Page 90 of The Scot

Chapter 37

“Finish it,” Terric said to his brother’s squire, cursing himself for not having replaced his own squire sooner. The lad’s hands shook as he helped with Terric’s armor.

“The men are in position, my lord.” Gilbert stood beside him. Lance, Rory, all were armored but him. Impatient to move, he resisted shouting, knowing it would not help the squire finish his task. The aventail finally secured, he helped himself and grabbed his sword.

“Your first battle,” he said to the lad in parting. It wasn’t a question. He knew the boy from home, from Bradon Moor, and even if he had not, he would have suspected his lack of experience. The lad’s eyes told the tale.

A healthy dose of fear was useful—men were killed less often because they were weak and more often because they were strong. As he mounted, Terric reminded himself of that fact. Even as he grew from the weak boy who’d been defeated by one terrible blow into the powerful man he’d become, Terric had never forgotten that lesson.

Size meant nothing without training. The ability to remain calm under pressure, and channel fear into caution, offered a soldier his greatest advantages. As the bridge lowered, his archers at the ready, Terric put all other thoughts from his mind.

His family. His clan. Dromsley. Ulster.

Roysa.

He discouraged them, one by one, and instead focused on one singular thought.

Remaining alive.

He could not train the men now. Instead, he would have faith in their abilities, in those who fought by his side. And, most importantly, in the arrows his archers used to provide cover for them as they streamed across the narrow bridge separating them from their enemies.

Screams washed over him. Screams from his men and their horses, and from the enemy too. Orders were being shouted, but not by him. Terric had rallied the men, given them orders. Now, they fought.

He would not allow Roysa’s father to die.

Fighting like a demon, he slashed his way through his opponents. When Lance called his name, Terric turned in time to slice down yet another man who charged toward him on foot. He didn’t know how deeply Stanton had penetrated Ulster’s lines, but it seemed just now the answer was, not far enough.

Wave after wave of soldiers came at him. He’d searched earlier but saw neither Ulster nor Stanton.

“Gilbert,” he shouted, watching as the marshal fell from his horse. He charged toward the man who’d injured him, intent on ensuring Gilbert was the last person the bastard ever injured. Once he cut the man down, he turned to look for Gilbert. The blasted helm made it impossible to see anything, so he tore it off.

He saw him then, lying on the ground. Dismounting, he ran to Gilbert’s unmoving form.

“He’s dead.”

It was Rory’s voice.

He’s dead.

Terric had no time to mourn.

He swiftly sent three more men to meet their makers.

But it was too late.

Without realizing it,Roysa had moved just inside the hall’s entrance. This way, she could see each new body that was carried inside.

Not Terric.

Not Father.

Not Lance.

Not Rory.

The sight of all the blood, the gruesome injuries, had made her stomach turn at first, but not anymore. She paid no heed to the passing of time, moving steadily, following the orders of those who knew how to tend wounds, which she, admittedly, did not. Cait and Idalia were doing the same, each helping as they could.

Roysa become quite adept at staunching the bleeding from open wounds.