Chapter 28
Bran was in the full glory of combat. His movements glided in rhythm with the countless motions he'd practiced since he was a youth, and his senses were tuned in to everything around him.
While his heightened awareness focused him, it was impossible to not hear the grunts and pathetic cries of the dying coming from behind and beside him.
The odor of death clung in his nostrils, tinged with the metallic note of fear. He roared with energy and swept his axe down with all his might. It sank into the skull of the man attempting to plunge a sword into his side. The man fell and another took his place, forcing Bran a step backward.
Bran gritted his teeth. It was not the first time he'd moved back. In fact, he had been steadily pushed in the direction of the castle with each man he killed or maimed. Ahead of him, the carpet of bodies grew larger, many colored with the Werrick livery.
Beside him, Drake's sword whipped and jabbed effortlessly, the weapon light in the warrior's grip. “They keep pushing us back,” Drake said between attacks. “Is it so we can see how many of our men have died?”
“Aye.” Bran jerked his battle axe upward to block a blow aimed at his face. “’Tis meant to fluster us.” He readjusted his grip and swung his axe into the man's neck.
Drake slid him a glance and plunged with his blade once more.
The tactic wouldn't work on Bran, or Drake, or even most of the castle’s soldiers.
His reivers were another story altogether.
Already many of them had been restless within the keep.
Even as they'd run out for battle, several had slipped away.
Whether they survived or not, he did not know, but he wagered he'd see some of the fine coat of arms cloth for sale in the market in the future.
And there would be a future, because he would win this battle, damn it. He would see Ena saved, and he would see his wife again.
Once she forgave him, of course.
“Let's kill these bastards and go home,” Bran gritted out.
Drake bellowed out a war cry in response and speared the man in front of him. Together they fought on, empowered with the need for victory.
Movement caught in Bran's periphery. A considerable amount of movement.
It pulled his attention momentarily from the fight.
He was not alone. A unified respite hummed through the melee at the cluster of a few dozen soldiers rushing toward them.
They did not cry out as they descended. Nay, they were silent, their faces grimacing with savagery.
Their armor was tarnished and spattered, their clothing beneath unkempt.
Bran's heart fell at the state of their dress. These were not soldiers who happened upon them to help. They were more reivers. The reinforcements had come through, and they were Grahams.
All around Marin came the cries of heartbroken women and their fearful children. The few men who remained behind held somber, desolate expressions at their own sealed fates.
Bernard made his way from person to person, offering his blessing and his ear. The awkward priest had cast aside his public discomfort and prayed so fervently with each desperate soul that his bald head glistened with his efforts.
The thick stone walls of the castle left it impossible to hear the fight raging on.
Part of her was grateful for the reprieve from the cries of the dying, and yet part of her wanted to cling to the battle, to the men who were still alive.
Panic threatened to break her, fear for those who fought for them and for the man she loved.
But she swallowed it down and remained resolute.
Her people needed her. As lady of the castle, she had to remain strong.
Everyone had been accounted for and were gathered in the great hall. Everyone save Leila and Isla. Marin rushed to her sisters’ shared chamber and found the girl curled up by the hearth once more, her chainmail glinting in the firelight.
“We must go,” Marin said with urgency. “The reivers have brought reinforcements. Leila, the castle will fall.”
Leila shook her head.
Panic jabbed hot at Marin. “There are lives depending on us.”
Her youngest sister slid a gaze to the seat beside her where Isla sat. “You may leave us,” Leila said, as if it were the simplest decision.
“I will not leave you.” Marin came around the chair and reached for her sister.
Leila simply shook her head. “It isn't as it seems.”
“It isn't as it seems?” Marin shook her head, her nerves scraped raw and her patience expired. “That makes no sense.”
Isla lay a sympathetic hand on Marin’s shoulder. “Yer sister knows more than any of us ever will.”
But Marin had seen the battle being lost with her own eyes, as clearly as she'd seen the reiver’s reinforcements arrive. It was all too certain what lay in store for Bran and the men he led. There would be no escape.
She clenched her fists. This hope her sister tried to offer was too much, especially when such loss would be Marin’s destruction. She pressed her hand over her chest, but the pain burning there did not cease.
“Is Marin here?” Ella's voice cut through Marin's lamentation. “You must come. Quick!”
Marin stared in bewilderment.
“Come, child.” Isla's gnarled hands grasped Marin's shoulder with surprising strength and hefted her to her feet.
Marin staggered forward on legs she did not trust. “What is it?”
Ella twirled and came to a stop with a lovely smile. “A miracle.”
Bran's body tensed at the onslaught of the new army. Their men would be fresh and bloodthirsty, not worn down from the endless swinging and blocking of their weapons.
“Dinna stop fighting, men.” Bran swung his axe down. “We do this for Werrick Castle, for the women and children, for those that we love. We do this for us.”
The men at his side remained there, both soldiers and reivers alike. Together they braced as the army fell upon them. The first of the new soldiers attacked, thrusting his blade with savage strength into a Graham. The man staggered, a look of surprise on his face, and toppled to the ground.
The second new warrior attacked another Graham, while the first found yet another to kill. They were helping.
No doubt for a ridiculous fee that would be charged once the battle was won. It was common of mercenaries low on work to force their need upon hapless souls in order to earn their living.
Though at this point, Bran would pay them what they asked, no matter the price. Their safety meant that of the people within the castle walls.
Bran pulled his axe from the dead Graham in front of him and glanced at the new men fighting at their side.
Their chainmail was even filthier up close, layered in mud and black slime.
Beneath it all was a coat of arms. Through the muck, a green background was bisected by a yellow stripe with a black bird emblazoned on its front.
Bran's body tingled.
The Earl of Werrick’s soldiers were home from Berwick. A Graham knocked into Bran, nearly sending him to the ground. Bran shoved the man to create space between them, enough for the blade of an axe, and swiftly ended his life.
If the men were alive, then perhaps… He surveyed the men fighting and found one in particular who was surrounded by soldiers. Guarded. The way one might do for an earl.
Bran's heart raced. Marin's father might truly be alive.
The battle had turned in their favor. Bran's forces were the ones pushing their enemy backward now, allowing them to see the rapidly growing number of dead Grahams. The men at the back of the battle began to break away and leave, choosing to flee and live.
Soon their enemy was no more, with most dead and many more running.
“We'll be back.” An aged man with long gray and white hair glared at Bran. “Ye mark our word, we will be back.”
The words of a coward to be sure. Bran hefted his axe and the man turned with haste to flee.
All around him rose the shouts of victory, cheering until voices went hoarse. Brethren greeted one another and reunions were had. The crowd of men had begun to move as a solid mass in the direction of the castle.
Bran fixed his gaze on the man he suspected might be the earl.
The man removed his helm to reveal a head of silver hair.
Sir Richard was at his side in an instant, saying something Bran could not make out.
At least, not until the possible earl's face hardened and an icy blue gaze slid in his direction.
Shite.
Bran had never been one to back down. He shifted toward the earl, preparing to march over to him when a hand caught his chest, stopping him.
Drake caught his eye and shook his head. “Better to do it in front of yer wife,” he said in a low voice.
“I'll no' hide behind my wife's skirts,” Bran snarled.
“Better that than lying dead at her feet.” Drake nudged him forward with his shoulder. “Ye took the castle by force and have married his eldest daughter. Many of his men are dead because of battles that wouldn't have happened were it not for ye.”
Bran groaned. “When ye word it in such a manner…”
Drake did not reply, but instead urged him forward.
Bran grunted in reply and allowed himself to be nudged away from the strewn bodies remaining, out of the grass gone muddy with blood, and back to the place he realized he now thought of as home.
“Papa!” A girlish squeal sounded from the battlements and echoed over the field. A figure in front of the archers leapt up and down several times before disappearing.
So, the man was indeed the Earl of Werrick. Despite the hollowness that knowledge wrought in Bran's gut, he could not help but smile at Cat's delight to see her father alive.
The portcullis opened and the men shifted with restless eagerness to be reunited with their families, whether their time outside the castle walls had been over an hour, or over the last month.
Two women waited on the other side, so eager for it to open, they finally ducked underneath and ran to the earl.
As they got closer, Bran realized they were Anice and Cat, Anice racing with the same girlish excitement as her younger sister.
They flew into their father's arms and remained there a good, long time.
The earl kissed each of their heads in turn and held them as though he never intended to let them go. When his eyes opened, tears shone, making them glow like a summer sky.
The rest of the men pressed onward into the bailey, giving the earl his privacy in the reunion with his daughters. Though not all of them.
Bran scanned the courtyard as he entered the castle grounds, but he did not see the rest of Werrick's daughters. Not Ella, nor Leila. And not Marin.
The other men were greeted by the grateful women and children, kissed and held and crooned over.
The earl returned to his men once more, his face beaming with pride and love.
He was exactly the man Marin had described him as, the kind of father any child might want. Even a boy who had never known his own.
Before foolish thoughts of a happy outcome could take root in Bran's mind, the earl released his daughters and the expression on his face went from adoring father to fierce warrior.
The summer-blue eyes frosted to a wintery gray and the lined scowl transformed his features into something menacing.
His stare pierced Bran and chilled his soul.
“You forced your way into the castle by threatening my daughter.” The earl's lip curled.
Cat stepped toward her father. “Papa, he—”
“You took my castle, you slept in my bed, you ate my food and sat at the head of my table.” Spittle flecked out of his mouth and shone in the brilliant sunlight.
He stopped just before Bran and glowered down at him with such authoritative disapproval, Bran had to force himself to remain upright.
“You married my eldest daughter.” He blinked slowly, as if the act pained him to do so. “You laid with her.”
Bran opened his mouth, but the earl reared back his fist and pain exploded in Bran's cheekbone.
“I'll have none of your excuses, you reiving bastard,” the earl hissed and strode away. “Guards, this marauder has led a life he does not deserve, his pleasures stolen for too long.”
The men surrounding Bran hesitated only a moment before seizing his arms. Drake lunged toward them but was immediately restrained by three of the filthy Werrick soldiers.
Bran bit back any explanations he might offer. It didn’t matter. Not with a man like the Earl of Werrick, a nobleman exactly like every other Bran had known. He only hoped Anice would remember her promise to save Ena, and that Marin would help.
Sir Richard appeared beside the earl and stared at Bran. “Shall we take him to the dungeon, my lord?”
The earl spit on the ground. “Kill him.”