The ride back to Scotland was torturous. Ena hadn’t bothered to offer justification for anything as they galloped onto Scottish soil, not when everything in her was weighted down with sorrow.
Every hoofbeat took her farther from the man she loved, abandoning him to his fate with the English Middle March Warden. She knew little of the man aside from his youth and his wealth. No doubt he’d never gone without food a day in his life. A man both ruthless and cruel—not only to his enemies but to those he considered traitors.
She also knew Kershopefoot Castle was heavily fortified and not a place she could have entered wearing the gambeson of a Scottish reiver. Even if she had stayed in England, she could have done nothing to help Renault.
Her only hope would be convincing Bran to aid her. An impossible task to be sure, but one she would not abandon until he agreed.
They all returned their horses near the pele tower where the valuable animals would be held safe within the stone confines.
Drake offered a cordial bow to them prior to taking his leave, bidding them good evening as he traversed the path to his cottage with a bag slung over his shoulder.
Bran scowled at Ena and together they walked over the moonlit landscape to their own small hut. “I told ye no’ to come on any more raids.” He gave a heavy sigh. “This one was an especially poor choice.”
Ena’s angry frustration simmered under the surface. She knew she ought to let it lie, but she could no sooner keep quiet than she could cool her ire. “How could ye do it, Bran?” she demanded. “Ye did to those people what the English have done to us.”
“It isna what ye think,” he said gruffly.
“Did ye kill women?” she pressed. “Children?” Her voice caught.
“Enough,” he growled.
They stopped in front of their home and Bran took a key from his pouch.
“I’m disappointed in ye.” Her voice was thick with emotion, but she pushed her words around the ache in her throat. “And I’m disappointed in Drake. He’s always behaved like a knight until this moment.”
Tears burned in her eyes. Drake’s father had been an English knight before being killed in battle. What would he think to see his son brought so low? And by Bran’s influence.
Bran unlocked the door and carefully pushed through. He’d reinforced the doorframe on the flimsy wall, but the thick plaster was still drying. Moggy bounded over to them like a trained pup and immediately began twisting herself around Bran’s ankles as he walked.
Ena followed behind him. “Say something.”
“I dinna kill anyone.” He threw the bag he’d been carrying onto the table. “Look inside.”
She hesitated, but he nodded encouragingly. He turned his back to her and crouched by the hearth to light a fire while she curiously drew open the large leather sack. A loaf of bread sat on top. A pouch of peas was beneath it, with handfuls of loose barley shifting around through the horde like pearls.
She shook her head. “This is all food.”
“And ye’re practically starving.” Bran straightened in front of the now lit fire and opened his hands out to its heat. Moggy gave a pathetic mew and he lifted her into his arms, scratching her behind the ears as she liked best. “We both are. ’Tis why I agreed to go. Drake too.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I dinna agree with the slaughter of Kershopefoot’s villagers, but the reivers were going regardless of my opinion. The dead canna eat, so Drake and I agreed to join in to collect food from the homes.”
Ena lost her battle to hold back her tears as they trailed down her cheeks. “’Tis more than we can eat.”
“Aye, it’s for Drake too.” Bran gave a sad little smile. “He was so busy protecting every woman and bairn he found, he didn’t get much for his family. The lad damn near died saving a dog.”
“Too many died.” Her voice choked.
“More would have, were it no’ for us.” Bran got to his feet. “And for ye. I presume ye saved that woman.”
Ena nodded.
Bran approached and selected a loaf of bread from the sack. “This Englishman ye spoke of…tell me about him.” He set Moggy down, split the loaf in half and gave her one side. They’d learned a long time ago not to consume an entire loaf on their own when their stomachs were empty.
“His name is Renault.” She savored his name on her tongue for a moment before going on with the story of how they’d met and what had transpired between them, omitting the intimacy they’d shared. She even mentioned how he’d attacked one of his own to save her and how he’d been arrested for his act of valor.
“I thought if we went to Kerr, he could aid us,” Ena concluded. After all, the Scottish Middle March Warden was forever trying to capture control of the English Middle March. “I know he’s wanted ye to work for him for years now.”
Bran shook his head. “I canna do it, Ena. I’ll no’ do the things he would bid me do in his name.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “If ye think what was done in the English village were cruel, it pales in comparison to what that man would use me for.”
“Nay.” Ena clasped his forearm with her free hand. “I dinna want that for ye. No’ now or ever.”
He scoffed. “Nothing that bastard could do would make me work for him.” The lines of determination on his face softened. “Ye truly love this Englishman?”
Ena drew in a shaky breath and released his arm. “I do.”
“’Tis illegal for English and Scottish to wed.” He bit into the loaf of bread and chewed.
“’Tis done often enough without consequence.” She set her share of the loaf on the table, unable to eat it. Not when her stomach churned so badly.
She sank into the chair and reached for Moggy, desperate for comfort of some kind. The cat stared at her, unmoving, before flopping over Bran’s feet.
He tilted his head in silent acknowledgment to what Ena had said. “It doesna mean marriage to an Englishman would be without risk.”
“I know.”
He took another bite of his bread and chewed it thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed at her. “Ye’ll go without me to save him.”
It wasn’t even a question. He knew her too well.
She nodded, resolute. “Aye.”
He sighed and returned the remainder of his bread to the pot, moving slowly so as to liberate his feet from Moggy. “We’d best go now then.”
Ena’s heart stammered its beat. “Now?”
“Did ye want to wait?” He lifted his brows.
“Nay, but I dinna…” Emotion tightened in her throat again. “I mean, I had hoped, but I dinna expect ye to actually offer to help. I thought I’d have to beg ye.”
“I’ll no’ ever leave ye to fight a battle without me, Ena.” He ruffled her hair. “Ye know that.”
Ena swallowed and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“I’ve some English armor that I stole.” He opened a chest set against the back wall near their beds and rummaged about. “I thought we might use it to surprise them.” He shrugged. “I guess we will now, aye?”
Ena grinned at him. “Aye, we will.”
As soon as they were dressed in the armor, they were on their way back into England with a plan at the ready. Bran had predicted the guards would be preoccupied with the remnants of the attack. She hoped he was correct.
They skirted the village by way of the surrounding forest. Even there, the odor of blood and death was apparent beneath the smoke from burning homes and the natural, wet earth of the woods.
Englishmen ran about like ants from a kicked hill. But then, their hill had been kicked, hadn’t it? By Scots who had exacted upon their enemies what had been done to them. War was ugly, with no winners. Not when everyone lost so much.
Bran put a hand up and stopped. “Here.” They dismounted and tied their horses to a nearby tree. He led her to the forest’s edge, stopping when they were concealed by the shadows, and scanned the area.
The English armor Ena wore held the musty odor of stale sweat and the helm was too big. But it was a worthy disguise. They could manage their way into the castle. Hopefully into the dungeons.
To Renault.
“Now.” Bran strode out from the thick brush, his pace causal.
Ena followed suit, mimicking his gait. He had said to act normal, as though they belonged there. In general, people constantly glancing over one’s shoulders were the ones to get caught.
Ena didn’t even think it was possible to look over her shoulder without the helm twirling around backward on her face. Even with her world wobbling about in the narrow vision of her visor, she managed to keep up with her brother.
Kershopefoot Castle rose up before them, mere steps away. Her heart slammed with force, pumping energy into her veins. If Bran’s plan didn’t work, they’d be captured. No one would rescue Renault. They would all be put to death.
Her rapid breathing echoed in the metal helm, reverberating in her ears and fueling her panic. They strode past several men running toward the village.
“Tell them we need more men outside,” one said as he passed Bran.
Bran nodded, then caught the arm of the first man he saw. “More men are needed out front,” he said in gruff voice that mimicked the English accent. He’d used it before in mockery of English lords, to elicit a laugh or two from his reivers.
Now, it was a way to keep them safe.
They continued walking casually without calling notice. They did this straight through the castle’s entrance, through halls with more opulence than Ena had ever seen. Tapestries glittered on the wall with gilt thread, fires were lit in every hearth—even ones with no one nearby to enjoy the heat—and carved wood furniture sat in the hallway, polished to a high gleam. Why would anyone even need a table in a hallway?
More than anything was the heavy scent of roasting meat and baking bread that hung in the air like sin. And it was sinful the way the rich lived, how they had so much.
Another turn led them down a dark hallway to where the dungeon gaped open. She was unsure how Bran knew the way with such certainty but didn’t dare ask. He stopped in front of a wooden door and pressed the latch. It swung open to reveal a staircase that descended into pitch black. A damp, dank smell rose from it, like the icy breath of an unnatural beast.
Bran lifted a torch from its sconce and lifted his brows at her. Without needing to say a word, she knew he was seeking her confirmation that she was prepared for whatever they might find. For there was no guarantee Renault would be alive. He might have been tortured; left for dead, broken and bleeding.
Ena steeled herself and nodded. She was ready.
A battle waged outside. One of complete devastation, if Renault’s estimation was correct. No doubt it was the one Ena had mentioned in her warning the day before.
The screams had drifted down to his cell when the door to the top of the stairs had been opened, and the guards had been far too eager to abandon their stations. Too bad they hadn’t bothered to unlock the door before their departure.
He gave a sardonic chuckle at his own hopelessly wishful thought. A stream of light cut through the darkness from above where the door upstairs had been opened. Someone was coming. The smile on his lips died and he pushed himself to his feet.
Whatever it was, if they’d come for him, he would be ready. After all, he had no doubt this attack would be laid at his feet.
A large man made his way downstairs with a shorter one following him. The torch in the larger one’s hand was brighter than anything Renault had seen since his arrest. It momentarily blinded him with a flash of pain. He winced and narrowed his eyes. Only then did he notice they both still wore their helms.
“Is that him?” The taller of the two pointed to him.
The other gasped. “Aye.”
Renault’s breath came faster. This was it. The men would drag him from his cell and hang him amid the burning homes and dead from the Scottish raid.
He squared his feet, determined to face his death like a man.
Ena.
Her name whispered through his mind like a tender caress that brought with it a flood of memories. All at once, she was alive in his mind, beautiful and strong and perfect. He would never see her again, feel her again, kiss her again. He would never have the opportunity to tell her he loved her.
It was then his composure nearly snapped. Because for the first time in his life, he realized the honor he had been seeking hadn’t awaited him the form of a guard’s position at Kershopefoot Castle. It had been with something pure, such as having a family, and being in love.
The truest form of honor was having others to care for and to be taken care of. He had it at his fingertips for only a split second before it’d been swiped away.
The tall guard approached and put a key into the lock. Nay, not a key. A dagger.
Renault hadn’t eaten anything after consuming the half-mug of ale at the tavern. Hunger left his head swimming and confusion rattled around amidst the fogginess of his thoughts. Why would a guard be using a dagger to open his cell?
A metallic click came from the door and it swung inward. The larger guard turned from him and the other guard rushed in. Renault tensed, preparing for an assault. Until the guard spoke.
“Renault.” The voice was sweet, feminine and melodic with its Scottish burr. Familiar.
He staggered toward her; fearful his mind was playing tricks on him. Too scared to even hope. And yet, he had to know for certain. “Ena?”
The soldier pulled the helm off and her lovely face came into view, her hair falling in messy waves where the strands had pulled free from her plait. “Renault. We’ve come to save ye.”
“How did you—?”
“No’ now.” The larger guard appeared once more with a man behind him, a Scotsman who had been captured the day before and hadn’t been put to death yet. “Put yer helm on, Ena. We must go.”
Renault caught her face in his hands and kissed her soft, warm lips before helping her put the helm back on. He wanted more. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to reassure himself that she was there. He wanted to savor all of her and tell her that he loved her, what she meant to him.
Only there was no time, not when every second could mean their discovery.
The man who’d come with her was already moving toward the stairs. “We must go now.”
“We’ll follow Bran.” Ena looked in the man’s direction and the helm wobbled on her head.
Bran. Her brother. Gratitude welled in Renault’s chest. He had an idea of what it had taken for her brother to put his life at risk to save a man he had always considered his enemy.
Ena took Renault’s hand in hers, clasping the chill of his fingers in the heat of her palm. Moments before he’d thought never to see Ena again, let alone face the possibility of a future with her once more.
Bran paused at the top of the stairs and hesitated where the door remained cracked open. Renault understood his caution. It would be far more difficult to escape with two prisoners than it had been to come in dressed as English soldiers.
“Ye have to pretend to be my prisoner,” Ena said under her breath.
Renault nodded in understanding. If they encountered any guards, it would be a ruse that would at least get them outside the curtain walls. Hopefully.
Bran waved his hand and the four of them eased quietly from the dungeon and down the hall.
They continued thus through the castle, the halls absent the usual number of guards. The attack must have been detrimental to the village for the castle to be so devoid of protection. Bran held up his hand suddenly and drew back. They all pressed against a nearby wall. Footsteps echoed down the distance of the hall.
“I want them all dead.” Renault recognized the Earl of Bothbury’s voice. “We got enough information on the Scottish Middle March from Renault before the bastard was a traitor to his own people.”
Renault’s blood turned to ice and three sets of eyes fixed on him, bright with accusation.
Shite.
He looked down at Ena’s wounded expression where she stared up at him with doe-like eyes from beneath her overlarge helm. It wasn’t difficult to guess she wanted his reassurance that he hadn’t deceived them as well.
And he couldn’t give it to her.
For the six months before she’d met him, he had been spying on Scotland. Every day of those six months, he had spied on her and her people. He opened his mouth, but it was impossible to speak, not without revealing their location.
There was a flash of hurt in her stare before she shifted it from him, blocking him from being able to read her expression. Not that he needed to see her. He could feel her emotions radiating off her. The hurt. The betrayal. The uncertainty in having trusted him. Mayhap even regret for having come to his rescue.
The footsteps drew nearer, and they all pushed back against the wall as if it could somehow absorb them. Ena slipped a dagger from her belt and held it clutched in her fist.
“On the morrow.” Bothbury’s voice was on the other side of the wall now. “I don’t care that they’ll be expecting it. I want nearly every soldier there. Send a call to arms to my deputy and have him bring his men as well.” The volume of his voice faded as he turned down the other side of the hall.
Renault let a slow exhale of relief whisper free. If Bothbury had turned left instead of right, they would have all been discovered.
Once it was apparent no one else remained in the hallway, they continued on. Ena and Bran could have left him behind after what they’d heard, but they did not. Even if he deserved to be abandoned. Most would have left him as the traitor he was. Not only to his own people, but to the country he’d sided with.
The remainder of their journey out of the castle was without incident. They passed through the large doors out into the bailey, leaving them vulnerable with nowhere to hide. Fully exposed.
They couldn’t walk fast, lest they call more attention to themselves. Instead, they kept their pace slow as each agonizing second scraped by.
“What are you doing with those prisoners?” A voice demanded.
The group of four froze as three soldiers strode swiftly in their direction. Renault’s heart dragged down into his stomach.
They’d been caught.