Face grim, Sir Pieres sheathed his blade. “Now what?”
Pride filled her as she gazed upon her husband. “We make plans to retake the castle.”
A short while later, as Sir Pieres and his men moved out into the darkness, Gwendolyn’s chest tightened at the danger of their mission ahead. “I pray they can recruit enough locals to aid us in our task. With the Bruce having gained control of so much of the Highlands, many have shifted theirfealty to him.”
Her husband hesitated. “Once we return with reinforcements,” he said at last, “we will add whatever men Sir Pieres has found to our ranks. For now, we must warn those faithful to you to burn their fields, then flee.”
Bile rose in her throat; she despised the distressing news she would bring her tenants. “My people have endured so much,” she rasped, “the thought of asking them to burn crops they have nurtured since the last time troops swept through and devastated their harvest breaks my heart.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “’Tis a necessity to ensure the duke’s men canna use them. Once the castle is secure, we will help the tenants to replant their fields and rebuild their homes.”
“Aye,” she said, sadness weighing her words.
Bróccín picked up a water pouch. “The alarm announcing our escape will soon sound. We need to be long gone before then.”
She glanced down the blackened tunnel, angled her jaw. By God, when they returned, they would recapture her home!
Chapter 8
Exhaustion weighing heavy on his mind, Aiden shook the farmer’s hand, the elder’s weathered face lined with grief but determination as well. “I thank you for your loyalty to Lady Gwendolyn. Move your family to safety. Stay hidden until the castle has been recaptured.”
“We will, my lord.” The man’s gaze softened as it shifted to Gwendolyn. “Take care, my lady. We are thankful, knowing you are protected by such a valiant warrior.”
Eyes dark with worry, she squeezed his hand, then stepped back. “Godspeed.”
Though her expression remained somber, Aiden caught the tremor of her lips.
The man climbed onto the wagon, sat, then snapped the reins. The swaybacked mare plodded toward the woods, the cart tethered behind her loaded to the brim.
“I pray they are safe,” Gwendolyn rasped.
Aiden moved to her side and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Away they have a chance. If they had remained, they would have died.”
“I know,” she said, anger sliding into her voice. “I canna believe Lord Comyn could ever trust the English.”
“Why?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.
“It isna important.”
Her upset over her liege lord ignited Aiden’s hope that he could sway her fealty to the Bruce. “I admitted earlier that I have had doubts concerning Lord Comyn’s decisions of late. It wasna as if your words will convinceme otherwise.”
She slanted him a measuring look. “My concern with my liege lord arises due to his ties to King Edward I. England’s former sovereign proved himself over and again a ruler not to trust. From his declaring himself Scotland’s overlord after King Alexander’s death, to forcing John Balliol to abdicate the throne, and in his final push for power he went to great lengths to ensure Scotland was excommunicated.”
Indeed, Aiden silently agreed. A religious exclusion that had allowed King Robert to offer all Knights Templar within his realm impunity, a sanction that no doubt had England’s former king turning over in his grave.
“Edward of Caernarfon doesna have his father’s drive to conquer,” Aiden said.
“Mayhap,” she agreed, and withdrew her hand from his. “but he is still king, one who is susceptible to the influence of the powerful nobles advising him. As well, though King Edward I is dead, his father’s influence still lingers.” Rubbing her brow, Gwendolyn shook her head. “Forgive me; fatigue loosens my tongue. I rarely discuss my feelings on such topics.”
Her distrust of England’s monarchs pleased him, and he stifled the impulse to share his loyalty. The time would come, but ’twas too soon now. Stepping away, he lit the torches in the hearth, handed her one. “Let us finish.”
Lips pressed tight, she nodded.
Once they’d burned the crofter’s hut, they ran to the edge of the knee-high oats swaying in the breeze. Bitter remorse ripped through him as he set the fertile crops ablaze.
Sparks flared, caught on the sun-dried stems. A gust breathed life into the fire, nurturing the flames until it consumed the surrounding stalks and raced down the field withlethal intent.
Smoke churned into the sky as the blaze grew, devouring the fields that had held the promise of feeding the family for the winter, a promise lost against the need to keep the harvest from enemy hands.
