Ena’s Surrender

by Madeline Martin

  Bran had already gone to prepare his horse for the battle on the English border. She could sneak into the army of men who would be attacking. She could go to Renault herself.

  And if the reivers were attacked by the English because of information she had delivered into their hands through Renault, then she would die with all of them. As she rightly deserved if she had indeed put them in such danger.

  Mind made up, she dressed in Bran’s old clothes and rushed toward the old pele tower where the men met before battle. She tried to avoid eye contact with anyone as she made her way through the reivers and selected a horse to ride.

  A familiar face caught her eye and her heart went cold in her chest.

  Drake.

  The soldier had been Bran’s most trusted reiver for the better part of three years. The young man was also a valiant defender of, well, everyone. Even though he was little more than a lad himself. He’d taken on the care of his mother and sisters after his father’s death, a burden many would not have accepted.

  If Ena was always hungry, she could only imagine how poorly rations were split by the five of them. Drake was their only chance at survival. And he could die in this battle.

  They could all die.

  She slipped behind two soldiers and made her way around three more, intentionally putting a confusing line between her and Drake so he wouldn’t see her, for she knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he recognized her, he would tell Bran.

  But no hand clapped on her shoulder. No one called her name. In fact, no one seemed to notice or care about her presence.

  Someone gave a shout at the head of the small army. The men swung onto their horses and rode over the sodden ground toward England. Ena followed suit, but lingered at the rear, keeping pace enough to not be noticed, but not remaining near any one rider either.

  Why had Renault not come? The unpleasant twist to her stomach told her no matter how many justifiable excuses she came up with, none were for anything good. Something was truly amiss.

  The frenzy of the Scottish reivers intensified as they neared the English village. A current of excitement hummed in the air, thick with blood lust. There was no stealth on this raid, no attempt to be silent. Not when their goal was not to sneak and steal, but to attack and kill.

  Of all raids, she should not be on this one. A shiver ran down her spine. In truth, she didn’t like that Bran had joined in it either, though he had not headed the group.

  The galloping horses swept into the village like a wave of death. Screams filled the air; flames licked at roofs and people ran about in a frenzy of chaos. She tried not to look as she rode through. She didn’t want to see the carnage of unarmed men lying on the ground, their bodies slashed open.

  Bile rose in her throat and fear raced over her nerves like forked lightning. Renault. She had to get to his cottage.

  She navigated her way to it, dismounted from her horse and pushed at the door. It was not latched and swung inward to reveal a cold hearth and an empty, shadowed room. Her heart sank low in her stomach. He wasn’t there.

  A woman’s shriek came from the hut next door and cut through the desolation of her discovery. That scream—it was one Ena was far too intimate with. It was a scream of terror, of impending death.

  Suddenly, the terror fled Ena’s body and before she knew she’d made the decision to do so, she was rushing into the cottage, sword raised. As the man’s blade came down, hers rose up in front of the older woman, blocking the blow.

  “Nay!” The word erupted from the depth of Ena’s soul along with a torrent of rage. She shoved the man back, a man she’d seen in the market before, but whose name she did not know. “Ye’ll no’ hurt women or bairns.”

  The man spat at her feet, but he turned and left the hut. The energy drained from Ena’s body as suddenly as it had flooded her, and she sagged back against the wall.

  The woman looked at her, wide blue eyes beneath a frizz of white hair. “You saved me,” she gasped in incredulous wonder. “And you’re a woman. A Scottish woman.”

  Ena nodded her head. “I’m no’ here to kill.”

  The woman shook her head. “Then why?”

  Ena hesitated, weighing her odds. If Renault had gone somewhere to hide, she might put him at risk by mentioning his name. But if something had happened to him…

  “Do ye know Renault?” She kept her question intentionally benign.

  “Aye,” the old woman replied. “He lives in the hut beside me.” She fell silent for a moment and Ena considered pressing her for more information when she volunteered it of her own accord. “He was arrested today, thrown in the dungeon. For helping the Scottish.”

  The dungeon?

  Ena’s knees went soft and she slid farther down the wall. The helm on her head was suddenly too heavy, too constricting where the metal touched her cheeks, her brow. She ripped it off and sucked in a lungful of air to still her spinning thoughts.

  The woman regarded her with a furrowed brow. “Was he helping you?”

  A sob choked from Ena and she nodded. “I love him.”

  A figure shoved through the door suddenly and paused, looking first to the old woman who had frozen in her terror once more, then to Ena. She recognized the man as soon as his familiar gaze landed on her.

  “Ena?” Bran asked with barely tethered anger.

  Ena winced. There was no denying it, not with her helm off. Not when Renault’s life was at risk.

  She straightened from the wall. “I’m here because I’ve fallen in love with an Englishman.”

  He blinked in surprise, then turned to the old woman, as if seeking confirmation. She looked to Ena first, then slowly nodded.

  Bran uttered a curse under his breath. “Get yerself from here now, Ena.”

  “Ye get yerself from here.” She strode toward him. “Ye came here to kill?” She shook her head. “The Bran I know wouldna ever stoop so low.”

  “Get yerself from here, Ena,” he repeated in a low, menacing tone.

  Ena didn’t move. “Only if ye come with me.”

  Bran growled his irritation and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her toward the door. “Bar yer home,” he told the old woman. “And hide.”

  She nodded.

  Bran hauled Ena out of the hut and to her horse, practically throwing her atop the beast. He whistled sharply as he hopped up on his own steed and another reiver emerged from a nearby cottage with a sack in his hand. The man’s blade was free of blood, a gleam of unmarred silvery iron in the moonlight amid a wash of destruction.

  The man rushed over and swung onto his horse. His eyes narrowed at Ena. “I thought I’d seen her,” Drake said. “Forgive me, Bran.”

  “’Tis no’ yer fault.” Bran grabbed the reins and tossed a pointed look at Ena. “She’s good at deceiving.”

  Weeks ago, his words would have sliced into her. But now, with her heart aching for Renault and the awareness of how difficult it would be to break into Kershopefoot Castle to free him, the cut of Bran’s disappointment had lost its sting.

  10

  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 hel
d 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.