Chapter Thirty

 

 

 

“We have to get to Lancaster!”

Even as Mairin shouted the words over the hammering of the horse’s hooves and the rising thunder of battle, she saw how futile their efforts would be.

Lancaster’s army began to split, with one group surging toward the bridge and another peeling off to the east in an attempt to ford the river elsewhere. It was obvious that they would never be able to take the bridge with such a small force, especially not when they were weakening themselves by dividing.

She caught sight of Lancaster’s blue velvet cloak in the crush of soldiers. He sat his horse at the back of the contingent moving east.

“There!” she shouted, pointing toward him.

Niall pulled on the reins, angling the horse after Lancaster, but the main body of the Earl’s army stood in their way. They were forced to weave at a maddeningly slow pace through the foot soldiers dutifully marching toward the bridge.

Mairin’s gaze shot to the bridge, scanning for any sign that they were making progress against Harclay’s forces. On the north side sat perhaps four thousand men, weapons at the ready against Lancaster’s troops.

But most weren’t even needed, for as long as they had one end of the bridge sealed against the rebels’ efforts, Lancaster’s men could make no progress.

She watched as Harclay’s men formed a tight knot at the mouth of the bridge. They locked their shields together and thrust their spears through the gaps, making a deadly shield wall.

Her stomach tilted and unease rippled through her. They were employing a fighting technique that the Scots had often used against the English in battle.

Many generations ago when the Scots had fought against Viking invaders, they’d learned the Vikings’ tactic of using a shield wall and spears, especially to hold key locations like narrow bridges and mountain passes. When on earth had the English—and Edward’s loyal forces in particular—begun borrowing battle strategies from the Scots?

Lancaster’s men had no idea what to do against Harclay’s adopted tactic. Dozens of men set upon the shield wall, but none could get close enough to land a blow, for the spears provided a deadly defense against their attacks.

“Fight like your lives depend on it, men!” someone called from the near side of the bridge. The Earl of Hereford sat atop a horse in the midst of the foot soldiers, urging them on.

With a roar, another wave of Lancaster’s men surged forward, but in a matter of moments they were battered back, unable to gain even a foot at the other side of the bridge.

Hereford growled in frustration, swinging down from his horse. He shoved his own soldiers out of his way as he stomped onto the bridge. He drew the ornamental, jewel-encrusted sword from his thick waist and lifted it in the air.

“Fight, damn you!” he roared at his men. “Fight, you—”

A flicker of movement at the back of Harclay’s vast numbers had Mairin’s head snapping back to the other side of the bridge. There, amongst the mounted men commanding the foot soldiers, sat a squarely built man of middling years, judging from his graying hair and beard. His head was uncovered, yet he wore a tunic emblazoned with Harclay’s coat of arms—a red cross over white—on his chest. Something about the way he sat on his horse, with comfortable ease and authority, led Mairin to believe she might be looking at Andrew Harclay himself.

He’d lifted his fist into the air a moment before, which had caught her eye. Now her gaze shifted behind him, where another man sat atop a horse. His face was blocked from her view by Harclay’s broad shoulders, but a sense of recognition rippled over her, making her skin prick.

She squinted at the man who seemed so familiar, yet all she could see of him was one leg and the grip of his hand on his reins. Before she could place the man, Harclay raised his voice over the melee of battle.

“Now!” he shouted, swinging his fist down like a hammer.

Suddenly the sound of splintering wood filled the air. The planks on the near end of the bridge split as spears were thrust up through them from the river below.

Harclay must have positioned at least a dozen spearmen in the water in anticipation of Lancaster’s army attempting to cross the bridge. In addition to destroying an expanse of the bridge, the spearmen’s weapons found their marks in the men standing on the south side of the crossing. Several screams rent the air as men were impaled from below.

And Hereford was right in the middle of it all. He shrieked as a pike skewered him with so much force that he was lifted off his feet for a moment. When he hit the planks a moment later, he lay motionless in death.

The Earl’s gruesome spearing sent waves of panic through the rebel army. It started with a ripple of unease, followed by the shifting of bodies. Several foot soldiers jostled into Niall and Mairin’s horse where they were still held immobile in the masses.

Just then, Harclay’s soldiers began to advance down the length of the bridge. Their shield wall broke apart, to be replaced with a rapidly approaching barrage of spears and swords.

Without a leader and facing down the attack of an army four times their size, Lancaster’s men crumbled. The foot soldiers began to turn and flee. Just as at Burton Bridge, the army collapsed into utter turmoil. Men shoved and scrambled over each other to escape the advancing wall of armed men descending on them.

“Hang on!” Niall shouted over the cacophony of chaos. He was barely managing to control their horse in the midst of the deserting men, but the foot soldiers’ flight had opened space for them to move once more.

Niall urged the horse forward. The animal pushed through the stampede of men toward Lancaster’s contingent. To Mairin’s relief, she could still make out Lancaster amongst the group of a hundred or so men. They skirted along the river away from the bridge in search of a place to ford.

As they closed in on Lancaster, the man’s frantic voice carried to them.

“Faster!” he urged, driving the foot soldiers into a trot. They looked like so many sheep being herded to the slaughter.

“Stop!” Mairin cried as they drew up behind Lancaster. “Hereford has fallen. There isnae any other place to cross the river without landing ye in the lap of that army.”

Lancaster turned wild eyes on her. “There is no other choice!” he hissed, uncaring that the men around him could hear. “We must find a way across this river. Otherwise we will be crushed between Harclay’s army and Edward’s.”

He was right. Their only remaining hope had been to reach Dunstanburgh Castle and pray that the Bruce was willing to lend reinforcements against Edward’s massive army. Without a path northward, the entire remains of Lancaster’s rebellion would be quashed like a midge between Harclay and Edward’s approaching forces.

“But ye cannae—”

Mairin’s words were cut off by the loud thwack of hundreds of bowstrings being snapped all at once. In horror, her head whipped to the other side of the river. Harclay’s forces had mirrored the movements of Lancaster’s splintering contingent, following after them on the north bank.

At some unheard order, Harclay’s bowmen had taken position and let loose a swarm of arrows that blackened the sky above them.

And which now plummeted back to earth—directly over their heads.

Suddenly Mairin was being jerked from the saddle and onto the ground. Belatedly, she realized Niall had flung them both from the horse. The animal, sensing the danger about to rain down on them all, bolted with a terrified whinny.

Niall yanked Lancaster off his horse as well, letting the Earl fall in a heap of velvet and silk onto the slushy ground beneath his horse. With the last heartbeat before the arrows made contact, Niall ripped the shield from the hands of one of the foot soldiers and dove over Mairin.

Men and horses screamed as the arrows sliced through them, pinioning them to the snowy ground. Niall’s arm reverberated over Mairin’s head as he absorbed the force of several arrows making impact with the shield. She curled into a tight ball against him, praying the deadly volley did not harm him.

When the last of the arrows had fallen, Niall lowered the shield to reveal a scene of utter pandemonium. Those who’d survived the hail of arrows scattered in every direction, looking for cover, escape—aught to stay alive.

Amazingly, Lancaster was unscathed, though his horse had taken an arrow in the flank. Uncaring of the animal’s pain, Lancaster dragged himself into the saddle and spurred hard toward the village.

Mairin couldn’t fathom what he hoped to find there, for the low, thatched cottages would provide no protection against Harclay’s advancing army. In that moment, all she knew was that they had to save him, or else they would fail the Bruce’s orders.

Niall met her gaze and gave her a single nod. Without a word, he tossed aside the shield, which bristled with arrows, and they took off on foot after Lancaster.

They darted through the receding tide of Lancaster’s men, who now fled without shame. Their retreat cleared the path for Harclay’s army to press all the way across the river in a relentless stream over the bridge.

At the edge of the village, she and Niall came to a skittering halt. They both swept their gazes over the buildings, searching frantically for Lancaster.

There. On the other side of the little town, Lancaster had reined in his horse before the modest stone chapel. He swung down from the saddle and banged a fist against the wooden door, but the chapel, along with the entire village, was battened down against the battle along the river.

“I demand sanctuary!” Lancaster roared. “Do you hear me? I am the Earl of Lancaster, damn you, and I demand—”

Just then, a horde of Harclay’s men rushed into the village, surrounding Lancaster and taking hold of him.

Mairin lurched forward, but Niall caught her arm, roughly pulling her to a halt.

“What are ye doing? We need to save him!”

“We cannot defeat two dozen soldiers with naught but our swords, let alone four thousand men in Harclay’s army.” Niall jerked his chin toward the steady flow of Harclay’s soldiers rushing into the village. His gaze hardened, his blue eyes drawing tight. “We failed.”

“Nay!” Mairin cried. She knew just what rode on this mission. Her pride. Niall’s allegiance. The Bruce’s plans. And mayhap even the fate of Scotland. It could be the difference between yet more endless warfare with Edward as King, or peace with Lancaster on the throne.

“There must still be a way,” she breathed, attempting to twist out of Niall’s grasp. “There has to be. As long as Lancaster’s head is still attached to his body, we cannae give up. If we can get him out of here somehow, he can rebuild his rebellion. Mayhap with the Bruce’s help, he could even—”

“Nay,” Niall ground out, holding her fast. “It is over. We must save ourselves.”

“But—”

“Mairin.” She was jerked from her spinning thoughts at the desperation edging his voice. “I promised Logan I’d keep you safe.”

“What?”

“Before we left the training camp, I made two vows—to see this mission through, and to ensure that no harm ever befell you.”

She shook her head, confusion tangling her wits. “I dinnae…”

“I told him you didn’t need a protector, but he must have known I already loved you. He sensed I would keep you safe no matter what. We have failed the Bruce’s mission,” he said flatly. “But I will not fail in this. Lancaster is lost. We must leave before we are, too.”

“Niall, I—”

She was cut off when Harclay himself rode into the little town square in front of the chapel, flanked by several more men on horseback. Mairin swept the riders for a glimpse of the man who’d seemed familiar earlier, but there was no sign of him.

“Thomas, Earl of Lancaster,” Harclay boomed, casting silence over the square. “You have been charged with treason by Edward II, King of England. For raising arms against your sovereign, on his soil and against his holy rule, you shall face your King for judgement.”

“Curse you, Harclay!” Lancaster shrieked. “You’ll pay for—”

“Bind his hands,” Harclay ordered. “And gag him.”

Just then, there was a scuffle at the edge of Harclay’s men. Two figures cloaked in rough, homespun wool blankets were dragged into the square in front of Harclay.

“These two were attempting to disguise themselves as peasants and slip away,” one of the soldiers said to Harclay.

The soldier yanked the blankets back to reveal Badlesmere and Audley. Audley visibly shook with fear, his eyes wide and his shoulders hunched, but Badlesmere planted his feet and stared at Harclay with those cold, flat eyes.

“Lords Badlesmere and Audley, I believe,” Harclay said, eyeing them. “You’ll face the same charges as Lancaster for your treachery. Take them with us.” Harclay began to rein his horse around, but then he paused. “And scour the area for more rebels. The foot soldiers can slink back to their homes, but I want the leaders to face judgement.”

Icy fear stabbed through Mairin’s veins at Harclay’s order. They were going to be hunted down.

“We need to get out of here,” Niall hissed.

They spun on their heels to bolt from the village, but as they turned, a fresh wave of Harclay’s men sealed off their escape.

One of the soldiers pointed directly at them. “I saw those two by the bridge. They were on horseback—they may be commanders!”

Niall pulled Mairin behind him, his hand reaching for his sword, but even before he could draw it, a dozen sets of hands closed on them.

“Mairin!” Niall shouted as they were pulled apart. “If you hurt her, you bastards, I swear, I’ll—”

One of the soldiers stuffed a gag into Niall’s mouth as they bound his hands behind his back. Mairin tried to kick and claw at the soldiers surrounding her, but they efficiently torqued her arms behind her and tied her wrists.

“Gag her if she causes trouble as well,” a soldier who seemed to be in charge said. “But leave their punishment up to Harclay—and the King. Put them with the others.”

They were dragged back toward the river, where several dozen of Harclay’s supply wagons were rumbling over the bridge. Lancaster, Audley, and Badlesmere had already been tossed into the back of a wagon waiting on the south bank. Mairin and Niall were hoisted into the bed of another wagon, along with a few of the rebel army’s commanders.

“Where are ye taking us?” Mairin demanded as the soldiers dropped her against the wooden planks.

Most of them ignored her, but one fixed her with a glower.

“Back to Pontefract Castle,” he replied, pausing to spit into the blood-stained slush at his feet. “Where you and the rest of the traitors will face King Edward.”