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Fin gave him a nod. “Tis me duty. Just as doing what yer doin’ is yers,” Fin said. “We’ll get through this. We’ll be all right.”
“Indeed.”
“We’ll check in with ye later.”
And with that, he and Hollis turned and strode across the bailey, heading for the gates to survey the land around the castle. Fin was far from a military tactician, but he had fought in plenty of battles. And he needed to draw on all of that experience right now.
Dawn broke the following morning, the sky an ominous shade of gray overhead. A light sprinkle fell, and a thick fog curled around Fin’s ankles as he surveyed what was going to be their battlefield. They had chosen a spot well away from the castle and the surrounding town, not wanting to risk inflicting damage or unnecessary casualties on the innocent people of York.
Fin, Hollis, Henry, and a team of builders had worked through the night to prepare the field as best they could with what time they had - their scout had returned in the small hours to tell them Castor’s army would be here at daybreak and that it was considerably larger than expected.
Fin cut a glance over his shoulder at the soldiers lined up in precise formation. The sound of horses whickering and the clink of armor as the men adjusted themselves seemed muted. No doubt, the heaviness of the air and the fog that hung over the soon-to-be battlefield helped to muffle it. The faces of the men were strained, pinched, as the world around them seemed to be
“What’s the final count?” Fin asked.
Henry looked back at his men. “Three hundred and twelve.”
His expression was grim, and he was tense. Fin could sympathize. If what the scout reported was accurate, it was York that would be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. And they were on their own. They could not get word to London in time for the Crown to summon their northern forces to aid in defense of York. That would take days they did not have. Not with Castor and his army on their doorstep already.
“What in the bleedin’ hell are the Irish doin’ fightin’ for Castor in the first place?” Hollis grumbled.
“Elix’s gold is as good as anybody’s,” Fin replied.
Hollis grunted, and Henry nodded. It was then that Castor’s forces began to appear, marching over the rise that lay a couple of hundred yards from them. At the head of Elix’s army were the Irish. Nearly four hundred all told. Fin guessed that Castor had cleaned out Elix’s treasury and gone into substantial debt to pay for this mercenary force.
“Bloody hell,” Henry whispered, then turned to Fin. “It appears that you were right, and I owe you an apology for doubting you.”
“Ye summoned yer army anyway. Tis all I can ask for,” he replied, never taking his eyes of Castor’s battle lines. “But it all may be for nothin’.”
“Do not doubt the skill and courage of these fine-”
“Tis nae their skill or courage I doubt,” Fin interrupted. “Tis only thae bleedin’ numbers arrayed against us.”
Henry frowned and seemed to accept the grim reality of the situation before them. Castor had the superior numbers that could not be denied.
“Here he comes,” Hollis noted.
As his forces lined up and got into position, Castor and two of his men rode out for a parley. Fin cut a glance at both Henry and Hollis and nodded. Together, they rode out to meet him. They all stopped at a point midway between the two converging armies. Castor sat high in his saddle, chin up, a smug smile on his face.
“It would seem that I have the numbers today,” he said.
“Who do you think you are, Baron Welton,” Henry demanded. “Why do you march on York? On your Lord, whom you are oathbound to serve?”
“That Lord of yours broke his oath long ago when he bedded and then killed my mother,” Castor spat back.
“Yer mother took her own life,” Fin said. “Killin’ the Duke willnae change that.”
“Perhaps not. But it will make me feel better,” Castor growled. “And when I want the opinion of a brutish Scotsman - a commoner at that - I will ask for it. Until then, you will be silent.”
“Watch your tongue, Welton,” Henry warned. “Finlay is the Duke’s emissary. Any insult to him is the same as an insult to the Duke himself.”
Castor shrugged. “If he chooses to consort with such rabble, so be it,” he said, then turned his eyes to Fin. “I do not suppose you know where my dear sister is, do you, Scotsman?”
A grin pulled a corner of Fin’s mouth upward. “Did ye misplace her?”
Hollis chuckled, earning a dark glower from Castor. Hollis, though, just gave him a wink and a smile.
“Where is Ivy?” Castor snarled.
