“They are trying to draw out your army so that you will open your gates.”
Alastor shook his head grimly. “I know,” he said. “But the village is vulnerable. I cannot deny them protection, Cole.”
Cole turned in the direction of the postern gate. It gave him an idea.
“Addax and I just came in through the postern gate,” he said. “I do not know if the Scots are even aware of it, but we can take a contingent out through the gate without opening the gatehouse. How many Scots are there?”
Alastor lifted a hand helplessly. “I could not tell in the darkness,” he said. “Hundreds, at least.”
“Then let us move a few hundred men through that postern gate immediately and protect the village,” he said. “I will go and so will Addax.”
Alastor put a grateful hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I will find Ares and send him and Atlas with you.”
Cole was already on the move, heading for the stables. “I will find Addax and meet them at the postern gate.”
Everyone was running for their respective destinations. The Scots, spurned by Alastor’s refusal, had set their sights on the little village next to the castle. It was an invitation for the men of The Keld, an invitation that was about to be decisively answered but not in the way the Scots had hoped.
The spawn of the darkest lord of all had been unleashed.
CHAPTER TEN
The wounded had been trickling in all day.
Corisande had emerged from the keep shortly after dawn, shortly after her brothers and Cole took three hundred men and charged into the village to defend it from the rampaging Scots. Alastor had remained in command of the castle and he assured his daughters that a battle like this couldn’t last long, but he had been wrong.
So very wrong.
The Scots were angry. That much was clear. Offended by Alastor’s refusal and exhausted from their swift and long march from Edinburgh, they had attacked the village with mindless zeal. As Cole and the others realized once they reached the village, it wasn’t that the Scots were bent on raiding the town. That didn’t seem to be their purpose.
Their purpose seemed to be destruction.
Because the Scots had been traveling in the dark, they had a good many torches available and they used them. They started at the edge of the town, nearest the castle, and begin lighting the cottages on fire. In fact, they lit anything worth burning. All Alastor and the troops remaining in the castle could do was watch from the sealed portcullis as the village began to go up in flames. They certainly couldn’t open the portcullis, which was exactly what the Scots wanted them to do. What the Scots didn’t know was that a heavily armed contingent from the castle was coming in from the northwest.
They realized that too late.
The plan was to box the Scots up against the burning section of the village and trap them between the flames and the castle. There was no real concern that the castle would catch fire because it was made of stone and iron. There wasn’t much that could catch fire on the exterior. The Scots realized too late that there was an incoming force from the fortress, charging in and forcing them back against the flames. But even the charge of the English was slowed by the villagers that were fleeing for their very lives. The incoming army was met with a tide of humanity that was running from the Scots.
Even so, the army pushed through and the Scots found themselves under attack. However, Cole and the others realized very early on that Alastor had underestimated the number of Scots. He had guessed a few hundred when, in fact, there seemed to be more like six or seven hundred. The contingent of men from The Keld were outmanned, but there was no comparison between a Scots warrior and a heavily armed English soldier. Better still, they were no match for the elite English knights.
Cole was in his element in a battle. He was quite large, quite strong, and exceptionally skilled. He had inherited his father’s talent with a sword and that was never more evident than it was at that moment as he used his enormous broadsword to dispatch Scotsman after Scotsman.
Cole had been taught long ago by a master knight at Norwich Castle to use every part of his body in a fight, not simply his sword hand, so watching him fight was like watching a well-choreographed dance. He could multitask with the best of them, fighting with his broadsword in one hand but also using his legs and feet to kick and shove. His left hand usually held his shield, but since they were mostly dealing with foot soldiers, his shield was slung over his left knee and his left fist was creating devastation for any Scotsman who came too close.
His skill in battle was also a testament to his relationship with Drago. He and Drago had been together at least fifteen years, ever since his father had given him the warhorse when he had been a squire. He had learned to fight while riding the big horse and, in battle, the two of them could move as one. Cole would give the horse his head, secure the reins to the saddle, and let Drago fight his own battles.
It was truly something to watch.
A battle that Alastor had predicted would not take long, unfortunately took most of the day. The Scots were not inclined to retreat and the English were forced to beat up on them more viciously than usual. Cole had personally cut down several mounted Scots and at least a dozen foot soldiers, and he was hardly winded. Much like his father, he had the love of battle in his veins. The longer and more vicious the fighting, the better Cole liked it.
He hadn’t endured a battle like this in a very long time.
As the afternoon began to wane, the Scots seemed to be retreating. There were many dead and many wounded, and the English began to form a line to push them back onto the road heading north. Several were already heading up the road, carrying or dragging their wounded, but the bulk of the Scots were still fighting to the death.
Cole thought it was rather a wasted effort on the part of the Scots because they were in an enemy land with no real directive, yet they were fighting rabidly. It wasn’t as if they were fighting to overtake a castle or to confiscate something of value. They were fighting because they were offended by Alastor’s refusal and they were fighting to punish the offender.
But that wasted effort would work to their advantage because those who survived the fight would return to William and tell him that the English were not going to be easy victims to his plan. Certainly, Alastor de Bourne wouldn’t be an easy victim, nor would he be an ally. Much like the battle at Fountainhall Castle, the battle at Castle Keld was also sending a message.
And Cole was helping send it.
But the English weren’t without their casualties, too. There had been a few. Throughout the battle, Cole had kept his eye on Addax as the man did battle against the Scots. Addax hadn’t trained in the English way of fighting his entire life like most knights had, as he hadn’t met his first English knight until he was about twelve years of age. But he had learned quickly, and even now as he fought on horseback, no one would have ever known that he hadn’t grown up with a sword in his hand. He was one of the best natural warriors Cole had ever seen, but that didn’t stop Cole from keeping an eye on him.
A brotherly eye, so to speak.
In all of the skirmishes Cole had ever fought with him, Addax had never once failed in anything he’d ever attempted. The man was an elite warrior. Cole was about to turn his attention to the battle once more when he caught sight of Addax being pitched off his horse.