“But you cannot lead!” For a steward, Burdett showed a rare lack of tact. “You cannot walk on a foot with the flesh seared off, and the herbs my lady gives you to ease the pain have—”
Edlyn interrupted. “Sir Philip well knows his shortcomings, yet the men still trust him.” She gladly dropped the spindle and pointed a finger at Burdett when he would have spoken again, and the steward silenced himself. “And we still have Sir Lyndon.”
“I am not so wounded I don’t know what’s happening,” Sir Philip snapped.
Edlyn walked to his side. “In sooth, I do not know what I would do without you.” Covering the knight again, she smiled into his face. “You may not be able to walk, but your battle wisdom has proved invaluable to me.”
“Damn that Pembridge.” Sir Philip seemed calm, but Edlyn didn’t doubt the sincerity of his curse. “He got his men in through that gate before I even knew there was a gate.”
“How could you know?” she said.
“He might have told me.” Sir Philip glared at Burdett.
Burdett defended himself hotly. “I would have if I’d had a single suspicion that an attack force lurked in the forest just waiting for Lord Hugh to leave.”
“Sir Philip knows that.” Neda tried to soothe him.
“’Tis almost treason!” Sir Philip shouted.
“Burdett is trustworthy,” Edlyn said.
“The gate was blocked up years ago!” Burdett shouted back.
“And reopened when?” Sir Philip roared.
“I know not!” Burdett tapped his chest. “But I am not a traitor to your lady. If I were, would I not have simply opened the gates and allowed Pembridge and all his henchmen free entry? Perhaps ’tis you, and that was why you were wounded.”
Sir Philip sat up straight for the first time in three days. “Are you saying I’m so stupid I couldn’t even open the gate without injury to myself?”
“That is enough!” Edlyn rapped out. “I will direct the defense without either of you if you won’t stop insulting one another.”
Both men subsided.
“What was done is in fitting with Pembridge’s character,” Edlyn said. “He ever skulked and waited for the right opportunity. I simply wish he hadn’t found his opportunity here.”
Sir Philip’s heavy gray brows curled with his interest. “Do you know him, my lady?”
What was the use of denying it now? “Aye, I know him. He was a friend of my husband’s. A friend of Robin of Jagger.” Neda and Burdett exchanged startled glances, but Edlyn didn’t want questions. In the tone she used to upbraid her sons, she said, “I called you here, Burdett, to assist Sir Philip in preparing his defense.” Sir Philip looked smug until Edlyn said to him, “Which I wouldn’t have if I believed Burdett was a traitor. Give me the credit for that much sense, anyway!”
The two men alternately glared and looked sheepish.
“It seems, my lord husband and my lord knight, you have forgotten to whom you speak.” Neda verbally rapped their knuckles. “Lady Edlyn has displayed a rare good sense in her sojourn here, and for you both to so disdain her judgment shows a lack of it in you both.”
Burdett looked as if he would like to smack his wife, but before he could deal with her in the way he thought proper, Sir Philip asked, “Where is Sir Lyndon? Shouldn’t he be here to consult with us?”
“I sent for him,” Edlyn answered. “He didn’t come.”
Sir Philip’s silence spoke loudly, and Burdett turned away to the window.
Finally, Sir Philip said, “He has ever treated me with courtesy.”
“Would that he were so polite to my lady,” Neda said.
Edlyn picked up the spindle once more and bent her head to the task of spinning thread. “He has never been rude to me.”
“It’s not what he says, it’s how he says it,” Neda snapped.
The truth of that was what made Edlyn’s position so untenable. How did she complain about a man who not only spoke fairly, but was given to such extravagant refinement he made her cringe with discomfort? What could she say? He’s too polite? She was glad he’d failed to attend this meeting, for it freed her from the uncomfortable sensation of being the object of some incomprehensible amusement. “We’ll have to do without Sir Lyndon. No doubt he discovered something which needs his attention,” she said. “Pembridge holds the outer bailey, and we have no chance of retrieving it. But the inner wall is strong, the gatehouse is impregnable, the keep is stocked, and the water well is fresh. We could hold out until winter, and my lord Hugh will surely return by then.”
“Aye,” Burdett conceded. “Unfortunately, I know not what other dastardly tricks Pembridge has prepared.”
“He is right, my lady,” Sir Philip said. “In addition, I have my orders from Lord Hugh. I was to send to him at once if I suspected any threat to you.”
“To Roxford Castle, you mean,” she said smoothly.
“That, too, was in his mind,” Sir Philip agreed. “But it was of you he spoke, and I must obey.”
She squared her shoulders and didn’t answer.
“My lady, you must think of your sons!” Burdett said.
Think of her sons? She thought of nothing else. “Do you really think Lord Hugh will come if we send for him?” She couldn’t help sounding sarcastic. “He has sworn to rescue the king from the rebels, and if we send word that his castle is under siege, all that will do is distract him from his duty. He will not abandon it, but he will worry about Roxford, and perhaps that worry will weigh his sword arm down when he has need of it. Nay, Allyn and Parkin will benefit only from Hugh’s life, not from his death. So until I see a chance of defeat from Pembridge—and I see no such chance right now—we will keep Hugh in ignorance.”
Sir Philip said, “My lady, normally I would agree a man should not be distracted in battle, but Lord Hugh is no normal knight. He has the strength and courage of ten men, and defeat is not a word he comprehends.”
“Would you say death is a word he comprehends?” Edlyn asked.
Burdett answered, having decided to join with Sir Philip to sway her. “Nay, never, my lady.”
“Yet I saw death lay its hand on him.” A sight that had haunted Edlyn ever since he had left for battle, although she’d not say so to these men. “He’s not going to be undefeated forever. Every knight has a finite number of years to fight, and he’s already sustained one wound that almost killed him.”
Burdett and Sir Philip exchanged a glance that clearly expressed their dismay. They reached some unspoken male decision, and Sir Philip answered in a tone clearly meant to soothe. “Every knight has only so much time to seek his fortune, and if he’s good enough and lucky enough, he can find it. Lord Hugh did find it, and now he has a whole new life opening before him.”
“That’s why he married me,” Edlyn made haste to point out. “Because I have experience with this life and I can help him.”
“Aye, that’s one of the reasons, although—forgive me my boldness—it seems to me it is not the primary reason.” Sir Philip grinned for the first time since the tarred arrow had pierced his foot. “Nevertheless, your experience is not in fighting, and with all respect, I would point out mine is. I like not this Pembridge and his knowledge of this castle. I like not his confidence or the way he demands we surrender, and—again, forgive me, Burdett—I fear he might have a conspirator within. Please allow me to send a messenger to Lord Hugh.”
“They’ve done their damage,” Edlyn said stubbornly, “and I don’t believe we are in danger. Nay, Sir Philip, send no messenger. We are safe. I assure you.”
The two men watched in silence as she and Neda gathered up the spindles and the finished balls of wool and departed.
When the sound of their footsteps had faded, Burdett turned to Sir Philip. “I wish you would send a messenger to the lord, regardless of my lady’s wishes.”
Sir Philip looked long into Burdett’s face and clearly debated his answer. At last he said, “I sent a messenger the day of the attack, and again yeste
rday. I pray one of them got through.”
Alternately amazed and pleased, Burdett finally found his voice to say, “God grant that they did. God grant them both speed.”
Down the hill, across the meadow, and on silent feet, Hugh moved into the enemy’s camp.
He was a fool. He knew he was. But he wanted to visit with the Maxwells one time before he had to kill them all.
He made it all the way to the Maxwells’ tent before rough hands grabbed him from behind.
“State yer business, laddie, or ’twill go ill with ye.”
Hugh grinned and relaxed. He knew that voice. Moving with a care he hoped would not alarm his captor, he put the barrel down on the ground. Then, grabbing the man’s knuckles, he twisted them and turned out from underneath. “I’ll state my business, laddie, when ye can beat me at tossing stones without cheating.”
Malcolm Maxwell was silent for one astonished moment, then he roared, “Hugh! Hugh, me lad, how are ye?”
Hugh dropped the big man’s fingers and clasped his shoulders instead. In the Scottish he’d learned while turning the millstone, he said, “Good to see ye, Malcolm! Although in this light, there’s not much seeing to be done.”
“Come in then! Come into the light where we can—” Malcolm stopped talking, then pushed Hugh’s chest with all his might. As Hugh stumbled back, Malcolm said, “Wait. We were told ye were the commander of the English prince’s troops.”
Hugh righted himself. “Aye, so I am. Did ye think that would keep me from the best hospitality now in the south of England?”
Malcolm maintained a suspicious silence.
Hugh kicked out and connected with the barrel, and the dull sound of its laden richness spoke loudly of his intentions. “I brought a barrel of stolen English ale to prove I’ve not forgotten what ye taught me.”
Malcolm roared with laughter. “Ye learned well—for an Englishman. Aye, ’tis the night before battle, and we’d best have our drink together now before I separate your head from your body.”
“Aye, or before I teach ye proper respect for an English lord.” Hugh hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I am a lord now, ye ken.”
Opening the tent flap, Malcolm bowed low. “Enter our humble abode, then, English lord, and let us show ye a Scotsman’s awe for all things English.”
Which was none, Hugh knew, else they would not be there. Blinking in the light of candles, he had the impression of a tent full of large, hostile men before another rough Scottish voice spoke. “Did ye capture one of the king’s Englishmen already, then, Malcolm?”
“Better than that, Hamish.” Malcolm pushed Hugh forward so the light shone on him. “He came to surrender when he heard we were here.”
One moment of stunned silence greeted Malcolm’s announcement, then the laird himself, Hamish Maxwell, came to his feet and rushed forward. “Hugh! ’Tis glad I am to see ye, lad!”
The other clansmen, the ones who had been there during Hugh’s tenure in Scotland, surged forward, following the lead of their chief. Angus and Armstrong and Charles and Sinclair, and some he recognized but could not remember, surrounded him and pounded him on his back. The others, the ones who were too young to remember him or who had been elsewhere, stood up and watched in ill-concealed amazement.
Passing from hand to hand, Hugh got tweaks and slaps and manly punches, and he returned them in fair measure. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of these men, barbarians though they were. They never pretended false friendship, nor did they break oaths given long ago. He was safe in their midst until the next day, when they would meet on the battlefield and try, as Malcolm said, to separate heads from bodies.
At that thought, he could almost hear Edlyn’s voice in his ear. There had to be a better way.
“I’ve brought ye ale”—Hugh lifted the barrel above his head—“and wonder if ye have something to offer in return.”
The men quieted, and Hamish eyed the barrel. “’Tis a bold guest who brings a gift in hopes of receiving one in return.”
“Ah, but most of your guests haven’t gone twelve years without the fine flavor of Scottish haggis,” Hugh answered.
The tent erupted into wild masculine laughter, and Hugh found himself pushed onto a stool. He was relieved of his barrel. An oat scone was placed into his one hand, and a wooden platter of haggis steamed in his other. It was, he assured them, enough to bring tears to an adopted Scotsman’s eyes.
They used a tap—“just happen to carry one with us, lad”—to break through to the ale, and before a single drop had been consumed, the Scots heartily toasted him. Then he ate, and he toasted them. Then they toasted each other, then Hugh wiped the brown liquid off his upper lip and said, “I have a longing to sing a song I’ve not heard for too many years.” In a hearty, booming voice, he started singing the song he’d heard so many times while a guest of the Maxwells. It was the song that boasted of every Maxwell’s courage, strength—and the length of his claymore.
The Maxwells, caught by surprise, sputtered for only moments before joining in. One song led to another, and other adventuring Scots from other clans pushed their way into the tent. They sang their songs, too, and drank the ale until the tap ran dry. After that, different barrels, most with mysteriously English markings, were brought from their hiding places and cracked.
Hugh had forgotten the camaraderie of a Scottish evening, where every man drank all he could and spoke his piece and each wrestling match begat another. When Hugh found himself on the ground beneath a pile of smelly Scotsmen, he proved the truth of the adage that the wildcat on the bottom always won.
Late into the night, the party broke up with laughter and cheers, and Hamish Maxwell himself clapped his hand on Hugh’s shoulder to show him the way out of the camp. Malcolm walked on Hugh’s other side, making sure, Hugh supposed, that he would go right back to the king’s camp and not loiter to cause trouble.
But Hugh didn’t plan to physically attack the rebel army. Oh, nay, he had a different plan, and Hamish Maxwell knew it. The joviality left him, and he asked, “So, lad, why did ye really come to see us this night?”
“’Tis scarcely night, now,” Hugh said. “See? The morning star is low on the horizon, and the sun will be rising ere long.”
“So it will,” Hamish said agreeably. “And then I will take your head from your shoulders.”
“Ye will try.” Hugh corrected him. He stretched hugely, hoping to work the aches out of his muscles that the night’s work had put in. “’Twas a good cause for any Scotsman, I think, to join with Simon de Montfort and his son and all the barons who are fighting the English prince. ’Tis a good chance for a Scotsman to raid English towns and sack English farms. I imagine ye filled your coffers with goods and gold.”
“And if we did?” Malcolm asked.
“’Tis no more than an Englishman expects,” Hugh answered. “We all know the Scots like to fight, especially when there’s profit to be made and especially when it’s not on their land. But I wonder”—he cracked his knuckles, and the sound snapped through the predawn like a lance breaking—“if the Scots will be smart enough this time to escape with their plunder.”
“The Scots always escape with their plunder.” All geniality had escaped from Malcolm’s voice.
But Hamish still sounded no more than curious. “Why wouldn’t we?”
The rebellion is about over. Simon de Montfort is in retreat, and ’tis a long march to the border from here.”
“We swore to support him,” Malcolm said.
“De Montfort?” Hugh laughed. “An Englishman? Since when does a Scotsman swear to an Englishman and keep his word?”
“Scotsmen have been known to keep their words.” Malcolm was openly hostile now.
“Aye, to other Scotsmen, and to their adopted brothers, as ye have proved to me tonight.” Hugh clapped his hand on Malcolm’s back. “But to the English? Who often as not swear brotherhood to the Scots and then slit their throats?”
Neither Hamish nor M
alcolm answered for a moment. Then Hamish asked, “Do ye think we’re going to get our throats cut?”
“The losers always get their throats cut. Especially…foreign losers who are far from their homes.”
The silence now was thoughtful. Hugh thought that Hamish and Malcolm were communicating without words somehow, and he wasn’t surprised when Malcolm said, “It is a long march to the border from here.”
“And a long walk to your camp, Hugh,” Hamish added. He shoved Hugh forward. “So go on with ye or ye’ll be fighting your battle tomorrow with your eyes only half open.”
“I’m going.” Hugh opened his arms and wrapped both men in a sudden hug. “Until we meet again.”
He released them and ran down the hill to the meadow, then back up to his own camp. The lookout challenged him, and when he answered, Wharton himself came hurrying to his side.
“Where have you been?” Wharton scolded. “We’ve been scouring the camp for you.”
“I’ve been preparing for today’s battle.” Hugh staggered in a sudden onset of tiredness compounded by an overabundance of ale. “And I want to go to bed now.”
He did, and when he rose, Wharton came to his side and in a most peculiar tone told him that de Montfort’s Scottish mercenaries had packed their gear and slipped away.
The rebels would be easily defeated on this day.
Almund stood on the outskirts of the forest that surrounded Roxford Castle and observed the activity with consternation. He’d heard the rumors as he rebuilt his ferry out of logs stolen from the king’s forest, and he’d come at once. After all, any tale that concerned that sweet Lady Edlyn deserved notice, and he was glad he had listened.
The outer gatehouse had clearly been breached. Black smoke spiraled up from different places inside the bailey. The place smelled charred and a few bodies, peasant women from the village, rested in the moat. Worse, the demons who sought to dispossess his lady carried buckets of tar and great stones inside, and he heard pounding and much masculine laughter.
Whoever it was was very sure of his victory.
Almund turned and ran to get help.