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William ignored the dead bodies after seeing the first few, and made his way to what had once been the front door of the castle. He mounted the stone steps, remembering that they were the very steps he had seen Jordan standing on when he had come to take her. The memory brought a tug to his heart, a warm memory in the midst of all this death.

The doors were burned to charcoal but still hung on their hinges. He kicked at them, aided by Paris and Ranulf, and they instantly crumbled away. William stepped over the threshold, his senses incredibly alert in the dim, smoky depths.

“William, we can see very little in the darkness,” Paris said softly. “Why don’t we wait until dawn to search the castle itself.”

William paused, examining the darkness. “Nay, I would face this nightmare now. Ranulf, procure us some torches.”

They waited until Ranulf, Jason and Corin returned with several torches to light their way. Paris held the torch as he walked beside William.

It took them hours to search out the castle. So much of it was completely destroyed that they concentrated on the portions that seemed remotely inhabitable. This included the subfloor and the dungeons and, surprisingly, the kitchens.

There were a few bodies, mostly burned until they were charcoal themselves. It became apparent that the attacking armies had looted Langton, for nary a scrap of furniture or tapestry remained. To show their complete contempt of the Scotts, enemy soldiers had urinated and defecated on the walls. William felt sick in the pit of his stomach; he was so damn glad Jordan could not see this.

They completed their sweep and discovered nothing of the fate of Jordan’s family. William was dreading the news he would have to deliver to his wife, and was cursing Alexander’s stupidity in the same breath. Thank God the man was already dead; after viewing this scene here this night, he would have ridden all the way back to Northwood this night and killed him personally.

“There’s obviously no one left alive,” he said finally, defeat in his voice. “I would wait here until morning and at least burn the dead we have come across. I want to be able to look my wife in the eye when I tell her we did all we could.”

His companions grimly agreed. With a final glance at the burned-out grand hall, he kicked aside a piece of burnt wood and moved toward the front doors.

Something flew out of the shadows, hitting William full-force in the breast plate. He grunted and staggered backward from the blow, moving to his sword and unsheathing it all in the same second. The other knights moved like lightning, drawing broadswords and preparing for a battle in the dark against unseen assailants. It was exactly the sort of situation they had prayed to avoid; an ambush.

“Goddamn bloody bastards!” Came a heavy Scot lilt. “Come here to loot my home, did ye? Well, I shall give ye a fight, ye whoreskin.”

William caught the unmistakable flash of a blade slicing through the air at him. He brought up his own sword, deflecting the blow. The phantom was smaller than he was by far, but wielded the sword with amazing skill and strength.

The man cornered William into the darkened recesses of the foyer, dancing about and swinging his sword like a madman. William fended off the blows as they came in quick, angry succession, well aware of the fear and fury in the strokes. The small man was so quick he felt as if he were fighting a wily little elf.

William didn’t take the offensive, not yet anyway. He was still lingering on the words spoken to him by the irate Scot. He had called the structure ‘his home,’ which could only mean he was a Scott. Damn. He could not see a bloody thing in the cloying darkness!

Paris stood back, sword in hand, watching the amazing little soldier go after William. After the first few seconds it became increasingly apparent that the small man was the only person on the attack; there were no men waiting in the wings to ambush them all and slice them to death.

When Michael and Ranulf moved to aid William, he waved them off. He had heard the words the man had spoken, too. This was his home they had invaded.

William stepped back, tripped over a bit of debris but recovered with the grace of a cat. The man was chopping at him vigorously, grunting with his effort.

“Where is Thomas Scott?” William demanded, diverting another blow.

“Prepare to die, ye…!” The man suddenly faltered, the sword freezing in mid-chop. “Ye’re bloody English.” The accent had caught him by surprise.

William kept his sword in front of him warily. “Aye,” he replied. “I am William de Wolfe. Who are you?”

“De Wolfe?” The man was still in the same position, still in the shadows so William could not see his face. “Northwood’s de Wolfe?”

“The same.” William, too, hadn’t changed positions. “You have not answered me. Who are you?”

It seemed like an eternity. The man maintained the raised sword for several long, drawn-out moments before slowly, laboriously, lowering the blade. William, however, maintained a protective stance, unsure if the down stance was permanent.

To his surprise, the man’s sword clattered to the stone floor. William sheathed his own blade slowly, watching the phantom figure as he took a few staggering steps backwards, tripping over a burnt piece of wood and landing on his bottom. William followed him at a distance, straining for a glimpse of his face.

“What happened to ye, Sassenach?” the man asked softly, painfully.

William crouched down a few feet away, noting that Paris had stepped closer with a torch. In the warm flickering light, he could make out the features. Amazement and relief filled him.

“Laird Scott?” he breathed.

Thomas Scott looked dully at him, his eyes dark circled, and his whole body filthy and worn.

“We are allied with ye, man,” Thomas said faintly. “Where were ye when we needed ye?”