Page 4

B attle was a horrid business. Darkness made it worse. The fire lit up men’s forms, dashing in the night, like black demons out of hell, Bronwyn imagined.

The empress fled. The loud neighs of horses provided a chaotic, noisy backdrop against the cacophony of blades crashing, the whistle and hard blows of arrows that arched through the air and the muffled cries as they landed and hit their targets.

Blades tinged and echoed with loud rings as swords beat and clattered against shields.

Men groaned and cried out in agony as blades sank into their flesh.

Men and women ran, screaming. Some were trampled, others shot dead by the arrows that fell, fiery harbingers of death. Some fell where they stood, cut down by invading marauders.

She could not tell what was fired or who was an enemy in this mess, and the air filled with smoke as fires were disturbed beneath charging hooves and men’s boots. Others began running, fighting, calling for help.

Bronwyn stood by, timid and terrified as a dormouse.

She shook, almost frozen in place. If only Rupert were there to protect her.

He’d know what to do. At that moment, she felt helpless, and indecision stayed her feet.

She didn’t know where to go, what to do.

It struck her then, that of course, Rupert would run to protect Lady Alice, not her.

If she wanted to survive, she’d have to look after herself.

She swallowed, straightened her shoulders, picked up one foot, and began to run.

Dashing into the darkness as fast as her feet would carry her, she stumbled over two men fighting.

Her feet slipped on the wet ground, slick with mud and blood.

She slid on her hands and knees, her hands splayed out into the muck as she tried to stop and gain some purchase on the ground.

The earth was soft. She got to her feet.

Groans filled the air. Her foot nudged something hard—a weapon—and she picked it up, the pommel slippery against her wet hands.

It was a short mace and heavy. Grasping it firmly, she grimaced and wielded it with both hands as a warrior crashed into her with a loud cry.

They fell to the ground with a hard jolt, and the breath rushed out of her. The man crushed her, pinning her against the mace. Its deadly weight began to press firmly into her middle. Would she be crushed to death?

She grunted from the weight and struggled to breathe. They slipped on the wet grass, the mud, and who knew what else that flew against her face and mixed in her hair.

He stiffened suddenly and didn’t move as she shoved, yelled, and finally kicked him. Warm liquid spilled on her dress, and she fretted that he might have loosened his bladder. But as two hands pulled him off of her, she blinked in the moonlight and saw she was mistaken.

Her weapon had taken him in the lower gut, and he was now bleeding steadily on her dress. A helpful hand was extended to her in the darkness. “Here, mistress. You’re safe now.”

She couldn’t see but took the hand. Anything was better than lying in this muck.

The hand lifted her up easily, her fingers gliding over the stranger’s warm and callused grip. She dropped the mace and caught her breath, releasing the hand. As the moonlight hit, she saw a familiar face. “Rupert?”

“Bronwyn? Good God, is that you?” He stared in disbelief.

She grinned at him and gasped with relief.

His face lit up as they clasped arms, and he pulled her into a hug.

His facial hair tickled her cheek and nose as he held her tightly for a second, then released her.

He smelled like sweat, horse, hay, and blood.

“Are you all right? I saw that man come for you.” He looked dispassionately at the dead body at her feet.

“Come on. We’ve got to get somewhere safe.

” He pulled her by the arm and led her over to a series of tents. “We’ll have shelter here.”

She instantly felt comforted as he kept an eye out, sword at the ready.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” Her heart pounded as they watched men run past. A few more cries and yells, then nothing.

As some fighters passed by, it was clear that the attack had ended.

“The battle’s over,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

She let out a sigh of relief. She wiped her hands on the wet grass, then dried them with her apron. “What happened to you when we got separated at Lincoln?” she asked.

His face grew long. “You know that my master was taken prisoner, along with the king. I’m still in his service, even if he is prisoner here in the enemy’s camp.

I would visit him, but he and the other prisoners are under watch at all times.

I think the French wench would have killed them if she did not have so many people around.

I heard she plans to make a show of it and receive the king as a prisoner at her court in Gloucester.

“When we came to the camp I… hid my allegiance. Lady Alice promised to keep my loyalties secret. I work wherever I can, waiting at tables, working with the groomsmen, scouting—anything to keep busy. Lady Alice has done a fair sight better. She dines and laughs with the other ladies, from what I can tell.” He looked away.

Was he blushing? A pang of sadness filled her at the thought. He really did care for Lady Alice.

He looked back at her. “What are you doing here? I thought you would have returned to the city to find your parents, or hidden till the soldiers were gone.”

She shook her head, her thick blonde braid brushing against her shoulder.

“Once we got separated at the battle, I joined the camp. I thought my family might have too. But I haven’t found anyone.

Yours and Lady Alice’s are the first friendly faces I’ve seen for weeks. She only found me a few hours ago.”

His expression softened. “I’ve heard the city is not a safe place anymore. And tonight? Why didn’t you run and hide?”

“I tried but couldn’t see in the dark and didn’t know where to run.”

He nodded, and they fell into a companionable silence as they walked back into the camp. Torches burned from men’s shaking hands, and small campfires burned, tiny beacons in the darkness.

Rupert touched her arm. “You’re cold. Are you all right?” The warm firelight nearby flickered, revealing that his eyes were wide with concern.

Bronwyn let out a shuddering breath. “Yes. Glad to be alive. Who was behind the attack?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to check on my master, make sure he’s all right. I’ll leave you now, but I’ll find you again, I promise. Where can I find you?” He lowered his hand.

She felt oddly bereft as his touch disappeared.

“In the cooking tents. You can find me there most days,” she said with a smile.

They clasped arms and she watched him disappear into the darkness.

She meant to join up with some of the cooks but instead got waylaid.

Drawn by the sounds of the injured and dying, she knelt to help one man who was bleeding steadily from a nasty wound in his thigh.

A blade had stuck him through his woolen clothes and he sweated, even though it was a cold night.

The air was rich with the coppery scent of blood, and the heady smells of fire and wood smoke.

She tended to him as best she could, moving bloody strands of hair out of his face, when he grasped her wrist, his eyes wide and white with fear.

Blood leaked from his body as he stared at her, a hollow, sunken gaze. “Did we get it? The crown?”

“I’m sorry? What do you—”

He cut her off. “The crown, blast it. Did they take it?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Find out, girl, or this will all have been for nothing. You have to find out. Does Henry live?” He gripped her wrist harder. It hurt.

“I don’t—” She tugged at her wrist. “You’re hurting me.”

He looked past her and cried, “You must not let her reclaim it. You mustn’t. Death to the empress. Death to the false queen! Let the king take his rightful throne—” The cry died in his throat as a blade thrust into his heart.

Bronwyn shrieked and backed up, tugging hard to free herself. The man’s grip loosened on her wrist and fell away.

“He’s dead now,” a low voice said over her shoulder.

She turned, tense at the blade so close to her. “He was already dying.”

The young man pulled out the blade and wiped it on the dead man’s jerkin.

Bronwyn watched in distaste; it felt like adding insult to injury. The man was already dead; why soil his clothes more?

It was a young man who looked at her in the moonlight. He raised his head with a self-satisfied air. “You’re safe. He’s no trouble to anyone now.” He walked off, whistling to himself.

Rubbing her wrist, Bronwyn stood and left the dead man staring up at the sky. She could no longer see his warm breath in the light; it had gone cold with death.

But the crown. He had been talking about the empress’s crown. Bronwyn ran, hearing screams. She dashed toward the sound—a lady’s cries rent the night air. But amidst the chaos, Bronwyn quickly lost sight of where and what direction they’d come from.

There was a commotion by the tents, and she found herself near the tents belonging to the ladies-in-waiting, and where the empress had her belongings.

But an arresting sight stopped her in her tracks.

There, at the tent that bore the empress’s traveling trunks, jewels, and crown, the torch light was very bright, for all to see. No guards stood in front.

Her feet moved with a mind of their own, and despite the people running around, she found herself picking up speed, hurrying toward the tent.

Bronwyn stumbled and walked sideways trying to avoid people who ran. It was dark, it was chaotic, but something about the empress’s storage tent made her pause. Just as she hurried forward with trepidatious steps, she saw three figures lying on the ground.

Bronwyn ran forward. A guard, Sir Bors, and the third was a woman.

She bent to her knees. The light from the torches within the tent lit it up clearly. The faint scent of roses lingered in the air. A perfume of rosewater, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“Lady Eleanor,” Bronwyn said, shaking her. “Are you all right? Lady Eleanor?”

Lady Eleanor’s head rolled to the side and she stared at nothing, revealing a deep-red line against her pale neck.

“Oh, no.” The empress’s voice came from behind her. “Eleanor?”

“She’s dead.” Bronwyn said.

“And you killed her,” a male voice challenged, grabbing Bronwyn’s arm.