On shaky legs, she hurried toward the turret.
Knight’s yells melded with curses and the scrape of steel as she entered the corridor. What did Thomas mean by their discussion about what exists between them was far from through? He cared for her, could he feel more? The joy of what he would say faded beneath the somber reality of the upcoming engagement.
Alesone scowled as she broke off from the mass of muscled bodies, then hurried to her chamber to retrieve her weapons. If her father believed that he could destroy the happiness she’d found, he was wrong.
With her quiver secured, she sprinted toward down the corridor. The stench of smoke assaulted her as she stepped onto the wall walk. She looked to the left, pleased at the numerous bubbling cauldrons of oil awaiting dispersal atop their enemy, then toward the baily where women and children carried replenishments for the imminent battle.
A horn sounded from the distance.
Nerves strung tight, Alesone glanced past the battlements.
Sunlight shimmered over the massive formation of mounted knights cantering across the frost bleached ground. At the forefront, a familiar standard rippled in the breeze.
Fury drove through her as she glared at the man riding at the head of the contingent. Disgusted with the man whose blood ran through her veins, she strode toward Thomas.
His eyes softened as she halted beside him, and he squeezed her hand.
Love for her stalwart protector swelled within. Nay, more than a protector, he was a Knight Templar, a warrior feared by many, a man who didna make promises he couldna keep.
’Twas surprising that she had not made the connection. The many times she’d caught him deep in prayer, or the focused, structured way about him, his expertise on many topics, the extent of his travel, and his knowledge of herbs, all indicators of his inclusion in the Brotherhood. Then again, she hadna known of the secret dissolution of the Templars, or of their sailing to Scotland.
Horns blared in the distance.
Thomas glared at the attacking force.
“Arrows readied,” the duke yelled.
Cursing her father with her each breath, Alesone, knocked her arrow, aimed at the nearest enemy.
“Halt!” Lord Comyn yelled above the clamor.
The wall of approaching knights behind him halted.
Her father nudged his steed before the gatehouse. “Westwyck!”
“State your purpose,” the duke called down.
“I dinna wish to attack,” Comyn said. “I only want my daughter.”
Anger and guilt tangled inside her. The bow wobbled in Alesone’s hands.
Understanding eyes held hers, and the duke nodded. “Dinna worry, you are safe here.”
She gave a shaky nod. “I thank you, Your Grace.”
The noble glared at Comyn. “The lass doesna wish to go with you. Nor will I make her.”
Anger reddened her father’s face. “If you send her down, I will overlook your treachery of pledging fealty to the Bruce.”
“Lying bastard,” Thomas hissed, “if he had Alesone, he would still attack.
His father grunted. “Aye. Once he loses this battle, he will walk away with naught but disgrace. A fact that pleases me immensely.”
“Westwyck, send her down,” Comyn roared. “My patience is at an end.”
“So you can barter her like sheep?” the duke demanded.
“What I decide has naught to do with you. She is of my blood.” A scowl darkened his face. “’Tis my right to speak with the lass.”
