Conquer the Night (43 page)

“I'm sorry, my lady,” Thomas said ruefully.

“Don't be. I must be sorry, since I am held accountable for Darrow's actions.”

“You are nothing like him.”

“Thank you.”

He looked up, through the tree branches, to stare at the moon. “They're gathered now, what men will fight. I imagine few men sleep at Abbey Craig.”

Kyra shivered. “Is it so certain that they'll fight tomorrow?” she asked. Then she turned again suddenly; she'd heard something.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Eyes,” she murmured. “Eyes. I'm certain we're being watched.”

There was a snapping sound then, and she saw a shadow as someone moved behind an oak. “Who's there?” she called out sharply. She started forward, determined to find out who was staring at her from the woods, unnerving her so.

“My lady,” Thomas called.

She stopped in her tracks; the man had stepped from behind the oak. He looked sheepish at having been caught.

“Tyler? Aye, Tyler Miller! What are you doing here? I thought you rode out with Arryn this morning. Oh, dear God! Has something happened? Has—”

She broke off as a scream sounded from the clearing. She stared at him, then at Thomas. They both started to run.

“Oh, no, my lady!” Tyler said, reaching out to catch her as she started past him on the trail. His fingers wound around her arm.

Evil!

She'd sensed evil before. What a fool she'd been.

She threw her knee into his groin with all the force she could muster. He doubled over, easing his grip.

She reached the edge of the clearing. She caught hold of Thomas just before he could draw them both out in the open. She drew her fingers to her lips. “Watch!” she whispered.

Laundresses, wives, and others had scattered.

Lord Kinsey Darrow and Sir Richard Egan stood in the center of the clearing. Three other men, in Kinsey's colors were with them. Ioin Ferguson lay facedown on the ground, Harry MacTavish was beneath him.

Sir Richard and Kinsey were playing catch—with Katherine.

“My lady, you must run; I'll do what I can for Katherine!” Thomas whispered.

He would do what he could.

He must have known that he would meet certain death if he, a one-armed man, was to go against five seasoned warriors. And to do what he could …

He meant to kill Katherine himself before he died.

“No!” she said, yet she had no real plan.

Katherine was being tossed back and forth, her clothing caught, ripping. Kinsey and Sir Richard laughed and jested at her fear and misery, and the growing state of her undress.

“Kyra!” Kinsey's shout of her name rose loudly through the night. “Come out, my love. We'd really like to play longer, 'tis a lovely lass here, but war awaits. Come out—before we kill her!”

She was tempted….

So tempted to run. To the Highlands, to the chieftains there, to their rocky little kingdoms where clans meant everything, where the English did not tread, where the Romans had not gone before them. Katherine had been nothing but cruel to her since they'd met.

Sir Richard's knife suddenly rent a long tear in Katherine's gown.

If I go to them, they'll just kill us both! she thought.

At her side, Thomas was ready to stride from the trees. She caught his arm.

“No, I'll go to them.”

“Over my dead body, my lady.”

“That's what it would be, Thomas. He'll definitely kill you. He may let me live. I am a survivor. I'm going to get Katherine, and you have to reach Arryn and let him know what has happened.”

“My lady,” he said miserably, “look, they've scattered the horses.”

“You'll walk! You must live, Thomas; you must get help! Thomas, you've got to get Arryn. I'm going to have his child.”

Thomas's jaw dropped.

“Kyra!” Kinsey called out. “This pretty little piece of baggage has but a few minutes of her mortal life remaining.”

Behind them on the trail, Tyler Miller was beginning to stir.

“See to him!” Kyra commanded. “Thomas, for the love of God, save your life, and Katherine's, and together you'll both save mine!”

Before Thomas could stop her, she started out. She'd taken only a few steps when she heard a
tsk
ing sound.

She hesitated. Ingrid was in the trees. She shook her head vehemently, trying to tell Ingrid that she must not make an appearance. Ingrid scowled, shaking her head worriedly. Kyra started forward again.

“No, lady!” Ingrid whispered. “Your sword!”

Ingrid slid her the lightweight sword she was so adept at using. Kyra nodded her thanks, then waved Ingrid away.

“Kyra!” Kinsey thundered.

She started out, the sword behind her back.

“Ah, there she is. My dear beloved, what on earth took you so long?” Kinsey demanded. He tossed Katherine to Sir Richard. Richard clutched her against his chest, grinned, and drew out his knife, bringing it to the girl's throat. Katherine stared at Kyra with wide, glazed, terrified eyes. She flinched at the feel of the knife against her flesh.

“Let her go, Kinsey,” she said, addressing the man she had prayed so fervently to elude.

“Kyra, my love, there are lessons to be learned, and you must learn them, I'm afraid. Her death will be on your conscience.”

It was amazing that Kinsey could be such a striking figure, tall, powerfully built, with his aesthetically pleasing features.

Yet it was always his eyes that destroyed the picture.

“No, Kinsey,” she said softly, “Sir Richard will let her go!”

And she sprang at Kinsey.

He should have been prepared. Edward had often joked with him, saying that her skill with a blade was superior to his own.

Kinsey had always laughed.

He did not laugh this time, for she moved against him with the speed of lightning. His sword was sheathed; she did not give him time to reach it. She leapt at him, causing him to drop to the ground; she pressed the advantage. She stood over him, a foot on his chest, the point of her sword at his throat.

“Let her go, Richard.”

“No!” Kinsey howled with rage. “Kyra will not—”

She pressed the point. “Kyra will not what?”

A drop of blood appeared on his throat.

“I'll kill her, I will!” Richard grated to her. “And we've three more men with us, Kyra; they'll bring you down—”

“But Kinsey will be dead. And he doesn't want to be dead, now, do you, Lord Darrow? He wants to go slaughter Scots tomorrow, don't you, Lord Darrow?”

“Kinsey—”

“Kyra, I'll—”

She pressed the sword point again. She was about to slit his Adam's apple. She looked steadily at Richard. “Let her go!” she commanded.

Swearing, he did so, shoving her from himself. Katherine stood dead still, staring at Kyra, stricken.

“Run, Katherine,” she said.

“Kyra, let me up now!” Kinsey raged.

“Katherine, run! Hard, fast, now!”

“My lady—” the girl began, her voice trembling.

“Damn you, run, now!”

At last Katherine obeyed.

“Kyra, let me up!” Kinsey thundered again.

“In a minute.”

“My men will seize you.”

“If any man takes a step, you're dead.”

She waited, aware that there were five of them—and her. In a few minutes' time, one of them would rush her. It was true; if she killed Kinsey, she was dead. Sir Richard wouldn't hesitate a minute before skewering her through.

It might well be worth it to kill Kinsey….

No
.

She carried a child. She'd always been a survivor herself; now she had to fight all the harder, for herself, for Arryn's babe.

“Kyra!”

“A minute more,” she said softly.

Kinsey's eyes darted to Sir Richard. The knights with him were eyeing one another. How much time had she given them to escape?

At last, seeing that one of the knights was about to rush her, she drew back. Kinsey leapt to his feet and reached for her sword. He snatched it from her and threw it far into the woods. Then he grasped her by the hair and drew her against his form. “Kyra, when I am done with you …” he began.

At that moment, Tyler Miller stumbled from the forest, still doubled over. “Lord Darrow, you have her! I told the truth; there was no treachery … and you have the prize.”

She stared at him contemptuously, remembering that she had begged for mercy for him. He had surrendered, laid down his sword.

And Arryn had granted him mercy.

“Tyler, you are the worst kind of traitor in the world. You're a snake in the grass, a rat, a pure conniving rodent,” she informed him.

“But I will be rewarded.”

“Aye, he'll be rewarded,” Kinsey said. “Sir Richard, reward him.”

Sir Richard stepped forward. Tyler, expectant, managed to stand straight.

Sir Richard smiled. “Aye, young man, yours is a just reward!”

And with those words, he slammed his knife into Tyler's gut and ripped upward.

Surprise registered briefly in the man's eyes—indeed, shock. Then his eyes began to glaze. He clutched the knife in his gut as he started to fall. Sir Richard caught the hilt of his knife, wrenching it from Tyler's gut.

Then he let the body fall.

“Reward!” Kinsey said with disgust. “After the mess he made of so simple a capture!”

Kyra, stunned, stared at the dead man at her feet.

“A just reward,” Kinsey said. With his free hand, he reached tenderly to his own throat.

He drew his hand away, stared at it, saw that it was stained with red. His eyes fixed on hers with fury.

“You made me bleed!” he said incredulously.

Then he knotted his hand into a fist and sent it flying against her jaw with a vengeance.

He was a powerful man. Aye, she had never doubted it.

Powerful. Fists of steel.

She flew back and crumpled to the ground.

Agony! He had broken bone….

No, just agony, no broken bone, she thought, reeling. The earth and sky rolled, faded….

She blinked furiously, worked her jaw against the pain….

Blinking did no good. Eyes wide open, she saw nothing but black.

Her eyes closed. And mercifully, unconsciousness set in….

CHAPTER TWENTY

The sun began to rise.

Morning came.

September 11, 1297.

The English commanders, de Warenne and Cressingham, had taken positions on the south side of the Forth; from there they could look across the river at the great army of Scots assembled. As they appeared beneath the glittering sun, the king's army was a force to behold. The soldiers rode with their armor shining in the morning sunlight, their banners flying and fluttering. Many of the men wore plumed helmets. Their horses were arrayed with lavish trappings and the king's colors or those of the great houses of England. The animals came on fiercely, prancing, snorting, harnesses jangling. They came in a long, long line.

The Scots were arrayed on the slopes of the Ochils, a colorful group of men as well, though far more ragged. Some had mail; most did not. Many rode to this battle with their faces colored like their ancient ancestors, the Picts, who went to battle in war paint, thus their name.

The Scottish position was an excellent one; the English horsemen were of little use up the slopes of the. Ochils; behind them lay tangled country of more hills, dense forests, bogs, marshes, and all kind of places into which to retreat. The river protected them to the left; a bend in it protected them to the right. A soggy meadow lay to their front with a causeway to Stirling Bridge—and across the bridge lay the English.

Many of the Scots had been involved before in raids and rebel actions; many had not. Some had come here for the first time today. Alexander's reign had been mainly peaceful; Scots had battled a contingent of Norsemen at Largs in 1263—and they had faced the English at Dunbar, and met humiliating defeat. This was the first time in years that an army had been raised; the first time ever for such an army as this.

The English had at least two thousand armed and armored cavalrymen, and the foot soldiers numbered in the tens of thousands. There were perhaps ten thousand Scots in all.

But, Arryn thought, they had advantages as well.

Edward himself was in France.

John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, Edward's senior commander in the battle, was old. Very old. Nearly his own age, Wallace's, and de Moray's combined. He was sick. It was rumored that he and Hugh Cressingham, the hated treasurer and tax man, did not get along at all. Cressingham was vain, opinionated—and a thief. Nobles for the cause of nationalism and against it hated him, and believed that he had stolen money intended for the rebuilding of Berwick.

Mounted upon Pict, rallying his forces, along with Wallace, de Moray, John, and a number of the other commanders, Arryn rode the line of his men as the dawn came and both armies assessed the strength of each other. Jay, Ragnor, Patrick, Thane … most of his people from Hawk's Cairn were ready, still, quiet—and grim. Behind him ranked in more of his people, those men he had collected in his travels—and many who had ridden from Seacairn. So many faces. Anxious, drawn …

And yet ready.

He felt vaguely disturbed, as if he should have seen someone he did not. But though men were ranged with their leaders, some were on horseback, and some were on foot. John was taking the lead with their foot soldiers, some of whom were prepared to meet English cavalry with their war formations, while he'd be leading his part of the Scots' bare-bones cavalry charge.

He dismissed a vague feeling of unease; danger was out in the open today. Death lay before them all, in the boggy meadow where the English must come to attack.

Arryn noted again that their position was excellent, and that the strategy of it was probably due equally to Andrew de Moray and William Wallace. With Wallace, warfare seemed instinctive. He had trod this ground frequently during the year, having crossed and recrossed the river many times during his raids in the spring. Andrew de Moray was adept at choosing ground; he had used bog, marshes, forests, and hills before.