chattering. “I fell!” she cried out, her voice tremulous.
He realized the depth of his own cold, but he didn’t let her up, not then. “You fell? If you weren’t trying to reach Darrow, why did you run?”
“Because of your face!”
He arched a brow, startled. “Ah, lady, it may not be so beautiful, but it isn’t a face to make a maid run!”
“You looked as if you meant to kill me!”
