Page 78 of Rebellion's Fire

Then she was clear of the battle. He wondered if she’d waited with Henry, would it have made any difference? No, because he planned to finish this quickly and neatly, march on the enemy lair, and take it. Holding it might be a problem, of course, but surely if he killed both the MacHeth brothers, opposition would dwindle with no focus, and the king would send him reinforcements along with his earl’s belt…

“Go back to Henry and tell him the plan stands.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when the first men began to slip over the brow of the smaller hill below. They came with peculiar silence, watching the armored knights at the top of the higher hill with interest but no surprise.

From all sides of the lower hill, men swarmed and swelled the opposing numbers. It was a sizeable fighting force. But if he hadn’t come so close to their lair, Lanson doubted he’d have drawn them out. Tirebeck was not enough to feed his men, let alone pay them. He needed this. And he’d have it.

But he wasn’t stupid. Before he attacked, he needed to see not one but both sons of Malcolm MacHeth.

Yes, there they were. No divided forces today. The brothers pushed their way through the throng, easily distinguishable by their height and poise if not by their rich cloaks. Their heads were uncovered—fearlessness or bravado, Lanson didn’t know which. But the men they passed began to stamp and beat daggers and swords against their shields in a rhythmic, swelling wall of noise that rose higher and higher until even William de Lanson’s flesh crawled.

“Savages,” he uttered, and, pushing down the visor of his helmet, he addressed the men on either side of him. “You know your tasks.” He raised his voice and his sword. “For Scotland and the king!” he yelled. “Charge!”

Downhill cavalry charges were probably the most exhilarating experiences of Lanson’s life. The sheer speed, the thundering of hooves in his ears, the rushing air against his visor, and the irresistible force with which he fell on his enemies were impossible to replicate. In this case, of course, discipline was essential so that his momentum didn’t carry him or his men over the other side of the lesser hill. There wasn’t a great deal of space to fight in. Many among the enemy, he knew, would flee in sheer terror from their first contact with a cavalry charge. Henry’s men, pouring in from the right, would hem in the rest, and Lanson anticipated a complete rout.

He pointed his mount’s nose toward the figure of, he was sure, Adam MacHeth. But if he didn’t get to him, someone else would. The man who’d dared to lay hands on his wife—twice, whatever conciliatory messages her ridiculously kind heart compelled her to send to him—would pay in full, and very, very soon.

Even before he reached the bottom of the hill, the Ross men were drawing back, away from the charge, as if in awe, spilling out to the sides of the hill. And then the horse beneath Lanson leapt for flat ground at last and he spurred the beast to push him on.

But something was wrong. Mud spattered up his boots and thighs, landing even on his helmet, and the horse’s speed slowed with terrifying abruptness to a mere stagger, the ground under its hooves not just spongy but soft. Horribly soft.

The rain rolls down from the hill above and settles here, he thought numbly.It doesn’t drain, or perhaps there’s even an underground stream making it worse. We’re in a bog.

The nightmare of a mounted knight…and he’d no one to blame but himself. He hadn’t checked the land, making a boy’s error of judgment that could well lose him the day.

“Dismount!” he yelled. “Fight on foot! Kill me the MacHeths!”

His horse went down under him; rough hands pulled at him, and he found himself staring into the grim face of Donald MacHeth.

“To the death,” Donald said. “Yours or mine.”

*

Henry swore, longand grimly. They’d been led into a trap.

He’d expected to emerge from the glen to see his comrades pushing the enemy over the side of the hill with great slaughter, not floundering like clumsy infants, waiting to be picked off by the sure-footed Ross men. At least Lanson himself could still end it. Henry picked him out at once in the melee, and he was clearly fighting one of the MacHeths.

“Take off your armor,” Henry commanded, already struggling out of his. “Keep only helmets and breastplates. Idiots!” he added in a yell through the swell of protest. “Can you not see your own comrades being cut down like wheat because they can’t move? It’s marshland, and if you want to survive this, let alone defeat the enemy, you’ll do as you’re bid.”

He dropped the heavy armor to the ground and replaced only his helmet and breastplate. His men were silently following suit. Henry turned back to the battlefield and knew they were too late to make a difference. Unless Lanson managed to kill the MacHeths. The men had orders to that effect. Henry hadn’t cared for such orders at the time, but right now, they seemed their only hope.

“Ready?” he demanded impatiently. “Advance!”

But as they emerged over the shallow brow of the hill, a ring of men suddenly closed in, blocking the battle from Henry’s view. He found himself staring at someone he knew all too well and would have recognized now under any amount of grime.

“Sorry,” Adam MacHeth said, sparing a glance back toward the battle. He held a bloody sword in one hand, a gory dagger in the other. “There’s no room.”

How the hell had he seen them? His attention should have been fully engaged in the battle. It was as if heknewthey were coming… The stories about him were true. Henry had to suppress a shiver, but he knew his duty.

“No room? Then we’ll make some,” Henry said and continued his advance, his men close at his back.

Adam glanced over his shoulder again, then back to Henry. “Yield and you’ll live,” he said conversationally. His dark eyes, his whole face, seemed distracted, which told Henry all he needed.

“No chance,” Henry said clearly and raised his sword.

Adam’s dagger hand jerked. Something struck Henry hard at the joint of his thigh, and he could no longer stand. He fell like a baby. Only then did he realize Adam’s dagger hand was empty. The dagger itself was in his thigh. Pain began to surge.

He lashed out with his own sword, more in desperation than hope. Someone swore, so he must have cut something before it was wrenched from his hands.

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