Chapter 27
The day of battle had come. Bran’s pulse pounded through his veins as it often did before a fight. Mayhap even harder than usual, for there was so much more at stake than a bit of coin or food.
Though their army was small, the battle took a solid three days to plan between himself, Marin, Drake and Sir Richard.
Judging from their collective estimation, there were usually six dozen Graham reivers loitering outside their walls.
As they had not seen within the walls of Mabrick Castle, they were unsure how many of their numbers remained, or if they had sent for reinforcements.
Or if they even held the castle still at all.
Mabrick could well have been reclaimed by the English after their victory.
Marin was at his side, prepared for battle with her full body chainmail clinking. While she had tried valiantly to hide her sorrow, its proof smudged under her eyes and drew tight at her normally lush mouth.
With her now at his side, he knew she did not suspect anything.
Her blind faith twisted at the honest part of his soul.
She would possibly never forgive him. And yet, he had lied when he'd said she could join him on the battlefield. If he’d tried to keep her back, she would have fought and railed against him until he finally agreed.
But he knew the truth of it. How could he fight with her at his side when his worry for her was so great?
It was about more than a babe possibly being in her belly, or the comfortable life her dowry would afford him. It was her. The way she had become a part of his heart.
It was because he loved her.
Wind swept through the bailey and set the banners rippling in their full glory.
The men—reivers and castle soldiers alike—wore the Werrick coat of arms emblazoned across their chests.
The fierce black hawk stood out against the green tincture of its field with a bold stripe of yellow running down its center.
A way to identify one another in the chaotic confusion of battle.
Restless energy charged the air. Men hopped from foot to foot, shifted and twisted their sword arms, readjusted their armor, all the anxious prep work men did to ensure the odds of victory tilted in their favor.
Marin's sisters waited near the soldiers, clad in chainmail and set with grim faces. They would not be fighting.
Both he and Marin had agreed to leave them behind, partly to ensure their safety, especially in light of the cruelty their mother had endured at the hands of the Grahams. But also, to ensure the safety of those remaining within the keep should they lose.
If the tides of battle turned against them, the sisters were to lead the women and children through the secret passage.
While the Grahams were occupied with the spoils of war and a renewed attempt to enter the castle, the lot of them would slip through the passage and find help. Hopefully.
If help could be found.
The girls ran to Marin like daughters to their mother. Bran stood back and allowed them to offer their well-wishes and love. Anice slid him a knowing look and nodded in his direction. The knot of tension in his chest eased.
She had remembered their conversation and would comply. And she would see to Ena’s safety if he did not survive battle.
Bran allowed himself the luxury of watching Marin as she spoke with her sisters, the way her graceful hand stroked their cheeks, how she wore the chainmail as regally as if it were a gown of the finest satin. She was beautiful. Perfect.
Aye, she would be livid. Mayhap even try to kill him again.
But for the same reason they had agreed to not allow her sisters on the battlefield, Bran knew he could not have Marin beside him.
He could not clear from his mind the horrible offense done to her mother.
The very idea of being helpless as men violently harmed her made him burn with enough rage to split a man in two with his axe.
Nay, he would rather face her wrath if they won than witness such horrors if they lost.
Marin turned from her sisters and met his eyes.
It was time.
“I would speak to ye first,” Bran said when she approached him.
She smiled up at him, her full pink lips parting over her straight white teeth. Her blue eyes sparkled at him in the flirtatious way he enjoyed. He drank in every detail of her loveliness, as though he might fill up on it and make it last forever.
For this might be his last opportunity to see her. Such a realization jolted through him and left his heart slamming in his chest. Fear. Ugly and metallic and foreign.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, not with the way his throat had suddenly gone tight. He indicated the stables behind them. She caught his hand and drew him with her.
Sunlight slanted in through a narrow window and motes of dust drifted lazily in the brilliant shafts of light. All around them was the sweet, musty scent of hay. God in Heaven, she would be furious with him.
“Marin, I—”
She threw her arms around his shoulder and kissed him, hungry and hard. “We will win. Together. We will save Werrick Castle.”
His gut twisted, and a thread of doubt wound its way into his mind. He had only to consider what they would do to her if she was captured and his resolve steeled once more.
“Marin.” He cradled her face in his hands and stared at her until every lovely detail of her face had carved itself into his mind. “I love ye.” He pressed a tender kiss to her mouth, savoring the familiar taste of her.
“Forgive me,” he said.
Her eyes widened, but he was too quick, and she too surprised, for her to stop him. He fled the room, slammed the door shut and clapped the beam over it, locking it into place. She screamed on the other side, begging him to let her out.
“Forgive me, Marin.” His throat hurt to speak, but he pushed past it. “I canna lose ye.”
She pounded at the door in response, but he'd already turned his back and was heading in the direction of the readied troops.
Anice held the sisters in place, her head bowed as she spoke in low tones to them.
It was odd to see the second eldest sister without her large beast who had been left within the keep to ensure his safety in the upcoming battle.
Bran pulled his focus from the sisters and steeled himself for the battle ahead. He had the portcullis raised, and together with Sir Richard and Drake at his sides, he led the men out on to the open field to fight.
In the distance, the Grahams leapt to their horses, ready to fight at the moment's notice. One broke off at a full gallop in the opposite direction. Most likely to get reinforcements.
Damn.
“Sir Richard,” Bran bellowed.
The soldier nodded and veered his horse out of the group to follow the lone reiver. Though older, Richard was the fastest rider they had, and Bran knew he'd rather die than see the castle fall. He would not fail.
He could not. For if Graham reinforcements arrived, they were all dead.
Marin pounded on the door until her arms ached, and still she continued to slam her fists against the solid wood. Had the window not been so narrow, she would have climbed through it. She'd actually tried but had found it impossible to even wriggle her torso through.
Her cries were left unanswered: first when Bran walked away, then as the thunder of footsteps passed as the men marched to their waiting horses. The groan of the portcullis opened, and all those heavy feet and hooves painstakingly made their way out beyond the castle walls.
Marin had switched to kicking the door then, slamming her foot against the solid frame repeatedly until her thighs burned. Each solid hit let in a seam of light, but never resulted in the door swinging open.
The groan of the portcullis sounded again, followed by the hearty thunk of the gate closing. Only then, in the absence of sound and soldiers was there a clatter of wood at the door before it creaked open.
Anice stood in the open doorway, her face pinched with anxious uncertainty. “Forgive me, Sister.”
“How could you?” The cut of betrayal gave her words volume enough to echo out over the empty cobblestones.
Anice flinched. But Marin pushed past her to the gates, which were fully closed.
Marin knew well enough they wouldn't be opening again. Not until after the battle. If they won.
She stalked toward the stairs leading up to the battlements where the archers stood at the ready. If she could not be part of the battle, she would at least watch it play out.
“I couldn't lose you too,” Anice called out to her.
Marin stopped.
“We lost Papa,” Anice said. “I lost Timothy. I couldn't…” her voice cracked and tugged at a wounded place in Marin's soul.
“I couldn't lose you too,” Anice repeated softly.
“And so, you have not.” Marin said it gently but resumed her trek to the battlements. Such offenses were not easily forgiven. Not when one skilled soldier could turn the favor of the battle.
Cat stood at the head of the archers; her slender figure so small beside them that she appeared far younger than her sixteen years. She cast a glance back at Marin, her eyes wide with anxiety. “They’re coming.”
Marin rushed to the crenulations in time to see the two forces charging at one another, horses at the front and men on foot running at a wild pace in the back. Leading the band of men was Bran. He rode on his horse with easy confidence, his face fixed toward his enemy.
The summer breeze blew against the grass, sending waves rippling over the long blades. Overhead the sky was a perfect blue with clouds like stretched wool. It was a day for a banquet beneath a copse of trees, not for a battle and death.
Shouts rose up from either side, carried to her on the wind.
It sparked her warrior's blood and sent her pulse racing.
Her muscles ached with the need to be there with her men, racing toward the enemy.
She clenched her hands into fists and pressed them hard into the stonework of the wall, as if that might somehow ease her angst.
The men increased their pace as they got closer. Marin tensed.
“Ready your arrows.” Cat lifted her hand.
A dozen bows creaked. The reivers and soldiers below crashed together in a cacophony of ringing metal, clattering shields and cries of effort and pain.
“Launch!” Cat drew her hand down and nocked her own arrow. The release of her weapon was soundless beneath the terrible roar of battle.
Bran had managed to stay on his horse, his battle axe glinting in the golden light of the sun. He filled her thoughts as she recalled the way he'd looked just before locking her in the stables. His gaze had been so desperate, emotion shining in his eyes, as if it tore at his heart to leave her.
I love ye.
She had replayed those words in her head again and again, savoring them, clinging to them.
Already several bodies fell to the ground, some Grahams in their plain gambesons, some bearing the Werrick coat of arms.
Marin's heart snagged in her throat. Her men. Ones who had protected her all these years and now made the greatest sacrifice to see her and her people safe.
She put a hand to her mouth to cover her sobs. Her tears could not be so easily squelched. She watched the entirety of the battle and yet kept focused on where Bran led their army with commendable bravery.
He remained at the front line. His movements were as powerful as they were lethal.
His strokes were rhythmic in a smooth repetitive motion she knew well enough from her own time in such melee.
He operated on well-honed instinct, pausing only to aid a fellow soldier or reiver, the way he'd done as they were side-by-side when they'd saved her sisters.
But to observe him like this, from a spectator’s place, he was magnificent.
A Graham pulled his blade free and spun to face Bran's back.
Marin clutched at the stonework beneath her hands, but before she could even draw a full breath to call out his name in warning, a white fletched arrow sailed toward the man and hit him in the eye.
The Graham fell to the ground, no longer a threat.
Cat did not pause to appreciate her own incredible shot, not when her fingers were flying from plucking and firing with abandon.
Despite Bran being saved by her sister's extraordinary talent, the tension did not leave Marin's shoulders.
Watching the fight unfold was the greatest hell she'd ever endured.
When she was among her men, she had the element of control, inasmuch as one could wield during the chaos of war.
At Bran's side, she could keep his back guarded, ensuring his safety.
Instead, she was confined to the battlements in the weighty trappings of useless chainmail, completely and utterly helpless.
Each man in her livery who fell dragged at her heart and left her wondering what she might have done to prevent the death, had she been among her men. Where she belonged.
Anger fired through her again. She wanted to scream out her frustration until her throat bled. When this battle was done, she would ensure Bran got a good piece of her mind.
Her heart squeezed at the thought of seeing him again. God, how she wanted to see him again. After she kissed him senseless, she decided. That was when she would give him a good piece of her mind.
Several more of the Werrick coat of arms fell to the ground, and then several more. The battle was turning in the favor of the Grahams.
She shot an anxious look to the gates. They could open them and partially raise the portcullis ever so slightly. Enough for the men to scramble underneath. Enough for Bran to be safe.
When her gaze settled back to the field, her blood ran cold. The Grahams were easily consuming the Werrick men. The battle would not last much longer.
Movement on the horizon pulled her horrified attention from the fighting. Men lined up along the crest of a hill in the distance. A good number of men.
The cool blood in her veins turned to ice. The Grahams had brought reinforcements.
“Marin, we must go.” Cat pulled at her.
But Marin could not leave, not when her feet were rooted to the stone ground. “Bran,” she whispered.
He continued to fight, oblivious of the men soon heading in his direction. Heedless of the impending slaughter. She had not told him she loved him when he left. She had shouted curses at him she hadn’t meant, and she never, never told him she loved him.
She shook her head and the world swirled in a blur of colors.
“Forgive me, Marin,” Cat said in her sweet voice. “We must. The women and children need us.”
A small hand pulled at Marin's, leading her away. Before she could disappear completely, she jerked her face back toward the battlefield and took one last long look at her husband, knowing it would be her last.