Patrik scanned his surroundings. In the distance, he caught the outline of a man hidden within the fold of trees. Blast it, he couldn’t make out whether the guard was friend or foe. He knelt. Using the brush as cover, he crawled forward.
Firelight flickered ahead.
A sinking settled in his gut. No Scot would dare light a fire. Several paces closer, he peered through the shadow-dredged leaves.
In the clearing a campfire burned. Cast in the flicker of yellow light, he made out several English knights.
Blast it. Of course the bastards would make camp in the open, a fire of no concern. They believed the rebels but a few Scots, easily quelled. They knew naught of Bishop Wishart’s secret orchestration of events, of his covert meetings and correspondence with skilled strategists such as Andrew de Moray and James Stewart, or of the bishop’s garnering of support for Wallace.
Patrik counted ten men. Too many for him to kill in a charge. Neither did time allow him to wait and take them out one at a time. The only way around the knights was to backtrack. That was the reason the Englishmen had chosen this position on the trail, to prevent any rebels from moving past.
Patrik scoured the darkening skies. Some ways back lay another trail. It would take them leagues away from his friend’s home, but closer to reaching the bishop.
On a muttered curse, he crawled back. At a safe distance, he stood and ran. As he neared where Cristina hid, she stepped from the bush. As always, her beauty stole his breath.
“What did you find?”
“English knights are camped ahead. I saw one sentry and suspect there are others positioned about.”
She rubbed her thumb over the tips of her fingers. “What are we going to do?”
“We will take another route.” He paused. “You will have to remain with me.”
“I see.”
But he heard the worry she tried to hide. He took her hand. “I had not meant to keep you with me. ’Twill be dangerous.” However much he wished her safe, a part of him cherished the extra time they would have.
He carefully led them back, using the last of the light to follow the path. As they made their way around a massive boulder, he caught sight of four English knights striding up the path. He grabbed Cristina, covered her mouth and pulled her behind a tree.
“English knights,” Patrik whispered.
“You there,” a deep voice boomed. “Step from the trees.”
Mayhap they had only seen him.
Cristina turned to him.
“Come out, now!” a rough voice demanded.
The bastards wouldn’t touch her, he vowed. But with the knight’s demand echoing around them, ’twould be moments before the other men at the campfire heard the commotion.
Patrik signaled for her to remain, freed his blade and stepped into the clearing.
The English warrior closest to him shot a glance at the tree. “There is another.”
Blast it, he’d seen Cristina. No, mayhap in the gathering darkness, he believed a man hid there. “We seek but to pass through.”
The warrior’s eyes narrowed. “Whoever hides within must come out.”
Bedamned, once they saw Cristina, they would want her. He tightened his grip upon his blade. The bastards would never touch her. Against four, surprise was his only hope. Before the knight closest to him realized his intent, Patrik sank his dagger deep into the warrior.
On a gasp, the knight stumbled back as he withdrew his blade, his legs collapsing beneath him.
Withdrawing his sword, Patrik turned. Blades clashed. Patrik cursed each scrape, each echo of steel.
A knight strode toward where Cristina hid.
No! Patrik drove his sword deep in the closest Englishman’s chest, yanked, and whirled to meet the next attacker. With two quick stokes, he delivered the man to his fate. As the knight slumped to the ground, Patrik kicked the injured man back, bolted to head off the warrior striding toward the boulders.
