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  Troy felt his father’s agony like a stab to the gut. Now, he felt so terribly guilty for being angry about what he perceived as a slight against him. Deep down, he supposed he always knew that his father loved him as equally as his brother, but the past two years had seen tumult for them all. They had all lived through so much emotion, making it difficult to remain steady over such matters. He sighed heavily.

  “I am sorry I became angry with you, Papa,” he said. “I do not want Scott to be dead, either. He is my brother, the person I know best in this world. When he left, I lost a part of me. I had lost my wife; I did not need to lose my brother, too.”

  William put a hand on his arm. “I know,” he murmured. “It has been so very hard on you. Scott ran to escape and you remained to take the brunt of it. I cannot tell you how much I admire your strength in all things, Troy. You are stronger than I could ever be in such matters.”

  Troy looked at his father, the man he loved most. He had been the most patient, loving, and gracious father a man could have ever hoped for and Troy considered himself extremely blessed. His anger towards William dissolved away until all that was left were the remnants of guilt for having become so angry in the first place.

  “I am not strong,” he said. “I simply did what needed to be done. Running from grief does not make it go away.”

  William shook his head. “It does not, but it was easier for Scott to do what he did. You must not judge him for it. We all do what we need in order to survive, and he did what he needed to do. I still believe he will return. I cannot stomach the alternative.”

  Troy wasn’t going to contradict him. Whether or not he believed that his brother would return someday was inconsequential; it was what his father believed that mattered. He wouldn’t destroy the man’s hope. He put his arm around his father’s neck and pulled him close.

  “For your sake, I hope he does,” he whispered, giving him a hug. “And forgive me for being angry about it, but I am angry with him for leaving. I have been ever since that terrible day, but that is my cross to bear.”

  William understood. He cupped his son’s face and kissed his cheek before releasing him. “Then I pray you find peace with it someday,” he said. “Scott did not leave because he did not love you, Troy. His leaving had nothing to do with you.”

  They hadn’t spoken so openly and calmly about the subject in a very long time and Troy simply shrugged. “He left me behind to bear this burden of grief alone,” he said. “Mayhap, he did not think on it that way, but that was the end result. He left me alone.”

  William suspected that was what Troy felt. When a twin departed, leaving the other twin, it was literally as if the man had lost half of himself. It had always been Scott and Troy, since birth, the two of them always together as if they were shadows of one another. The loss of one’s shadow was a difficult thing to reconcile. He patted his son on the cheek.

  “You are not alone, lad,” he assured him. “You are never alone. You have me and Atty and James and Edward and Thomas. You even have your mother. How you think you could be alone with that brood, I will never know.”

  There was a gleam of mirth in his eye as he spoke and Troy smiled weakly. “It does become crowded at times,” he admitted.

  William moved softly and took him by the arm, pulling him back towards the hall. “That is true, but I would not have it any other way,” he said. “Now, come inside and finish your meal. Enjoy this night before everyone leaves and you really are alone. You deserve this night, Troy. It belongs to you.”

  Troy let his father drag him back into the hall without much resistance. Truth be told, he was looking forward to more of that bitter wine and, perhaps, losing himself in a few hours of much-needed sleep. But for tonight, Monteviot was secure and, for a few brief and blissful hours, Troy would find peace. Peace was essential because one never knew what the morrow would bring.

  That rang doubly true at Monteviot Tower, in the heart of enemy territory.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was a cold, blustery dawn when they set out from Sibbald’s Hold, heading southwest to the isolated outpost known as Monteviot.

  Autumn was descending with full force, for the cold winds were blowing and the leaves on the trees were scattering. Soon, the weather would give way to the snows of winter that would cover the mountains and vales through March. Winters could be long this far north, and even as the party from Sibbald’s rode south, following the rocky vale that would lead them to the border lands where they would head due east to Monteviot, they could see that the farmers were already up and tending to their fields and herds.

  They, too, felt the change in seasons and it was imperative to make preparations for the coming winter. Late crops of barley and oats were in the fields, the majority of the fields having been harvested in August. But there would be a late harvest on some of them, as late as November or early December, or before the snow came in earnest.

  Keith may have had a small fortress on the moors, but he was smart about what that fortress produced to keep them fed. A small village was established around Sibbald’s and there were also many farms in the surrounding area that Keith supported. He would pay for seed and the farmers would grow the crops, giving Keith about three-quarters of the yield. There were also farmers who raised the shaggy cows so prevalent to the area for meat and milk, and more sheep herders than they could count. The Lowlands of Scotland were rich, agriculturally, and Keith benefitted from that. It had made him rather wealthy, or at least wealthy enough to sustain what he had.

  Fortunately, Rhoswyn had followed in her father’s footsteps with her financial savvy. She understood what it took to keep men fed and she was often in on business decisions but, beyond that, she knew nothing more about running a house or hold. Sibbald’s had a host of female servants that knew how to run a fortress, from stuffing mattresses to washing clothing to cooking sides of sheep. Rhoswyn had never bothered with such things. Her focus had been on the things her father had taught her.

  Things regarding men and war. Even now, she was thinking ahead to the confrontation with de Wolfe. Astride her big black beast of a horse, Rhoswyn wore what she usually wore to battle, and she had seen a few. This felt like a battle. She had seen skirmishes with her father; not many, but enough that she had fought against men and she had killed against them, too. It had never been easy for her to kill, but there had been times when it had been necessary. She certainly wasn’t afraid to lift a dagger.

  While her kinsmen wore the long tunics and braies, heavy cloaks against the cold wind, Rhoswyn wore leather hose because they were warmer and softer than the woolen braies. They also provided some protection against a sharp blade. Over that, she wore a heavy tunic of yellow – the fighting tunic, the men called it – dyed with expensive saffron her father had purchased. Still, over that, she wore a padded tunic and then a mail coat that her father, long ago, had stolen off of a dead Sassenach soldier during one of the battles at the border.

  Along with that mail coat came a beautiful weapon and a helm, all of which now belonged to Rhoswyn. The helm had a metal strip down the center of it to protect her nose and, with her hair braided and shoved up into the helm, it was difficult to see that she was a woman. In fact, no one would know unless they heard her speak or got a close look at her. Considering she was about to challenge de Wolfe’s best warrior, she didn’t want them to know a woman was part of the challenge until it was too late.

  Until their honor was at stake.

  And she was eager for that moment. Rhoswyn could see her father riding at the head of the group, astride a horse that was starting to grow its winter coat. She knew he was uncomfortable, venturing out of Sibbald’s as he was, because Keith usually stayed to himself unless forced to ride out. Their clan had a few run-ins with a smaller branch of Clan Elliot over the years, and Keith had risen to the call, but he didn’t like to do it. He liked to stay to Sibbald, drinking his wine or playing games with his men. In spite of Keith’s temper, and it could be fierce,
he really did prefer to live in peace. That meant the trip to Monteviot was a duty, not a want.

  Rhoswyn understood that.

  Looking around, she could see her father’s men riding with them. There were about fifty of them, men who had been with Keith or with Keith’s father. Some of them were quite old, but they were fearsome and trusted. They remembered the old days when the Kerr was in nearly every battle on this section of the border, and there were some who liked to relive those days. She could feel their determination, their hatred against the Sassenach invasion. Because of it, Rhoswyn was glad she had convinced her father to confront de Wolfe. Otherwise, he could have very well lost the respect of his men.

  To a Scotsman, that would have been a fate worse than death.

  In silence, they rode as the horizon in the east turned shades of pink and purple, brightening gradually to reveal a sky with darkened clouds off towards the north. A storm was approaching but it didn’t deter their path. They would continue on to Monteviot which, at this pace, they would see in a couple of hours.

  The anticipation was building.

  There was a creek in the center of the vale they were traveling in, with muddied ground and thick, green grass that the horses slogged through. The hills were gentle but rather tall; still, they could be crossed with some effort. It wasn’t difficult. The morning progressed and the party from Sibbald passed over a series of hills and into another vale. This vale, however, dumped out into the south end of the valley that contained Monteviot and they weren’t halfway across the vale when they began to smell smoke.

  But not just any smoke; it was putrid and ghastly, hanging heavily on the land. The grass and the hills were full of it. Rhoswyn spurred her horse up next to her father.

  “What is that terrible smell?” she asked, pinching her nose.

  Keith’s expression didn’t register the trepidation he was now feeling. “That’s the smell of burned flesh,” he said quietly. “They must have burned the bodies of the dead.”

  Rhoswyn looked at her father in horror. “Ye know this for certain?”

  Keith nodded slowly; there wasn’t a doubt on his face. As Rhoswyn tried to reconcile herself to the smell of burning bodies and the horror it provoked, her uncle and cousins rode forward to join in the conversation.

  “Och,” Fergus growled. “I dunna like this already. If they’re burnin’ men, then they could do anything. Mayhap we’d better think about this for a moment, Keith. We dunna want tae go chargin’ in if the Sassenach are burnin’ men.”

  Keith reined his horse to a halt, turning to look at his brother. Fergus didn’t like any manner of confrontation, a trait that some men would call cowardly. But the truth was that Fergus simply didn’t have the fire in him that most Scotsmen did. Therefore, a comment like that was to be expected from him. It was his fear of conflict talking.

  “Then what are ye thinkin’ of, Fergus?” he asked his brother. “I’ll not go back. Ye know I willna.”

  Fergus shook his head, shaggy and red. “Nay; not go back,” he said. “But were ye proposin’ that we simply ride intae their midst?”

  “Do ye have a better idea?”

  Fergus nodded. “I do,” he said, turning to point at the men behind them who had now come to a halt. “Dunna show him yer numbers. Ye take Rhoswyn with ye since she’s determined tae fight, but leave the rest of us on the hill. Let them look tae the hill, see yer men, and wonder if there are a thousand more they canna see.”

  It was actually good advice. Keith hadn’t thought much of showing all of the men he had to the English; he was simply going to confront them and issue the challenge. Perhaps not the most cunning tactic, but an honest one. But now that they were smelling burned man-flesh, he was rethinking his approach. Fergus was right; if they were burning men, then perhaps they wouldn’t think twice about burning him and his men. And his daughter. He’d never heard of brutal de Wolfe tactics but there was always a first time.

  Perhaps it was better to be cautious.

  “As ye say,” he said after a moment. “Take the men with ye. Rhosie and I will see tae the English.”

  “And issue the challenge?”

  “That’s why we’ve come.”

  Fergus gazed at him a moment. “Are ye sure that’s what ye want tae do?” he asked quietly. “I never agreed with this plan from the start, Keith. Rhosie is an excellent warrior, but…”

  “She’s the best.”

  “She is, but she’s a woman. In combat with an English knight? She’ll be lucky if she survives.”

  “She’ll survive. Dunna doubt her.”

  Fergus sighed heavily. “But if this plan doesna work, ye’ll be sacrificin’ yer daughter.”

  Fergus’ cautious attitude was starting to wear on Keith; he didn’t have time for it. “And if I do nothin’ at all, I’ll be sacrificin’ me honor,” he hissed. “We discussed this last night. I have no army I can turn tae, at least not one that will answer the call against de Wolfe. What we do, we must depend on ourselves for it, and if we can convince de Wolfe tae pledge one knight in a battle where the victor sets the terms, then I have tae do it.”

  “Ye feel so strongly about it?”

  “I do.”

  There was nothing more Fergus could say. When he’d first heard of the plan last night, he’d tried to talk his brother out of such a thing but Keith wouldn’t be swayed, convinced that Rhoswyn’s plan of wagering the entire outcome of Monteviot on one challenge was the chance they needed to take. That his brother would take the advice of his daughter over anyone else was something that greatly disturbed Fergus, but he couldn’t fight against it. His attitude was one of extreme caution, whereas Keith didn’t share that same perspective. They’d never seen eye to eye on conflict or confrontation. But Fergus could have never imagined that his brother saw a greater hope in Rhoswyn’s victory, the hope of a marriage and alliance with de Wolfe. Perhaps if Fergus had known, then he might have understood Keith’s resolve.

  But he wouldn’t have agreed with him.

  Still, the fact remained that he knew nothing. No one did. They all thought Keith had gone mad, but it could not be helped. So Fergus simply shook his head and turned away, motioning for the men to follow him to the crest of the hill that overlooked Monteviot. He thought his brother was a bleeding idiot, but that could not be helped.

  Keith was determined.

  As Fergus and the men began to trudge up the rocky hill overlooking the vale of Monteviot, Keith watched his brother for a moment before turning to his daughter astride her big, black horse. She looked like a warrior, in fact; long-legged, wearing mail that concealed her womanly figure, she did, indeed, look like a warrior and, for a moment, Keith saw the son he’d always wanted.

  It was just the flash of a vision, one that quickly faded. Then he felt guilty for it. But, no… he thought. It was his daughter he was preparing to pit against an English knight of de Wolfe’s choosing, or so he hoped. If de Wolfe wouldn’t let the outcome of Monteviot be decided in one-on-one combat, then there was nothing more Keith could do but leave his outpost in the hands of the English and his daughter would remain unmarried. There was no other alternative, so it was a moment like this that tested a man’s true bravery.

  Or… a woman’s.

  *

  “Troy!” Patrick hissed. “Scots approaching!”

  The entire bailey was full of men preparing to depart, men spilling out of the gates and into the area outside of the walls as five separate armies were organizing to return home. The army from Berwick was spilling into the clearing outside of the gates and it was from the outside that Patrick had just come, running to find his brother, who was near the burned-out tower with his father and a few other men. But those hissed words from Patrick brought all conversation to a standstill.

  “Scots?” Troy repeated; he was a little hungover from all of the wine he’d had the night before, now struggling to overcome both a headache and a muddled mind. “Damnation, then get your army back inside and close th
e gates!”

  Patrick nodded his head. “I have already given the command,” he said. “Most of them are outside the gates, including the wagons, so we are moving as fast as we can. Fortunately, there are only two Scots that I can see.”

  Troy abruptly turned for the gates. “You know as well as I do that it is the ones you cannot see that you must worry about.”

  “Which is why I am moving them back inside.”

  Patrick took off after his brother then, as did William, Paris, Kieran, Michael, and a very hungover Apollo. All of them moving swiftly for the gates where the Berwick men were starting to shuffle around nervously, trying to move back into the bailey of Monteviot. The knights pushed through the ranks to get a clear line of sight on the incoming Scots.

  A day that had started off relatively quiet was quickly becoming wrought with apprehension as two Scots were sighted. The knights stood in front of the crowd of soldiers at the gate, watching the approach of the Scots. But not everyone was looking at the pair; William, too, felt that there were probably more than just the two Scots, so he sent men to the walls to watch for more clansmen. Perhaps this was a ruse, perhaps not, but the closer the pair approached, the more nervous the English became.

  Enemies in an enemy land.

  As activity went on behind him with his father and the other knights moving men about, Troy watched the pair come closer and it occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing most of his protection. He hadn’t put it on yet because he’d spent the morning with his father in the hall and then assessing the burned-out tower. He wasn’t expecting to go into combat. But it further occurred to him that his father wasn’t wearing any protection, either. William was planning on departing later that morning for the five-hour trip back to Questing and, like Troy, simply hadn’t fully dressed. Troy turned to his father, standing a few feet away and watching the men populate on the walls.