The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Read online

  That was it! She would leave them extra food.

  It took her a few days to come up with a plan, but eventually she was ready to put it in motion.

  Sneaking extra bits of beef was the easy part. She wrapped them in the cloth she kept at her lap while she ate, and then tucked the bundle in the purse at her waist before she left. Getting the food to the prisoners, however, was the challenge.

  She’d watched the prisoners enough to know their routine. Every morning the guards led them out through the small courtyard between the chapel and the damaged Great Hall to the main courtyard. They were lined up and given instructions before being permitted to collect the carts, which were stored on the side of the bakehouse. The carts were what she was aiming for.

  That night, when the castle was quiet, she donned a dark cloak and snuck out of the tower. Keeping to the shadows, she worked her way around the yard, careful to avoid any guards who might be on patrol. But it was remarkably quiet. With the rebel forces crushed, there was little threat of an attack. She quickly deposited her bundle in one of the carts and made her way back up to her chamber.

  The next morning she watched from her window as one of the men returned with the cart, immediately went to the Scot, and surreptitiously passed him the bundle. The Scot looked around, as if suspecting a trick, but when one of the guards barked an order at him—presumably to get to work—she saw the faint twist of a smile.

  That smile was all the encouragement she needed. Her nighttime excursions continued for a week, and she swore the dark red-haired man grew stronger. Many of the men seemed to walk a little taller.

  She knew her brother would be furious if he discovered what she was doing—and she hated the idea of a secret between them—but she told herself it was but a small gesture and could do no harm.

  But she was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Rosalin yawned as one of the attendants who’d accompanied her from London finished twisting her long plaits under the veil and circlet. “You look tired, m’lady,” the older woman said, a concerned look in her eye. “Are you not feeling well?”

  After eight nights the loss of sleep was catching up with her, but Rosalin managed a smile. “Well enough, Lenore. Nothing a few extra hours of sleep won’t cure. I fear I’ve been staying up with my brother and the earl—”

  A shout from the courtyard below made her stop what she’d been about to say.

  “I wonder what that is all about,” Lenore said.

  But Rosalin had already jumped from the chair and raced to the window. Her heart stopped, a strangled cry escaping from between her lips before she could smother it with her hand. The red-haired rebel was kneeling in the dirt, holding his side where one of the soldiers must have struck him. The cloth and pieces of beef and bread that she’d smuggled out to them last night were strewn on the ground in front of him. The soldier was shouting at him, using his fists and the back of his hand to punctuate his words.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what he was asking.

  The red-haired man shook his head and the soldier hit him again—this time with so much force his head snapped back and blood sprayed around him like a bubble that had popped.

  He crumpled to the ground.

  She cried out in horror, and Lenore tried to pull her away. “Come away, m’lady. Those vile beasts are not fit for your eyes. Brigands and barbarians, that’s what they are. I hope your brother draws and quarters every one of them!”

  Rosalin barely heard her words. She shook her off, crying out again as she sensed—she knew—what the Scot would do. He roared forward, tossing off the two soldiers who’d been holding him as if they were poppets. His fist slammed into the jaw of the soldier who’d beaten his friend. The soldier had barely hit the ground when the Scot was over him, driving his powerful fist into him again and again like a battering ram until the soldier lay motionless on the ground.

  It seemed there was a stunned pause before the courtyard erupted in chaos.

  Lenore gasped in horror from behind her. “The prisoners are attacking!”

  “No. Oh God, no,” Rosalin groaned softly as the melee ensued. What have I done?

  The Scot fought like a man possessed, like one of those berserkers of Norse legend. Using nothing but his hands, he fended off half a dozen of her brother’s men. Each time one of them tried to get hold of him, he made some kind of quick maneuver and twisted out of the man’s grasp. Usually the soldiers ended up on their backs. The blond-haired prisoner had managed to grab one of the hammers used to take down the wall and had taken a position at the Scot’s flank. Together they were a two-man army.

  One by one the other prisoners were subdued, but the two men seemed as if they could hold off capture forever.

  But of course they couldn’t. Without armor and proper weaponry, all it took was one well-placed pike in the side of the blond-haired warrior, and one powerful hit of the hammer on the ribs of the Scot, and the English had regained the upper hand.

  Her heart was pounding. Tears were streaming from her eyes as her brother’s soldiers surrounded the two men.

  God in heaven, they are going to kill them!

  Without thinking of what she was doing, only knowing she had to put a stop to the fighting, she raced down the stairs, heedless of Lenore’s worried cries behind her. She reached the yard only moments after her brother and his men, two of whom prevented her from going farther than a few feet beyond the tower door. “You shouldn’t be here, my lady,” one of the men said. “Go back to the tower. This will all be over soon.”

  That was exactly what she feared.

  “I need to see my brother.” She tried to look around one of the men, but with the crowd of people who’d flooded the courtyard she couldn’t see anything.

  She heard her brother’s voice from up ahead. “What is the meaning of this?”

  A series of English voices responded with “stealing food,” “find out,” and “Scots attacked.”

  “Your man was beating a man to death for something he could not answer. He would have killed him had I not stopped him.”

  The sound of the deep, powerful voice reverberated through her like a clap of thunder, jolting in its intensity. It was her Scot; she knew it.

  Her brother said something she couldn’t hear and a few more English voices went back and forth.

  Then her brother spoke again. “Take him to the pit, where he won’t incite a damned riot.”

  “Is this your English justice, Clifford?” that deep voice sneered. “Killing a man for defending someone who could not fight back? I could have taken a dozen of your men with me—next time I will.”

  Rosalin tried to push through again, but one of the men—a knight who she thought was named Thomas—forcibly held her back. “Your brother won’t like you being here, my lady. You need to get back to the tower.”

  “But what will happen to them?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Why, they’ll be executed, of course.”

  The blood drained from her face. She must have looked like she was going to faint, because he called another one of the soldiers over and together they steered her back into the tower.

  Rosalin waited for what seemed like hours for her brother to return to his solar. Her hands twisted anxiously in her lap. The glass of wine that she’d drunk for courage tossed in her stomach.

  She dreaded the conversation ahead of her but knew it could not be avoided. She couldn’t let those men be killed because of what she’d done.

  It was dark when her brother finally entered the room. He looked surprised to see her. “What are you doing here, Rosie-lin? I thought you’d be readying for the evening meal.” He frowned, seeing the distress on her face. “Is something wrong?”

  She blinked up at him, feeling the heat gather in her throat and behind her eyes. “It’s all my fault!” Unable to hold back, the tears and emotion came pouring out. “I gave them the food. I didn’t think there would be any harm and they looked so hungry. I was only trying to help.” She
latched on to his arm, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You can’t punish them.”

  The jumbled confession took him a moment to sort through, but when he did, his face darkened. It wasn’t often that her brother was angry with her, and she hated it. “Damn it, Rosalin, I told you to stay away from them! Do you have any idea how dangerous those men are?”

  “I do. I swear I didn’t go anywhere near them.” She explained how she took the scraps of food to the cart at night. He seemed to relax a little, and his expression wasn’t quite as thunderous. “I only wanted to ease their suffering. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  He gave her a long, steady look. “You never meant for things like this to happen, which is exactly why you don’t belong here. Your heart is too soft for war. These men are not one of your scullery maids with blistered hands or a serving wench who needs to spend more time with her sick baby rather than tend her duties.”

  “But Katie’s hands were so chapped they were bleeding, and it wasn’t fair that Meggie lost a week’s pay because she missed a few hours—”

  Her brother held up his hand, stopping her. “That’s what I’m trying to say. These men are hardened killers—they are not deserving of your kindness.”

  She bowed her head, unable to meet his gaze. “I had to do something.”

  She heard him sigh and a moment later, he wrapped his arm around her and drew her to his side. Relief that he’d forgiven her only made her sob harder. “I’m so sorry.”

  He murmured soothing words and rocked her against him until she quieted. It reminded her of the night her father had died, and the night less than a year later when their mother had followed. “You can’t stay here, little one. I should have sent you home right away, but I was selfish. I missed you, and seeing your face was like a breath of spring air in this cesspit.”

  She looked up at him, eyes burning. “You are sending me away?”

  Please, not that. Anything but that.

  He nodded solemnly. “Aye, but only for a while. I will come see you in London as soon as I am done here. The king will wish a report, and I can give it to him personally. I will bring Maud and the children. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She nodded; he knew she would. He smiled teasingly. “Besides, I want to see all these suitors Hereford has been telling me about.”

  Heat crawled up her cheeks. That was one of the reasons she’d come. The attention at court had become impossible and none of the men interested her. No man had interested her until…

  “Does that mean you will spare them?”

  It took him a moment to follow her leap in conversation. His mouth tightened—whether from anger or the unpleasantness of the topic, she didn’t know.

  “Your misguided charity changes nothing.”

  “But it isn’t fair—”

  He cut her off in a voice that brokered no argument. “This is war, Rosalin. Fair doesn’t enter into it. They nearly killed three of my men. Whatever the provocation, prisoners cannot be allowed to fight back. Ever. Especially these prisoners. They are not worth your tears.”

  “But—”

  He cut her off again, his face getting that implacable, we’re-done-talking-about-it look. “I will hear no more on the subject. These men have been given only a temporary reprieve from the executioner’s axe. But they have proved too dangerous even for that. They are brigands who fight without chivalry and honor. Their leader is a vicious scourge who would slit your pretty neck without thinking twice. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes widened. Her brother spoke with such conviction, but his words did not jibe with the man she’d watched the past couple weeks. Knowing that Cliff would not be gainsaid, all she could do was nod.

  He smiled. “Good, then we will hear no more of this. What’s this I hear about your taking after our illustrious ancestor?”

  Rosalin blushed at the gentle teasing about her embarrassing nickname. Their infamous great-great-great-aunt Rosamund Clifford had captured the heart of King Henry II and had gone down in history as “The Fair Rosamund.” Apparently, the men at court had taken to calling her “The Fair Rosalin.”

  She tried to play along with her brother’s teasing, but she could not forget the horrible fate awaiting the men in the prison, especially the one languishing in the pit prison, who’d been forced to defend his friend because of her.

  All through the evening meal and the long hours of the night it stayed with her. She could think of nothing else.

  It was wrong. The word echoed over and over in her head no matter what she tried to do. Eventually the voice grew too loud to ignore. Sometime in the small hours of the night, she rose from bed, donned a pair of slippers and a dark hooded cloak, and slipped out of her chamber. She didn’t know whether she could do anything, but she knew she had to try.

  This was partially her fault, and rightly or wrongly, if she didn’t do something, she would feel responsible for the deaths of those men for the rest of her life.

  But it was one man’s death that would haunt her. The man she’d watched for over two weeks, the man who’d sacrificed himself, who had selflessly given his food and shouldered more of the burden for his friend, did not deserve to die. She knew it deep in her soul with a certainty that could not be ignored. War or not, it was wrong, and she had to try to make it right, even if…even if it meant letting him go free.

  Once the treacherous thought was out, it felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She knew what she had to do—or try to do, if it were possible.

  Exiting the Snow Tower, she paused in the shadows to get her bearings. She didn’t have a plan. All she knew was that the Scot had been moved to the pit prison, which was located below the old keep next to the burned-down Great Hall. She’d walked past it every night on making her deliveries—quickly, as the forbidding old stone building hadn’t been used in some time and seemed very dark. But there was a torch there now, burning from its iron perch beside the doorway. Drawing a little closer, she kept tight to the shadows of the wall and watched.

  Dear God, what was she doing? She couldn’t help but feel the impossibility of her plight. How was a sixteen-year-old girl going to break anyone out of a pit prison without help? Without a plan? She couldn’t very well just walk in there, open the door, and pull him out.

  Could she?

  What about the guards? Even though she couldn’t see anyone right now, and the pit prison offered little chance of escape, there had to be at least one.

  There was. A soldier appeared from the direction of the warden’s tower, where the prisoners were being held, walked back and forth a few times in front of the entry to the old keep, and then disappeared. About five minutes later he did it again. After two more times, she had to hope it was a pattern. The next time he left, she waited until he was around the corner and then darted into the entrance of the keep.

  It was pitch black and cold. Very cold. Chill-run-down-your-spine cold.

  There are no such thing as ghosts…no such thing as ghosts.

  But if the dead were ever inclined to walk the earth, this would be the perfect place to do so.

  After giving her eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, she moved around the room, looking for the entrance to the pit prison, finding it in a small stone antechamber off the main entry. The room was no more than three or four feet wide, with a small wooden door covering one corner of the stone floor. She heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the door had a simple latch rather than a lock.

  How many minutes had gone by? Two, maybe three? Very carefully she slid the iron latch, her heart stopping more than a few beats when it squeaked—loudly. She froze, but when no one came rushing in with a sword drawn, she slid the latch fully out of the way and grabbed the edge of the wooden door to lift.

  It was heavier than it appeared, and she struggled, but finally managed to open it. A rush of cold, dank air pushed her back for a moment, but eventually she kneeled over the hole and peered down into the darkness. It was dead silent. A
t first she didn’t see anything, but then she saw the unmistakable glow of white gazing up at her.

  She startled.

  “Morning already?” he sneered. “I was just getting comfortable.”

  God, that voice! Deep and powerful, it seemed to reverberate through her bones. “Shhh,” she whispered. “The guard will be coming back.”

  Though she knew it was impossible, she swore she could see him stiffen with surprise.

  “Who are you?”

  “Shhh,” she pleaded again. “Please. The guard will hear you.”

  Leaving the door open, she raced out of the small antechamber and plastered her back to the wall next to the entry. Holding her breath for what seemed like eternity, she waited for the guard to approach. With each footstep her heart stopped, starting only when she heard the fall of the next. When the footsteps finally moved away, she ran back to the room.

  “We have to hurry,” she whispered. “He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  The Scot didn’t waste time questioning her, taking charge in the coolly efficient manner of a man accustomed to the role. “They lowered me down with a rope tied to a latch in the wall. See if it’s still there.”

  His voice was closer now, and she realized he must be standing right below her. Probably only a few feet separated them. She shuddered or shivered, she didn’t know which, but turned around to do his bidding. She found the iron peg in the stone wall and sure enough, an old, frayed piece of rope was tied around it. Picking up the end, she moved back to the opening.

  Seeing her shadow return, he asked, “Did you find it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Throw it down.”

  She hesitated; suddenly the full import of what she was doing hit her.

  After a long pause he spoke. His voice was harder—with disappointment maybe? “Change your mind?”