Chapter 18
Clara did not go below to the cellars. She waited for some time after Reid’s broad back disappeared from view and she was certain he wouldn’t notice that she did not stay with the others.
The cries of the frightened occupants rose from the cellars.
Men and servants ran in all directions through the corridors in preparation for battle.
People shouted at one another, their voices ringing off the stonework.
The whole of it was sheer chaos. And the perfect cover to locate a helm and gambeson.
Both were easily obtained. She needed only to pretend to be a wife acquiring them for her husband, and she was readily given them without question by a harried guard.
Bounty in hand, she raced up to the bedchamber she shared with Reid to change into the leine and trews Drake had them practice in, the set she’d fortunately packed.
The bedchamber was just as she and Reid had left it, with the sheets tousled from the consummation of their marriage, where they had spent so much time loving one another. Her heart threatened to crumble at the sight.
Nay, she could not think of that now.
Instead, she quickly divested herself of her kirtle and pushed her limbs into her trews and leine.
The gambeson was enormous on her and reeked of unwashed body, but the bulk of the armor worked out well, masking her shape and the length of her braid.
It also allowed her to stash her bag of herbs within the bulk.
Around the padded armor, she fastened the belt Drake had specially made for her with multiple sheaths.
Perfect for her daggers. If Reid did fall, hopefully she would be able to help him to safety and tend to his wounds.
Apprehension tingled along the back of her neck. What she was doing was most likely a terrible idea, one Reid did not support. But she could not allow him to go out there unaccompanied while he was still wounded.
She couldn’t sit back in a cellar and listen to the sounds of the war raging overhead, helpless to do anything to sway the outcome. Or to protect Reid.
She could not lose him.
Before leaving the chamber, she plunked the helm over her head to hide her face and hair. The thing was terribly heavy and stunk of old metal, but it would keep anyone from recognizing her.
Finally ready, she joined the other warriors in the corridor and searched for Reid. It was not an easy task when the slit in the helm greatly hindered her ability to see. Her visibility was limited to what was directly in front of her.
The weight of the belt with her daggers was considerable but necessary. Walking took some adjustment, between the immensity and burden of her armor and the inability to see properly.
How did men fight in such gear?
She kept to the sides of the wall, avoiding eye contact with anyone she passed as she wound her way to the Great Hall. Once there, a man in front of her turned round to face her and those around her.
Not just any man, her grandda.
Her heart leapt into her chest, and her quickened breath huffed inside her helm.
He looked right through her as he addressed everyone en masse. “Let’s kill the bastards.”
A cheer arose, and the crowd of men surged forward.
At Ross’s side, Reid settled the helm on his head and was pushed forward with the cluster of soldiers following Lord Tavish.
The men around her flowed toward the exit of the Great Hall, and even if she hadn’t meant to walk along with them, she would have had no choice.
She tried to guide her path in the cluster of men to enable her gaze to remain fixed on Reid.
They poured out into the night where the air was thick with moisture, and the cold reached through the padding of her gambeson.
But there was something more than that, a sense of dread that hung around them, its scent sharp and metallic.
She shivered.
The horses of the many men who had ridden to Dumbarton to fight now lingered in the courtyard. Each was being claimed now and Clara quickly climbed onto the back of a smaller steed.
Outside the gates, the shouts of men rose in a cacophony. In the distance, screams came up from the villagers, most likely those who refused to leave their homes in the hope they could prevent everything from being destroyed or stolen in the raid.
Clara’s heart squeezed at what they were losing now. She knew what such an existence felt like. When all you owned could fit in a sack tossed over one’s back.
The men around her wore stoic faces as if those horrible screams were not audible.
But suddenly, the terrified shrieks of the villagers weren’t the only sound that filled the night. Battle cries rose, followed by the clashing of steel striking against one another.
“The Douglases have joined the battle,” a guard called from the parapet.
“Open the gates, Tavish,” Clara’s grandda said in a low voice. “We’ll no’ leave them out there to die defending yer keep.”
Lord Tavish said nothing for a moment, his horse stepping anxiously from hoof to hoof under him.
Ross looked to Lord Tavish, his brows lifted, teeth bared in a grin. “Aye?”
Lord Tavish nodded grudgingly. “Aye, but the gates get closed behind us.” He addressed the men around them. “If ye mean to ride into battle, know ye willna be able to get back in until the English are vanquished.”
Once more, the men’s response was a collective cheer as energy charged through the air.
Fear tightened in Clara’s chest. While she had been prepared to go outside the castle walls, she had hoped it would not come to this. At least not yet, while the English soldiers would still be fresh and bloodthirsty.
Her gaze found Reid where he sat astride his destrier near Ross, and her heart constricted. He turned to look back to the keep. “I love ye,” he mouthed before turning away with an expression of pain.
At that moment, Clara knew that his decision to fight outside the curtain walls also meant he assumed he would not return home. He was aware of the danger, and he was taking it on to protect everyone. Including her.
The gates groaned open, and the men followed Lord Tavish like a tide.
Whatever fear had paralyzed Clara loosened its hold, and she let herself get swept up with his men—beyond the gates, past the curtain walls and out to where the night was all-consuming, save for a fingernail sliver of moonlight overhead.
The wind rippled tunics and whipped at their pennants, making them blend into the night like dragon’s tongues.
Clara rode through the gates out into the night, into the brunt of danger. Behind her came a reverberating thunk as the gates were closed. She tried her best to keep from losing Reid and her grandda, but it was too hard with the world so dark, and the men all moving so quickly.
Her heart raced in her chest.
This had been a terrible idea.
An appalling stench preceded their arrival to the battlefield. Were she not a healer, she might not have recognized it—the odor of blood and death, tinged with the metallic tang of fear.
Primal terror clawed at Clara, but she tried to shove it away, knowing she would need to keep her wits about her.
The men at the front of their charge merged into the wall of Englishmen, and their group slowed as men clashed into combat. Clara’s breath echoed the frenzy all around her. She could scarcely move in her armor and was nearly blind in her helm.
A house erupted in flame to her right, a brilliant glow of light that cast the battle in a red-orange glow. Her grandda was at the head of his men, swinging a battle-axe glistening with blood. And at his side was Reid, sword thrusting and swiping, his face hidden by his helm.
All at once, her fear bled away as she focused on the reason that she had put herself at such risk.
Reid.
She was here to save him, to ensure he kept the promise to come back to her when this was done, that they would have their life together. Carefully, she eased her horse to the shadows of a nearby cottage where she hoped she wouldn’t be seen yet would still be close enough to throw a dagger.
She would not lose her husband this night.
The Englishmen fell before Reid’s sword, not because they were weak, but due to the battle with the Douglases having already left them exhausted. While these Englishmen were weary from their second attack in a row, the men behind them would not be.
It was those soldiers Reid was most worried about.
He thrust his blade into a man before him and jerked it free in time to deflect another attack. It had been foolish to leave the castle, knowing he would not be allowed to return until the fight was over. But he couldn’t stand the idea of the villagers at the mercy of the English.
Every scream had made him think of his mother. His father. Ewan.
The anger flashed inside him and exploded out in a lethal jab of his blade. Lord Rottry might be somewhere in the melee.
That awareness spurred Reid into the fight, hacking and slashing his way through his enemy. Something slammed into his right side, knocking him slightly off balance.
Mayhap it was one of Ross’s men accidentally knocked aside, or an Englishman as he fell.
Whoever it was did not attack, but the damage was done regardless.
The familiar pain at Reid’s back told him the injury had been ripped open again.
He staggered under the agony of it but quickly righted himself and slew the Englishman in front of him lest he was perceived as feeble.
The weakest in battle were always the first to die, and he had promised Clara he would return to her.
He hefted his sword and ignored the pain at his back. A battle-axe swooped down in front of him, cleaving into the chest of a man whose mace was drawn back, his aim pointed at Reid.
Ross winked at Reid as he pulled his battle-axe free. “I canna let my Clara be a widow, aye? She’s taken a liking to ye.”
A man to the chieftain’s left speared at him, and he retaliated with a roar and a lethal strike.