Betrayed

PROLOGUE

MUSIC and drunken laughter filtered through an open window to the deserted cobblestone street. A lone figure walked along through the damp and dreary night. He pulled his cloak closer around himself, attempting to keep out the cold. His foot splashed into a puddle of rain water, and he angrily shook it off. The tip of a sheathed sword protruded from beneath his thin, worn coat. That was common for this time, though, for the year was 1200.

The man continued his lonely walk in the deceivingly lackluster night. The stars shone bright above him, and the moon blazed full in its night sky home. The only life that stirred was the life inside; scarcely anyone was outside save this man. Most everyone else kept off the streets after the sun sank low, for many knew that darkness brought danger. Darkness often times hid the danger, and everyone wanted to stay away from the peril that followed after dusk.

The lanterns that hung alongside the cobble street provided the man with a haunting glow to light his way. The winds whistled eerily through the buildings and chilled those few that braved the nighttime world.

Around the corner, were two other anonymous people, who walked through the city. They kept to themselves, not disturbing what passed by their way. They didn’t know that their impassiveness would not save them from the seemingly dormant threat that always lurked in the cover of darkness, slinking through the underground and in the shadows around the corner.

An unnoticed pair of eyes surveyed the streets, glinting with evil and madness. The eyes watched for movement, which meant life. He despised life, for life had escaped from his hand. Fear and depression had cornered him, and he was desperately seeking a way out. Life meant happiness, and since he was deprived of such a thing, the outside world needed be severely punished for the possession of what he so passionately wanted but sadly couldn’t have. Work-hardened hands clutched tightly the handle of a sword, his escape.

The two anonymous people rounded the corner and stepped into the ghostly light of the lanterns. Life. He must kill the life. As a ghost, he warily slid invisibly from his concealment, gliding through the shadows closer to his soon to be victims.

The fragile silence of the night was shattered like glass as screams of terror filled the air and echoed throughout the city. The lone man’s hand instinctively flew to the hilt of his sword, and the reassuring metal of it soothed his nerves as it was slowly withdrawn. His fighting stance was taken and the sword balanced, prepared to defend and battle another.

Again, silence reigned. Not a sound was to be heard. The man crept forward like a cat, intently stalking. His alert brown eyes roamed around, searching for anything that might hold a vital clue, as he crept impalpably along the side of a darkly shadowed stone house. Not a sound except for the constant drip of water entered his ears even though he held silence as his closest companion. Around the point of the house was from where the commotion had originated and now mysteriously vanished. The cold of the night encircled the man as he remained undetectably poised, waiting.

More screams erupted from behind him, and he instantaneously jumped around to see people running utterly petrified from within another house, eyes glazed with fear and arms waving wildly. One last man, with a ragged scar running down over his left eye, ran from the house. From Scar came a battle cry of a mad man. He crazily swung his sword, striking several horrified people. Some fell, crying hysterically in pain. Others ran and disappeared into the dark, bleeding and dying. The mad man chased a woman up against a stone wall, where he began slashing her with his deadly sword.

As the other man witnessed this appalling murder, he sprinted towards an all too familiar, and now dangerous, friend.

“Adémar!” he cried as the once gentleman slit the woman’s throat with the shimmering blade of his sword.

Adémar spun and faced him. “Who are you, and how dare you speak to me, for I am no longer Adémar.” His wild eyes flashed as he glared sinisterly at what had once been a comrade.

“Don’t be a fool, Adémar,” he replied, his own sword pointed dangerously at Adémar’s chest. “I know you, don’t you recognize me?”

“No!” Adémar yelled, “I don’t know you, but you are an imposter!” His voice became quieter and withheld in it a crazed and distraught yet evil power that demanded obedience as he spoke, “You are one of them, I must kill you.”

A flip of his wrist brought his sword around, clanging piercingly as it pushed away the offending weapon. The metallic ring of clashing swords rang through the street as two men fought, not in practice but to the death.

Adémar swung towards his adversary’s side, but was blocked. He thrust forward with surprising speed and his sword cut deep into the man’s chest, hitting his ribs.

The man cringed as blood gushed eagerly from his wound, but the tip of his rapier sliced through Adémar’s coat into his shoulder.

The battle continued for several minutes. Adémar was gaining ground. His opponent was tiring and weakened from his wound. His reflexes were slowing and his attacks were easier to deflect.

Adémar’s adversary knew he was on the losing end, but he had one more card to play. It took energy, something of which he didn’t have much, but it was all he had to left to try. Adémar was very skilled, and he was too, but he was bleeding severely now.

“C’mon, Maurizio. Is that all you have?” Adémar laughed viciously as he sliced Maurizio’s unprotected arm. “Give it up, you lost.”

Maurizio had learned this play a long time ago from his father. His father had said, “If ever you find yourself on the loosing end of a fight, do something they won’t expect. If they know every move you’re making, confuse them. Dance… dance around them. Jump in and out of their range. Make them chase after you. They’ll be too caught up in trying to catch you that they might forget to protect themselves.”

Maurizio wasn’t sure if it would work on Adémar, but he had to try. He jumped backwards and faked a left. He caught Adémar in the side. Lightly, but enough to throw him off balance. Adémar turned, but Maurizio was behind him and cut him in the back.

It didn’t take long for Adémar to catch on to Maurizio’s sly play, but he couldn’t predict his next move. Maurizio hopped back. Then front. Then to the side. Then back as his blade slashed Adémar deeply in the thigh.

Adémar limped as he tried to keep up with Maurizio’s dance. He thought it cowardly to fight like this, to dance, but he couldn’t beat it. His face gradually turned glowing red with the effort and then ghostly white with pain as his leg began to bleed heavily. Adémar closed his eyes for only one moment as the pain rushed up from his leg to his head. Maurizio slashed out with his sword so fast he wasn’t sure he had touched Adémar. But a thin line of red showed on the base of his neck as his eyes opened wide with horror.

Adémar’s hand reached up to his neck, and with glassy eyes he examined his bloody finders. His gaze, now growing distant, fell upon his triumphant antagonist and eventually remorseful murderer. His eyes rested for a moment on the blood-spattered sword and the hand tightly clutching the hilt.

“Well,” Adémar murmured faintly, “you did it, Maurizio. You got me… I hope you go on and live with this haunting regret all your life of how you unjustly killed an innocent man.”

Maurizio glared unmoved at him as he fell, bleeding, to his knees and struggled for breath. “Unjustly killed an innocent man,” he sneered. “You were once a good person, Adémar, but you are no longer worthy of that praise. You deserve the death I granted you with. It’s merciful compared to what you should be punished with.”

Adémar lay dying at Maurizio’s feet, and he grasped his ankle. His eyes were wide with suffering, and with his final breath he said, “I curse you Maurizio.”

Maurizio watched as his eyes slowly fluttered shut and felt the grip of his fingers loosen. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and ran freely from his neck as his hand fell limply to the ground, fingers slightly curled inward.

“I must leave you, now,” he said. “May whoever finds you leave you to rot, leave your body to the rats.” His gaze lingered one final moment as he sheathed his mortal weapon of destruction. No remorse filled his mind as his feet darted quietly over the cobblestone street from the dead body of his once friend, now forever enemy, Adémar.

Now this was a strange night, full of coincidental crossing of lives. Or maybe not. Destiny often works in mysterious ways. There was yet one more set of eyes that witnessed this horrific scene, and a scheme of such perfect detail began forming. It was a scheme that, unintended, changed the course of history and brought together two destined lives.

CHAPTER 1

AT FIRST

WIND rustled the spring leaves as it blew across the lonely land. It gusted over fields and forests and people and places. But here only a solitary figure stood, silky black curls lightly lifted by the breeze. The sun’s weak rays of first light began to show over the freshly rained upon tall grass that rolled like the sea with the soft breaths of wind.

Behind her, stood a stone castle, majestic as the sun revealed it from the dark. Tall towers and strong walls gave the undeniable impression of power and authority.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun as her hair was teased by the breeze. The morning was cool and fresh and smelled of rain. A wonderful scent that was, and it gave such a feeling that nothing else could. Against her leg and under her dress she felt a leather strap. Her delicate hand pressed to her leg. Below her knee was strapped a small sword. Not a single soul knew of its presence, but it defiantly reminded her of its concealed company.

Farther down a dirt road, over the hill, walked a man. By his side hung a sheathed sword, and beneath his coat was a dagger. He walked with his head up, eyes looking forward, not only as to what was over the next hill, but to the future. Unknown to his distant mind, he was soon to walk upon destiny. A destiny that would change his life as well as endanger and enliven it. A destiny that would test his patience and determination, and in the finality better his character and his mindset.

On the hill, the young lady’s mind wandered back to a few months ago. Her brother Adémar had left to go a school. She smiled warmly as she was reminded of pleasant memories of her older brother. He was the one who had taught her to sword fight. He said she was to only use the sword in self-defense. Yesterday, what she would remember as a horrid day of her life, they had received news that Adémar had been killed, unjustly murdered along with many others. A crazy man had begun haphazardly slaughtering people, and supposedly Adémar had tried to stop him but got killed.

Her face shadowed with grief. Grief that felt like a wound on which salt was poured upon. Her brother had been loved dearly by all who knew him. He was known as a gentleman, courteous and compassionate. His forever goal was to always help those in need around him. Why someone would eradicate him from the world, no one could guess. A stray tear fell from her bright green eye.

Suddenly, she froze. Her eyes darted and clung in the direction of the road. Footsteps. She knew of no one who would be coming that day, and with the recent suspicions of mutiny in the castle, you couldn’t be too cautious.

As she tentatively crept to the roadside, she gently pushed the blossoming tree branches from her face.

The man stopped and let his gaze rest upon the majestic stone castle. The town, protected by a stone wall, bustled with early morning life in front of him. He had yet to enter in the gates.

He turned his head and glanced up the waist-high bank alongside the road. Atop the hill were small beautifully flowering trees. The delicious fragrance swirled through the air, and the petals littered the ground. Wonderful sign of spring, he smiled to himself.

As he returned his gaze once again to the road, he was attacked from behind and found himself face flat in the dirt. He braced himself for the vicious beating he was bound to receive. Nothing happened.

He turned his head and looked into the gorgeous face of a woman. Startled, he began to sit up, and then noticed the sword pointing directly at his neck.

“Friend or foe,” the woman asked coldly, delicately balancing the sword.

The man noted that she was young and exuberantly beautiful. Her black curls framed her green-eyed face. The strange green of those eyes reminded him of a cat, a pretty black cat. Her dress suggested she was of royalty, but her manner, that of a knight. Her well-proportioned form stood firmly on the ground before the man. His voice was lost in awe of her.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked the speechless young man as she stared unwaveringly into his face.

His voice returned, “Your baliff has asked me to come. I am to speak to your lord.”

She pushed the point of the sword beneath his chin and lifted his head. “I missed your name.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Maurizio. Is it accepted in this place for a woman such as yourself to wield such a weapon?”

Her emotionless face still showed no expression as she answered, “Why would I have it?” She paused, “Stand up.”

As he prepared to stand, Maurizio slyly reached for the hilt of his own sword. Before his attacker could react, he swung his shining blade and struck her rapier with a mighty force. It flew, shimmering, through the air, landing aside a tree. The lady turned to retrieve, and Maurizio put his blade warningly to her neck.

She didn’t move, only glared fiercely at him. “I am a friend, I assure you,” he told her, “but a knight cannot allow his skills to be shadowed by those of a lady.”

She still didn’t offer even a smile of understanding much less of friendship.

“Now Miss, who are you that graces me with your presence?”

Her cold cat-like eyes finally showed a little light. “My name is Shamara, and I am the lord’s daughter.”

“Shamara,” he replied, “you can reclaim your weapon upon an agreement of peace.”

“Peace then it is.” She picked up her sword and held it by her side as she stood in front of Maurizio. He again found himself mesmerized by her astounding beauty.

“Well, get on with it,” she spoke, pointing with the sword, “The castle’s that way.”

In form of a gentleman, he held out a bent arm, “Shall I escort the Lady to the gate?”

“I should think not. I’ll walk by my own strength and direction, if you please.”

He nodded his head in silent agreement and stepped forward, with the lovely lady following after him.

Shamara strode behind this man who claimed to be a knight. His fighting skills were certainly believable, but something about him was - odd. It was something she couldn’t quite pick out from his demeanor.

But there was something.

Something-

Strange.

Something she knew she couldn’t trust. But how couldn’t she trust it if she didn’t know what she wasn’t trusting?

It was very easy to get over both inner and outer moats, and through the portcullis, for the gate keepers knew well Shamara and graciously granted her entrance. The dark haired young man with her was given odd, searching looks. He wasn’t recognized, and his penetrating brown-eyed gaze made those it touched feel… nervous, anxious. His tall, muscular frame made the short, scrawny people feel even more vulnerable. With the mix of his distressing stare and his obedience-demanding stature, many of the servants cowered before him.

The knight now followed after the lady as she led him through the stone hallways in the castle. Inside, it was damp and cold. The dimness was broken up by slants of sunlight that shone through slits in the walls.

A familiar figure strode confidently towards them and stopped in front of Shamara. He bowed respectfully to her, “How is the Lady?”

Her polite smile returned his gesture. “Fine, quite. Where is my father? This man whom you summoned to our castle wishes to speak to him.”

The blonde haired man, which Maurizio recognized as Yori, set his eyes upon him. “I see you have accepted my offer.”

Maurizio nodded deferentially.

“Well then,” said the baliff, “the lord will be glad to add another worthy knight to our ranks.” Yori was short in stature, but big on personality. He feared nothing, except death, and sometimes not even that. Straightforward and honest- words that people often used when speaking of him. Others, who knew him well, commented on his ability to act, not only on stage, but anytime. He could always put on a face, whether happy or solemn.

“Pardon me,” Shamara’s voice paused Yori in step, “but what’s the reason for my father wanting yet another knight. Do we not have enough already?”

Yori’s eyes darkened, and his voice became lower. He stepped closer to the lady, “Haven’t you yet heard?” When no response, only expectant gazes, came from the pair, he continued, “There has been talk of mutiny.”

“I have heard,” she replied uneasily, “but what does Etienne expect of it? It must be something worse than of what I’ve been told, if he’s acquiring more knights.”

“You are a bright one, Miss. You fail to notice nothing.” He smiled, but the light in his eyes quickly vanished. “Yes, it is much worse than anybody save your father and I know. We plan to tell no one of what is expected to come, save those few who need to know. I am afraid I am not obliged to speak of the matter to you.”

The conversation between the two kept on, and Maurizio stood silently behind them, listening. Alert and observant, he took in every piece of what he heard and remembered it. He held an uncanny talent for reading people. He could see through whatever mask they held and tell of their true thoughts and desires. Maurizio could sense that there was some secret, more than was being let on, being withheld here, and Yori held the key with which it could be released. He held that key tightly and refused to share that forbidden secret with the lady to whom he spoke.

“Shamara,” Yori continued, “like I said, I’m not obliged to tell you. You will find out soon enough.”

Shamara gave in and gestured for Yori to lead her to where her father waited. Maurizio, face darkened with thought, still followed after the lady.

“Etienne,” said Vernardos, obviously frustrated, “the oats aren’t growing as they should, and we are not going to get a good enough harvest to make it through the winter!”

Still not paying the short-framed steward the attention that he wanted, Etienne answered, “Do what you must and buy whatever is needed.” The lord’s mind seemed to be elsewhere as he and Vernardos sat near the dais, for he didn’t seem at all concerned over the matter that his steward presented.

“My lord,” his voice was strained and desperately trying to remain calm, “if we spend more money to increase the oat harvest, we’ll go broke. But if we don’t do anything our horses will starve!”

Etienne looked down at his hands distractively as he rubbed them together. He didn’t give any answer or suggestion to the steward. It didn’t seem as if he had even heard the complaint at all.

Beginning to loose his temper the steward clenched his teeth, “Etienne?”

Almost as if he was surprised at being spoken to, Etienne jerked up his head, “Y-yes?”

Vernardos sighed exasperatedly, “I’m asking your permission to raise the taxes. I’m not talking permanently but long enough to raise the money to fertilize our oat field properly.”

“Raise the taxes,” the lord muttered ponderingly. Silence filled the Great Hall in which the steward and his lord conversed until Etienne finally responded, “Fine, that’s fine. But mind you Vernardos, only for a little while. The people will be angry at the raised taxes.”

“Yes, my lord, I-”

“My lord!” a voice called out from the entrance to the room, “The knight I summoned has arrived. We would like to speak with you.” Then seeing Vernardos, Yori added, “If that’s alright.”

Etienne tried to clear his mind from all of his problems and listen to what Yori had to say. “Yes Yori, please come in. And Vernardos,” his gaze shifted to the steward, “I grant you your request. I now ask you to leave as I have business with Yori.”

The steward nodded respectfully and exited the Great Hall as Yori, Maurizio, and Shamara entered in. Shamara still held by her side the sword, because she had not yet had the time to put it back in its hiding place. She stayed with the men and risked her father because she wanted to find out what Yori refused to tell her.

As soon as his daughter came in with the baliff, Etienne noted the sword she held by the hilt in her hand. Displeasure clouded his face. “Shamara, I thought I told you to put that wretched thing away and never bring it out again.”

Shamara only looked angrily to the floor as Maurizio’s mocking gaze rested on her. “Sorry father,” she replied.

After a few moments of brooding the Lord said, “Give me the sword. You don’t have the self-control to keep it.”

Shamara’s eyes flashed fire, “No! It’s neither yours nor mine. Adémar gave it to me to keep for him. It’s the last thing he ever gave to me.” She stole a quick glance at Maurizio who was staring wide-eyed at her, but the look vanished instantly when she looked his way.

Etienne’s eyes softened. “Alright, keep it, but I never want to see it in your hand again. Never.”

She nodded, and then turned to leave. Her mind had altered quickly. She didn’t wish to stay, she wanted to get away. At the opposite end of the stone-floored Great Hall was a spiral staircase that disappeared into an opening in the ceiling. Above, was a bed chamber which had once been Adémar’s. Now the room was occupied by her and her younger sister Maleah. Shamara passed by the stairs and made her way to the stables.

As she crossed the grounds on her way, Shamara passed Fouque, the quiet stable boy, as he talked with one of the squires. Fouque, brown hair, blue eyes and all, may have seemed young for the job of keeping horses, but he did very well. The horses seemed to like him, and he had been entrusted the care of many of them. The squire to which he talked was his own age, Dante. Dante had been assigned to Jabari, one of the castle’s knights, for he had recently come of age.

As she neared the young boys, Shamara heard Fouque say to Dante, “And you have told no one?”

Dante spotted Shamara approaching and earnestly whispered something to his companion, who spun swiftly around to face the Lady. Dante looked away from her and down at his feet. “Hello, Miss.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” she addressed them both.

The nodded simultaneously as Shamara inspected them. “Dante, what happened to your eye?” The boy’s eye was bruised and swollen, and he seemed to be trying to hide it from her.

“I fell, Miss,” he said quietly, still avoiding her gaze.

“Ah, yes,” she paused. “Well, I will be on my way.” With no further interaction Shamara took leave of the boys’ conversation, but she caught a tag more of it as she left.

“You lie. (Fouque talking) He’s a bad man… but we can’t do anything. He’ll be found out, though. He can’t keep his secret for long.”

“Did you see that new knight that came today? I don’t like him. I wonder if he’s…” freckle-faced Dante’s voice faded away and mixed with the sounds of the hustle-bustle of the castle.

Oh boys, how they suspect every innocent man of some horrible murder or treason. They know absolutely nothing about Maurizio, though I do have to agree, I don’t like him either. Shamara paused in step and thought. Who had the boys been talking about? What bad man? Oh bother. They are just young boys. What do they know? Why it was only the day before yesterday when Dante came running to Etienne claiming he saw Godwyn the baker with a dead body in a bag. She laughed. That had been quite funny, although Dante had been punished for causing such a riot over nothing.

The boy had come running to the keep, yelling for Etienne at the top of his lungs. When he did find the lord, he told him that he had seen Godwyn carrying a dead body in a bag and dumping it outside the castle walls.

Godwyn was soon confronted by Maverick and Sheridan, two of the knights. He of course gallantly denied any such thing, said it was “merely a large serving of bread with which I terribly messed up the recipe.” He even took the knights outside and showed them to the pile of rejected bread.

The bag had been there, but no body. Poor Dante, he was humiliated at his mistake, but still insisted he had seen it. The boy had quite the imagination, and with whispers of mutiny among the people, he had likely let a daydream go to his head.

She entered the stable and behind her a voice called, “Good day, My Lady.” She turned to see Mortimer, the messenger.

“Good day,” she replied flatly. Without waiting for a response or further talk, she walked down the dusty aisle, with horses on either side. She stopped in front of a palomino, which had her head hung out over the small half-door. Rubbing her affectionately behind the ears, Shamara talked to her. “Nobody understands us, so they, girl?”

Shamara let her hand fall to her side as she gazed at the ground, lost in her sorrowful thoughts. Her father was very restraining on what he allowed his daughter to do. All she longed for was freedom, not the walls of this castle and the confinements of her dress. The corsets limited her movements and her breathing, not allowing her the freedom she craved. It seemed to her that her fast approaching arranged marriage was also concocted by her father to control her.

It was much later when Shamara wandered back to the Great Hall, which she found deserted. Then taking the steps, she entered into her bedroom.

Maleah stood inside the room, with stained glass windows unlike the slit-like windows down lower in the castle. The slit windows were to protect from invasion and arrows being shot through them, but up here there was no such worry.

Two large curtained beds with heavy wooden frames were placed in the room. They each had feather mattresses and beautifully patterned quilts that had been made by their mother before her death. Other small pieces of furniture decorated the large room, which Ara, Shamara’s personal servant, was cleaning. A blue laced curtain could be drawn down the center of the bedroom, giving each girl a private room.

Shamara’s sixteen year old sister furiously brushed her straight brown hair as her blue gray eyes grazed carelessly over her older sister. “Aren’t you going to dress yourself up?” she asked

Confused Shamara replied, “Why?”

“Ferand’s coming this evening.” Her sister smiled teasingly with a romantic hint in her voice.

Ferand, because of riches and royalties, was Shamara’s fiancé. His parents were the proud owners of a castle as well, and that made for the perfect arranged marriage. Once both sets of parents deceased from the world, which Shamara’s mother Reyna had done three years prior from a mysterious illness, the pair would be the lord and lady of not one but two of the grandest castles ever built.

A mental image of tall, muscular Ferand entered Shamara’s mind. His arrogant and conceited smile made her cringe. The way he looked at her, like a prized trophy. Yet, to him, that’s all she was. Shamara was considered more of a valued possession instead of an equal.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

The black horse shifted restlessly under the gently swaying branches of the Weeping Willow tree. It was entirely black except for one small white star on the center of its back, now covered by the saddle on which its rider sat alertly listening for the sound of his approaching comrade. The man’s face was as blank and unreadable as a stone. Slate-gray eyes set on a stern-looking face with a large beak like nose seemed to survey the entire creek bed and low-laying meadow without moving. The only sign of life from him was the occasional unwanted twitch of his left eye. His large rough hands loosely held the reins, but yet he allowed his horse no freedom to eat or move. Both man and beast seemed to melt into the trees, unseen and forever able to hide.

Another horse-back rider silently sidled up to the big black horse. Without casting even a glance the first man asked, “Has the signal been given?”

The man on the smaller bay horse replied, “No, not yet, sir. Our runner gave us a message from the signaler, though. He said he’s having trouble spreading the word and readying our men with the Traitor prowling around. T’was by luck he said that he was able to send this message.”

“How soon can we attack?”

“Soon, I assure you master. Thibaud will-”

“Speak no names!” the man on Big Black said harshly. His reproach was quite, yet with the same affect as a slap across the face.

“Sorry, sir,” he hastily mumbled, “but I’m sure no one’s listening.”

“I don’t care,” the man said through an almost closed mouth, his eye twitching with his anger. “You are to never speak any names unless in camp, and even then only if necessary.” Big Black’s rider became silent as he continued staring unremittingly over across the meadow, seeming to ignore the other man’s presence, but in reality making the man on the bay horse seem like an irrelevant nuisance.

The second man then continued, “The Traitor will soon be exterminated from our ranks, for all our men have been told to take no hostages and that our main purpose is to kill Thi- the Traitor.” He paused. “Can we take a little bit of loot, sir?”

The commanding man considered his request. After a time he answered, “Our purpose is like you said, to kill, but if the chance arises to take a small amount of money or such I say take it. But only a small amount. This is not a raid.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go back to the camp and keep watch for the signal.”

“Where will you be, sir?”

“No business of yours. Do not attack unless I am there and give the command.”

“What if you are not there when the signal is given, sir?”

“I will be there. Now go!”

“Yes, sir.” The man on the bay slipped noiselessly back into the cover of trees, leaving the man on the black staring out into the distance.

The sun came out from behind a cloud and glinted off something far across the meadow, a castle flying the English flag. “You’ll soon be mine, oh castle of such English pride. And when that day comes, you’ll no longer fly an English flag, for you’ll be under Scottish rule at last, but for now I must only annihilate one soul from your stony depths. But you can’t count on me. I’ll be fighting for you.”