And then, it happened.
Because the garrison had been lured to watching the fighting on the northeastern side of the castle, clever Scots has used that distraction to bring their ladders up to the southeast corner of the fortress where the wall was the shortest. But the English were vigilant and only one ladder managed to get up, with a few Scots leaping over the parapet, only to be met by dozens of furious Englishmen swinging swords.
The clash on the battlements was great as more than one Scot was thrown back over the wall, and a few of the English soldiers injured, before Hector and Alec managed to dislodge the ladder and send it crashing. After that, there was even coverage over the entire wall walk to ensure they weren’t caught off guard again. It was clear the Scots were looking for any advantage to mount the walls, so William vowed they would not be caught off guard again.
And so, the battle between the Scots and the incoming English armies went on for almost three weeks, although there was a definite ebb and flow to the battle. Sometimes it was greater, sometimes there was nothing at all. But through it all, the Scots refused to leave.
Exhausted from days upon days of fighting, the clans had dug in around the exterior walls of Berwick, no longer trying to breach the castle but remaining around the castle for the most part so the English army couldn’t make their way inside and the inhabitants couldn’t get out. The English army had backed off, too, watching the castle and the Scots from a rise to the north while the occupants of the castle remained relatively unscathed. At least, it had been that way for nineteen days.
On the morning of the twentieth day, William was on the walls, watching the encampments both below him and to the north, smelling the smoke from the cooking fires as it mingled with a seasonally-unusual fog bank that had rolled in during the night. It was cold and damp, strange weather for July, and it was also strangely silent. In fact, he didn’t like it at all. There was a tangible stillness in the air, tense, as if there was a predator waiting to pounce somewhere in the mist that he couldn’t see.
Something told him to be vigilant.
“Any movement this morning, Uncle William?” Alec came up beside him, his breath hanging in the cold early morning. “I will admit that I am curious to know what my father is waiting for. The English outnumber the Scots; they should simply drive them away.”
William glanced at his son-in-law. “Paris and Kieran have attempted a few tactics to remove them,” he said. “But these are Gordon men, Alec. They want something very badly inside this castle and they will not leave without it. They are stubborn that way.”
Alec knew that the Scots beyond the wall were Gordon and MacKay; that had been established early on. He also knew that they had come for Patrick’s wife, or at least that was what William believed based upon the whole confusing mess with the mother prioress and her need for vengeance against Clan Haye.
Colm and Anson were convinced that the visit by the Scotsman those weeks ago was merely a precursor to the siege. Intelligence gathering, they had presumed. But it seemed to Alec that the Scots had picked a very big hurdle to tackle in their quest for revenge against Clan Haye. Surely there was an easier way than attacking the biggest castle on the border.
“Those fools,” Alec muttered. “They want Bridey so badly that they are going to tear themselves up against the walls of Berwick simply to get at her. What a stubborn bunch this is. Can they not see that taking the woman from these walls will be impossible? Yet they continue to try.”
William nodded vaguely, his one good eye trying to penetrate the mist. “And they will continue to try until they simply give up and return home,” he said. “It is my belief that they truly believe we hold something that belongs to them, as if we have somehow stolen Bridey from them. For there is truly no other reason for the Gordon to attack Berwick. I see no other logical explanation other than they all have a death wish.”
As Alec leaned against the parapet, looking out into the mist just as William was, the other knights joined them. Hector followed by Damien, Colm, and, finally, Anson joined William and Alec as they gazed out over the wall into the fog. It was lifting slightly, but not enough. It made everything hazy and mysterious. Hector peered over the wall to see what was down below.
“They are dug in like moles,” he said after a moment. “They have set up shelters even, crude as they are. Do they truly think to remain dug in like that?”
William shook his head. “I have never seen anything like this in all of my years fighting the Scots,” he said. “I was telling Alec that I believe that the Gordon must sincerely believe we have something that belongs to them. There is no other reason why they would dig in like this.”
Colm and Anson quickly glanced over the parapet as well, seeing the Scots huddled down below. “Do they truly think to wait us out?” Anson wondered. “And why haven’t the English gone in after them. What are they waiting for?”
William shook his head. “They must have a reason,” he said. “I can only imagine is it some kind of strategy. Either that, or Paris de Norville has gone mad.”
Hector grinned at the mention of his father. “Many people have assumed that throughout his life,” he said. His smile faded as he looked off towards the north as if to see his father through the fog. “I am sure Papa is working on something. He simply would not sit there and let us rot. But I am at a loss to imagine what it could be.”
No one seemed to know. William leaned back against the stone, feeling the dampness to his bones. “If I could get a message to them, we could plan a joint offensive,” he said. “Mayhap I can write a note and we can use an archer to shoot it over the heads of the Scots towards Paris’ encampment. Mayhap a patrol would pick it up and take it to Paris.”
The knights were interested. “What kind of joint offensive?” Hector asked.
William pondered that for a moment. “We have over a thousand men inside,” he said. “We could separate five hundred and take them out of the bailey and then seal up the donjon. That leaves the men, and some knights, on the bridge that spans the chasm, trapped between the locked Douglas Tower and the donjon. With the donjon sealed, we open the gates of the Douglas Tower and charge out and into battle with the Scots. Have Paris and Kieran bring their men in at the same time and we can drive the Scots away from Berwick.”
It seemed like a logical plan. “Who will go and chase the Scots away?” Hector asked hopefully. “And who will remain here at Berwick to man the walls?”
William turned to glance at the host of eager faces, all of whom wanted to charge out to fight the Scots. No knight worth his weight wanted to stand around and hope for an end to a conflict. They wanted to do something about it. William well remembered what it was like to be young and enthusiastic about battle.
“We have two choices,” he said. “I can choose the men who will go and explain my reasons, or we can simply draw straws. What is your preference?”
The knights looked at each other for a moment, torn by his statement because no one wanted to be left behind. It was Alec who finally spoke. “You choose, Uncle William,” he said quietly. “We trust your judgement in all things.”
No one wanted to insult the integrity of the great William de Wolfe, so they all nodded as William considered his options.
“Hector, you will take Damien and Colm with you and lead the charge on the field,” he said. “You are the senior knight and you can command the charge. You will need Damien and Colm’s swords with you, as they are imposing men in hand-to-hand combat. I will remain here with Alec and Anson, because if the Scots somehow manage to enter the castle, as they did once before, then we must be here to fight them off. Alec has a powerful sword arm, like his father, and Anson can command the men easily because command is his strength. As for me – I will go to my son’s wife and protect her personally. Those Scots will get her over my dead body.”
He meant every word of it. It wouldn’t have been a fitting ending for The Wolfe to die defending a woman in a corner of a castle, but it would
have been an incredibly noble death. Still, no one wanted to see that happen. Alec and Anson knew they would be the last line of defense between William and the lady, and a gang of murderous Scots should the Scots breach Berwick. Suddenly, the misty day grew a bit more solemn. Plans had been made and roles defined.
It was time to act.
“Shall you write the missive to my father or would you like me to?” Hector asked quietly. “I will summon our best archer to land the note as close as he can to my father’s encampment. We can only pray one of his patrols picks it up.”
William waved him on. “You may write it,” he said. “Tell him that at dawn tomorrow, as soon as the sun breaks the horizon, we charge from the castle to purge the Scots from our perimeter once and for all. Tell your father to make sure his men are ready to help us.”
Hector nodded. With a lingering glance at the other knights with an expression suggesting that the worst was possibly yet to come, he headed down the wall walk on his way to a tower with stairs that would take him down to the bailey. The Baker’s Tower was the nearest because it was near the kitchens. Just as he entered it, he could see a figure coming up the narrow spiral stairs towards him. Hector stepped back only to realize that it was Brighton.
Like the maid of the mist, she emerged from the tower, her skin as pale as the fog surrounding her. There was a little color in her lips and her eyes, big and bottomless. She almost looked surreal against the mists surrounding them. She was wearing a linen cloak with the hood partially covering her head and, in her hands, she carried a pewter pitcher and a few cups. She smiled timidly when she saw Hector.
“Good morn to you,” she said politely. “I have brought warmed, watered wine if you would like some.”
Hector returned her smile; he genuinely liked Brighton and his wife was extremely fond of her. A woman of good humor and a hard work ethic, there was nothing not to like about her and he could see why Patrick was so enamored with her. But here she was, on the battlements where she wasn’t supposed to be, yet he hesitated to tell her so. It was difficult to be stern to that lovely face.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I was just heading down. But I am sure there are others who will take you up on your thoughtful offer.”
He slipped past her, down the stairs, and Brighton’s gaze sought out the knights, standing down the wall. She could barely see them through the mist. Men who were sworn to protect her from the Scots trying to take her and she was terribly ashamed of the fact. Sometimes, she didn’t even think she could look them in the eye.
All of this was her fault; she knew that. As soon as it had been determined that Gordon and MacKay were the Scots on the offensive against Berwick, she knew it was all because of her. The woman she had trusted all of her life had betrayed her and, after the failed abduction from Coldingham, Mother Prioress’ brother had discovered where she had been taken and had come for her.
Brighton had been given twenty-three days since the day of Patrick’s departure to come to grips with the fundamental flaw in everything she’d ever believed – a caring church, a mother prioress who had nurtured her, had all been lies. She could see that now. To say it was disorienting was putting it mildly because she felt as if her entire life had been turned upside-down. Perhaps her entire life had been one big lie, all of it aimed towards this moment in her adult life when Mother Prioress’ brother would steal her away and nail her to a cross for all to see.
More and more, Brighton was coming to realize that the English had been her saviors, angels sent by God to protect her from the mother prioress’ evil. But she had also thought about Sister Acha, wondering if the old woman had been given any hint of the evil she was involved in. Perhaps Sister Acha was even part of the evil, but it was a blessing that Brighton would never know. She honestly didn’t think she could accept the truth to learn that Sister Acha was part of this plot. It was her saving grace that the woman had died before she’d been questioned about it. For Brighton, it was better for her sanity not to believe ill of the dead.
But now, she was facing an even bigger dilemma. The Gordon wanted her badly enough to lay siege to Berwick and now men were fighting and dying, just because of her. It was enough to leave her sleepless at night, weeping over a situation beyond her control and feeling inherently guilty for it. But no one at Berwick had even hinted she was to blame. In fact, they seemed quite staunch about supporting her. Such good, good people believed in her. She wondered what she ever did to deserve it.
Now, she was on the wall where she wasn’t supposed to be, bringing the exhausted knights a warm drink on this cold morning. She couldn’t do much by way of helping them during the battle, but she could keep them fed and well-tended as much as possible. But all the while, she was praying that Patrick would hurry and return, for perhaps he could figure out a way to remove the Gordon from Berwick. He was the Nighthawk, after all.
God, she missed him so badly that it hurt.
But thoughts of her husband faded as she drew close to the knights and they turned to look at her, especially William with his patched left eye. She smiled hesitantly when their gazes locked.
“I-it is a cold morning and I have brought you something warm,” she said, extending the stacked wooden cups to Alec, who took them and began distributing them. “Warmed, watered wine with spices. It should help fend off the cool of the mist.”
The knights held out their cups gratefully as she began to pour the heated liquid. She came to William last and poured him the most, with bits of clove floating around in his cup. He sipped gingerly at it, for it was very hot and quite delicious.
“Thank you, Bridey,” he said. “Now, you can remove your lovely and helpful self from this wall. This is no place for a woman and least of all you.”
Brighton knew that. She was surprised it took him so long to say it, polite man that he was. But she didn’t leave, at least not immediately. At the risk of angering William, she remained.
“I-I know,” she said quietly, looking to the men standing around, sipping their hot wine. They were dressed for battle, with stubble on their faces, weary from weeks of a siege. “I simply wanted to say… I wanted to thank you all for what you are doing. A month ago you barely knew me, but now you are risking your lives for me. I have never seen a battle before, you must understand, and now to be in the middle of one is a sobering prospect at best.”
William listened to her speak, this surreally lovely woman his son had married. Having come to know her over the past few weeks, he saw in her what the others saw – a woman of gentle humor and a kind manner, someone who wasn’t afraid of hard work or afraid of learning what she needed to know outside of the walls of Coldingham. Brighton was, if nothing else, adaptable. In that respect, she reminded William very much of his own wife. The women were very similar and, perhaps, that made him just a wee bit more protective over the lass than normal.
“What you see is not unusual on the borders,” he told her. “It is true that the Gordon and MacKay have been making trouble for us, but who is to say it is all for you? There are plenty of us they do not like, either, and I am probably at the top of that list.”
Brighton couldn’t help but smile at his attempt to make it seem as if this entire struggle wasn’t about her when they all knew, clearly, that it was.
“Y-you are kind to say so but I think you are only being polite,” she said, a hint of a scolding in her tone. “You do not need to coddle me, for I know why the clans are here. I know it is because they want me. I simply wanted to thank you all for everything you have done. Your sacrifice and your strength is something I shall never forget. You are all great and noble men in my mind.”
William waved a hand at her, as if attempting to sweep her away. “You will make them all arrogant and difficult to live with if you continue to praise them like that,” he said. “Go now and return to the keep. No more coming up here to feed men’s pride.”
He meant it half-serious and half in jest, but Brighton had said what she’d wanted to say s
o she took her pitcher and headed back to the tower. The mist was starting to lift somewhat near the river, or at least she could see the water to a certain extent, but it was still cold and wet and gray.
As she descended the stone steps of the tower, trying not to slip on them because they were wet from the weather, she thought on these people who had become her family. The de Wolfe family and their relatives had embraced her from nearly the beginning. She remembered how she had been so very awed at the love she saw amongst them, the devotion between husbands and wives, and how very much she wanted to know that same kind of love.
Now she had it with Patrick, something so beautiful and tender that she could hardly believe it belonged to her. She was part of this loving, wonderful group of people and all she had done was bring war and strife into their lives. She had repaid their kindness with heartache. When Patrick returned, he would find his castle besieged and his family trapped within it.
Although she didn’t truly believe he would blame her for it, there was a part of her that wondered if she was brave enough to turn herself over to the Gordon simply to pull them away from Berwick and leave the de Wolfe family in peace. Perhaps if they had what they wanted, they would leave Berwick alone.
Leave Patrick alone.
She had suffered through twenty days of guilt, and of missing her husband. It was starting to take its toll. Would the Gordon go away if she turned herself over to them?
She wondered.
But to save these wonderful people that she’d come to love so well – her family – she was forced to consider it.
If Patrick hadn’t known the land so well, he might have actually gotten lost in this thick white soup that had rolled in from the sea. Berwick was foggy a good deal of the time so he was used to weather like this and he had learned to navigate it.
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 164