Page 50

If Patrick hadn’t known the land so well, he might have actually gotten lost in this thick white soup that had rolled in from the sea. Berwick was foggy a good deal of the time so he was used to weather like this and he had learned to navigate it.

It was the ninth day since departing London and, truth be told, he was ready to collapse and so was his horse. He’d made at least forty miles every day, starting on his journey well before sunrise and then continuing well after sunset, making sure he went as far as he could before seeking shelter for the night.

His horse, a sturdy and durable animal, was showing signs of exhaustion so Patrick made sure his attention was on the horse every night. Plenty of food and water, and then he’d push the horse over in its stall to make sure it took some time off its feet. Not once during his trip had he sought an inn to bed down in. He’d slept with his horse, whose name was simply “Steed”, in order to make sure the animal had a good rest and wanted for nothing. His entire journey north depended on the soundness of his animal.

On this ninth day, he was in range of Berwick; he could smell the sea and that distinctive rank odor of the River Tweed as it dumped into the ocean. The road was boxed in on both sides with wildly growing foliage like hemlock and ash trees, but there were gaps in the cover where he could see more fog off to the east but he knew the sea was there as well.

The smell of smoke from cooking fires made him aware that he was extremely close to Berwick even though he couldn’t see it. His eagerness to rush to the castle, and to Brighton, was almost overwhelming and it was a struggle to remain calm. He was so desperate to get to her that it was nearly overriding his common sense.

But he fought the urge, knowing he had to get the lay of the land first and see where the Scots were, if they were even still here. Not wanting to draw close to the city for fear the Scots had overrun it, he decided to stay out of the town but ride parallel to it, heading towards the north side where there was a rise overlooking the town. Once the fog lifted, he could see for himself what was going on.

Coming to a fork in the road, he knew that the fork to the right would take him straight into Berwick while the other fork would run parallel to the town, cross the river, and then continue north. He took the left fork, spurring his horse into an easy canter as he traveled up the road, seeing patches of sun through the fog. He’d seen fog like this before and suspected, especially in the summer season, that it would lift by midday. When that happened, he wanted to be in a prime position to see Berwick. He pushed the horse a little faster.

He was fairly close to Berwick Castle as he crossed the wooden bridge across the River Tweed. On a clear day, he’d be able to see the castle plainly. But the heavy smell of smoke in the air told him that there were many cooking fires going, which bespoke of an army still present. That told him the Scots hadn’t left and it made him extremely cautious as he finished crossing the bridge and spurred his horse onward in his quest to reach the rise to the north.

The mist was starting to lift a bit as he moved to a higher elevation and he could see the top of Berwick’s keep poking through the clouds. Home! He found himself hoping he wouldn’t run into any Scots because he really couldn’t see where their lines were. For all he knew, he was heading into a nest of them. About a mile up the road, which swung east so it was above the town of Berwick now, he came to the rise that, on a clear day, would enable him to see the castle and surrounding land very clearly.

Pulling the horse to a stop, he debated on what to do next– wait out the fog or try to come in from the north for a look-see. Whatever decision he was about to come to was made for him when a pair of soldiers bearing bows and arrows, aimed right at him, burst forth from the heavily foliage.

“Halt!” one man shouted. “Who are you?”

It was an English soldier and Patrick felt a good deal of relief at the fact that the Northwood or Questing army must have still been in the vicinity. He held up his hands to show that he had nothing threatening in his grasp.

“What army are you with?” he asked the soldiers. “Is Northwood or Questing around here?”

The soldier, threatened by an English knight who had knowledge of the nearby armies, held the bow and arrow up in a very threatening manner.

“Who are you?” he barked again.

Patrick could see he was about to be shot. “I am Patrick de Wolfe, commander of Berwick Castle and newly returned from London,” he said calmly. “Where is Paris de Norville?”

The second soldier rushed up to the first soldier. “Nighthawk!” he gasped. Noting that his comrade still had the arrow pointed at the knight, he slapped the man’s hands down and the bow and arrow fell. “Do you not recognize a de Wolfe when you see one?”

Patrick lowered his hands. “You have every right to be vigilant,” he said. “Am I to understand the Scots are still around here, somewhere?”

Both of the soldiers nodded eagerly. “Aye, my lord,” the second soldier said. “They are dug in around Berwick. Our encampment is on the other side of that hill.”

He was pointing to the north, to the very rise that Patrick was ultimately heading towards. Thanking the two soldiers for the information and congratulating them on their vigilance, he spurred his steed up the hill through the heavy, wet grass.

Just as he’d been told, a vast English encampment was on the other side of the rise. The fog was much lighter here and Patrick could see a camp spread out before him. There were temporary shelters and a few tents, trees stripped of wood and branches, and the ground was muddy from the grass having been trampled down by thousands of booted feet. Smoke filled the air from the dotting of fires all over the place. Patrick focused in on the large cluster of tents over near the northeast side of the encampment.

But he had to pass by two more rounds of sentries before they let him completely enter the encampment. Once he was in, he found the area where the horses were corralled and sought out a groom. His horse was hungry and tired, and he turned the beast over to the man, thinking the horse looked too tired at this point to really bite anyone. Leaving his possessions with the horse, he watched the groom lead his animal over to an area near the corral so they could feed him without the other horses trying to steal the food. Satisfied his steed was being properly tended, Patrick headed towards the big cluster of tents.

“Atty!”

Patrick knew that shout. He’d been hearing it since childhood. Turning in the direction of the call, he saw his older brother, Troy, heading in his direction. Tall and dark like their father, Troy had inherited Saracen blood from their grandmother and had an olive-skinned look about him. Had he not had their father’s hazel eyes, one would have mistaken him for a savage from The Levant. A grin spread across Patrick’s face as he opened his arms for his brother.

“Atty, you beast!” Troy said happily as he hugged the man. “God’s Bones, let me look at you. Aye, you’re as ugly as I remember.”

Patrick laughed softly. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he said, drinking in the sight of a brother he hadn’t seen in months. “It has been a long time, Brother. How is the wife?”

“Well enough. We are expecting another child in the winter.”

“Congratulations. How is everything else at Kale Castle?”

Troy shrugged. “Quiet,” he said. “I have the Scots so terrified that they dare not breathe for fear of upsetting me. But I notice that you have not been able to do the same with this gang. They have your castle surrounded, Atty.”

Patrick sobered. “I know,” he said. “Kevin found me in London and told me what had happened. Where is Uncle Paris? I have much to tell him.”

Troy began walking towards the bigger tents, pulling Patrick along. “In truth, we have been waiting for you,” he said. “Uncle Paris did not want to completely destroy your castle without your input. He’s moving in siege engines from Northwood. We sent for them several days ago and they should be arriving shortly.”

Siege engines . Patrick wasn’t particularly thrilled to hear that but he understood the logic. Big trebuchets could hurl stones and other projectiles at the Scots, causing them to disburse. But they could also badly damage his walls. He found that he was desperate to know the situation over the past three weeks and whether Berwick had been breached by those seeking to harm his wife. Nearing a larger tent, he was suddenly confronted by another brother who had just emerged from one of the smaller ones.

“Atty!” Scott de Wolfe exclaimed with a mixture of surprise and joy. “God’s Blood, ’tis good to see you. Give me a kiss, you fool.”

Scott, the gregarious blonde brother who was Troy’s twin and the eldest of the pair, grabbed Patrick’s face and kissed him loudly on the cheek. Patrick made a face, pulling back to wipe the saliva off his face.

“Ah, my beloved eldest brother,” he said, somewhat sarcastically. “Now I remember why I stay away from Wolfe’s Lair.”

Scott slapped him on the shoulder. “Why?”

“Because you kiss too much.”

Scott and Troy chuckled, deeply pleased to see their brother. Patrick was fourteen months younger than they were and, throughout their lives, they had enjoyed a close relationship. He adored them and they adored him, and the teasing that went on between them had always been the way they had communicated their affections. Even as adults, their mode of communication was no different. They were brothers until the end.

“And you always hated it,” Scott said, his hazel eyes twinkling. Then, he suddenly sobered. “I think Atty took all of the handsome traits away from you, Troy. The man must be making women swoon all over Berwick.”

Troy cocked an eyebrow. “And he took all of the brains away from you,” he said to his twin. He turned to Patrick. “Come along, you gorgeous stud. Uncle Paris will want a word with you.”

Patrick had to grin as he followed his brothers towards the larger tent. Scott walked beside him, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick felt as if he’d never been away from the pair. Times like this made him realize how much he missed them.

“There is much to tell,” he said to his brothers. “Much has happened over the past several weeks. If you behave yourselves, I just might tell you of my new wife.”

Both Scott and Troy came to a halt, looking at Patrick as if the man had just announced he was in league with the devil. Before they could bombard him with a flurry of question, Patrick flashed them a saucy grin and pushed into the tent.

It was dark inside the tent even with a big bank of lit tapers and a glowing brazier, but Patrick’s gaze fell on the two figures in the tent almost immediately. Kieran and another man were bent over a well-used map that was spread out on a collapsible table, but when Patrick, Scott, and Troy entered the tent, the heads came up and surprise registered. As Kieran grinned like a fool, his relief evident, the other man charged towards Patrick.

“My God,” the man breathed, throwing his arms around Patrick and nearly knocking him over. “Is it true? Has the Nighthawk finally arrived?”

Patrick laughed softly as Paris de Norville greeted him as one would a long-lost son. In truth, Paris had helped deliver Patrick as an infant, so there was a special bond between Patrick and the man who was his father’s best friend. Arrogant, brilliant, and compassionate, Paris was a man with more life in him that most men could exhibit in three lifetimes. Everything about him was bright and exuberant, humorous and kind. Paris finally pulled back to look Patrick in the eye, his big hands on Patrick’s bearded face as he inspected him.

“Tell me how you are,” he said, “and leave nothing out.”

Patrick sighed heavily, wondering where to start. “I am well,” he said. “I am exhausted. I have ridden from London in nine days to make it back to Berwick. Kevin found me. He told me there has been a siege, which I see is still going on.”

Paris dropped his hands from Patrick’s face. “Indeed, it is,” he said. “Is that all Kevin told you?”

Patrick nodded. “It is. Is there more?”

Paris suddenly looked quite weary as he turned back to the table with the map, as it turned out, of the city of Berwick. “I am not entirely sure how much more,” he said. “All I know is that the Scots are dug in around your garrison and they will not move. I am bringing siege engines from Northwood to dislodge them but I may damage your walls in the process. Thank God you have come when you have because I did not want to do this without your permission. Patrick, why are the Gordon and their allies so determined to dig themselves in around Berwick? Do you know?”

Patrick began to feel his fatigue. Scott shoved a cup of wine at him and he drank the entire thing before speaking. “I do,” he said as he smacked his lips. “It all has to do with my wife. It is quite a story, actually.”

Kieran was the only one who had known Patrick had taken a wife and he hadn’t told the others because he didn’t think it was his right to do so. Therefore, everyone but Kieran reacted sharply to the announcement. Paris’ eyes bulged.

“Wife?” he repeated. “You have married and I did not know?”

Patrick could hear the hurt and outrage in the man’s voice. He held up a quelling hand. “It happened rather suddenly,” he said. “Do not be offended that you were not invited to the wedding. No one was. I married her without my father’s permission.”

Scott and Troy still had rather surprised looks on their faces but Paris seemed to be rather keen on the idea. “Is this true?” he asked, astonished. “You married and William did not approve? I would say that I am shocked but I am not. You always did as you pleased, regardless of what anyone else thought. In fact, I am proud of you for following your head and not listening to your father on the matter.”

Patrick had to grin; Paris and William adored one another, without question, but Paris loved it when William was frustrated by his children. It gave him something to laugh about.

“I listened to my heart, Uncle Paris,” Patrick clarified. “You see, several weeks ago, we received word that a band of reivers had raided an English settlement. We rode out to route the reivers and it turned out that they had a female captive. They had taken her from Coldingham. I fell in love with the woman I saved and I married her.”

It was a simple, concise story, but there were many things he had left out. Paris wasn’t satisfied. “Why did your father not give permission for the marriage?” he wanted to know.

Patrick held out his cup for more wine and Scott poured it for him. Then, he looked around, seeing a chair over near the bed, and went to sit down upon it. He was utterly exhausted.

“I must tell you the entire tale because that is why the Scots are here,” he said. “My wife is the bastard of Juliana de la Haye of Clan Haye and Magnus, King of the Norse. When Juliana gave birth to the child, she took her to Coldingham Priory to be raised by the nuns. As it turned out, the mother prioress, before she became a nun, was raped by a man from Clan Haye. She is also a sister to the chief of Clan Gordon. When my wife was brought to the priory as an infant, the mother prioress and her brother came up with a scheme to use my wife in vengeance against Clan Haye for the rape. In fact, the reivers that abducted my wife from Coldingham were paid by Clan Gordon. They were to bring her to the clan chief but we intercepted them and destroyed their plans. Now, they believe my wife is here at Berwick and they are here to take her.”

By the time he was finished, jaws were dropping. Scott and Troy were genuinely shocked and even Kieran had a bit of an astonished look about him. He’d known most of the story but not all of it; he knew nothing about the scheme by Clan Gordon against Lady Brighton because all of that had come to light after they’d left Questing. Paris simply stood there with his eyebrows lifted, shocked by the news.

“Is that why they have dug in?” he asked, aghast. “Because they believe your wife is in Berwick and they will not leave without her?”

“Aye.”

“ Is she there?”

“She is.”

Paris started at him a moment longer before turning away, blowing out his cheeks in disbelief. “I must say that is not a story I expected to hear,” he said. “I thought this was a simple siege but it seems that there is far more to it.”

Patrick nodded. “Right before I left, a Scotsman came to Berwick and asked for my father,” he said. “He said he had information on the Coldingham lass, my wife, and he proceeded to tell us about the Clan Gordon plan. Evidently, their plan was to crucify my wife on Haye lands in vengeance for the rape. To tell you the truth, I was so swept up in the horror of what I prevented when I took her from the reivers that I did not stop to think about the Scotsman’s visit beyond the information he provided. Colm de Lara seemed to think that the Scotsman had come to assess Berwick and determine whether or not Bridey was actually there. An advance scout, as it were. He must have thought she was at Berwick because the Scots came shortly after I departed for London.”

Paris was listening intently to him. “Bridey?”

“My wife. Her name is Brighton but she is called Bridey.”

Paris understood. He also understood everything of what he’d been told, a harrowing tale, indeed. Scratching his head, he glanced at Kieran.

“That sheds more light on this, wouldn’t you say?” he said. “This is not a random siege. They want something.”

Kieran nodded, his manner grim. “Which means they will be more difficult to remove. That is why they have fought so ferociously.”

“Kevin said the combat had been brutal,” Patrick said, looking between the two old knights. “How many Scots are there?”

Kieran shrugged. “I would say a thousand, at the very least. They are dug in around most of the castle at this point.”

“How many English?”

“About fifteen hundred.”

Patrick sat forward in his chair. “Kevin is bringing another thousand from London,” he said. “He should have left with the men shortly after I departed. I did not want to wait for them; I wanted to return to Berwick and see for myself what had happened. But I would think that Kevin and the army are close behind me.”

Paris thought on that bit of information. “We could certainly remove the Scots with that number,” he said. “I was going to send to Questing and Northwood for more men but if Kevin is bringing a thousand men from London, then there is no need to risk more of our men than we already have. Besides… if Kevin is right behind you then I am not for certain we could get Northwood and Questing men here any faster.”

“Most impressive, Atty,” Scott said, standing over near the tent flap. “As Henry’s Lord Protector, you have command of more men than we can imagine. It was generous of Henry to permit you to bring some of them north.”

Patrick shook his head, preparing to deal the group another shock. “I am not Henry’s Lord Protector,” he said quietly. “I declined the position. It was more important to me to remain here at Berwick with Bridey than spend my time in London shadowing a dying king. I would have had no life of my own; you know that. My days and nights would have been spent at Henry’s side. While I was unmarried, I saw no issue with that. In fact, you all know how eager I was to assume my post. But once I took a wife… I would rather spend my life with her here in Berwick than enjoy the prestige in London of being Henry’s Lord Protector. I made a choice of the heart and I do not regret it.”

No one said anything for a moment; it was more surprising information in a day that had been full of such revelations. They had all known of his royal appointment and they had also known how proud he had been to receive it. As Henry’s Lord Protector, Patrick would have enjoyed immense distinction. To hear that he declined it because of a wife told them all just how deeply in love he was with the woman. It spoke volumes.

“So you have become one of us,” Paris finally said, his voice soft with humor. “One of the men who would do anything for the happiness of their women.”

Patrick gave him a half-grin; there was some embarrassment there. “Did you ever think you would hear such things from me?”

“Never.”

“I assure you, it is true.”

“It is,” Kieran confirmed. “I have met Bridey. She is a stunningly beautiful woman who has a sweet way about her. You will see what I mean when you meet her. It would not be difficult to fall for her charms.”

Paris looked at Patrick as if still in disbelief that the man had not only married, but had declined his royal appointment. But, truth be told, he understood… and he was very glad to see it.

“Then I congratulate you, Patrick,” Paris finally said. “I congratulate you on your marriage and on your happiness, and I look forward to meeting the woman who finally stole your heart. I never thought it would happen. If you recall, I tried to marry you off to a daughter but you refused. You also refused Kieran’s attempts. We thought that you would go through life without a wife so I am very glad to see that we were wrong.”

Patrick grinned. “I hope you have forgiven me for refusing Helene and Rose.”

Paris pointed at Troy. “Helene got a better husband than you in Troy,” he said firmly, but he didn’t mean a word of it. “And Rose married your brother, James. So in spite of you, the women married well. We did not need you, after all.”

Patrick was still grinning as he drained his cup. “It all worked out for the best,” he said. “Now, can we discuss the siege? I would like to see my wife at some point soon but I cannot do that if the Gordons are surrounding Berwick, so what is the plan to remove them?”

With the subject veered away from Patrick’s personal life and his declination of the royal appointment, they returned to the situation at hand. Paris turned for the map on the table.

“We were just discussing that, in fact, when you came in,” he said. “I had my scouts draw a map of the castle and try to map out where the Scots are dug in. This shows where they all are, at least to the best of our knowledge. We could try to purge them now with the men we have, but our men have been fighting for nearly three weeks. They are exhausted, which is why I was sending for fresh men. But if Kevin is bringing fresh troops from London, then I suggest we wait for them. The more men we have, the easier this will be.”

It wasn’t what Patrick wanted to hear but he understood. He stood up from the chair, wearily, making his way to the map to see what Paris and Kieran were looking at. Scott and Troy joined them and, together, the five of them looked over the map that had the Scots positions on it. Patrick could see that they were literally all around the castle with the exception of the chasm between the Douglas Tower and the donjon. But the city in front of the Douglas Tower was marked with Scots. He sighed.

“So they made it into the city,” he muttered.

Paris nodded. “They did, but only so far as the main gatehouse. They are dug in there, waiting for that gatehouse to open.”

“Have they tried to ram the portcullis?”

Paris nodded. “They have, but it held as far as we know. They’ve not managed to get inside the castle at all.”

As they continued to discuss the situation at the Douglas Tower, from outside of the tent, they could hear a commotion rising. Men were shouting and it seemed as if something was happening. Curious, the knights left the map and proceeded to venture outside of the tent to see what the uproar was about. They were no sooner out of the tent than several soldiers came running up to them.

“What is happening?” Paris demanded.

The soldiers began pointing towards the west. “The Scots are fleeing!” the man said excitedly. “They have pulled from their position and are fleeing Berwick!”

Startled, the knights tried to see what the men were talking about but so many of their own men were running to the west side of the encampment that it was difficult to see anything at all. But there was a huge sense of excitement in camp, something quite electric, and Patrick grabbed Troy.

“Come on,” he said. “Get to the horses. We must see what is happening.”

The knights broke for the corral where the horses were kept. None of the war horses were saddled, except for Patrick’s because they had not removed all of the tack yet, so the knights and grooms began putting bridles on the horses very quickly. Scott and Troy mounted their beasts without a saddle at all and Patrick leapt onto the back of his horse, gathering the reins and spurring the animal southward. Paris and Kieran followed and, soon, all five of them were charging southward, watching the Scots flee as they came up from the river and continued onward towards the west.

It was like watching a flock of migratory birds; wave after wave of Scots were rushing off and it seemed as if the Scots had no interest in the English who were now thundering in their direction. Astonished, the knights pulled their horses to a halt on a rise that gave them a vast vista of the land beyond only to see that the fog, so heavy that morning, had finally lifted. That was the first thing they saw. The second thing they saw was a shocking vision none of them ever thought they would see. Certainly, Patrick had never seen it in his lifetime.

Longships were approaching.

In all of his years by the sea, manning the garrison of Berwick, Patrick had never seen longships heading up the river towards the castle. The vessels had been concealed by the fog. But as soon as the mist lifted sufficiently, massive boats bearing the carved dragon prow of the Northmen were revealed to be moving slowly up the river, bearing down on the city of Berwick.

And that had been enough to scare the Scots away from the castle, for no one wanted to be caught outside of the walls when the Northmen attacked. Now, the fleeing Scots began to make sense. What over a thousand Englishmen couldn’t do in three weeks, longships in the river had managed to accomplish in three minutes once the fog lifted.

The Scots were on the run.

“My God,” Paris hissed. “Do you see them?”

Beside him, Kieran nodded. “I see four of them,” he said, although there was no fear in his voice, only awe. “I have never seen such a sight, not ever. How many men does one of those ships hold?”

Patrick, much like Kieran, was genuinely in awe of what he was seeing. “I have heard they can hold upwards of one hundred men,” he said. “But I do not know for certain.”

Scott, who had been slightly in front of the group watching the longships row their way up the river, happened to look over at the castle. He pointed.

“Look,” he said. “There is no longer a line of Scots around the castle. They are completely gone.”

The rest of the knights looked to see what he was gesturing towards and they, too, could see that the Scots had mostly fled. There were a few lingering, but they, too, were running off, terrified by the sight of the Northmen. It made the way clear for the English to head to Berwick without a line of Scots to stop them and Paris turned his horse around.

“We must make it to the castle,” he said, a sense of urgency in his tone. “The Scots had a good reason for fleeing and I will not be caught on open ground with Norsemen invaders on our doorstep. Scott, Troy; get the men moving now .”

It was a command and Scott and Troy whirled their war horses around, charging back towards an encampment that was generally in turmoil. Evidently, a few of the men had also seen the longships and now the whispers of Northmen warriors were spreading through the encampment like wildfire. They could hear the frightened shouts of the men.

Run for Berwick!

With Scott, Troy, and Paris racing back to camp to begin moving the men out, Patrick lingered on the rise, watching the longships as they made slow progress against the river current. Kieran, who also hadn’t returned to the encampment yet, couldn’t help but notice that Patrick seemed unusually preoccupied by the sight. There was something in his expression that suggested… confusion?

“Atty?” Kieran asked. “What is it?

Patrick had an odd look on his face. “I am not sure,” he said hesitantly, “but it occurred to me that my wife’s father is a Northman, and now there are suddenly Northmen in the river where there have never been any before. Could this be some kind of bizarre coincidence, Uncle Kieran?”

Kieran’s gaze lingered on the ships in the distance. “Has Bridey ever had any contact with her father?”

Patrick shook his head. “Never,” he said. “She never even knew of her true heritage until the reivers abducted her from Coldingham. So how… how would Magnus even know of her? And even if he did, why would he come to Berwick?”

Kieran shook his head. “Who is to say those ships belong to Magnus? There are any number of lesser princes or Norse lords who could have come. It may have nothing to do with your wife at all.”

Patrick’s eyes never left the longships in the distance. “Possibly,” he said. Then, he turned to Kieran with something of an ominous expression. “I suppose we will find out soon enough.”

Kieran didn’t think that sounded like a very desirable option, but it was one that would very well come forth once the Northmen docked their longships. Now, it was a race against time to move the Northwood and Questing armies inside the walls of Berwick before the Northmen launched their attack, if that was, indeed, their plan.

As Kieran ran for the encampment, Patrick spurred his war horse straight to Berwick. Nothing in the world, short of the hand of God, could have stopped him at that moment. His only thought was of Brighton and it was a struggle to fight down the panic he felt. Panic for her safety, panic for protecting her from what was to come.

He had to get to his wife.