Heart of Shadows (Hearts of the Highlands Book 2), page 2
“You saved our lives,” Sir John said. “I will make certain Lord Bennett hears of your courage and skill.” He looked around at the dead bodies and ran his palm across his forehead. “You took down four men in less time than it took us to figure out what the hell had happened. You did not hesitate once.”
“Hesitation gets folks killed,” Torin told him, believing it.
The knight nodded and studied him for another moment before he spoke again. “We can use a man like you against the border reivers. Presently, the Carruthers’ and Irvines are thorns in our sides. They try to get across the border to rob us at least twice a month. No one’s cattle would be safe from them if not for us and some of the other border families.”
Torin had heard much about the reivers. The wars between Scotland and England had left the border towns and villages devastated. In order to survive, kinsmen on both sides along the north, west, and east Marches had formed small armies of raiders. They raided with no regard to any laws, save their own—they could not raid their own kin in different regions.
Torin had nothing against them, save that they gave their allegiance to whoever paid the most—which wasn’t always the Scots. They were fierce fighters with a cause. To eat. Torin understood it, but it wouldn’t stop him from killing them if he had to. He wondered if the thieves he’d killed tonight were reivers.
It didn’t matter. He was here to begin the takedown of England’s last mighty stronghold.
“You will see our porter, Charles Corbet, first,” Sir John told him. “He is the one who decides who may join the garrison. But he will require more than just my word.”
“Of course,” Torin agreed and reached into a pouch at his belt to produce a folded parchment bearing a wax stamp. “I have this letter from the Earl of Rothbury, Lord William Stone.” He had no idea, nor did he care, who the earl was. He only knew the earl lived at Lismoor Castle in Rothbury. He hadn’t broken the seal and read the letter. He’d never fought for the earl a day in his life. The Bruce had provided the letter after he likely forced Rothbury to write it. As long as it aided Torin in his cause, he didn’t care where it came from.
“Come.” Sir John urged him toward the stable. “Do you have a ride?”
Torin went to a large chestnut and white mare with feathered hoofs and a long silky white mane and tail. She was called Avalon, a name he remembered from a story in his childhood. A story his mother used to tell him.
Avalon had been patient through the night while he saw to his task. Now, as he set her free from where she was loosely tied to a post, she nudged him and he stroked her neck, giving her the attention she sought.
“That is a fine beast,” Mitchell complimented, walking around her.
“Avalon is no beast,” Torin corrected, planting a kiss on her nose when she presented it to him. “She is a lady, born with power and grace, and she is loyal only to me.”
As if to test his declaration, Mitchell reached his hand out to touch her—and almost lost two fingers.
Sir John and his companion laughed, and then Mitchell joined them and gained his own saddle.
Torin whispered into Avalon’s ear when he passed it, then leaped to his saddle.
He didn’t have to flick his reins; a slight touch of his stirrup set her running. She raced along the River Eden and past the three soldiers with her mane flowing behind her, her powerful hooves tearing up the earth.
“Dinna show off, Avalon,” Torin said, leaning in and letting his tongue roll naturally for her ears alone.
They arrived at the castle and passed through the massive gates that entered into the outer ward. Torin examined the battlements, counting how many men patrolled. There were not many. Less than twenty. He studied which men had keys and which were aware and awake though the hour was late.
They took their horses to the large stable and Torin left instructions that no one was to touch his horse. After that, he was taken to the gatehouse. He would meet the porter in the morning. Tonight, he would sleep with the rest of the men.
Torin thanked the three who had taken him in and smiled as he lay his head down to sleep. He was in.
He was taken to the keep early the next morning and hired by the porter after a careful examination of his letter of highest recommendation from Rothbury, and news of what he’d done and how he’d fought the night before.
When word came that Corbet was wanted in the great hall, Torin was dismissed and took the opportunity to investigate the rear tower and the weapons house—though he would need the key to get inside from none other than Geoffrey Mitchell, whom he couldn’t find at the moment.
In the meantime, he had other things to discover. How many men were housed here? How much food did they store in case of a siege?
But soon Sir John found him in one of the long corridors and pulled him aside. “The Hetheringtons are here. The warden has called you to the great hall to give an account of last night.”
Perfect. Torin had been waiting to meet the great defender of Carlisle Castle. He’d found that he enjoyed getting to know his victims before he took them down.
“Rowley Hetherington, the leader is here with two of…” Sir John paused with resignation in his gaze and in his voice when he continued. “…his best warriors. They say the men at the tavern last night were their kinsmen and they know we killed them. Adams has told them nothing. He says he awaits you.”
“Good,” Torin said as they entered the keep. “I will tell them I did it. Do not trouble yourself over it.”
“Sir Torin,” the knight said, stopping him before they reached the great hall. “I think ’twas foolish for Lord Bennett to agree to speak with them. No matter what you say, they will find a reason to fight. Have you met reivers? No? They are wild, like rabid dogs—”
“You fear them.” Torin didn’t know whether to smile or give the knight the look of disgust he deserved.
“They are hungry. Five of them attacked soldiers of Carlisle last night. They do not care who they rob, or who they kill to get what they want. I know you fight well, but a word of warning—when you set eyes on the leader’s daughter, Braya, do not be fooled by what you see.”
“What do you mean?” Torin asked, fighting the urge to grin at the fool. Was this guardian of Carlisle admitting to being frightened of a common thief? A woman thief?
“She is one of the Hetherington’s fiercest warriors.”
Torin couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips as they picked up their steps. “And what might I be fooled by? Is she beautiful?”
Sir John said nothing but pushed open the doors to the great hall.
Torin stepped inside. His gaze found Alexander Bennett first. The warden was taller than Torin had expected, and older. His eyes darted first to Torin and then to another hulking brute standing behind a line of Bennett’s men.
The reiver was broad-shouldered and muscular in his jack, a short jacket made up of small iron plates sewn between layers of canvas. He wore trews and riding boots, and a sword at his side, as did the two hooded figures behind him. His head was bald and under one arm he carried a steel bonnet. His eyes were the color of an early morning storm. His weathered skin did nothing to lessen the threat of his stance. Of the two behind him, one was much smaller than the other. They both wore jacks beneath their mantles.
“My lord.” Sir John moved toward Bennett. “This is Sir Torin Gray. Corbet has accepted his service in your name. He comes with a letter from the Earl of Rothbury.”
Bennett waved Torin forward. “Sir John says he and some others were attacked and you came to their aid?”
“That is correct,” Torin told him, stepping closer.
“Then explain to Rowley Hetherington and his son what happened last eve.”
Torin turned his gaze toward the reivers, to the smaller one—the woman. He thought he saw fire flash in her hooded gaze. He felt the sting of not being acknowledged.
But he wasn’t here to call Bennett a fool. Not yet.
He slipped his gaze to the leader. “I saw five thieves attack the warden’s soldiers. The soldiers managed to fell one man but they were in poor condition to fight four more. So I killed the rest.”
The woman pulled back her hood, exposing long, flaxen waves loosely woven into an unkempt braid dangling down her left side. She had enormous, almond-shaped eyes that pierced through him like blue, flame-tipped arrows.
“That is a bold and arrogant statement, Sir Torin,” she said with a voice that fell across his ears like the sting of a whip.
“And a deadly one,” the other reiver said, pulling back his hood as well. He resembled the lass in face only, for the hair falling loose to his wide shoulders was as black as the glare he aimed at Torin.
Torin didn’t know which one to scowl at, so he scowled at them both. “If you find the truth bold, arrogant, or threatening, then I truly fear for the state of our borders.”
He was certain he heard every man in the great hall sigh when the lass smiled and exposed a mischievous dimple in her right cheek. She gave Torin her full attention again and, for an instant, he forgot what they were all doing standing there in the great hall. He could see nothing but her, a beguiling light in the midst of deathly shadows. He thought of Sir John’s words, but no warning was sufficient. This slight wisp of a lass, more beautiful than a sunrise after a battle, was one of Hetherington’s fiercest warriors?
She opened her mouth to speak but the leader held up his hand to quiet her.
Damn it, Torin would like to have heard what she was going to say. He offered her the slightest of smiles.
“Do you expect me to believe that you killed four of our men with no help from the warden’s guardsmen?” the leader demanded in a gravelly voice, dragging Torin’s attention away from her.
He looked at the leader and tried to remember what his question was.
“He had help from me,” Rob Adams saved him. “Your relatives thought to rob us after all we have done for your family against your enemies. If I had not been so drunk, I would have helped him kill more.”
Arguing and threats erupted. Torin turned his attention away from them—from her when she caught his eye again. She was English. He had no interest in her, or her family. He returned his attention to the warden. “Should I have allowed their kinsmen to kill your men?”
Bennett looked from him to the reivers and finally at the ground. “No, of course not. Men, please escort these people out.
Chapter Two
Braya untied her cloak and her scabbard and hung them by the door of her mother’s kitchen then removed her heavy jack and hung it up next. She had to get Carlisle’s new knight out of her mind. He was arrogant and he’d killed four of her cousins. But he’d looked at her with those large, luminous, frosty green eyes as if he understood things about her—things no one else understood, or wanted to.
“Tie up that hair, gel,” her mother called out softly while she set two bowls on the wooden trestle table in the center of the kitchen.
The fragrance of mutton roasted with turnips and carrots wafted from the bowls to Braya’s nose. She closed her eyes and breathed in, then slid into her seat on the bench. She looked up upon hearing her father and brother enter the cottage a few moments after seeing to the horses. She knew her father was angry over how they had been treated by the warden; tossed out on their arses as if her kinsmen hadn’t fought with Bennett during the attempted Scottish invasion, and countless times after that. She was angry, too.
“The warden has forgotten all he owes to the Hetheringtons,” said her brother, Galien, as her father took a seat opposite her. Galien had his own small cottage close by. Braya wished he’d gone to it. He was rash and would try to lead their father into something that could get them all killed.
“We will help him remember,” Rowley Hetherington promised. He smiled at his wife when she set the last bowl on the table.
Braya tossed her brother a solemn side-glance. Galien was now the oldest. He was going to inherit all this mayhem and misery. She didn’t envy him. Though, she knew he enjoyed robbing and raiding as much as her father did. What happened last night and this morning was more than that. It would not, and should not, be forgotten. But her kinsmen would want more.
“Well,” May Hetherington huffed at them and wiped her hands on her apron. “Which one of you is going to tell me what happened? Who is to pay for killing our kinsmen?”
“The reports were correct. ’Twas the warden’s men, including Rob Adams, who turns out not to be a friend at all,” Galien growled and tore a hunk of bread from the loaf in the center of the table, ignoring the hand his father held up. Mr. Adams had been their friend for many years. “And Sir Torin Gray, a stranger,” he continued, bringing the arrogant bastard’s face to Braya’s mind. “He admitted to killing four of our cousins!”
“Mr. Adams claimed our cousins were trying to rob them,” Braya reminded him.
“Which we know is untrue,” Galien argued, giving her a hard stare. “Henry and the lads would not have robbed Carlisle’s soldiers knowing the pact between us is a fragile one. They were not fools.”
They were if they let one man kill all of them.
Braya didn’t speak what was on her mind. Where was the sense in it? The men did what they wanted. They didn’t listen to her or ask her what she thought. No matter how skilled she was she hadn’t earned the respect of any of the men, including her father and brother.
But she had her opinions! Of course, her cousins would have robbed soldiers. They would have robbed anyone who didn’t bear the Hetherington name. Besides, they didn’t live in her village but farther up north in Hethersgill. They didn’t know the guards the way her immediate family did. They hadn’t been raided by the Armstrongs and Elliots. What did they care of the pact made five years ago to fight with the warden against the Scots in exchange for being protected from more powerful families?
“The warden sat there,” her father said with leashed fury in his gravelly voice. “He sat there knowing that his men killed ours. He offered no apology. He had us thrown out!”
Galien slammed his fist down on the table then apologized to their mother. “We must make them pay, Father. They killed Henry. He was like a brother to me. I wish to avenge him.”
Braya’s father nodded and leaned in to pat his son’s broad shoulder. “I know. Do not fear. This offense will not go unpunished.”
Braya wanted to rise up from her seat and shout at them not to do what they were thinking of doing. Alexander Bennett was too great an ally to lose—not for five rash, rowdy fools!
But she said nothing. She sipped her milk and ate her mutton and listened to a plan that was sure to get them killed. When breakfast was over and the men left the table, Braya helped her mother clean up. There had to be something she could do to stop this.
“Mother?” she asked while they cleaned. “Do you think it wise for us to gather our kinsmen and attack the castle? The warden?”
“What else is there to do?” her mother asked, narrowing her keen blue eyes on her daughter. “Someone must pay.”
“But at what cost to our kin? And do you truly believe that Mr. Adams would lie to us? He has sat right here in this kitchen and supped with us. What if he is telling the truth and our men attacked them? A man is not guilty for protecting himself, is he?”
Her mother shook her head. “Not in our laws. But what can we do? You heard your father and Galien. They want blood.”
“Their pride is not enough reason to cast away the support of the defender,” Braya pointed out. “Who will stop the Armstrongs or the other reivers from robbing and warring with us if we lose the warden? If we must seek revenge, we need only seek it against Sir Torin. Lord Bennett did not even know who he was. He is new to the garrison. The warden will not care if he loses him. As for Mr. Adams, I’m sure Father will forgive him after a while. Perhaps he will even come to believe him.”
“Why did you not bring up these concerns to your father?”
“I will,” Braya assured her. “But not with Galien around. He will try to talk Father out of whatever I suggest. You know he is jealous that I beat him at so many things.”
“He loves you, Braya,” her mother admonished tenderly, sweeping her daughter’s hair over her shoulder. Her smile was warm, her round, full cheeks were rosy. “Never forget that. Family is everything. Galien would die for you He is prideful, that is all.”
Braya loved her. She loved them all. She couldn’t let them start a war with the border guards. There must be something she could do. “I must stop this before word is sent out to our kinsmen.”
She kissed her mother’s cheek, grabbed her cloak, and stepped out into the warm summer air. She looked to the right, toward the rolling hills, where her brother herded the cattle, and to the River Eden beyond the trees. She knew where to find her father. She turned to the left and hurried toward the cemetery behind the house.
She found him standing before a gravestone with the name of her eldest brother, Ragenald, engraved on it, though Ragenald himself was not in the grave. The Bruce’s soldiers had killed her brother at Bannockburn. His body was not recovered.
As if to remind the living that the earth was filled with the dead, it seemed cooler here, just a bit darker though it was only early afternoon.
Braya hated it here. She was alive and she wanted to remain that way. She didn’t want any more of her family in this place—not for a long time.
Her father came here every day after he ate. No one disturbed him while he stood before the stone. Braya didn’t know if he spoke to the stone that was all that was left of his son, or stared at the grave, or wept.
