Chapter 25
The following day, Bran paced the battlements, staring out past the cluster of Graham soldiers to where the brilliant green grass stretched on for miles.
The enclosure of the keep’s walls was taking its toll.
The reiver's horrible death the prior day had cast a somber shadow over the mood within the castle. The threat of the Grahams just over the walls rattled like a stone in everyone's mind, a constant irritating reminder of imminent danger.
The soldiers were less anxious, confident in their knowledge of the safety within the structure, but the reivers, who had grown used to open freedom, were agitated and edgy.
Bran understood their restlessness. Reivers were nomads, belonging to no one, reliant on themselves for care and food and lodging, takers of their necessities.
He did not give in to the pressure, although it didn't mean he was free of its effects. He stared down at the mass of Grahams outside the castle walls and a tight itch prickled at the back of his neck.
Marin stood with the stillness of a statue at his side, her narrowed gaze focused on the cluster of several dozen men. “What will we do about them?”
Bran rubbed at the spot on his neck, though it did little to alleviate the discomfort. “There's no' anything we can do, save pick them off with our archers when they come too close.”
The wind tore at their clothing and left Marin's veil snapping.
Her attention was fixated on the Graham reivers, her dissatisfaction evident in the clench of her jaw.
She settled her hands on her hips and tapped her finger lightly on the hilt of the sword strapped to her belt.
“If your reinforcements do come in, would they help us put the Grahams off?”
Bran glanced down at his wife. He hadn’t expected her to mention the possibility of Kerr sending troops, though he could tell from the stern expression on her face that it weighed on her thoughts heavily. “Aye,” he answered warily.
She nodded. “If he received the missive.” Her neck tensed. “I think he did not. Regardless, the strife at Berwick would detain him.”
Her worried expression did not lift. He hated that he couldn't offer her any reassurances. He hated even more that he was the cause.
A Graham warrior edged closer and an arrow shot out from the castle in his direction.
He managed to scramble to a safe position before it sank harmlessly into the earth.
A cheer rose up from the Grahams. One of them tugged his doublet up and pulled his hose aside to reveal a bared white arse pointed in their direction.
Bran almost chuckled at the antics, for even if the situation was not funny, these men were his kind. Marin, however, was not so amused. Her fists tightened and a flush crept up her neck.
“My father would never have allowed any of this to happen.” She muttered the words, but Bran heard them before they were snatched away by the wind. Her brow furrowed, and he knew she was piling the blame upon herself.
“Yer da isna here.” He reached out to her. “But we are.”
The Grahams hopped on their horses and rallied in a group. Bran strained his gaze. What the hell were they doing?
The lot of them rode off in the direction of a nearby hill. Marin turned and gave a sharp gasp. “There's someone coming.” She spun to the archers on the other side of the battlement. “Ready your bows. Summon Cat this instant.”
She leaned forward, peering into the distance and gave a sharp gasp. “They are flying our banner. The Werrick coat of arms.”
Bran stared at the lone rider and caught the familiar green crest with the yellow stripe running down its center. Marin darted toward the stairs.
Bran caught her arm. “What are ye doing?”
She shrugged him off and raced down the stairs before disappearing into the stables. Whatever she was planning was not an idea Bran liked. If Marin was in the stables, she was intending to acquire a horse–and she wouldn't need a horse if she wasn't planning on riding out.
She burst from the stables atop her horse and nearly ran him down.
“Marin,” he bellowed. “Ye canna—”
She twisted in her saddle to face her sister. “Cat, get to the archers.”
The slap of feet on the cobblestones behind him told him Cat ran to obey her orders.
He reached for Marin. “Dinna go out there.” His heart scrambled in his chest. She couldn't go out there, not when the Grahams were thirsty for her blood.
“That could be my father.” She cried out and her horse bolted forward. “The gates!”
Damn it.
“Dinna ye dare open those gates,” Bran called out.
The castle soldiers did not bother to give him a second glance before following their mistress's orders. The portcullis groaned open.
God's teeth.
Bran spun angrily toward the stable. “My horse, Peter,” he growled at the Master of the Horse. Peter leapt to obey his order and within moments, Bran was at Marin’s heels.
But it truly wasn't anger spurring him onward–it was fear. They could capture her. If so, they would certainly torture her, as they'd done with his messenger. An image flashed in his mind of her in front of the castle, dumped as the last body had been, bloody and twisted.
He urged his horse faster as he went through the gates.
She was in front of him, her back straight in the saddle, the thunder of her horse's hooves lost beneath the sound of his own.
The Grahams divided suddenly. Half of them going toward the man riding to the castle, half of them turning toward Marin.
Bran's heart lodged in his throat.
An arrow zipped from the battlements and caught one man in the throat. He fell from his horse, his cry inaudible. Another arrow came, and another, and another, every one finding its mark. Marin reached the lone rider and Bran was finally able to catch up to her. Finally, able to help her.
He drew his blade from its sheath and together he and Marin fought the dozens of Grahams while they turned and darted back to the castle together. The rain of arrows had dwindled to a trickle. One lone archer still taking carefully aimed shots while the others ceased to fire.
Cat, no doubt.
It seemed like a lifetime had stretched on before they finally reached the gate. Several archers had been relocated to the entryway, their bows readied with nocked arrows. Drake stood at the lead, shouting orders.
Marin and Bran guided the man in, and the arrows began firing until the portcullis closed once more and the gates securely drawn.
Once they were inside, Bran and Marin dropped from their horses while the visitor was aided from his.
Bran caught Marin's hand. “Ye scared me.”
She looked unrepentant. “I had to go.”
He edged closer to her. “They could have taken ye, tortured ye.”
She lowered her head and looked at their joined hands. “I thought he might be my father.” Her gaze found his. “What would you have done if you’d thought it was Ena?”
With that, she slipped her hand from his and went to the rider. A man who, based on the civil greeting and invitation to join them inside, was not the Earl of Werrick.
The man followed Marin into the castle with a distinct limp. He was one of her father's soldiers, she knew this for certain, having recognized him from weapons practice. His skill had always been exceptional.
He did not look like that powerful warrior now. Dirt and blood caked his once-glittering chainmail and lines of defeat creased his bruised face.
Marin strode alongside the man, her feet nearly tripping over themselves in her haste, while she attempted to read his face. His expression was grim and hard, his stare vacant, and it caught her heart in a vice of fear.
“My father,” she whispered. “Is he safe?” As soon as the words had fled her lips, she regretted them. She ought to wait until they were alone, when they had privacy.
His gaze slid toward her and everything in the vast nothingness within turned her soul to ice. Her step faltered.
Hands clasped her arms, and held her upright despite the pull of the floor below her. The comforting scent of sandalwood filled her nostrils.
Bran.
He was there for her. As he said he would be.
She drew from his strength and waited to hear the words every daughter dreaded.
Bran guided them not to the great hall, but up to the solar, where they could be alone.
It was uncustomary, but it was perhaps the most private place for Marin to receive her father’s soldier, and the news that had made him appear so mournful.
“My father?” Marin asked.
The man swayed on his feet a moment. He ducked his head and clasped his hands in front of his body. “Forgive me, my lady.”
The breath choked from her chest. The man did not go on. Did he mean to torment her thusly?
Drake pulled a chair forward and the man sank gratefully into it. When had Drake arrived? Had he always been there?
Marin’s head spun; her whole world held in a state of purgatory.
“Go on,” Bran said from beside her.
The man lowered his gaze. “The Earl of Werrick is dead.”
Marin staggered. The news slammed into her heart with the force of a war hammer and purged her of all thought and breath. Only pain remained. An ache that cut so deeply, it bore into her soul. Strong arms caught her shoulders and curled her in a protective embrace she scarcely registered.
Not her father. Mother had already left them in a horrific death, and now her father… Her father…
Her mind flinched from the words she could not say even in her head.
How could this be? He was a powerful man, not only in ranking, but also in stature. After he'd recovered from Mother's death, his bravery and strength had returned. How could a man such as he be cut down in battle as though he were a simple soldier?
Her heart crumpled under a clench of hurt.
Her father's face filled her mind, the crinkled corners of his eyes when he smiled at her, all the love shining there when he told her how proud she made him.
She would never see that expression on his face again, never hear the rich timber of his voice, never feel the comfort of his hand upon her shoulder.