In a trice, Thomas and others pushed the ladder away.
The sky lay savaged with raw yellows and bloody reds like a brutal portrait to the devastation below as Alesone reached for another arrow.
“Halt!” Comyn yelled.
She hesitated, glanced at Thomas. “Do you think he has given up?”
Thomas damned having to extinguish the hope in Alesone’s voice. “Nay. Comyn is desperate. Without King Philip’s aid or England’s support, he knows his hopes of winning against the Bruce is slim.”
His aged face streaked with splatters of blood, the duke strode over, grimaced toward where Comyn and his men were withdrawing. “He is trying to convince us that he will wait until dawn to attack.” He grunted. “Once night falls, I suspect his men will try again.”
“A belief I share,” Thomas said.
Sweat and blood streaking his mail, Donnchadh joined them. He sheathed his sword. “All is secure—for now.”
His father nodded. “Indeed, ’tis far from over. Pass to the men to remain in their positions throughout the night, and to take turns catching sleep.”
“Aye, Father.” Donnchadh strode down the wall walk.
He faced Thomas. “And you—”
“Aye, Father,” he said with pride, “I shall inform the men on the far side.”
Alesone wiped the sweat from her brow as she watched Thomas pause and speak with several knights before moving on.
“They are good men,” the duke said, “sons any father would be proud to have.”
She smiled. “They are, Your Grace. You are fortunate.”
“I am.” Beneath the glow of torchlight, he rubbed the back of his neck, then dropped his hand to his side. “There are many nobles who rule with a fair hand, and sadly, a few who become caught up in the need for power.”
Like her father. From her birth he’d shunned her, until he’d found her of value to his cause. “A person’s decisions create consequences. I find little forgiveness in people who ignore the blood spilled for their gains.”
“Well said.” The duke paused. “’Tis late. If you wish to go below and rest, do so.”
“I will remain,” she said, ignoring the fatigue weighing on her mind. “’Tis my father plotting another attack. However much I wish otherwise, he has made the confrontation personal.”
Approval shimmered in the noble’s gaze. “Comyn is a fool to overlook what an exemplary woman you are.”
Humbled by his praise, she shook her head. “My life is one far outside that of inviting commendation, more so with my skills as an archer.”
Aged eyes crinkled with warmth. “Aye, your skills with the bow compare to few archers I have seen, and your spirit and courage, those,” he said with pride, “are traits to admire.”
Humbled by his praise, she nodded. “I thank you.”
“I agree,” Thomas said as he halted by her side as she finished. “’Tis how we met.”
Heat stroked her cheeks.
Against the fading light, the duke arched a brow. “You didna mention how you were introduced.”
“’Tis a long story.” Thomas paused. “The knights have been informed of our plans.”
“I thank you.” On a heavy sigh, the duke strode toward Donnchadh who was halfway down the wall walk, then they headed toward the far tower.
Murmurs of men talking, errant scrapes of steel as knights cleaned their weapons, and the whisper of wind filled the air as within the golden shimmers of torchlight as Thomas studied her. “How do you fare?”
“Tired,” she replied, “but nay more than anyone else.”
