The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(114)

That wasn’t what he saw.

Douglas swore, and they exchanged a glance. From this vantage, nothing appeared to be amiss. There were no blackened burned-out shells of buildings and no bodies piled up along the street. Indeed, although it was quieter than usual, he could see that there were a few people milling about.

Robbie’s heart started to hammer.

As they drew closer, he could see a few signs of an attack. Broken shutters, tumbled fences, a few shattered pots and trampled gardens, but it appeared the whole-scale devastation that seemed certain from the boy’s account had not occurred.

Word of their arrival had spread quickly, and the villagers began to gather along the high street as they approached. To his shock and relief, he saw Deirdre and the other women coming out of one of the buildings.

“I don’t understand,” Douglas said.

“Neither do I,” Robbie answered grimly, but he had the first inkling that he’d nearly made a big mistake.

From Deirdre and the village reeve he learned just how horrible a one. The lad had been correct in what he’d seen; he just had not put it together correctly. The first party of soldiers—de Spenser and his men—had arrived ahead of Clifford’s soldiers. Sir Henry and his soldiers had cut down nearly a score of villagers and were pulling Deirdre and the other women out of the cottage where they’d taken refuge, to tie them up and rape them for their crime of whoring with the rebels. They would have all been killed and the village set to flame—there was no doubt of that, Deirdre said—but Clifford and his men arrived and put a stop to the carnage. At first they all assumed he was there to raid as well. A few villagers tried to resist before they understood that Clifford was actually there to save them. Clifford arrested de Spenser and his men and took them back to Berwick for punishment.

Robbie listened to the accounts of the attack with a growing sense of shame, realizing the magnitude of the mistake he’d nearly made and what it might have cost him.

Had he really almost destroyed the only place that had ever been a home to Rosalin? Razed an entire village without cause? Christ, he felt ill. She would have never forgiven him. For good reason. What the hell had he been thinking? Thank God he’d realized the truth before it was too late. Before he’d done something that could not be undone.

He was suddenly anxious to return. More than anxious. There was a voice in the back of his head shouting “hurry.” He needed to get back and apologize to her, and aye, probably to Seton, too. It seemed he did need a conscience. For today had shown him just how far he’d strayed from the young warrior who’d raised his sword alongside William Wallace to fight against injustice.

On the third night after riding out of Park Castle, Rosalin and Sir Alex paused on the south bank of the river Tweed, looking across the wooden bridge to the steep White Wall on the opposite bank and the aptly named “Breakneck Stairs,” which wound up the hill to Berwick Castle.

She turned to look at the man who had risked so much to bring her here. He’d proved more of a friend than she could ever have imagined, safely leading her through the harrowing war-torn countryside.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “You can still leave me here and return.”

Sir Alex’s jaw was locked in grim determination, as it had been since the moment she’d come to him asking to be taken back to her brother. She’d been trying to talk him out of what he intended since the first night, when they’d stopped to sleep a few hours and she’d watched in horror as he took a knife to his arm. The arm where he had—or used to have—a marking much like the one Robbie had. Now the lion rampant tattoo had been obliterated by deep scores and slashes through his flesh.

As she suspected, Alex had been part of Bruce’s phantoms. The markings would identify him as such, and he knew what the English would do to him to get him to identify the other members of the secret band of warriors.

She suspected excising the markings from his flesh would be far easier than excising his friends from his memories. She knew how difficult this was for him. She could see it in his increasingly darkening expression with every mile they passed. He was resolved, and in many ways just as stubborn as Robbie. She just prayed Sir Alex didn’t come to regret what he was about to do. There would be no going back. For either of them.

He shook his head. “I’ve made my decision. I’ve had enough of the secret warfare and pirate raids. God knows I’ve tried, but I no longer have the stomach for it. Half the time I felt like I was fighting against my own side anyway. Maybe this way it will do some good.”

“What do you mean?” How could him turning against his friends do them any good?

“Maybe I can help end this war by working from the other direction. Instead of fighting against the English, I can fight from within—through reason and negotiation.”

It was a lofty goal and hard for Rosalin to argue against, as she was leaving for similar reasons. But although she could understand Alex’s decision, she knew Robbie and the others would not. Whatever the reasons, Robbie would see Sir Alex’s defection as a personal betrayal. And on top of her leaving, she suspected that it was going to be a bitter blow for him to swallow—whether he would admit it or not.

Why was she still worried about Robbie’s feelings when he’d treated hers with so little regard? Even though she knew that she was doing what was right, it didn’t make the heartbreak any easier. If only her love could be as easily cut from her heart as a tattoo. She would gladly take the temporary physical pain over the ongoing desolation of hopelessness. Wounds from a knife she would recover from. But she knew she would never completely recover from this, and the scars, she feared, would be both lasting and deep.