Page 89 of Marin’s Promise

“Forgive me,” he said.

Her eyes widened, but he was too quick, and she too surprised, for her to stop him. He fled the room, slammed the door shut and clapped the beam over it, locking it into place. She screamed on the other side, begging him to let her out.

“Forgive me, Marin.” His throat hurt to speak, but he pushed past it. “I canna lose ye.”

She pounded at the door in response, but he'd already turned his back and was heading in the direction of the readied troops. Anice held the sisters in place, her head bowed as she spoke in low tones to them. It was odd to see the second eldest sister without her large beast who had been left within the keep to ensure his safety in the upcoming battle.

Bran pulled his focus from the sisters and steeled himself for the battle ahead. He had the portcullis raised, and together with Sir Richard and Drake at his sides, he led the men out on to the open field to fight.

In the distance, the Grahams leapt to their horses, ready to fight at the moment's notice. One broke off at a full gallop in the opposite direction. Most likely to get reinforcements.

Damn.

“Sir Richard,” Bran bellowed.

The soldier nodded and veered his horse out of the group to follow the lone reiver. Though older, Richard was the fastest rider they had, and Bran knew he'd rather die than see the castle fall. He would not fail.

He could not. For if Graham reinforcements arrived, they were all dead.

* * *

Marin poundedon the door until her arms ached, and still she continued to slam her fists against the solid wood. Had the window not been so narrow, she would have climbed through it. She'd actually tried but had found it impossible to even wriggle her torso through.

Her cries were left unanswered: first when Bran walked away, then as the thunder of footsteps passed as the men marched to their waiting horses. The groan of the portcullis opened, and all those heavy feet and hooves painstakingly made their way out beyond the castle walls.

Marin had switched to kicking the door then, slamming her foot against the solid frame repeatedly until her thighs burned. Each solid hit let in a seam of light, but never resulted in the door swinging open.

The groan of the portcullis sounded again, followed by the hearty thunk of the gate closing. Only then, in the absence of sound and soldiers was there a clatter of wood at the door before it creaked open.

Anice stood in the open doorway, her face pinched with anxious uncertainty. “Forgive me, Sister.”

“How could you?” The cut of betrayal gave her words volume enough to echo out over the empty cobblestones.

Anice flinched. But Marin pushed past her to the gates, which were fully closed.

Marin knew well enough they wouldn't be opening again. Not until after the battle. If they won.

She stalked toward the stairs leading up to the battlements where the archers stood at the ready. If she could not be part of the battle, she would at least watch it play out.

“I couldn't lose you too,” Anice called out to her.

Marin stopped.

“We lost Papa,” Anice said. “I lost Timothy. I couldn't…” her voice cracked and tugged at a wounded place in Marin's soul.

“I couldn't lose you too,” Anice repeated softly.

“And so, you have not.” Marin said it gently but resumed her trek to the battlements. Such offenses were not easily forgiven. Not when one skilled soldier could turn the favor of the battle.

Cat stood at the head of the archers; her slender figure so small beside them that she appeared far younger than her sixteen years. She cast a glance back at Marin, her eyes wide with anxiety. “They’re coming.”

Marin rushed to the crenulations in time to see the two forces charging at one another, horses at the front and men on foot running at a wild pace in the back. Leading the band of men was Bran. He rode on his horse with easy confidence, his face fixed toward his enemy.

The summer breeze blew against the grass, sending waves rippling over the long blades. Overhead the sky was a perfect blue with clouds like stretched wool. It was a day for a banquet beneath a copse of trees, not for a battle and death.

Shouts rose up from either side, carried to her on the wind. It sparked her warrior's blood and sent her pulse racing. Her muscles ached with the need to be there with her men, racing toward the enemy. She clenched her hands into fists and pressed them hard into the stonework of the wall, as if that might somehow ease her angst.

The men increased their pace as they got closer. Marin tensed.