by Emma Prince
But as he’d told Mairin that first night they’d made camp at the river, it didn’t matter who was right in this battle. Both Lancaster and Edward could rot as far as Niall was concerned. They only had to keep the arrogant, reckless Earl alive—an assignment that grew more challenging by the day.
As if sensing the disloyalty of Niall’s thoughts, Lancaster glanced over his shoulder and looked directly at Niall for the first time in what felt like a fortnight.
“And the Bruce is little better than de Holland,” Lancaster said, his lip pulling back in a sneer. “He claims to be an ally, yet where is he? He should have given me a whole horde of barbarian warriors by now. What good is the support of the bloody King of Scotland if he only sends me two useless bodyguards—and one a mere woman at that.”
Lancaster’s disdainful gaze began swinging to Mairin, but Niall jerked into motion to draw the Earl’s attention back to him. He stepped to the side of Lancaster’s chair, clasping his hands tight behind his back.
“The Bruce has pledged to keep you alive,” he ground out. “That is more than can be said for some of your other so-called allies.” He lifted his chin toward the tent flap to indicate the messenger representing de Holland.
That drew a few snorts and surprised guffaws from the nobles. Good. Let them direct their impotent outrage at Niall—he could take it.
“Careful, Beaumore,” Lancaster said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You may have given your loyalty to the Scottish King, but you are in England now. Your precious Robert the Bruce cannot protect you this deep into my country.”
“The Bruce is a man of his word,” Niall replied evenly, ignoring Lancaster’s threat. “If he promised you men, you’ll have them sooner or later.”
Niall had no idea if that was true or not, but it seemed to be enough to divert the worst of Lancaster’s temper—for now. Lancaster snorted but said no more. Niall stepped back from his side, and the Earl shifted his cold stare to his nobles.
Lancaster launched once more into a taut string of complaints about the stalemate they were in. As he carried on about disloyalty and the need for more soldiers to overpower Edward, Mairin caught Niall’s eye. Her gray gaze was clouded with worry, but she tilted her head in a small gesture of gratitude for redirecting Lancaster’s anger.
“…break his hold on the south bank,” Lancaster was saying. “Without de Holland, we’ll have to rely on de Ferrers arriving on the—”
A low rumble began outside the tent. Lancaster’s voice died as he and the others began to look around in confusion.
As the noise grew, Niall’s stomach dropped. The rumble was turning into the roar of hundreds of men.
“What the bloody—”
“Sire!” A foot soldier exploded into the tent, his eyes rounded and his breaths coming short.
“What is the meaning of this? What goes on out there?” Lancaster demanded.
“It’s King Edward’s army, sire,” the soldier panted. “They’ve breached the river.”
Lancaster stood up so fast that his chair toppled over backward. “How can that be? Burton Bridge was ours!”
“Not Burton Bridge, sire. They crossed a mile or so south, at Walton.”
“Every bridge and landing was secured,” Lancaster grated out.
The soldier dropped his gaze, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. “Aye, sire, but only with a few hundred men. It seemed to be enough at first, but now that the river has retreated slightly, the King’s army was able to cross. And with so few men on our side…They overpowered us, sire.”
“And now?” Lancaster demanded.
“More than four thousand men are marching on our camp, sire.”
It seemed that Lancaster and his nobles had spent far too much time strategizing inside the comfort of their tents than actually paying attention to the conditions of the river, Edward’s movements, and his overwhelming superiority in numbers.
Several of the nobles hissed curses. Belatedly, Niall realized he too had muttered an oath. While the nobles would have to scramble for a plan to save their hides, he and Mairin’s task to keep the rebellion—and Lancaster—alive had just gotten infinitely more difficult. And more dangerous.
“Fetch our horses,” Badlesmere, who was first to find his tongue, bellowed to the soldier. As the soldier darted from the tent, the other nobles scrambled from their silk upholstered chairs and began dashing about like startled chickens.
Niall moved instinctively to Mairin’s side.
“My bow and quiver,” she said, her gaze jerking toward where their tent lay beyond Lancaster’s.
Like Niall, she’d strapped her sword to her hip the first morning they’d held the bridge, but with Lancaster tucked in the safety of his tent these last three days, she’d had little need of her bow.
She turned toward the tent’s opening, but he caught her arm.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “Stay close to Lancaster. He’s arrogant, but not a fool. He’ll stay well back behind a wall of his own soldiers.”
Mairin opened her mouth, but with no time to do aught but agree, she nodded. He gave her arm a squeeze before hurrying out the lavish tent.
In the small confines of their own tent, he wasted no time. He snatched up their saddlebags in anticipation of the possibility that the whole army would have to make a hasty retreat before they could even break camp. He slung Mairin’s bow and quiver of arrows over one shoulder and their bags over the other, then abandoned the tent.
Instead of making his way straight back to Lancaster and the others, however, he wove his way deeper into the camp. The soldier who’d been ordered to bring the nobles their horses likely wouldn’t think to fetch two more for Niall and Mairin. Yet if the battle took a turn for the worse, Niall wouldn’t let them fend for themselves on foot.
The camp was a roiling mass of chaos beyond the nobles’ inner circle of tents. Soldiers scrambled for weapons, slipping in the mud as they ran in every direction. From the rising din of shouts and clanging metal on the southwest edge of the camp, the battle had already begun in earnest.
Unease churned in Niall’s gut as he hurried on. What little order or leadership there had ever been amongst Lancaster’s army was already crumbling at the first challenge from Edward’s soldiers. What state would he find the spineless, glory-hungry nobles in when he returned?
There wasn’t time to cut all the way across the camp to where the horses were kept in the trees to the west, he realized. Just then, a soldier pulling several saddled and bridled horses in the opposite direction broke through the sea of canvas tents and scrambling men.
“Halt,” Niall ordered in his most commanding voice.
The soldier blanched, his eyes widening in fear. Belatedly, Niall realized the man was likely deserting, for he’d been scuttling away from the sounds of battle.
“Give me two of those horses, and I never saw you,” Niall said, dropping his voice.
Wagging his head all too eagerly, the soldier disentangled two sets of reins and thrust them at Niall before dashing away.
Niall angled back toward the nobles’ tents, driving himself faster as his sense of disquiet ratcheted higher. The sounds of warfare were growing louder, even though he thought he’d begun moving away from the core battle on the southwest edge of the camp.
When he reached the cluster of large, lavish tents once more, Lancaster, Mairin, and the others were nowhere in sight. Now the unease turned to viselike fear that gripped his innards, compressing them into a stone. Where the hell were they?
Niall broke into a run, pulling the two horses behind him. At the northern edge of the camp, he had his answer.
Lancaster and the other nobles had managed to secure horses for themselves. They clustered together into a tight ball in the center of a thin ring of Lancaster’s soldiers. The soldiers battled against a surge of Edward’s men flowing from both the west and east in a seemingly endless stream of red tunics and dull chainmail.
A heartbeat later, Lancaster’s men b
egan to crumple inward. Edward’s soldiers surged forward into the disintegrating ring of men.
Niall’s gaze frantically swept over the erupting battle for Mairin.
There, on the ground beside Lancaster’s horse, she stood with her feet planted and her sword in hand. She had positioned herself in front of Lancaster, as if her small body could shield him against the onslaught of Edward’s army.
Just then, one of Edward’s spearmen broke through Lancaster’s soldiers, lowering his spear and charging forward.
Directly at Mairin.
Before he knew what he was doing, Niall broke into a sprint.
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 loot
ed 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.