Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

 

It had become clear mere moments after Niall had left Lancaster’s tent that all hell was about to break loose.

Mairin had followed Lancaster outside while the others hurried to their own tents to gather a few of their most precious belongings. But in the distance, she’d spotted the red tunics of Edward’s soldiers.

On this side of the river.

It seemed Edward’s army had not only breached the river at Walton southwest of Burton Bridge, but to the northeast as well.

Lancaster, too, had spotted Edward’s men and shouted a warning to the others. They’d gathered a small band of soldiers, taking the horses of a few of the mounted men. Then they’d ridden north in the hopes of slipping through the snare Edward had formed around Lancaster’s camp.

But the noose had tightened too quickly for them to break free.

In a matter of minutes, the hundred or so of Lancaster’s soldiers would fall to the rising swell of Edward’s men, Mairin knew.

Lancaster shouted orders and his soldiers scrambled to encircle the nobles, but Mairin could barely hear anything over her hammering pulse.

Where was Niall? God, please let him be safe.

No matter what happened now, she could not fail him. He was the sort of man—good, honorable, worthy—who would fight to the death for a cause. And he believed in this mission. He believed in her. Which meant she had to see this through—not just for herself and her own pride, but for Niall.

Mairin yanked her short sword from its scabbard and braced her feet. If she had her bow, she would have already begun picking off the men who threatened to break through the ring of Lancaster’s soldiers. She had her throwing daggers tucked securely against her forearms, but she didn’t dare loose them from this distance, for even if she hit her marks, all too quickly she’d be left with only her sword against the rising sea of men. She’d have to settle for close combat.

At last, the calm quiet that normally blanketed her nerves during training settled over her. The frantic battling of the soldiers surrounding the nobles seemed to slow. Her pulse steadied at the familiar feel of the hilt in her hand. She could do this. She could stay alive and protect Lancaster.

In the quiet that fell around her, she watched as Lancaster’s soldiers began to falter. Half a dozen of Edward’s men broke through their ring, surging toward the nobles. At their front was a spearman, his weapon lowering at Mairin as he charged forward.

Soften yer knees. Keep yer grip firm but no’ rigid. Just like training. Mairin lifted her sword, but a shout off to her right cut through the muted roar of the battle. The shout drew closer—someone was closing on her, fast.

She broke her gaze from the charging spearman to find another man rushing at her. Niall.

He pulled two horses behind him, yet he dropped their reins once he was a half dozen paces away. He ran on, yanking his sword from its sheath as he pitched toward her.

Mairin jerked her attention back to the spearman, who was nigh on top of her now. Just as the tip of his spear surged for her heart, she batted it to the side with her sword.

Though his spear had been angled away from its target, the spearman’s momentum still carried him forward. As he lurched closer, Niall reached her, driving his own sword into the spearman’s exposed ribs.

With a scream, the spearman crumpled to the muddy ground, which was already turning dark red with blood.

There was no time to greet Niall or breathe her thanks. More of Edward’s soldiers poured forth through the gap in the ring around Lancaster and the nobles.

Without needing to speak, Niall and Mairin drew in shoulder to shoulder before Lancaster. Their swords swung in deadly arcs as a dozen more of Edward’s soldiers attempted to cut through them to the nobles. Time seemed to fall away as they battled on, somehow holding back the rising tide of men.

But then a shriek behind Mairin pulled her from the flow of the blade in her hands. For a terrible heartbeat, she feared the sound of panic and anguish had come from Lancaster, and that they had failed to keep him alive. Yet a darting glance over her shoulder revealed that he still sat atop his horse, his pale eyes wide as the battle raged around him.

Yet when her gaze slid past him, she saw that Damory wasn’t so fortunate. Two of Edward’s men had managed to reach him where he huddled on his horse at the edge of the tight knot of nobles. They pulled him from his saddle, and one of the men lifted a sword over him.

Mairin jerked her gaze away. A heartbeat later, she heard Damory’s scream turn to a wet gurgle before it was completely cut off.

“Close ranks!” Lancaster bellowed. “Close ranks!”

He too must have seen Damory’s demise, for fear edged his voice. What remained of the ring of soldiers holding back Edward’s men contracted at his command, drawing closer to the nobles.

“We need to mount!” Niall shouted over the din.

He was right. They stood a far better chance against Edward’s foot soldiers if they were on horseback. The tightening of Lancaster’s men afforded them a brief respite in the onslaught of attacks.

Niall darted to where he’d abandoned the two horses he’d arrived with. Blessedly, they’d been trained for war. Although their ears flickered and their eyes rolled with nervousness, both animals had remained nearby.

Mairin flung herself onto the back of one of the mounts as Niall did the same. They positioned themselves before Lancaster once more, wedged between the terrified nobles and the backs of Lancaster’s remaining soldiers.

But still the King’s men pushed inward. They would be crushed between the seemingly never-ending flow of Edward’s army from both the east and the west.

Even through the haze of battle, Mairin knew they could not hold out much longer. Lancaster must have perceived the same thing. His panicked gaze darted over his dwindling numbers.

“Sound the horn,” he cried. “Retreat. Retreat!”

With that, he yanked on his horse’s reins and dug in his heels, plowing through both his own men and Edward’s.

“We must follow!” Mairin shouted to Niall. He nodded, and they both took off after him.

Lancaster spurred northward, away from his camp and his failing army, with Mairin and Niall urging their mounts behind him. The other nobles fell in as well, creating a narrow path through the battling foot soldiers before breaking free.

The nobles’ flight was all it took for the remains of Lancaster’s army to desert the losing battle. The foot soldiers who’d formed around the nobles bolted after them, shamelessly tossing aside their weapons and sprinting away. Behind them, a cry of victory went up among Edward’s army.

Lancaster rode on for nearly a mile before reining in on top of a small hill that overlooked the river. Mairin and Niall closed in around him, though Edward’s men hadn’t given chase. The nobles arrived a moment later, breathless, disheveled, and wide-eyed.

They all remained wordless as they gazed down at the melee before them. The only sounds were their horses’ breathing and the distant din of the men below, some fleeing, some reveling in their triumph.

Mairin took the opportunity to swipe the blood from her sword and re-sheath it. The immediate threat was over for the time being, yet the whole of the rebellion now hung by a thread.

Niall silently passed her the bow and quiver he’d retrieved from their tent, which was likely now being looted by Edward’s army, along with all the fine wares the nobles had brought along. She nodded her thanks but tucked the bow and quiver away in her saddlebags, for she didn’t need them anymore either.

The battle below was nearly at an end already. Foot soldiers rushed away from the river, abandoning the camp as fast as their legs could carry them. They must have seen Lancaster and the others at the top of the rise in the distance, for what remained of the rebel army streamed toward them.

There couldn’t have been more than a thousand men remaining—a third of what they’d arrived with at the River Trent only three days ago. Some must have been killed by Edward’s army, but many had likely deserted altogether, no longer willing to give their lives to Lancaster’s disastrous campaign.

Lancaster watched in stony silence as his soldiers continued to trickle toward the hillside north of the river.

“We will return to Pontefract,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “There we can begin rebuilding our forces. Those still loyal to us will know to gather there. We will send word to de Ferrers and others for reinforcements. And the Bruce.”

“What of the camp?” Audley asked, horrified.

“It is all lost,” Hereford snapped at the younger noble. “And most of the men with it.”

“Including Damory,” Badlesmere added, shifting his weight on his horse, his eyes hard and flat.

“We are lucky Edward has not ordered his men to give chase,” Willington muttered behind his white mustache. “Not yet, that is.”

But even as he spoke, movement on the other side of the river caught Mairin’s eye. The forces that remained to the south seemed to be swelling in size, their ranks infused with men wearing blue and white or yellow tunics in addition to red.

“What is going on there?” Audley asked, pointing across the river.

Hereford hissed a curse. “I recognize those colors. Those men belong to the Earls of Surrey and Kent. They must have joined Edward.”

From this distance, it was hard to tell, but there must have been another two thousand men joining Edward’s main force. They mingled with the soldiers in red tunics, enlarging their already overwhelming numbers.

And they were beginning to cross over Burton’s main bridge to set after the fleeing rebels.

Lancaster’s normally stoic face began to turn a deep red as he watched. He remained silent, but the hand holding his reins shook with impotent rage.

Hereford coughed, apparently no longer willing or able to wait on Lancaster to regain his composure and find his tongue to give an order. “It seems our reprieve is to be short-lived. They mean to pursue us. We had best hie north to Pontefract.”

“What of the rest of our men?” Badlesmere asked flatly.

A few dozen of the soldiers who’d been first to hear Lancaster’s cry to retreat had begun to reach the top of the hill now. They stood panting and slump-shouldered at the feet of the nobles, some bloodied from battle. But many hundreds still hadn’t reached the hillside yet.

“They can find their own way to Pontefract,” Hereford replied. “We have no way to feed an army on the three-day trek anyway.”

At that, Willington huffed a curse and shook his head in disgust.

Mairin barely managed to bite down on a curse of her own. She had no loyalty or affection for the English soldiers who’d been summoned for Lancaster’s cause, but they’d put their lives in the hands of these men. Because of the nobles’ whims, men had fought and died. And this was how they were repaid? Abandoned to fend for themselves, yet expected to return to Pontefract—on their own, without food or shelter—to fight for Lancaster’s cause yet again?

Any soldiers who would follow them back to Pontefract likely didn’t have anywhere else to go, for they faced another long and grueling march from whence they’d come, but this time without any supplies whatsoever. And their leaders didn’t care a whit about them beyond how they could be used to increase their wealth and power. A fresh wave of revulsion for Lancaster and his ilk curdled in Mairin’s stomach.

For his part, Lancaster seemed to accept Hereford’s decisions as his own. He straightened in the saddle, drawing a deep breath as if to fortify himself. But as he turned his horse to lead his straggling army northward once more, his gaze snagged on the small village of Burton, which sat just on the other side of the hill.

It was little more than a collection of three dozen or so thatch-roofed huts—the shops and homes of those who lived in the town and claimed the bridge as their own before Lancaster and Edward’s armies had arrived.

Lancaster’s gaze lingered for a moment before he turned to one of the foot soldiers. “Find my man Bruin—you know him?”

The foot soldier nodded mutely. Bruin must have been well-known—and mayhap feared—amongst the army. Though Mairin couldn’t call forth a face to go with the name, she remembered Lancaster’s earlier mention of using the man to punish de Holland for his betrayal.

“He will have survived, undoubtedly,” Lancaster muttered, scanning the thin stream of soldiers still making their way toward the hillside. He focused on the foot soldier once more. “The village,” he said evenly. “Tell Bruin to burn it.”

“What?” Belatedly, Mairin realized she’d spoken aloud.

“Nay,” Niall hissed at the same moment.

Lancaster shifted his attention to the two of them, his gaze cold and contemptuous.

“Would one of you prefer to give the order to Bruin?” he asked acidly.

She ignored the question, trying to understand if she’d somehow misinterpreted what he meant to do. “Ye are…ye are going to put fire to yer own village?”

“It is not my village. And aye, I mean to burn it to the ground.”

“But those are your countrymen,” Niall breathed in disbelief. “Innocent Englishmen—and women and children!”

Distantly, Mairin realized they had drawn the stares of the other nobles. Some wore expressions of confusion at Niall and Mairin’s audacity in questioning one so far above them in station. Others were clearly impatient to be away from this place, their disinterest in the fate of the village evident.

Lancaster openly sneered at Niall. “For a warrior, you are shockingly naïve, Beaumore. Burton has fallen to Edward. He will use the village—its food, supplies, livestock, and manpower—to aid him in his pursuit of us. But if we destroy it, Edward cannot turn it to his advantage.”

Rage dawned on Mairin like a blazing red sun. He truly thought of the innocents in the village as naught more than pawns in his war game with Edward, to be moved—or removed—to his own liking.

“Besides,” Lancaster sniffed. “None in the village came to our aid or offered their support these last three days. They aren’t our allies. That makes them our enemies.” He waved at the foot soldier. “Go. Find Bruin. Tell him to fire the village.”

But Niall caught Lancaster’s wrist, his grip so tight that his knuckles blanched. “Nay,” he ground out again. “You can’t do that to your own people.”

“Unhand me!” Lancaster snapped, ripping his wrist from Niall’s grasp. “And do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do. I am the future King of England!”

Lancaster slapped his reins and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks before Niall could speak or reach for him again. As the Earl shot northward, the other nobles fell in behind him, and the remaining soldiers began trudging after.

Both Niall and Mairin remained rooted, letting the soldiers stream around them. Mairin swallowed several times, but she could not dislodge the knot in her throat or the stone sitting in her stomach. Up until now, she’d ridden the surge of energy from the battle, followed by her blazing rage at Lancaster’s callous order to burn the village. But a terrible numbness was beginning to settle over her like a thick, deadening fog.

She lifted her gaze to Niall, praying he would know what to do, how to make this right.

A muscle in his jaw leapt as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He stared straight forward, his mouth set in a thin, flat line and his brows lowered. His eyes were tight with pain.

“We…” he began, but he had to clear his throat before going on. “We must remain close to Lancaster.”

He shook his head once the words were out, as if he still couldn’t accept them, but he didn’t say more.

She knew what he left unspoken, though. They had to stay at Lancaster’s side—which meant abandoning the village to be fired. Their mission had to come first. Lancaster’s life was more important than the innocents in Burton.

Every fiber of her rebelled against that idea. Lancaster wasn’t worth the shite on the bottom of her horse’s hoof. Yet the sickening fact was, this civil war and the Bruce’s plans to use it to his benefit were bigger than one village. The Bruce hadn’t sent them to England lightly. The cause for Scotland’s true and complete freedom depended on them keeping Lancaster alive.

Mairin squeezed her eyes shut. Niall was right. They had to remain close to Lancaster—and forsake Burton village.

With her eyes still closed, she gave a single nod. When she opened them, her gaze met Niall’s. The grimness of his features mirrored her own.

“We will see this mission through,” he ground out. “But we will also find a way to right Lancaster’s wrongs. I vow it.”

Without another word, they spurred their horses into a gallop and shot after Lancaster.