Chapter II
Cristina’s scream ripped through the air.
Heart pounding, Patrik whirled. He searched the knoll where the two knights who had broken off from the contingent had ridden—straight toward Cristina and Joneta.
The knoll lay bare.
Were they dead? After witnessing Cristina’s skill with a blade, he clung to the belief they lived. He glanced toward the tufts of sod that covered a hideout belowground where Marie lay. If only time had allowed Cristina and the child to run back.
The rumble of hooves slammed against earth as the main contingent closed on them.
He peered through the weathered wood slats, cursed. The wagon he and Fergus hid behind would buy them seconds at best.
A flaming arrow shot past, sank into the crofter’s hut. Dark smoke belched around them. The thatched roof, which had been set ablaze moments ago, now shuddered beneath the greedy flames. Sparks rained through the air, the stench of soot and growing heat suffocating.
Several more arrows whipped by.
Against the swell of smoke and the screams of the knights, Patrik readied his sword. “When they are within two lengths, I will take one with a dagger, then use my sword.”
Fergus nodded. “As I.”
That accounted for four of eighteen. Nae, he’d not think about the odds. If he died, ’twould be slaying the bastards.
Hooves pounded the turf like belches of thunder. The line of English knights neared.
“Ready?” Patrik called.
Fergus lifted his dagger. “Aye.”
An arrow lodged a handsbreadth from Patrik. Another drove into the wagon. Shadows of the approaching men flickered across the slats.
“Now!” His weapons held tight, Patrik rolled away from the wagon. He sprang to his feet, aimed, then threw.
The closest knight tumbled from his horse.
With a war cry, Patrik angled his sword, charged.
Another knight, but paces away, whirled his mount.
Patrik lunged forward, swung. Steel echoed with a violent scrape. He angled his blade, drove it through the man’s heart.
Shock rippled across the man’s face. On a gasp, he tumbled from his mount.
Wild-eyed, the knight’s horse reared.
Patrik caught the reins, swung onto its back, reined hard to face his next aggressor. Pain seared his back. He slammed against the mount’s withers. Another blade from behind sliced into his left shoulder and his vision began to blur.
A knight rammed his horse, shoved his boot into Patrik’s face.
Pain shattered Patrik as he tumbled off his mount, slammed against the ground. Body aching, he reached for his sword.
A harsh grin carved his latest enemy’s face as he dismounted several paces away. The knight dropped his reins, raised a hand to the others who had approached.
“Finish off the other Scot,” the knight ordered. “I will dispatch this wastrel.”
The arrogant bastard! With a war cry, Patrik wiped away the blood smearing his vision and shoved to his feet. His body shuddered.
“Away with you, you dung-fouled cur,” Fergus yelled at the knights attacking him. Steel scraped. A grunt sounded.
From the corner of his eye, Patrik caught a knight stumble back, drop. Another man less. He focused on his attacker.
The Englishman charged.
Patrik met his assailant’s blade, twisted his sword. Before the man could break away, he shoved the knight back.
Fury darkened the warrior’s expression as he regained his balance. The knight surged forward, his blows merciless.
Patrik met his swings, each impact taking its toll upon his already exhausted body. Heat from the burning building scorched his back, the smoke clogged his throat. At the next assault, he deflected the man’s blow—barely.
Another drip of blood smeared his vision.
Bedamned, he’d not give in. Muscles screamed as he angled his blade toward the knight, swung. Honed steel wedged against bone.
The other man’s face shifted from pain to fury. Nostrils flared as he again lifted his blade.
A horn sounded across the field.
The knight glanced to the west.
Patrik followed his gaze. Stilled. Saint’s breath, another contingent rode across the field.
The English knight cursed.
Through his blurred vision, Patrik made out the Earl of Grey’s standard. ’Twas Seathan, his brother!
“To arms!” the knight before him roared. The knight shot Patrik a furious look. “I will be back to finish your sorry arse.” He bolted to his horse, swung up and kicked his mount to join his men, who were forming a line.
Patrik stumbled after him.
“Charge!” the English knight ordered. Dirt flew as he surged forward.
The thunder of hooves of the attacking rebels grew to an ear-thrumming barrage. At the first clash of steel, Patrik turned. He spotted Fergus lying on the ground and staggered over.
“’Tis rebels coming,” Patrik said.
His body a mass of cuts and bruises, Fergus turned to where Marie hid. The turf lay untouched. “Thank God.” Worry sagged his face as he scanned the knoll. “Joneta?”
“I will find her.” Patrik prayed she, as well as Cristina, lived. He nodded. “Go to your wife.”
The Scot started to stand, collapsed.
Patrik caught Fergus, his battered muscles rebelling at the extra weight.
On shaky legs, the Scot pushed himself free. He stood, barely. “Find Joneta. I—” Fergus muttered a curse, his haggard face roughened as if aged ten more summers. “—I must know.”
“Aye,” Patrik replied, understanding the other mans’ fear. Even with Cristina’s skill, well he knew the odds of finding either of them alive.
In the field echoed the familiar scream of horses, clash of blades and men’s curses. The lust for battle sang on his tongue, the urge to run into the melee, to drive his blade into another English bastard’s heart.
But if he tried, having lost too much blood and barely able to stand, he might well bleed to death before he ever reached the fighting. However much Patrik wanted to join the MacGruders, in his weakened state, he’d be more a hindrance to his brothers than a help.
And seeing a man alive they believed dead would give them pause. In the thick of battle, hesitation invited death. He blew out a breath. Seathan and his men outnumbered the English. His meeting with his brothers would come soon enough.
Patrik focused on the knoll. He must find Cristina and the girl.
Dizzy, exhausted, and his muscles rebelling with each step, he forced himself up the hill. Halfway up, the grass before him blurred. Gasping for breath he halted, his shoulder sticky with blood, the headstones in the distance a dark omen. He clenched his teeth and shoved forward.
Atop the hill, through the roll of grass, a flicker of clothing caught his attention. No, not clothing, but a body.
Cristina!
He ran, ignoring the pain, the jab of rock into his boots, how each uneven mound of dirt threatened to take him down. The clash of battle in his wake melded with the pounding of his blood, the scream of steel rang in cadence with his fears.
Several paces away, through the smear of blood and sweat, he made out English colors. Chest heaving, he stumbled to a halt. ’Twas one of the two knights that had ridden toward Cristina. The dagger she carried was embedded in his throat. He glanced down. The man’s sword was gone!
Through hazed vision, he scanned the grass and brush lining the edge of the forest.
Nothing.
Bedamned. Where was the other knight? Had he rejoined the others, or, furious she’d taken his comrade’s life, had he chased her down and killed her? Nae, she’d taken the dead knight’s sword.
A chance they lived existed.
Heart pounding, Patrik pushed forward.
Near the edge of the trees, red stained a rock.
No! Patrik stumbled forward.
Over the top of a fallen tree lay another body.
Throat tight, he rounded the weathered stump. Saint’s breath, ’twas the second knight, the other man’s sword embedded in his chest.
Tears of relief burned his eyes. His body shook, and he clasped a twisted root angling up, fought for balance as he absorbed the enormity of Cristina’s singlehanded act.
Distant screams merged with the clang of steel. A Scottish war cry tore the air.
Heart pounding, Patrik turned. Seathan’s men were making quick work of the English. Thank God. Now to find Cristina and Joneta.
Body aching, he wove forward. How far had they gone? Was either injured? Please let the impossible have happened, that neither be harmed.
Despite the blur of pain, adrenaline kept him moving. The forest rose up before him. He stumbled into the shadows, fighting to stay conscious.
“Cristina!” His feeble call echoed into the woods as if a poor jest against the battle raging beyond. “Cristina!”
Shadows clung to him as he entered the forest, the sodden leaves smearing the drips of blood staining his tunic.
“Retreat!” someone shouted in the distance.
Patrik turned. Through the breaks in the trees, he caught flickers of the English knights fleeing toward the opposite side of the field.
A war cry rose as several of Seathan’s knights gave chase, the rebels fading into the sea of green. The remainder of Seathan’s contingent cantered toward the burning home where Patrik had left Fergus to aid his wife. His brother would ensure they were well tended.
Patrik turned, shoved away a limb.
A child’s whimper echoed ahead.
He pushed forward. “Cristina?”
“Patrik?”
The relief in her voice soothed his ragged emotions. He stumbled forward.
From behind a thicket, she stood, Joneta in her arms, an arrow shaft extending from the folds of the child’s clothing.
God no! “Joneta?”
“Is fine.” With the child cradled against her, Cristina walked from the brush, tears streaking through the grime and smear of blood upon her cheeks. “When I first saw her, I-I thought the same. The arrow hit the doll’s wooden chest.” A weak smile wobbled on her lips. “Joneta would not let her go.”
“Mama,” the child whimpered.
Cristina pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow. “’Tis fine.” She sent Patrik a questioning glance, her fear easy to read.
He nodded. “They are alive.”
“Thank God. I—” Her face paled. “You are hurt.”
“A wee bit.”