Twenty-five
Robbie and a force of nearly fifty warriors, including Douglas and twenty of his best men, crossed into England near Gretna. They skirted the heavily defended fortress of Carlisle to the west, taking cover in the forested countryside, and passed the old Roman wall at Burgh by Sands near the Solway Firth—the place where King Edward I had met his timely end five years before. It had taken them nearly a day of hard riding to get here, and it was still another twenty miles to Brougham.
A raid so far south of the border would have been a fool’s gambit a few years ago. But the tide had turned, and last year Bruce’s raiding parties had traveled across much this same countryside. Nonetheless, the raid was not without substantial risk. But Robbie had hours to consider every detail and plan for any contingency.
He was ready.
Or at least he should be. But every hour that took him from Douglas increased his unease and the growing sense of doom hanging over him. He couldn’t get the sight of Rosalin’s stricken face out of his mind or the sound of her voice out of his head.
It is wrong…You are not the man for me…Killing any chance of a future between us.
He’d told himself she’d spoken in anger and desperation to turn him from his path. That she didn’t mean it. But the farther they rode from Douglas, the more he feared she meant every word. It was like a weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
Damn her for doing this to him. Damn her for making him question his resolve! He could not let such a vicious attack go unanswered. Clifford had to pay.
An eye for an eye…
But she’d been so certain, damn it. Robbie ran through the lad’s account over and over in his mind, looking at it from every angle. The boy had identified the soldiers’ arms, Clifford’s men were there—there could be no doubt of that—but other details had been less explicit. The lad had been terrified. It had been chaotic. He’d escaped in the first few minutes. Enough to see what was happening, but had he gotten the entire picture?
Robbie grimaced angrily. What the hell was he doing? Was he looking for any excuse to turn from his course? She was making him weak, making him lose focus. If she was going to be his wife, she needed to learn she couldn’t interfere. And she would marry him.
Wouldn’t she?
My home…How could you hurt me like this…? I thought you loved me.
Love? What the hell did he know about love? But something was making him second-guess himself. If he did this, he knew he would lose her. And the thought was making his pulse race with something akin to panic.
Bloody hell.
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Douglas turned to him. If there was anyone whose face was blacker than Robbie’s right now it was Douglas. Robbie hadn’t missed the argument he’d had with Joanna as they prepared to ride out and guessed that she didn’t approve of the course they’d set either.
“What is it?” Douglas said, looking around. They’d stopped well south of the wall to water the horses in one of the many lochs—or lakes, as the English called them—in the area. It was dark, and they planned to get some sleep before resuming their journey in the morning. The attack would come in the afternoon, giving them cover of darkness in which to get away. At least that had been the plan.
“We need to go back,” Robbie said.
Douglas was incredulous. “You are calling off the attack? Damn it, Boyd! What the hell is wrong with you? What did she say to you?”
“I’m not calling off the attack,” Robbie said. “At least not yet. But I need to make sure the lad was right about what happened. We need to go to the village and see the truth for ourselves.”
Douglas eyed him skeptically. “This is because of the lass, isn’t it?”
He would not deny it. But that was only part of it. “Bruce is counting on this truce with Clifford, and if there is any chance of holding on to it, it’s my duty to do so. No matter how much we personally hate the bastard.”
“And if you learn Clifford was responsible?”
“We will be back.”
There were a few grumbles. The men weren’t happy to be denied a chance to exact retribution for what had been done to the women and the villagers, but Robbie was their commander, and they trusted that he would not be doing this without a good reason.
He hoped to hell he had one.
It was a few hours after dark the following day when they neared Corehead, the small village tucked deep in the heart of the hills and forests of Ettrick, from where Wallace had gathered men to launch his first attack on the English nearly sixteen years before. As they crested the hill, Robbie got his first glance of the devastation. He expected to see the village razed to the ground, with nothing remaining but embers and the gruesome evidence of the slaughter that had occurred.
That wasn’t what he saw.
Douglas swore, and they exchanged a glance. From this vantage, nothing appeared to be amiss. There were no blackened burned-out shells of buildings and no bodies piled up along the street. Indeed, although it was quieter than usual, he could see that there were a few people milling about.
Robbie’s heart started to hammer.
As they drew closer, he could see a few signs of an attack. Broken shutters, tumbled fences, a few shattered pots and trampled gardens, but it appeared the whole-scale devastation that seemed certain from the boy’s account had not occurred.
Word of their arrival had spread quickly, and the villagers began to gather along the high street as they approached. To his shock and relief, he saw Deirdre and the other women coming out of one of the buildings.
“I don’t understand,” Douglas said.
“Neither do I,” Robbie answered grimly, but he had the first inkling that he’d nearly made a big mistake.
From Deirdre and the village reeve he learned just how horrible a one. The lad had been correct in what he’d seen; he just had not put it together correctly. The first party of soldiers—de Spenser and his men—had arrived ahead of Clifford’s soldiers. Sir Henry and his soldiers had cut down nearly a score of villagers and were pulling Deirdre and the other women out of the cottage where they’d taken refuge, to tie them up and rape them for their crime of whoring with the rebels. They would have all been killed and the village set to flame—there was no doubt of that, Deirdre said—but Clifford and his men arrived and put a stop to the carnage. At first they all assumed he was there to raid as well. A few villagers tried to resist before they understood that Clifford was actually there to save them. Clifford arrested de Spenser and his men and took them back to Berwick for punishment.
Robbie listened to the accounts of the attack with a growing sense of shame, realizing the magnitude of the mistake he’d nearly made and what it might have cost him.
Had he really almost destroyed the only place that had ever been a home to Rosalin? Razed an entire village without cause? Christ, he felt ill. She would have never forgiven him. For good reason. What the hell had he been thinking? Thank God he’d realized the truth before it was too late. Before he’d done something that could not be undone.
He was suddenly anxious to return. More than anxious. There was a voice in the back of his head shouting “hurry.” He needed to get back and apologize to her, and aye, probably to Seton, too. It seemed he did need a conscience. For today had shown him just how far he’d strayed from the young warrior who’d raised his sword alongside William Wallace to fight against injustice.
On the third night after riding out of Park Castle, Rosalin and Sir Alex paused on the south bank of the river Tweed, looking across the wooden bridge to the steep White Wall on the opposite bank and the aptly named “Breakneck Stairs,” which wound up the hill to Berwick Castle.
She turned to look at the man who had risked so much to bring her here. He’d proved more of a friend than she could ever have imagined, safely leading her through the harrowing war-torn countryside.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “You can still leave me here and return.”
Sir Alex’s jaw was locked in grim determination, as it had been since the moment she’d come to him asking to be taken back to her brother. She’d been trying to talk him out of what he intended since the first night, when they’d stopped to sleep a few hours and she’d watched in horror as he took a knife to his arm. The arm where he had—or used to have—a marking much like the one Robbie had. Now the lion rampant tattoo had been obliterated by deep scores and slashes through his flesh.
As she suspected, Alex had been part of Bruce’s phantoms. The markings would identify him as such, and he knew what the English would do to him to get him to identify the other members of the secret band of warriors.
She suspected excising the markings from his flesh would be far easier than excising his friends from his memories. She knew how difficult this was for him. She could see it in his increasingly darkening expression with every mile they passed. He was resolved, and in many ways just as stubborn as Robbie. She just prayed Sir Alex didn’t come to regret what he was about to do. There would be no going back. For either of them.
He shook his head. “I’ve made my decision. I’ve had enough of the secret warfare and pirate raids. God knows I’ve tried, but I no longer have the stomach for it. Half the time I felt like I was fighting against my own side anyway. Maybe this way it will do some good.”
“What do you mean?” How could him turning against his friends do them any good?
“Maybe I can help end this war by working from the other direction. Instead of fighting against the English, I can fight from within—through reason and negotiation.”
It was a lofty goal and hard for Rosalin to argue against, as she was leaving for similar reasons. But although she could understand Alex’s decision, she knew Robbie and the others would not. Whatever the reasons, Robbie would see Sir Alex’s defection as a personal betrayal. And on top of her leaving, she suspected that it was going to be a bitter blow for him to swallow—whether he would admit it or not.
Why was she still worried about Robbie’s feelings when he’d treated hers with so little regard? Even though she knew that she was doing what was right, it didn’t make the heartbreak any easier. If only her love could be as easily cut from her heart as a tattoo. She would gladly take the temporary physical pain over the ongoing desolation of hopelessness. Wounds from a knife she would recover from. But she knew she would never completely recover from this, and the scars, she feared, would be both lasting and deep.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sir Alex asked softly.
She wasn’t sure at all. But it had to be done. Rosalin glanced across the black river at the flickering torchlight on the other side. She took a deep breath, feeling the hot swell of emotion tighten in her chest. God, why did it have to hurt so much? She nodded, and without further hesitation, they rode across the bridge.
It was morning when Robbie stormed into the yard of Park Castle. He’d ridden as if the devil were nipping at his heels, unable to quiet the voice inside him. Hurry!
But the moment he glanced up into the tower window, he knew it was too late. His heart sank like a stone in a bottomless well. Darkness crashed down on him. She wasn’t looking down at him from the window. She wasn’t there.
A fear that was confirmed moments later when Joanna Douglas met them in the Hall.
“Where is Rosalin?” he demanded, fear already slashing his voice with a harsh edge.
“Watch it, Boyd,” Douglas said. “I know you are angry, but don’t take it out on my wife.”
But Joanna did not shirk from his anger. “I don’t need you to defend me from overbearing brutes, James. I’m quite used to them and displays of black temper.”
Robbie winced. Had he really thought her too sweet?
She turned back to answer him. “I assume at Berwick Castle by now. She and Sir Alex rode out not long after you left.”
Though part of him had known it, the news still shook him. How could she be gone, damn it? He had to explain. He had to apologize. He had to tell her how wrong he’d been.
You drove her away.
Douglas swore. “And you just let them leave?”
Joanna’s sweet blue eyes turned glacial as her gaze leveled on her husband’s. “I did.”
From her tone, she seemed to daring him to say something more.
Douglas clamped his mouth shut. Apparently, after the mistake they’d narrowly averted, he’d decided to cut his losses with his wife. Joanna had been right. Rosalin and Seton had been right. And they all knew it.
Robbie clenched his fists, the raw emotion lashing around inside him like a whip. Anger. Disbelief. Despair. It needed a place to go, and he struck out against the only other person he could blame besides himself. How could the man who’d been his partner for seven years betray him like this? “I’m going to kill him.”
Joanna lifted a delicate brow. “Sir Alex?” She shook her head. “I fear that might be difficult.”
“What do you mean?”
“He left you something.” She pointed to the small solar off the Hall that Douglas used to conduct estate business. “It’s in there.”
Robbie closed the door behind him as he entered the room, grateful a moment later for the privacy when he opened the plain burlap sack to see the darkened nasal helm and plaid.
He flinched. For the second time in the space of a few minutes, he felt the hard slap of shock. And it stung—bitterly.
Seton had finally done it. He’d left the Guard and defected to the English. Robbie didn’t know why he was surprised. Hadn’t he expected Seton to betray them for years? He was a bloody Englishman. How could Robbie have trusted him, even a little?
Ah hell. Barely before he’d finished the thought, the truth hit him hard. That was exactly what had driven her away. She told him that he would always see her as English—as Clifford’s sister—and never be able to fully trust her. She’d accused him of being blinded by vengeance. She was right. His inability to see the sweet, caring woman who was offering him her heart had made him lose the best thing that had ever happened to him.
I thought you needed me.
He did need her. He hadn’t realized how much until now. She’d seen something in him that he’d almost forgotten was there. He thought her fierce sense of justice had reminded him of someone once, and now he realized who it was: him. Once he’d fought for the right reasons. Once he’d stopped to ask whether something was right or wrong. Winning didn’t have to come at the expense of honor, and somehow along the way, he’d forgotten that. But she’d brought it back to him.
Of course she’d left. He’d given her no reason to stay. When he thought of how many times she’d offered him her heart and he’d offered her nothing in return, he wanted to empty his stomach. She’d been willing to give up everything for him, and the only thing she’d asked for in return—his trust—he’d been unwilling to give her.
She loved him, and…
He dropped to a bench as the sickening truth crashed down on him.
He loved her. Of course he did. He’d known it and hadn’t wanted to accept it. He’d been too scared of what it might mean and too scared of having to send her back. And by refusing to admit it, he’d achieved the very thing he’d feared: he’d lost her.
He would never have given her back. If her brother didn’t agree he would have found another way. He knew that now. But she didn’t. And he’d lost the chance to tell her.
Seton had accused him once of being dead inside. He wished it were true so he didn’t have to feel the black emptiness opening up within him.
He put his head in his hands and tried to think, tried to hold on to the edge of the cliff to prevent himself from slipping into the chasm of darkness that was his future.
How in the hell was he going to get her back?