Page 80 of The Scot

He really was magnificent.

A magnificent, bullheaded arse. But magnificent nonetheless.

Holding up a hand, Terric waited for the noise to quiet. When it did, he spoke, his voice booming from the back of the hall to its entrance.

“A force of over one hundred men makes its way to Dromsley Castle. With the aid of my clansmen”—he nodded toward them—“as well as Lord Berkshire, whose forty knights fight alongside us as allies in our cause against the king, we can defeat Ulster in battle.”

A cry went up, of men prepared to fight. Of knights and warriors who had trained their whole lives for this very moment.

She glanced at Cait, who looked at her brother, straight-faced.

In battle.

Roysa’s heart skipped a beat at the implications of his words. This would be the first of many battles to come. The first in a long, bitter fight against the king.

“But we will not be marching to battle today.”

What had he just said?

“Though I’m grateful for your willing sacrifice, today is not the day you will give it. Dromsley is prepared for a longer siege than Ulster will be able to withstand. And while they languish outside our walls, our order’s fight will continue against a king who cares more about the papal crusade in Wales and France than for his own people. And it will be victorious.”

Cait smiled.

“Prepare for siege. Our enemy will be outside our walls too soon.”

Prepare for siege.

Everyone moved at once. Some running, others shouting orders. But she stood still, watching as Terric stepped down from the dais and headed their way.

When their eyes locked, she asked the silent question.

The very corners of his mouth lifted, crinkling his eyes. He nodded.

To her.

And was swallowed up by Gilbert and Rory and Lance.

“I am wrong about many things,” Cait said, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “but I know my brother.”