Page 107 of Blood of the Thistle

He might have left it at that. The sounds of people already stirring in the great hall below and the distant calls from the yard pulled at him; his every soldier’s instinct screamed to go down, to assess the threat. Yet her face stayed with him—the brief, unguarded moment before she’d looked away, and the quiet devastation in her gaze.

He turned back, caught her face between his hands and kissed her firmly.

It was no apology, nor did Bram imagine it settled anything between them. He hadn’t the time to find the words that had eluded him moments ago, but neither could he leave her believing he considered the matter settled.

He lifted his mouth from hers. “We are nae finished with this.” He kissed her once more, swiftly this time, and released her. “Stay within.”

And he left.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bram arrived at the wall above the gatehouse within two minutes of the first blare of the horn, taking the steps two and three at a time. Harsain was already there, leaning over the parapet with one hand braced against the stone, while men hurried into position along either side of him.

Bram went directly to the parapet and looked beyond the village.

Dawn had not yet broken. The eastern sky was a pale wound, bleeding thin, colorless light across the land. It was enough to see the road. And the army moving toward Craig na Coille.Riders crested the distant rise first—cavalry, by their spread and pace. Infantry followed, a dark column stretching along the road, disappearing where the land dipped from sight. In the half-light, individual men were indistinguishable, their banners lost to shadow, but the length of the column told him all he needed to know.

Whoever had sounded the alarm had spotted them early. They were yet well beyond the village and showed no sign of charging toward it, but there were far too many men for any ordinary traveling party.

“They move with purpose,” Harsain said, his voice low. “A hundred, at least.”

Bram narrowed his eyes upon the distant column. “More, I ken.”

He watched long enough to satisfy himself that they had time and then dropped his gaze to the village below. The alarm had emptied it with astonishing speed. Men, women and children streamed from between the cottages and workshops and hurried up the rise toward the open gates, some running outright while others carried bairns or supported older kin. Farther back, two lads attempted to drive several sheep toward the keep until one of Bram's men shouted at them to leave the beasts and get themselves inside.

“Keep the gate open,” Bram said.

“Fearchar is counting them in.”

Bram's attention returned to the approaching force. More riders crested the rise, followed by men on foot, and still the column came, unhurried now that concealment was no longer possible. Bram had seen enough armies to know what he was looking at. No friendly force approached another man’s stronghold in such numbers without sending riders ahead to announce itself.

“Archers to the landward wall,” he ordered. “Niall takes the west. Keep twenty men below until we ken what we're facing.”

Harsain turned to relay the orders while another horn blast sounded overhead, shorter this time. A handful of Bram's men were still moving from cottage to cottage below, shouting through open doors to make certain no one remained behind before hastening toward the keep themselves.

“Where the devil is Donnchadh?”

“Coming.”

Harsain pointed, and Bram found him near the far end of the village, half running and half dragging old Eòghan MacRae by the arm while the ancient fool appeared determined to argue about something even now. Bram might have laughed on any other morning, but his attention was drawn again to the advancing force. They were nearer now, and the strengthening light allowed him to distinguish individual riders and the banners lifting intermittently above the column.

One unfurled, collapsed again, and then snapped outward upon the next gust.

Bram knew the device.

“Christ,” Harsain breathed beside him.

Raghnall’s colors. The sight was a brand against his eyes, burning away any last doubt. So the word was out. The traitor knew he lived. After selling sixty MacCailin men to the English, the bastard had trusted a London dungeon and an executioner’s rope to bury his secret. Bram’s survival was a loose thread that could unravel everything. Raghnall had come to cut it.

“Ten score, mayhap,” Harsain estimated.

“At least.” Nearly three times what Bram could presently put upon the walls.

“Jesu,” Harsain seethed.

Only a few villagers remained outside now. Donnchadh and old Eòghan were nearly to the gate, accompanied by the last men returning from their search of the cottages, while behind them the village stood eerily abandoned, doors hanging open and several bewildered chickens wandering between the buildings as though nothing whatsoever of consequence were happening.

“Get them in.”