Revenge (Clan Fraser #2)

Prologue

APRIL, 1223 CALAIS, FRANCE

F og swirled around the ghostly images of men and horses along the ridge, muffling the sound of waves as they rolled in from the sea below.

Three men watched, and waited.

Horses moved restlessly, sensing the coming battle. Lances were drawn and swords pulled from scabbards, as the sky lightened, and with it the fog that had concealed the English barges that rode the tide like great, lumbering beasts, their masts reaching into the cold, gray dawn.

Arrows suddenly filled the arrow, finding bonfire targets below that exploded along the headland, the smoke burning away the last of the fog and exposing the invaders that came from the sea.

His fellow Scots, who had sold their services to the French king, waited patiently as they had waited in times past--in Spain, across the Mediterranean, and in other far places. Soon enough they would charge from the ridge to the beach below.

"This will be the last of it for MacInnis," Geordie said beside him as they quieted their horses.

"He's for home after this one, with enough silver to keep his family, aye?"

"And you?" he asked, his gaze sharp on the horizon as the bonfires continued to burn away the fog, and give the English notice they were there. Not a decision he agreed with, but the Comte de Villiers had given his orders.

He preferred surprise. It often made the difference in battle. Now that surprise was gone for the English had certainly seen the fires along the beach.

"I've no one left at home," Geordie said with a shrug of the shoulder beneath the leather tunic in the gray predawn.

"Most of the other lads are of the same mind, as long as the king pays in silver."

"What of you?" the man to his other side asked, smoothing a hand down the glossy neck of his horse to calm him as the moments slipped away and others fast approached.

His friend, Robert De Brus. They were of near the same age, there for different reasons, but friends in that way that a common cause connected men such as themselves.

Robbie had dark hair with serious dark eyes beneath the helm he wore. It was the seriousness that set them apart. Robbie already knew his life's fate. He was expected to align with an influential family, thereby securing De Brus holdings that had been given his family by both the Scottish and English kings. A precarious balancing act given that he'd ridden off with Ruari Fraser to France against his father's wishes all those years before. In truth, they were no more than boys then, Robbie off for adventure, himself outlawed by the English king.

Dammed fools, Robbie's father had cursed them, rather than sending them off with prayers and a father's love.

Ruari's' own father, Connor, Chieftain of Clan Fraser, was gone. It was his half brother, James, the new chieftain, who had sent him off, much like a loving father.

"God keep you." James had said that day, knowing the danger he rode into but the greater danger he was leaving behind.

"Dinna forget ye are Fraser born."

The fog lifted and the smell of the sea came with it, reminding him of the last time he had crossed that northern water, and of home. He'd had enough of arid plains and desert wastelands. He longed for the smell of the earth after a rain in the highlands, the sight of green hills, the piney forest and rocky crags.

His answer to Robbie was the same as it had always been.

Home. A place he hadn't seen in over ten years.

"Aye," Robbie said. "We've both been away too long. This is the end of it for me. I've had word that my father is not well. But still, I wouldna change the last seven years." he added.

"Our adventures, aye?"

Ruari flashed a smile. "There have been a few." Some that only men knew about-- the places, the people... the women. And other adventures, like the one now. Robbie was serious now.

"If I should fall this day... "

Ruari shook his head, refusing to accept it. They had been in places like this before, and worse.

"I have yer back, as ye have mine. Together, we will see it through. And then go home."

"Aye," Robbie replied.

The battle cry went up along the French line. On the beach below, two English barques ran aground on the sandy beach. Large gates at the prow of each suddenly lowered and mounted warriors and knights charged through the surf beneath the banner of a black dragon on a field of red.

"Blackwood," Geordie said as he gathered his reins and pulled his war axe from his belt.

Sir John Blackwood. William Marshall's heel hound unleashed with but one purpose, to drive back the French and re-take holdings lost to the French in the war of politics. Bloody Blackwood he was called, for it was known he had sworn to leave no enemy alive on the field of battle.

Beside him, with a grim expression, Robbie slammed his face plate into place. Ruari tucked the ring he wore on a chain into the neck of his tunic. Blackwood was an old enemy and there was a score to settle.

The year before , he had led a raid north of the borderlands into the heart of Fraser lands. Though the English king denied that he had ordered it, none believed it. Many good men died, along with women and children. His brother, Chieftain of Clan Fraser, had been badly wounded... And he had not been there.

Riders to the left and right of them charged forward, sending their horses down the ridge as Villiers infantry followed. Robbie gave the signal to their fellow Scots. They followed, sending their horses down on a direct line with the barque that flew Blackwood's banner. When he reached the beach, he shifted the reins to his right hand, and drew his sword with his left.

The beach exploded in chaos. To the right and left of him, French and Scot warriors fought the first wave of the English. Then more mounted English knights charged from the rear of the two barges, horses leaping through the churning surf. He looked for Blackwood among them, easily recognized by the black armor he always wore, and the black dragon on that red banner.

On the beach, mounted French and Scot warriors cut down the invaders on their right and left, then stepped down from their horses and met the battle one-on-one. Among them, Geordie FitzWalter, friend and companion these past two years. Then he disappeared in a mass of fighting, slicing warriors.

Blackwood's banner snapped in the wind that rode the surf as he swept onto the beach, cut down two men, then swung about and charged into another mass of fighting warriors.

Ruari vaulted down from his horse, pushed his helm back so that he had a wider field of vision, then pulled the shorter blade from his belt as Robbie and another one of their fellow Scots formed a wedge and hacked their way through the English attack.

The fighting was bloody and brutal. He was pushed to the edge of the water, the surf churning red with blood. Sweat poured off him beneath the leather tunic, even as cold sea water filled his boots.

An arrow took down their fellow Scot and Robbie moved in to protect his back. Then he saw Blackwood, now afoot, hacking his way through the French counter-attack.

Efficient, brutal, he cut down one man, then another, never looking back as he moved steadily forward, that cold gray gaze that some said was like the look of death itself, hidden behind that black helm.

An English warrior came at him and he pushed him back, swinging the sword low, cutting his legs from beneath him, then sinking the shorter blade deep.

A warning shout from Robbie brought his head up as Blackwood bore down on them. The English butcher reached Robbie first, swinging on him with both long sword and a shorter blade.

The churning surf was a vicious beast that dragged at them no matter the banner they fought under, the sand at the beach sucking at their boots. Robbie stepped back to maneuver for a counter blow. He stumbled and went down. Blackwood moved in for the kill.

Pure rage burned through Ruari as he yelled a challenge at Blackwood and struck at that black helm.

"Come at me, ye bloody English bastard!"

It was a glancing blow, but it was enough. Blackwood spun around at this new attack that came at his off side.

"Fraser !" Blackwood shouted. "Kin to the whoreson who calls himself chieftain of Clan Fraser?" He swept the helm from his head.

"A traitor who fights for the king of France!" he snarled. "It will be a pleasure to kill you!"

"Not this day!" Ruari flung back at him. "There is a debt to be paid. Your blood will be sufficient payment!"

They went at each other as the attack surged around them. They circled, struck, then circled again. Sword tangled with sword, muscles strained. Ruari struck a blow and Blackwood fell back, his expression was bloodied.

Not enough blood, Ruari thought. Not nearly enough. The serpent was still alive. He struck again, Blackwood countering as he brought his sword up.

They continued to strike, drop back, then strike again, both weighted down by armor, the sand sucking at their boots, and exhaustion. Then, a sudden movement to his left. Blackwood's gaze shifted for just those few seconds.

Over the chaos and din of battle, he heard Robbie's warning cry and glimpsed the warrior at his back. Just those few seconds, a small advantage, but Blackwood took it and struck, pain searing at his sword arm, and he was going down.

He cursed, drove back to his feet and tried to bring the sword back up, Blackwood standing over him.

"Blood payment is it?" Blackwood jeered at him. "A bit more, I think." He gloated with satisfaction, then suddenly stopped.

The French had regrouped and the next wave of warriors swept across the beach toward them. Blackwood cursed as the French and several Scots bore down on him.

With a backwards glance, he shouted orders to his men as the French advanced, driving him and his men back into the sea. He pulled one of his own men from his horse and climbed into the saddle, then made a run toward the nearest barge, shouting orders even as he abandoned some of his own men on the beach.

Ruari went after them, caught in the bloodied surf as the barge slowly lurched back out to the open sea on the retreating tide. Then Robbie was beside him as the victory cry went out among the French along the beachhead and at the ridge above.

He was suddenly weak, sea water stinging at the wound. He ignored the pain and the weakness and would have gone after the barque, but the surf almost took him, dragging him down to his knees. Robbie grabbed him.

"Sweet Jesus! Mary!" he swore when he looked at him. "Do ye hear me?" Then, "Hold on!"

There was more shouting as other Scots joined them, and two of his men were supporting him while Robbie continued to curse in a mixture of Gaelic and French, then some other language they'd picked up along the way.

"What is wrong with ye, man?" Ruari demanded with a half smile. "Can ye not speak plain?"

"Aye, plain enough," Robbie said grimly, then shouted orders to the two who supported him.

"Lay him here! And give me yer belt," he was shouting again as Ruari was laid down on the sandy beach.

"Leave off," Ruari mumbled. "Where's my horse?"

"Ye'll not be riding that beast this day," Robbie told him. "Be still now. This will hurt."

He would have come up off the sand if the other two hadn't held him down, pain tearing through his arm, and up into his shoulder. He fell back, teeth clenched.

"You fucking whoreson!" he screamed. Robbie simply nodded. "I'll let that pass seeing as how ye saved my life."

Then he turned to one of the others. "We need to get him to the village, and hope he doesn't bleed to death afore we get there. Here, Munro," he gave more orders to one of the men.

"Help wrap this about him to keep him from flailing about. He might be dying but he's strong as an ox."

Dying. He'd never thought about it, never spent days kneeling in prayer for his soul or repenting his sins. Or mumbling into his wine about any regrets as old men often did.

Sins? There were many.

Prayers? He'd long ago closed his heart to those.

"Send word to James."

Robbie's expression was grim. "Send it yerself." He refused to accept that his friend was dying.

Ruari stared up into the smoke filled sky as crows circled over the dead that lay scattered across the beach.

As darkness closed round him, he thought of home, the last time he was there, and a young lass with red-gold hair.

She stood at the gate of Lechlede, the wind whipping at her hair, dark blue eyes looking back at him...