The English knight cursed.
Through his blurred vision, Patrik made out the Earl of Grey’s standard. ’Twas Seathan, his brother!
“To arms!” the knight before him roared. The knight shot Patrik a furious look. “I will be back to finish your sorry arse.” He bolted to his horse, swung up and kicked his mount to join his men, who were forming a line.
Patrik stumbled after him.
“Charge!” the English knight ordered. Dirt flew as he surged forward.
The thunder of hooves of the attacking rebels grew to an ear-thrumming barrage. At the first clash of steel, Patrik turned. He spotted Fergus lying on the ground and staggered over.
“’Tis rebels coming,” Patrik said.
His body a mass of cuts and bruises, Fergus turned to where Marie hid. The turf lay untouched. “Thank God.” Worry sagged his face as he scanned the knoll. “Joneta?”
“I will find her.” Patrik prayed she, as well as Cristina, lived. He nodded. “Go to your wife.”
The Scot started to stand, collapsed.
Patrik caught Fergus, his battered muscles rebelling at the extra weight.
On shaky legs, the Scot pushed himself free. He stood, barely. “Find Joneta. I—” Fergus muttered a curse, his haggard face roughened as if aged ten more summers. “—I must know.”
“Aye,” Patrik replied, understanding the other mans’ fear. Even with Cristina’s skill, well he knew the odds of finding either of them alive.
In the field echoed the familiar scream of horses, clash of blades and men’s curses. The lust for battle sang on his tongue, the urge to run into the melee, to drive his blade into another English bastard’s heart.
But if he tried, having lost too much blood and barely able to stand, he might well bleed to death before he ever reached the fighting. However much Patrik wanted to join the MacGruders, in his weakened state, he’d be more a hindrance to his brothers than a help.
And seeing a man alive they believed dead would give them pause. In the thick of battle, hesitation invited death. He blew out a breath. Seathan and his men outnumbered the English. His meeting with his brothers would come soon enough.
Patrik focused on the knoll. He must find Cristina and the girl.
Dizzy, exhausted, and his muscles rebelling with each step, he forced himself up the hill. Halfway up, the grass before him blurred. Gasping for breath he halted, his shoulder sticky with blood, the headstones in the distance a dark omen. He clenched his teeth and shoved forward.
Atop the hill, through the roll of grass, a flicker of clothing caught his attention. No, not clothing, but a body.
Cristina!
He ran, ignoring the pain, the jab of rock into his boots, how each uneven mound of dirt threatened to take him down. The clash of battle in his wake melded with the pounding of his blood, the scream of steel rang in cadence with his fears.
Several paces away, through the smear of blood and sweat, he made out English colors. Chest heaving, he stumbled to a halt. ’Twas one of the two knights that had ridden toward Cristina. The dagger she carried was embedded in his throat. He glanced down. The man’s sword was gone!
Through hazed vision, he scanned the grass and brush lining the edge of the forest.
Nothing.
Bedamned. Where was the other knight? Had he rejoined the others, or, furious she’d taken his comrade’s life, had he chased her down and killed her? Nae, she’d taken the dead knight’s sword.
A chance they lived existed.
Heart pounding, Patrik pushed forward.
Near the edge of the trees, red stained a rock.
No! Patrik stumbled forward.
Over the top of a fallen tree lay another body.
