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  Opening the door as quietly as possible, he slowly made his way from the chamber. Though the hour was still very early, the hall was as full as if it were midmorn. Guards who had been watching through the night had come in to eat before getting some rest.

  Although his place had been set, Terric would not be using it. Instead, he strode to a serving maid whose tray was laden with bread and cheese.

  “May I?”

  Without waiting for a response, he took both.

  “We’ve had provisions brought to the gatehouse,” Idalia said, walking up to him. She’d been breaking her fast at the table.

  “’Tis early for you to be awake, Idalia.”

  She walked with him from the hall.

  “Lance woke me as he came in earlier,” she said. “Typically it is my sister who arises first . . .”

  She looked as if she wanted to say more.

  He stopped just before the stairwell that led to the first floor.

  “You’ve spoken to Cait,” he guessed, remembering her remaining in the corridor. She must have seen Roysa as well.

  Idalia’s look of mock surprise confirmed it.

  “My sister has never been subtle,” he said.

  Idalia was not very adept at keeping her emotions private.

  “Do you wish to say something, my lady? Ask a question, perhaps?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, there are more important matters that require your attention. Go.” Idalia waved her hand for him to move on.

  He did have important matters to attend to, but none as important as Roysa.

  “She is in my bedchamber, as you already know. Still sleeping.”

  Idalia seemed nervous. He had not seen her this way before. “If you worry for Roysa, I assure you, my intentions are honorable. We will be married as soon as it can be arranged. Under the circumstances, of course, it might take a little longer than if we were not currently under siege.”

  To his surprise, that did not appear to be her concern.

  “I believed as much. At least, Cait assured me of it.”

  Of course she had.

  “What concerns you, then?”

  “My father,” she said, her expression tight with worry. “Lance tells me not to worry, but I cannot seem to stop doing so. He should have returned by now.”

  He could not deny it. The same thought had occurred to him.

  “Lance said ’tis possible he was delayed.”

  “Or he may have learned of Ulster’s arrival. ’Tis possible he is waiting to send word, to ask for guidance. He might not know we’re under siege.”

  “Lance said as much.”

  “But still you worry.”

  She nodded.

  “If I receive any word from him, you and Roysa will be notified immediately.”

  “Thank you.”

  A new wave of guards clamored up the stairwell.

  “You are most welcome,” he said, slapping each man on the shoulder as they passed him, their greetings—“my lord”—hanging in the air. When the last one left, he smiled at Idalia, trying to ease her worry and the shiver of apprehension he himself felt. “Good day, sister.”

  When she smiled back, her approval earned, Terric felt ready to face the hell that awaited him. Or so he thought.

  Chapter 36

  “How long do you believe the siege will last?”

  Cait wrinkled her nose, making herself very much look like a rabbit. Roysa would have told her as much if they weren’t standing so close to the guard. Terric had insisted they didn’t need to serve as additional lookouts—that was the purpose of the guard who stood beside them—but both of them had wanted to do more than count sacks of beans.

  Again.

  “I would say until summer, at least,” Cait said, shrugging.

  “Longer,” their companion said in a low voice.

  They had been out here all afternoon, and until now, the guard had said not a single word to them. Not even when they’d attempted to feed him.

  Since they were positioned along the inner wall, none of them wore armor, but Roysa had known him for a knight anyway. The way he stood, hand atop his sword as if the enemy were not well beyond their reach . . .

  “Pardon?” Cait asked.

  “Ulster has come well prepared and will likely receive reinforcements. It will be longer than that.”

  They’d spoken to Lance this morning, who had much the same opinion of matters. If John truly planned to make Dromsley an example of his might, Ulster would be just the first round of men to engulf them. Though his bridge-building attempts had thus far been unsuccessful, he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. No doubt, he’d send away for more supplies, adding to the trebuchets supposedly positioned outside the walls.

  Roysa turned to Cait, raising her eyebrows. “You chose a fine time to return to England after so many years.”

  She’d hoped to catch her friend off guard, enough so that she’d offer her true motivation for coming, something she’d done against the wishes of her brother and her mother. Despite knowing she would also incur Terric’s wrath.

  “Your nose is red” was her only response.

  “You’ll not want to discuss noses. Yours did this.” She attempted to recreate what Cait nose had done earlier, but not much could be said for her dramatics beyond that she managed to make Cait laugh. Even the guard seemed to smile. Maybe. It was difficult to tell.

  Roysa looked out at . . . nothing. When they’d asked where additional eyes might be needed, she and Cait had been directed to the Middle Tower. But Roysa had begun to suspect this was the exact location where they were needed least. They could see nothing but the inner bailey and, beyond it, fields of white with occasional patches of mud and earth. She’d always assumed a siege meant the entire castle would be surrounded, but apparently that was not so.

  “He hasn’t said he loves me yet,” she whispered, the one thought she’d woken up with. By now, all knew Roysa had slept in the lord’s chamber the previous night. Though most of the women and children had been sent from the keep ahead of the siege, enough servants remained to have sufficiently spread the word before Roysa even broke her fast.

  “He did wake me before he left. I could become accustomed to such a waking.”

  Cait’s mouth dropped open.

  “Nay!” she said. “He rubbed my back is all.”

  “Hmph. You’ve two sisters.”

  Roysa wasn’t sure she understood how that related.

  Cait gave her a rueful smile. “I have two brothers.” She paused, then added, “But I am glad to finally have a sister as well. I begged my mother for one for many years.”

  She was glad for it too.

  “Terric did say he loved you. In his own way.”

  Roysa thought of the man she had met, huge and brooding. And the man who’d woken her up so gently this morn.

  “Do you realize . . .” Roysa stopped when she saw men running through the courtyard. “What’s happening?”

  They both looked to the guard, who appeared as confused as they felt. More shouts. And then she saw it.

  A man being carried into the keep.

  “Is that . . .”

  Blood dripped onto the white snow beneath him.

  Chaos erupted everywhere. “Inside. Get inside,” the guard shouted.

  She barely heard the words. Another wounded man was being carried inside.

  Before she could properly object, the guard was ushering her and Cait through the entrance of the Middle Tower.

  Terrified, they begged him for answers.

  He said nothing before leaving, shouting for them to remain in the tower.

  Roysa’s heart thudded in her chest as he shut the door. She didn’t know what was happening, but no one needed to tell her it was dangerous.

  And she didn’t know where her sister was.

  Roysa didn’t think. She fled back outside, hurtling down the wall-walk and toward the keep. This was the quickest path to it. Ignoring the shouts
that rose up around her, Roysa continued to run until she passed the North Gatehouse. She ignored every plea to stop, to get inside.

  She needed to see Idalia with her own eyes, to know she was safe.

  Finally arriving at the Northeast Tower, she did go inside and nearly tripped down the narrow stairwell. Emerging from the tower entrance into the kitchens, Roysa ignored the servants’ stares and begged to be shown to the hall.

  “Idalia,” she cried as if that would help her get to her faster.

  Someone pointed her toward a door, and she thanked the girl before realizing it was the maid who liked Terric, the one who’d likely spread rumors about her.

  It didn’t matter, really.

  “Bless you,” she said, running toward the door.

  “Roysa,” Cait called from behind her. She hadn’t even realized her friend had followed her—nor could she make herself slow down.

  She nearly fell in her haste to get to and through the door, then down the corridor beyond it.

  Once inside, she was met with more shouts, the screech of tables being moved, and more people than should be inside during a siege. Knights. Men-at-arms. Servants.

  But no Idalia.

  Calling her name, Roysa pushed past half a dozen people—and then her knees buckled and she collapsed.

  “Idalia!” She also appeared to be frantically searching the hall.

  Her younger sister ran to her and pulled her to her feet.

  “Thank Saint Rosalina,” Idalia cried, throwing her arms around Roysa’s shoulders. “I was so worried. I knew you and Cait . . . where’s Cait?”

  She pulled away.

  “Here,” Cait answered.

  Though it took her a moment, Roysa finally realized what was happening around her. The hall was being transformed, injured men being brought inside. But injured from what? Ulster’s men could not possibly have breached the walls so soon . . .

  “Idalia? What do you know?”

  Her sister shook her head, but one of the injured men turned toward them. An arrow stuck up from his stomach. He was bleeding. Badly. Roysa tried not to look at the arrow, but it insisted on being seen, noticed.

  She kneeled down beside him, holding out her hand instinctively around the arrow. She had no cloth, and he seemed to have been abandoned.

  “Lord Stanton,” he said. “From the rear.”

  Roysa’s heart felt as if it had stopped beating.

  Her father had come. Had attacked from the rear. And she did not have to be told what happened next.

  The siege was over.

  The battle had begun.

  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.

  “No!”

  She spun so quickly at Cait’s scream—not Terric, not Rory—that she had to close her eyes to stave off a fit of dizziness. She opened them, her heart hammering as she peered a little more closely at the bloody body Cait was looking at. How had she missed him coming into the hall? Was it . . .

  “Gilbert.”

  “The dead remain outside,” the seneschal yelled as a reminder.

  “Nay,” Cait countered. “’Tis Gilbert. He will stay here.”

  Roysa could only stare. Just this morning, the marshal had chastised her for insisting on going outside the keep. He could not possibly be dead.

  But he was.

  “No. No, no, no.”

  If Cait’s earlier cry had given her pause, this one was like being doused by a stream of icy water. She knew immediately who’d been carried inside. The wide berth he was given confirmed it.

  “No!” she shouted, echoing Cait’s words. She staggered toward him as he was carried to a nearby trestle table, although his sister got to him first.

  “Terric, do you hear me?” Cait shouted.

  “I hear you,” he groaned.

  He was alive! Terric was alive! She put on a burst of speed, reaching the table.

  “You must stop doing this.” Cait reached for one hand, Roysa another. He had no visible injuries, although she knew that did not mean all was well.

  He answered with a groan.

  She wanted to ask what had happened. If he had seen her father. If they were winning or if Ulster’s men were even now within the outer walls.

  But she didn’t. He was obviously in pain, and she just wanted it to stop. Fortunately, Dromsley’s physician arrived just then. He not so politely pushed both women to the side. While she watched, the man prodded Terric, who seemed to be waking.
r />   “Gilbert? Is he truly dead?”

  Before any of them could answer, Lance edged his way in front of them. “Gone,” he said. “Go slowly, Terric. You took a hard blow to the head.”

  When Terric opened his eyes, Roysa could finally breathe. Pushing past the physician, she took the hand of the man she loved, defying the doctor to move her again.

  Her eyes met Terric’s—and she saw not relief in their depths, but regret.

  “I tried to find your father.”

  Was he . . .

  “Is Father dead?” she asked, that last word difficult to say aloud.

  “I never saw him.”

  Terric’s gaze moved to Lance.

  “’Tis done,” the blacksmith said. “Rory waits with Ulster to negotiate.”

  “Done? What does that mean?”

  Lance might have answered, but her sister found them then. She launched herself into her husband’s arms, their greeting hardly appropriate but very much understandable.

  Finally, Terric cleared his throat. She’d do anything to kiss him now, as Idalia and Lance had just done, but his head . . . “Does it hurt?”

  “To answer your earlier question, Ulster has surrendered. And aye, it hurts like the devil.”

  When he tried to sit up, the physician pushed him back down. “Lord or no, you’ll be staying that way until the stomach settles.”

  Terric frowned but did not argue.

  His stomach? Looking closer, Roysa realized he was quite pale. And did not appear well.

  “Did we take any prisoners?”

  “Aye, though they’ve not been counted,” Lance answered. “The wounded are still being brought inside, the dead . . .” He stopped.

  “Father is alive,” she said, saying it with as much conviction as Cait had possessed when she declared Terric was alive after the incident with the bridge. Surely she would sense it if it were otherwise. And Idalia needed to hear as much. Her sister looked decidedly ill.

  “Rory—” Terric began.

  “Has taken command. You’ve nothing to fear.” Lance turned to leave. “He will be glad to hear you’re alive.”

  Terric groaned. “Felled once again.”

  He said it so quietly, Roysa didn’t think anyone else heard him. The physician had moved on. Lance was gone. Only she and Cait remained by his side.