Conquer the Night (14 page)

Darrow would probably be more than happy to kill her him self. The Scotsman would be right: Darrow would be furious that she had become “used goods”—and used by his greatest enemy. He had hated her frequently enough, but he had coveted her as well. She had used all her wiles, her standing, the Church, her priest, every power she could conjure to keep him at bay this long. Would he still want her now, or would the thought of her with another man twist his thinking? It wouldn't be unlike Kinsey Darrow to find a way to snuff out her life, pretend to go mad and smother her in a rage, throw himself on the mercy of the king … God knew! He might find sympathy from the king, and be rewarded for her murder with her title and lands.

“There will be nothing to live for if these heathens take over the land!” Ingrid said with a sniff.

“Ingrid—it's their land. As it was my mother's,” she said softly. Good God, she was defending them. “Ingrid, a towel, give me a towel, please.”

Ingrid did so; Kyra stepped from the tub, twisting a large linen bath sheet around herself. She walked over to the fire, but the blaze was burning low. It gave her little warmth. She stretched out her hands in an attempt to feel some heat.

“What is happening below?” she asked, then turned to face her maid. “What of the men? I know several were killed; they must have been. But Father Corrigan … and Tyler, what of them?” She hesitated. “Were they put to the sword?”

Again Ingrid sniffed—a very loud, very contemptuous sniff. “Nay, lady! The wretches changed their colors. Why, last night, they drank with the rabble in your great hall! Those that lived are now bosom friends to the rogues who came here to do such evil!”

“But—they are alive?”

“Alive—the wretches!”

“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.