Page 142 of Come the Morning

“Aye, that I will,” Ulric promised bitterly. “The woman, Renfrew, is mine. But not now. Waryk and his troops are marching up the hill. They are ready to attack.”

Renfrew instantly rose, dragging her to her feet.

“We need to prepare for battle. What are you doing with her?”

“She is part of the battle, you fool, don’t you see?” Renfrew demanded. “Our very best defense.”

At the rise in the slope leading to the hill, Waryk assembled his archers. They let free a single volley.

There was screaming among Ulric and Renfrew’s troops; then suddenly, a warning rang out.

“Be warned, Waryk! Arrows will pierce what you have come to retrieve!” Renfrew’s mocking voice called out to them.

The forces at the crest of the hill moved, and Waryk caught his breath.

Renfrew had used his wife well. She was tied to a pole set deeply into the ground at the top of the hill. His men had blocked her during the first volley. If another rain of arrows fell, she would surely be struck.

“Fall back!” Waryk commanded.

And his archers, their shields lifted high, obeyed.

The sun rose, but the wind was cold. Her arms hurt, for they had been dragged over her head, and her feet barely touched the ground. She’d had no water, no food. As the hours went by, she began to wish that she’d been struck by one of the first arrows, she was in such pain.

But Renfrew had warned that she was there, and the Scots had retreated.

Renfrew and Ulric waited …

The Scots would regroup, come back.

But they didn’t. The troops grew restless, and Renfrew rode by frequently, shouting that they must be prepared. His warriors would straighten in their position again, but warriors were meant to fight, not wait. As time passed again, their vigilance waned. She was vaguely aware of men gaming, of runes being cast on the earth, of drinking and conversation as time passed.

Dusk fell.

The Viking and Norman troops began to break discipline, moving about the camp. They were amused, certain that Waryk’s forces were beaten back by the prospect of killing her.

She began to lose faith herself, in agony, cold, weary …

She looked out across the field. She thought that she was seeing things, for suddenly out of the shadows, shapes began to come at them.

Closer and closer. They blanketed the landscape.

She thought at first that the defenders didn’t see them. Then Ulric, seated on his mount near the pole, suddenly murmured, “What in the name of all the gods … Archers!”

A volley of arrows followed. A baaing sound filled the night. Shadows jumped, and shadows fell.

“Archers!” Ulric shouted again.

But Renfrew strode to his side. “Stop! We are firing at sheep,” he said contemptuously. “Nothing but sheep.”

Mellyora tried to stare through the shadows.

“Ah, my beauty!” Renfrew walked to her and touched her cheek, saying softly, “Sorry, my lady, you are not saved. They are nothing but sheep. Poor lady. Are you weary, in pain? Perhaps even my bed will look good to you this night!”

“Sheep!” Ulric swore from his mount. “More of them, hundreds of them!”

Indeed, there were. Frightened, maddened, and by the hundreds, they came. They’d been shot down, but now, there were more. Sheep were running, leaping, and baaing everywhere.

And more came over the hilltop, terrified, jumping on the men, causing chaos. The warriors swore; they dropped their weapons to fend off the sheep. Some were laughing, making fun of Scottish shepherds, men who couldn’t even keep track of their animals. They began to chase after the creatures, trying to catch them with their hands. Some men shouted that there were enough dead ones, others shouted that they were a diversion from the endless waiting.