The Highlander's Reward (3 page)

“Sutherlands, we ride.”

His men grunted their approval.

They left the villagers in Montgomery men
’s care and set off for Stirling. At this rate, they would definitely reach the forests beyond the bridge, perhaps even further by nightfall.

By mid-morning they
arrived on the outskirts of Stirling village. The town was a key fort for the English King Edward. Magnus had no wish to meet any English men. They kept to the outside of the village, making sure to go slow so as not to draw more attention than their Highland garb. He could smell water—the River Forth was close. Thus far they’d had the good fortune not to meet a single Englishman. Although he and his men would have gotten immense pleasure from bashing in a few English brains after what they’d been witness to the night before. But the village appeared mostly empty. Perhaps the people had gotten wind of the village fire the night before and were keeping themselves well hidden within their homes. Whatever the reason, Magnus was happy to be that much closer to the Highlands.

The River Forth and Stirling Bridge came into view and his skin prickled.
Beyond the bridge, atop the Abbey Craig stood an army of Scotsmen. Magnus guessed there to be at least eight thousand of them. Damn! If the English saw this, he and his men would be targeted. First.

This could only mean one thing. The English were not far behind them.

“Cross the bridge. Now.” His men followed his direction, realizing the position they were in.

From amidst the
Scottish cavalry and footmen, rode an imposing warrior. He was headed toward them. He met the Sutherland warriors halfway between the bridge and the craig.

The Sutherland
men pulled their swords from their scabbards, but with a wave of his hands Magnus stayed their movements. They put their swords back, a few with grunts of displeasure.

“We wish no harm, only to pass,” Magnus said, while assessing every weapon the warrior had.
He was completely adorned with targe, a claymore, a broadsword at his hip, an axe, a pike and several more knives. Magnus did not recognize the plaid he wore. No matter, their intent was obvious. These men expected a battle. They were at the ready. ’Twas ironic that Magnus and his men should come to pass at such an inopportune time. He prayed they’d let him pass. Three dozen English knights barely broke them into a sweat, but eight thousand Scots was a different story.

“We seek free
dom from the oppressive English.” The warrior spread his arms wide.

Magnus nodded. “We seek to return to the Highlands.”

The man smiled. “Even your Highlands will suffer, indeed parts have already. Will ye join us?”

Magnus studied the man a moment, unable to read his intent.
“What are we joining?”

“The fight.”
The man indicated the cavalry and footmen behind him. “We expect the English very soon.”

“And if we dinna stay?”

The man shrugged. “I canna force ye to fight alongside us, but I can neither guarantee ye safe passage to the forest beyond.”

Magnus wanted to pummel the man. They didn’t need to be guaranteed safe passage. They could take care of themselves.
He guarded the irritation from his voice and forced himself to speak in neutral tones. “We dinna need your permission nor your protection.”

The man’s head fell back and he chuckled.
“Apologies. I dinna mean to sound so threatening. The name’s Wallace.” He held out his arm.

Magnus grasped his arm, relieved to hear who the man was. This changed things. It wasn’t just a random group of rebels, but William Wallace’s entourage in the flesh.
“Why dinna ye say so? My sister married Montgomery yesterday.”

“Lady Lorna. I would have had to
slit my own throat if I heard another word about her fair beauty—no offense, Laird Sutherland is it?”

“Aye, Sutherland. And none
taken. She’s been driving me half mad with tales of Montgomery’s glory.”

The men laughed a few minutes longer and then a nostalgic expression crossed Wallace’s face. “I believed in love once.”

Magnus didn’t know what to say. He’d heard rumors of Wallace’s wife being murdered by the English. He’d no woman to claim for himself, but if anyone of his family members were killed by the damned Sassenachs he’d be wildly mad, uncontrollable even. And then realization hit. His sister was here—she was in the midst of this rebellion. His blood could be harmed by the damned English. If he stayed in the Lowlands a few days more, it wouldn’t hurt, especially if he was helping to protect her. If the Scots won he could say with confidence that his sister would be safe living here—squash the niggling need to return for her.

“Join us,” Wallace said once more.

Magnus looked to his men and raised a brow. He knew they’d follow him anywhere, but he liked to think that he took their thoughts into consideration. The men nodded as one. He turned back toward Wallace. “Aye, we’ll join ye.”

Chapter Three

“We’re n
early to Stirling now, daughter. We should arrive at half past the hour,” Baron de Mowbray said.

Arbella nodded
. She’d been deep in thought, surveying the vast landscape and trying to memorize every minute detail, in case she should have to escape and find her way back to England. The fields closest to the roads were dotted with heather and thistles, beyond that sheep, goats, cows and farmland. The forest was thick, the leaves just starting to turn and a cool breeze ruffled the hem of her gown.

She was not impressed
with Scotland so far. The roads and beyond looked desolate. Beyond the few farmers and herders, she didn’t think she saw many people at all. However, this was not unlike what she’d imagined of Scotland. From the horrors she’d heard, she wouldn’t want to travel the roads either.

They’d passed a burnt out village earlier in the day. She could imagine the horrors that went on there—and wondered if her betrothed had been involved.
What villages weren’t burned, were abandoned or shut up tight, the inhabitants not friendly. They were lucky not to have crossed any rebels. Her heart had not stopped its rapid beat since they’d crossed the border. She was sure her death would be imminent.

After all, t
he king was weeding the Scots out. A horrid duty her father had assured her she would be a part of. The rebels had every right to be angry with her. To hate her. To want her dead—even if they knew not who she was. She was English and that would give them reason enough. Luckily, the scouts her father sent out kept them well away from any rebel masses, and now they were nearly upon their destination.

Once inside
Stirling walls would she be safe?

“Look there,
’tis Stirling.” Her father’s voice was strained as he pointed.

High on a hill in the distance
loomed the castle, its towers reaching into the clouds, thick walls surrounding its massive body. The place was imposing. And it was to be her new home. Warm feelings were not elicited from staring on its daunting façade. In fact, fear took her spine in its grip. How was she to feel comfortable in a place that was built to keep people out? To protect its inhabitants. The mere thought had her trembling, imagining rebels attacking the fortress day and night. She’d be interested to know just how often someone tried to breach its walls.

Mowbray Manor had a wall, even a moat, but swans swam in their moat. Their drawbridge was always down and the gate closed at night only as a formality. At any given time there might only be one or two guards on duty. She could not recall one time in her life that her home had been attacked.

Her father was a fearsome knight, but his holding was not one that was built as a fortification against any sort of enemy, it was built as his home. The defenses merely against any outlaws who might seek to ambush them. Even that had never happened. The king called upon her father to fight for him away from Mowbray lands. Not to keep his holding in the name of the king.

A chill snaked along her arms. She didn’t want to walk over the drawbridge, beneath the portcullis. If she did, Arbella feared she’d never get out again.

“What do you think?”

Arbella glanced at her father, seeing worry and expectation in his eyes. She was defeated. She could do nothing now to avoid her fate and her father fairly pleaded with his eyes for her to acquiesce.

“’Tis big.”

“Aye,
’tis that.” He reached over awkwardly and patted her hand. “Ye will make a fine lady of the castle.”

She managed a wry grin even though she’d rather cry.

They rode for a while longer in silence until they reached the entrance to Stirling village, and then the unmistakable echoes of a battle sounded from somewhere close by, striking terror in her heart. They’d walked into the midst of a war. Clanging metal, screams of pain, whines of horses in fear, war cries all sliced the air with bitterness.

“Father!”
Arbella tried to shout but fear made her voice sound choked. She whirled around atop her mare but saw nothing and no one that could have made those sounds. The gates to the village were open, inviting almost, except for the abnormality of no men atop the stone tower walls. None in the dirt packed streets either. No mingling peasants. Simply no one. Not even a chicken or a stray cat.

And yet the sounds were all around them.
Where was the battle taking place?

“
Stay here, Bella,” her father ordered.

“No, don’t go! Let us go back to England!”

“We cannot, my love. Swear to the Holy Father you will stay here. I will see what is happening and return for you. You’ll be safe here, away from the fray.”

There was no arguing with her father. She’d only to heed his warning.
“I swear.”

Her father ordered a dozen guards to surround her,
then with another dozen men took off through the village toward the direction of the melee.

“He rides to his death,” she said, panicking.
Her lips trembled, but she forced herself not to cry from her distress.

“Nay, my lady, your father is a great knight.
’Tis probably only a few villagers intent on revenge for the fires we passed.”

The guards nudged her to stand
in the shadows of the thick stone village wall so their backs were covered. She prayed her father’s men were right.

Ironic that she’d been wondering how often the castle was attacked
and that it should be so upon her arrival. She would beg her father to take her back to England—appeal to his need to protect her. As she sat with the solid strength of her mount between her thighs, she realized she’d never been so close to danger. Her father and brother had kept her and Aliah well protected from danger. She did not want to stay here. Did not want to bring children into
this
world.

But
her pleas to the baron would have to wait. In the meantime, she had to keep herself alive.

She took the small dagger she kept tucked into her belt and gripped it tight, ready to thrash the blade through anyone who dared to endanger her. If there was one thing
her brother Samuel had taught her, it was how to fight. Arbella was not a skilled warrior by any stretch of the imagination, but she would not let someone take her life without a fight. Her own thoughts startled her. The entirety of the trip from England to Stirling, she’d been set on her impending death. Giving into a fate she thought she had no control over. She was stronger than that. She could endure. If it was her fate to be set inside this barbaric land, then she would take Fate by the horns and ride it without falling off, maybe only sliding a little.

The shouting grew closer
from over the wall and her father’s men pressed in on her, their horses tight against hers, she could feel the heat of them on her legs. Her mare bounced her head and Arbella tried to release the tight grip she held on the reins. The men said nothing, only listening, their swords at the ready. She too held her dagger rigid.

The shouts were not in English. The language was guttural
, and she understood not a word only exacerbating her anxiety of the unknown.

“Scots.
” One of the men confirmed her fears. They were speaking Gaelic, a language she’d never bothered to learn. If she were to survive this day, being ignorant to the language was a fault she’d be quick to remedy.

“Do you know what they are saying?” she asked, peering all around. There was still no sight of them, but they sounded ever closer.
Shouting, cheering.

“Nay, my lady, only that
’tis Gaelic.”

The thunking of boots marching and the scraping of metal as it swished in scabbards echoed close by.
Saint’s above
! The rebels would be upon them soon. And they sounded blood-thirsty. She wished she knew what they were saying.

Before she took another breath
, blood and gore covered barbarians threaded through the gate. They had not yet spotted Arbella and her men and she prayed they would keep on their way and not turn around. The site of them was heinous. Sure to give her nightmares for weeks to come. They were tall, wore plaids loosely over their hips, a scrap thrown over their bare chests. Boots were tied to just below their exposed knees. They were nearly naked. ’Twas indecent. Their flesh was covered in blood and muck, their arms, chests and faces painted in pagan lines and circles.

’
Twas a mob of them, she lost count after twenty-seven as they swarmed through the gate.

The Mowbray men did not make a sound, most likely praying the mob would move on without
catching sight of their small group. If the Scots turned around, it was highly unlikely she and her men would survive. Hands trembling, she looked down at her meager dagger. She wished Samuel had taught her how to wield a sword. His lessons had been about close combat fighting, hand to hand, and not for a time like this, more for if she was attacked while in her garden or picking crab apples and walnuts in the forest.

She looked up at the sky, sending a prayer to God that he might see fit to spare her today.

Then all hell broke loose. One of the rebels caught sight of her, shouted something in Gaelic and the whole horde turned their way.

“Damnation,” one of her father’s men hissed.

“The rebels are on their feet, let us go!” another shouted.

One of the
knights grabbed her reins and as one they kicked their horses into a cantor in the opposite direction of the rebels. From behind loud shouts and battle cries sounded, a pike was thrown hitting the flank of one of her men’s horses. She shrieked and wrenched to the side. The horse reared and dumped the knight onto the ground. Arbella wanted to stop, but the guard holding her reins urged her forward.

“Do not stop! Say a pray
er for his soul!”

She watched with despair as the rebels descended on the knight and devoured him like ants on a piece of fruit. But they didn’t remain there as she hope
d. Nay, they came running after her.

“Come on!” her guards shouted various orders.
“To the forest beyond the bridge!”

Arbella glanced toward the bridge, equally full of Scots fighting English knights. “We’ll never make it past!”

But there was nowhere else to go. Rebels behind them, a solid wall to the right and a churning river wrapping around to the left. The bridge was their only chance.

“We must try, my lady.”

She said nothing, knowing she had no choice and knowing her men were about to die in service to her family.

She breathed deep and
primed herself for the onslaught. She scanned the battling knights for signs of her father, but he was not in sight. Dear Lord in Heaven she hoped he was safe. Only a few more yards and they would be in the thick of it, but the opening of the bridge was clear. If they could get through these thwacking, raving rebels and knights they would be safe.

Their horses thundered into the thick of it
, pounding against the earth, knocking men to the ground. Her knights wielded their swords with skill, eliminating all threats, but the mass of people slowed them down. Sweat trickled a cold path down her spine. Her thighs gripped tight to her mare.

Arbella was not prepared for how loud a battle was. The clang of metal made her ears ring, the shouts of pain and rage made her gasp for breath
. The scent of blood, the press of bodies dizzied her. Nausea threatened to make her lose her paltry breakfast.

The rebels who’d trailed them caught up, and she heard from somewhere within t
he barrage, someone shouted in English, “Get the lady!”

She sucked in her breath and struck out blindly with her dagger, hitting one rebel in the arm, and another on the ear. Still they grappled for her, their filthy hands ripping a
t her skirts, cloak.

“Get away!” she shouted, while all around her, one by one her men were slaughtered.
Panic set in. Tears of fear and rage burned her eyes. She managed to wrench an axe from a weakened rebel’s hands and hit him on the head with it. The horror of the things she was doing in order to survive would never be forgotten.

Her skirts were torn, covered in bloodied handprints. Her body ached, but still she managed to seat her horse.
Kicking one rebel in the face, she bloodied his nose, only to be yanked to the left by another pair of hands.