25
FINN
Finn held the image of Cecily in his mind, like a talisman against having lost her twice.
He pictured her in Kent, waking to a quiet morning. Taking her breakfast in a warm hall, walking the corridors free of him, free of the danger he had brought into her life.
Earlier, watching the man beside him struggle to span his bow, Finn had reached over without thinking and adjusted the stirrup.
The man had looked at him sideways. “Guess ye’ve done this before.”
Finn’s boyhood spent training with weapons betrayed him. A sergeant had been watching. Within moments, Finn was at the front of the rise. The Scots formed tight formations beyond the marshy ground, dark figures bristling with spears. Finn sighted along the bolt and made himself breathe slowly.
This is not my war, he thought. I have no interest in killing Scots. But the bolt was in the bow, and the men around him were waiting. He had no choice.
He was grateful, at least, that she had her family now.
They could keep her safe and provide the comforts she deserved.
But would she forgive him for disappearing?
Would she even want to see him again, once she learned the truth he’d been withholding?
He had to believe so. When he reached her—when, not if—he would tell her. His real name was Griffin de Veyron.
He didn’t let himself think past that.
A ripple of movement passed through the front line. Sharp orders were being relayed down the formation.
A man behind him was grumbling. “The Scot William Wallace thinks spears will stop this.”
“Talkin’ ’bout freedom won’t stop the arrows from flyin’,” another replied.
The horn sounded.
“Loose on command,” the sergeant shouted.
Cecily.
“Loose!”
The air filled with arrows rising together, like dark wings flying upward, then dropping hard to their marks.