Chapter Twenty-Three

 

 

 

Niall paced along Pontefract Castle’s outermost battlements, his eyes fixed to the west. His gaze scoured the barren, brown landscape ceaselessly for signs of Mairin’s return.

He’d thought things had reached their lowest possible point after Lancaster’s disastrous attempt to hold Burton Bridge, his order to burn the town, and their flight north, but it seemed things could grow even worse still.

They, along with the nobles and several hundred bedraggled, hungry foot soldiers, had arrived at Pontefract as a charcoal dusk had fallen the night before.

With the coming of a weak gray dawn this morning, Niall and Mairin had concocted an elaborate excuse to allow her to slip from the castle and ride to the cave where their remaining two messenger pigeons waited. But the castle was in such disarray that they hadn’t needed their story, and Mairin had been able to pass through the gates unquestioned and unnoticed.

Niall had argued against being separated from her, for Lancaster’s entire rebellion was in utter chaos. Niall didn’t trust the exhausted, aimless soldiers who still remained at the castle not to do something dangerous.

What was more, Lancaster had veritably bled men on the grueling three-day return journey to Pontefract. Dozens of soldiers seemed to desert every hour, disaffected and close to starving. They’d slipped into the trees or darted across winter-bare fields as what was left of Lancaster’s army had marched north. Niall feared the hillsides and caves closest to the castle would be rife with listless men willing to lash out against anyone who crossed their path—especially a woman riding alone.

But Mairin had rightly reminded him that not only was she more knowledgeable and skilled when it came to tending the birds, but also that she could handle herself should someone attempt to cause trouble for her.

Still, it went against every instinct he had to leave her unprotected.

She had only been gone an hour, but the time had stretched hellishly in Niall’s mind. Heavy purple clouds were beginning to gather off to the west. A vicious storm would be upon them in a few hours. Why hadn’t she returned yet? If something happened to her—

Just then, he spotted her as she broke through the leafless stand of trees not far from the castle’s outer wall. His heart lurched in relief. She appeared unharmed as she rode at a trot toward the castle, her whisky-colored braid bouncing on her back and her slight form sitting in the saddle with ease.

She approached the smaller of the castle’s two gates, which was still open from when she’d departed. Niall strode down the battlement stairs to meet her in the outer bailey. He caught her horse’s reins as she slowed to a halt and swung down from the saddle.

“All is well?” Niall asked, keeping his voice low despite the fact that none of the downtrodden soldiers who huddled in the bailey paid them any mind.

“Aye,” she replied, giving him a nod. “Both birds were still there, and seemed in good health.”

She’d confessed to Niall the night before that she was worried for the pigeons. Before they’d left to face Edward, she’d given them several pouches worth of food, but they’d been left untended for more than a sennight. Given how important the birds were to their mission, they were lucky they’d both remained in the cave unharmed and healthy.

“And the missive?” he murmured.

They’d agreed it was essential to alert the Bruce to not only Lancaster’s failure at Burton Bridge, but their return to Pontefract with severely diminished forces. It only left them one more chance to communicate with the Bruce, but given the way the rebellion was swiftly approaching complete failure, they might not have much left to report anyway.

“Sent,” Mairin confirmed. “I included Edward’s victory at Burton and our position and numbers now. And the firing of Burton village.” She met his eyes then. They were flinty with pain and anger. “The Bruce cannae do aught for those villagers now, but I wanted him to ken what kind of man he has made an alliance with, even if it is only for show.”

Niall moved closer, bending his head so that he could hold her gaze. “We have to keep faith in this mission—and in the Bruce. We do not know all that he plans. The only thing we can do is stay close to Lancaster and ensure he and this damn rebellion remain alive.”

Yet even as he spoke, Niall wasn’t sure if the words were more for Mairin or himself. His own confidence in their mission was already threadbare and threatening to snap completely. This was supposed to have been his chance to prove himself to the others, to show just how unfailing his loyalty to the Bruce and his cause was. But now he feared he was in danger of losing whatever honor and faithfulness he’d once thought he possessed.

The Bruce’s true aims were beyond his comprehension. All he knew anymore was that Lancaster had killed innocent men, women, and children. And in doing naught to stop him, he and Mairin were implicated now, too.

Mairin’s only response to his reassurance was to tighten her mouth. He led her and her horse to the stables, where they left the animal with a lad. Then they continued on toward the inner bailey.

What a difference a little more than a sennight had made on the scene they walked through. Before, both the inner and outer baileys had teemed with nearly three thousand men eager and restless to take up their weapons and fight.

Now, less than seven hundred remained. Those who’d managed to make the trek back to the castle were mud-stained, exhausted, and hungry. They had done little more this morning than huddle around a few fires and mutter amongst themselves.

“Any news of Willington?” Mairin asked quietly as they walked.

The old nobleman hadn’t arrived at Pontefract last night with the others. When daylight had broken that morning, none of his few hundred men had been among the soldiers filling Pontefract’s outer bailey, either. Though the other nobles would not speak of it for fear of rousing Lancaster’s rage, Niall guessed that Willington, who had always been the most cautious and least satisfied with Lancaster’s leadership, had absconded, taking his men with him.

“Nay, there has been no sign of him since you departed for the cave,” Niall replied. “The others seem to have accepted that he has abandoned their cause. A scout arrived not five minutes before you, though.”

“We had best get to the great hall then,” she said grimly, lengthening her stride.

When they slipped into the great hall, the scout already stood before the raised dais, where the dwindled group of nobles sat bleak-faced as they listened.

“…to confirm that de Holland has indeed rejoined King Edward,” the short, thickset scout was saying. “Word is that he always intended to wait in Dalbury, biding his time to see which side was triumphant at Burton Bridge, then throw his support behind the victor.”

“Bloody feckless bastard!” Lancaster hissed, pounding his fist on the arm of his enormous throne.

Mairin closed the great hall’s door quietly behind her and moved to step toward the dais, but Niall caught her arm. At her questioning look, he gave her a single shake of his head. He didn’t doubt her ability to put Lancaster in his place if he dared to lash out at her, but nor did he want her standing beside him when his temper ran so high. Instead, they lingered in the shadows before the door, free to listen unnoticed.

“What of Willington?” Hereford, who was somewhat more composed than Lancaster, asked.

The scout clasped his hands behind his back. “He and a few hundred of his men were spotted riding west this morn—back to his own keep.”

“I am surrounded by traitors,” Lancaster growled. “Should I expect the same of de Ferrers? He should have been here by now.”

By the way the scout shifted on his feet, Niall knew there was more bad news coming.

“You are aware that Lord de Ferrers maintains a very particular breed of cattle on his lands, are you not, sire? All white, but with black ears?”

“What the hell do cows have to do with this?” Lancaster demanded.

“It seems…” The scout cleared his throat before continuing. “It seems that earlier this year, an all-black calf was born, the first ever produced from his herd. Lord de Ferrers has taken it as an ill portent…an omen of death and destruction for the de Ferrers house in light of his support for you over King Edward.”

Lancaster picked up his silver goblet and hurled it across the hall. It landed with a clatter on the stones not far from the scout. He snarled a string of foul oaths, cursing de Ferrers, de Holland, Willington, the King, and anyone or anything else he deemed his enemy.

“Control yourself, man,” Badlesmere muttered, casting a disdainful glance at Lancaster before returning his attention to the scout. “Is there aught else to report?”

“Aye, sire,” the scout said reluctantly. “Tickhill and Doncaster Castles…they have both fallen to Edward.”

“What?” Audley spoke for the first time, his eyes rounding. He turned to Lancaster. “You said our hold on those keeps was rock-solid. You said de Mortimer and Clifford could not fail.”

“With the Earls of Kent and Surrey uniting with Edward, his forces are now over six thousand strong,” the scout interjected. “And growing. More have joined him on his march north. The King’s army is…” The scout ducked his head. “The King’s army is less than a day from reaching Pontefract, sire.”

“But we are safe here,” Audley said, though it seemed to be more of a question. His gaze darted over the other nobles, looking for reassurance. “Pontefract is impenetrable. The towers…and the double wall…the two baileys alone would be…” When no one answered him, Audley trailed off. He flopped back into his chair, his face drawn with shock.

“We will not be able to hold off an army of six thousand,” Hereford murmured, glancing at Badlesmere. “Not with so few men left. Not even from behind Pontefract’s walls.”

Badlesmere and Hereford exchanged a long look. Though Lancaster didn’t seem to notice, Niall did. As Lancaster had increasingly fallen into fits of outrage, Badlesmere and Hereford had quietly taken over, making decisions and guiding Lancaster’s actions when he was too blinded by wrath to do so on his own.

Badlesmere gave Hereford a subtle nod, then turned to Lancaster. “We must abandon Pontefract, Earl,” he said gravely.

Lancaster turned burning eyes on him. “That is madness. It would be a signal far and wide that Edward had forced us to turn tail and flee.”

“I believe that ship has already sailed, Thomas,” Hereford said quietly.

Lancaster jerked his pale gaze to Hereford. “Where would we even go? If Pontefract cannot be held against Edward, no castle in all of England can.”

“It is true, I know of no stronghold with a force of seven hundred men that could hold out for long against an army of six thousand,” Hereford replied. “But we have one last chance for aid. Robert the Bruce has promised to stand by us.”

A hush fell over the hall, and for a long moment, all Niall could hear was the sudden hammering of his own heart.

“What are you suggesting?” Lancaster asked.

“That we retreat farther north,” Hereford replied. “As close to the Borderlands as we can safely get. And we send word to the Bruce, making it clear that if he wants to see Edward’s head on a pike for all he’s done to Scotland, and you on the throne in his place, ready to establish peace between our countries, he will send the full might of his army to protect you.”

As Lancaster considered that for a long moment, Niall swallowed hard. That was what he wanted too, wasn’t it? Peace at last for Scotland, safety for its people, and the Bruce’s cause for independence fully realized.

That was what this mission came down to. For all the atrocities Lancaster had committed, for all his arrogance and greed, ultimately they kept Lancaster alive so that he could make good on his promise to the Bruce to put an end to these interminable wars once he was in power.

Niall felt Mairin stiffen beside him. From the battle raging across her delicate features, he knew she struggled with the same understanding. Aye, it had been hell to stand by Lancaster’s side these past few sennights, but they had to remember that they served the Bruce’s larger aims in doing so.

Lancaster smoothed a hand over his hair, which had become disheveled in his earlier fury. He straightened his ermine trimmed cloak over his shoulders. “There is Dunstanburgh Castle,” he said, his voice regaining some of its normal cool composure. “It sits on the coast in Northumbria, not far from the border. I had it built with all the latest defensive capabilities for an occasion such as this.”

Badlesmere and Hereford exchanged another look.

“It will take us a full sennight at minimum to reach it,” Hereford said.

“Aye, but that is one of our only advantages over Edward now,” Badlesmere replied. “With such a smaller force, we will be able to move faster. It is our only chance.”

“We will send word ahead to the Bruce,” Hereford continued. “With any luck, his men will arrive within days of ours—mayhap even before Edward’s army does. But we must leave within the hour if we hope to use a head start to our advantage.”

Belatedly, Hereford and Badlesmere seemed to remember that Lancaster was still their supposed leader, at least in appearance if naught else. They turned to him.

“What say you, Earl?” Badlesmere asked, lowering his chin in an attempt at deference.

Hereford, too, feigned obsequiousness by tipping his bald head and waiting for Lancaster’s answer in silence.

Lancaster stroked his goatee, his pale gaze hard and distant as he considered.

At last, he let a long breath go. “Aye,” he muttered. “We will retreat to Dunstanburgh and send word to the Bruce that we are in need of reinforcements. We will depart within the hour.”

The nobles rose swiftly then, shouting to the castle’s servants to prepare what was left of their supplies and finery for the trek north. The scout bowed stiffly and began to back toward the hall’s doors, but Lancaster halted him.

“Where is my man Bruin?” he demanded of the scout.

“I believe he is at the Bee and Flower with the others who can afford it, sire,” the scout replied.

“Tell him we depart shortly,” Lancaster said, rising from his chair. “There isn’t enough time to slight the castle to make it worthless to Edward, but Bruin will know what to do to the village.”

A curse hissed between Niall’s teeth. Beside him, Mairin sucked in a hard breath.

He meant to do it again. Lancaster meant to burn another village filled with innocents—and this time it truly was his own village, his own people.

The servants who toiled inside Pontefract’s walls lived there. The marketplace where the castle got its supplies was filled with the farmers, shopkeepers, and merchants who sold their goods there. Even the bawdy house where Lancaster so enjoyed taking his entertainment—he meant to burn it all without a thought or care for those he would destroy.

Without ever glancing at them, Lancaster strode from the dais and up one of the keep’s winding staircases toward his private chambers. The scout bowed once more to Lancaster’s back, then hurried toward the keep’s doors. He brushed by Niall and Mairin, who both stood rooted beside the door.

“Nay,” Mairin whispered, watching the scout pass them. “He wouldnae. He couldnae. No’ again. No’ to his own people.”

Niall swallowed against a wave of hot bile rising in his throat. The mission. They had to remember their mission. It was the only thought he could cling to that would prevent him from following Lancaster up the stairs and driving his fist into the man’s sneering, callous face.

“Nay,” she said again, but her voice had hardened with conviction. “I willnae stand aside this time.”

And before Niall could reach for her, she’d slipped through the keep’s doors after the scout.