Tatiana March

by Surrender to the Knight

  She wore her chain mail hauberk. Laird Olaf wore steel armor around his torso and arms. Robert and Alistair and Ian had padded gambesons beneath their leather jerkins. Those could stop an arrow shot by a skilled archer, even from a close range, and the lower halves of their bodies were protected by the crenellated castle wall.

  “Where in devil’s name are they?” Alistair said.

  “Probably still recovering from the festivities,” Ian replied.

  “I wish they would hurry,” Brenna fretted. “I can’t bear the waiting.”

  Despite the impending danger, the whole village had celebrated Christmas, bestowing small gifts upon one another. They’d had a proper feast, singing carols, eating goose, drinking wassail. They had prayed too, and Robert, who knew a smattering of Latin, had conducted the Mass. Before setting fire to the Yule log that they had burned for the whole twelve days of Christmas, Ian and Alistair had carved runes in the timber, representing the ill fortune they wished to consign to the flames.

  Unfortunately, Brenna didn’t believe it had worked.

  “They’ll come soon,” Laird Olaf said calmly. Legs braced, fair hair fluttering in the wind, he stared into the distance. Brenna had learned that he could stand guard for hours on end without giving in to fatigue.

  “They might have built a trebuchet to grind us into rubble,” Robert said.

  “They won’t need to.” Relaxing his alert stance for an instant, Laird Olaf pulled off his gauntlets and blew into his palms to keep his fingers from going too numb to control a bow and arrows. “Nor will they bring a siege tower. A castle this well secured can’t be breached. They might tunnel underneath to burn us out, but it would be difficult because the ground is frozen solid. That only leaves the possibility of someone letting them in, or a long siege to starve us into submission.” He raked his gaze over the others, sending them a grim smile. “As there are no traitors at Kilgarren, it will be starvation for us.”

  Brenna listened to the man she had grown to love, and the bitter truth settled over her. She would never have expected that instead of fearing the day he would leave, she would regret that he had stayed. “You should have left when you could,” she told him fiercely. “If Erskine can’t kill you, he can’t make me into a widow and force me to marry him.”

  “If I failed to stay and defend the castle, the king would give Kilgarren to Erskine without a fight. I’d sacrifice my honor and you’d lose your home anyway. That would be a bad bargain.”

  “Dying for Kilgarren is a bad bargain for you,” she countered. “I was born here. This place is my home. My life. For you, it is nothing but a worthless piece of moorland on the remote edges of Scotland.”

  He pulled his gauntlets back on. “I’m a soldier. A soldier expects to die on a battlefield. Without you, I’d have died in some foreign land, with nothing to mark my falling, no one to mourn for me. If I die for Kilgarren, I’ll have a proper grave to rest in, people who will remember my name. It will be a good death, better than I could have hoped for.”

  “Riders in the east,” Robert called out.

  Brenna whirled to fasten her eyes on the horizon. The rising sun silhouetted a row of men on horseback. She counted five. And behind them—Lord have mercy—behind them she saw a row of foot soldiers that seemed to stretch a hundred yards from left to right.

  * * *

  Olaf pressed his hands against the sides of the cooling cauldron for warmth. He had been wrong to think starvation would be their worst enemy. Kilgarren was built around a well. With unlimited access to water, they could withstand the enemy for weeks, perhaps months, until they had eaten all the sheep and the two milk cows, possibly even the horses.

  Their worst enemy had turned out to be the weather.

  Nature had delivered a hard frost that turned his breath into icicles inside his helm while he kept watch on the castle roof. For now, they stoked the chimney day and night. Once the firewood ran out, they could burn the furniture. Then they would slowly freeze to death. If the weather eased and spared them from frostbite, starvation would weaken them until those still alive would be too weak to do anything but surrender.

  Laird Erskine knew it too. For three weeks now, he’d made a halfhearted show of sending out a volley of arrows each morning and noon. Why waste ammunition, or damage the castle he already thought of as his? Most of Erskine’s men spent their time scouring the seafront, collecting driftwood to burn in bonfires.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for them to die or surrender.

  The water in the cauldron had grown cold. Olaf called Robert to help him, and together they poured the contents over the side of the castle, creating a coating of ice that would make it harder for intruders to climb up the wall. Olaf gritted his teeth in frustration at defending the castle against an attacker who couldn’t be bothered to attack.

  When he pulled off his helm, the north wind bit into his face. “I want to talk to Lady Brenna,” he told Robert. “Sound the alarm if they make the slightest move.”

  Robert nodded in reply, his face too numb to let him speak.

  Olaf found Lady Brenna in the laird’s chamber, sitting at the small table, two piles of pebbles in front of her. Clad in chain mail, boots on her feet, a helm and a sword by her side, she didn’t abandon battle readiness for one second. When she turned to look at him, Olaf knew he couldn’t let her die.

  “How many days?” he asked.

  “We use half a stack of firewood every day.” Using the pebbles to mark the number of days and the stacks of firewood they had left, Lady Brenna counted. “Two weeks.”

  Up to now, Olaf had resisted the urge to seize the initiative. He’d told himself that although it was in the nature of a soldier to seek a fight, sometimes caution served better. As the laird, he had to think of women and children, of continuity, of preserving life so there would be a future. Now he accepted that the plan he had abandoned as too bold, too foolhardy, was the only one that offered them a slim chance of survival.

  “I’m taking the battle out to Erskine,” he told Lady Brenna.

  Pebbles scattering, Lady Brenna jerked up to her feet. “What do you mean?”

  Olaf had removed his gauntlets while he watched her count. Curling his hands around her upper arms, he pulled her close and held her steady while he captured her gaze and spoke with the fervor of a man taking a desperate gamble. “We’ll attack. They’ll outnumber us fourfold, and they are more experienced soldiers, but in the confusion of a battlefield, valor and courage can mean just as much as skill and strength. The men of Kilgarren will be fighting for their homes, for their families. They’ll fight with their hearts, and that will make each of them worth at least four of the enemy.”

  Lady Brenna grew stiff in his hold. “You’re asking to be slaughtered.”

  “No.” Olaf fell silent. He couldn’t deny the truth in her words, but he had a plan. A plan he couldn’t share with her because she would try to talk him out of it. If he could find a way of luring Erskine into a single combat, perhaps by taunting him, insulting his pride...that could give them a chance. And even if he lost, a single combat would spare the lives of his men, allowing them to surrender with their honor intact.

  Lady Brenna spoke. “If you ride out to Erskine, I shall ride out by your side.”

  “No.” He stared at her, his fingers tightening over her arms. “I want you to live.” There was an implacable edge of authority in his voice. “You haven’t had your woman’s flux. You may be carrying my child. I want you to live. I want our child to live.”

  Her lashes fluttered down. “Starvation and terror can stop a woman’s flux.”

  “Instinct tells me that you are with child.” He gave her a shake, the force of it harder than he had intended as regret tore through him. “Live. Give life to our child.” He exhaled a harsh breath. “I told y
ou once that I wished to know love before I died. You have given me that. If I die, I go to my death with a heart that is no longer full of bitterness. I have memories to take with me. But death will be easier if I know the life I’ve left behind is safe.”

  “I’m your equal. I want to fight with you.”

  “No.” Olaf released his hold on her arms and pressed his fingers on Lady Brenna’s lips to silence her. “If a woman carries a child, she is responsible for a life beyond her own. You promised to obey me. You will do as I tell you.”

  “But it was—”

  He cut her off with an impatient sound. “I want to hear no argument. You made a promise, and I expect you to honor your word like a true knight would. Kilgarren is your greatest love, your birthright. If I fail to return from the battle and you marry Erskine before our son is born, one day he’ll rule Kilgarren. My son. Our son. Knowing that the life we created together will inherit your beloved home must carry you through the years as Erskine’s wife.” Olaf closed his mind to the pain of thinking of Brenna with another man. “And if life with him is too hard to bear, you know what to do,” he added quietly. “No one dared to speak openly when they suspected you of poisoning your brother. They’ll do no more if you end the days of a cruel husband.”

  “I couldn’t...” Lady Brenna spoke in a whisper. “Not without you....”

  “If I die, you’ll have to,” Olaf said bluntly. “I demand that you protect our son.”

  He didn’t dare to kiss her. It might weaken his resolve, might make him want to postpone his daring plan for challenging Erskine. Instead of pursuing a slim chance of victory, he might be tempted to snatch just one more day, one more hour, one more minute with her, and the longer he waited, the weaker his men would be from starvation and frostbite.

  Olaf touched his fingers one more time to Lady Brenna’s soft lips. He longed to hear the words, have her tell him that she loved him, but he knew that if she spoke the words, they would make it harder for him to leave her. He let his gaze rest on her face for a moment, memorizing her features as he spoke. “I shall go up on the roof and tell Robert that I’m riding out to Erskine. Then I’ll gather the men and we will engage in battle.”

  Lady Brenna lifted her hands to his chest. Her nails scraped against his breastplate as she made the instinctive feminine gesture of clinging to him, of seeking to fist her hands in his clothing. He took her wrists and gently eased her away.

  “There is a chance,” he told her softly. “I’m more skilled than Erskine. I have a better horse, a better sword. I have more to fight for, more to live for.” Olaf paused. He’d reassured her with hope. Now he had to strip some of it away from her. “But if I die,” he said, “you must surrender. There is no other way.”

  Then he released her, turned away, and went to meet his fate.

  * * *

  Brenna pressed her ear to the hole in the floor, listening to the muffled voices in the great hall below. She’d offered to share the laird’s private rooms to avoid overcrowding after the villagers took shelter in the castle, but people preferred to huddle together for warmth.

  Alistair was speaking. “Our grandfather was a Norseman, and no Viking runs from battle. We are coming with you.” A trail of heavy footsteps stomped across the floor.

  “Aye. Aye.” The villagers spoke with raised voices, each striving to be heard over the others. Brenna heard the banging sounds as the trapdoor was unbolted, and the clanking of weapons as the men took to arms, and then the creaking of timber as they climbed down the ladder to the stables and prepared to spill out to the battlefield.

  She couldn’t bear to watch.

  She couldn’t bear not to watch.

  Her heart pounding, an icy fear curling in her belly, she hurried up to the roof. Robert stood facing the enemy encampment, bitter at being left behind but embracing his role as the sole remaining protector of the women and children. The skies were clear, and the crisp air reminded Brenna of the winter hunts while her father remained alive.

  Now she was the hunted, not the hunter.

  “He is right.” Robert spoke without turning to look at her. “It is better to go into battle than to sit around, waiting for life to slowly drain from your body, breath by breath. In a fight there is a chance. Starvation will always kill you in the end.”

  Brenna joined him at the crenellated wall, standing in front of a lower section to get a full view of the moors outside. Three men spearheaded the march out toward the enemy, Olaf riding on Thor at the center, Alistair and Ian on foot on either side of him. Behind them, the villagers followed in a loose formation, brandishing their weapons. The measured pace of their advance added a militant, threatening quality to their approach, even though they were only twenty men against a crowd of nearly a hundred.

  Her husband wore no helm. Did he wish for a swift death? Did he long to feel the cold, fresh wind on his face as he perished? Or did he believe that agility and speed and unfettered vision would give him a greater chance in the combat he faced today? Brenna wished to know the answer, but doubted that she ever would.

  The pale winter sun fell on Laird Olaf, gilding his hair, making his armor sparkle. Memories of her first glimpse of his face flooded Brenna’s mind. Like an angel in a church painting. A man who had taught her to fight, who had treated her as his equal. She loved him, but she’d never given him the words.

  What was Kilgarren but earth and grass, a bog of peat and a pile of stones? The land would be there for eternity, whether she dwelled upon the soil or not. Erskine might rule for a while, but death would take him, the way it took everything. Another man would rule in his place, and another one after that.

  She would be forgotten but Kilgarren would remain.

  She had but one life to live. One love to love.

  And that love was now riding out to meet his death.

  Not daring to say anything to Robert, lest he try to stop her, Brenna retreated down the ladder. At the great hall, she paused to address the women and children huddled together for warmth. “Do not fear,” she called out to them. “Take your orders from my steward. I must join my husband.”

  She hurried to the ground floor and spent a few precious moments tying a bridle on the workhorse. Then she urged the horse out through the entrance, climbed up on a stone bench and flung herself onto Ramsey’s back, praying to God that Laird Erskine remained true to his ugly nature and would pause to gloat over his victory before killing his enemies.

  Pride soared in her heart at the sight that met her when she approached the battle lines. On one side, three warriors stood still, one on horseback, two on foot. Their calm pose spoke of endless courage. The villagers with their primitive weapons had halted and stood twenty paces farther back. On the enemy side, she counted five knights in full armor, and a greater tally of men-at-arms than she had pebbles on her desk. Despite the hopeless odds, her husband held his head high. With no standard-bearer to carry his colors, he had tied the Kilgarren banner to his left arm.

  Black, white and green fluttered in the freezing January wind.

  Olaf raised his sword. Ian and Alistair beside him did the same.

  “Kilgarren!” Their roar filled the air, three men sounding like a hundred.

  Brenna was riding hard. Ramsey’s hooves thundered on the hard earth, but the workhorse was not bred for speed. She reached the villagers and rode through the loose ranks they’d formed. Some carried bows and arrows, some brandished clubs and spears and battle-axes, even lengths of firewood.

  “Kilgarren!” Their cry echoed behind her.

  “Kilgarren!” Olaf shouted ahead of her, urging Thor into motion.

  “No,” Brenna screamed. Despite the plodding pace of the workhorse, the advantage of gathered speed took her past her husband. She banked Ramsey hard. If Erskine’s men refused to halt their attack, she would be caught between the battle line
s, the first to die. Hampered by the heavy chain mail, Brenna slid down from the horse in an awkward twist and thudded to a jarring stop on the frozen ground.

  She sank down on her knees before Erskine. “I will surrender Kilgarren to you, provided you promise not to shed a single drop of blood.”

  His snarling reply echoed inside his steel helm. “I can’t make you my wife unless I make you a widow first.”

  Brenna lifted her chin. “I’ve offered to cede Kilgarren to you. Why would you want marriage? I am young. I shall outlive you by many years. Do you wish to blight your life with a wife who will hate you while you live, and do her best to blacken your name after you are dead?”

  Laird Erskine lifted the visor of his modern burgonet helmet on its hinges. “I confess that is not a tempting prospect, but I’ll take my chances. Get out of the way, woman.” He waved his men forward, and a dozen soldiers formed a semicircle in front of her.

  Brenna scrambled up to her feet and raised her sword. “If you refuse my offer, I’ll fight you alongside my husband. You’ll have to kill me to get Kilgarren.”

  “Step aside, wife.” Laird Olaf’s voice came behind her, clear and calm.

  She turned to look at him. His hair whipped in the breeze, and there was a fierce glitter of pride, mixed with anger, in his pale green eyes. His scowl reminded Brenna that her greatest duty was to protect the new life she may be carrying, but it also served as a warning that she was interfering with his battle strategy.

  In silence, Brenna lowered her sword. She retreated, keeping her eyes on the enemy, not turning but walking backward with careful steps, taking care not to catch her heavy boots on the snowy clumps of grass that might make her stumble and fall.

  Laird Olaf spoke again. “My wife is right. It should be clear to you—as clear as it is to me—that we can’t afford bloodshed. Whoever wins Kilgarren needs every warrior they have to defend the shore. The king will be displeased if the men slaughter one another and cut down their number. And without warriors to stand with him, the winner’s rule will be short, as some other challenger will come and conquer the lands.”