Page 32 of Ena’s Surrender

“I know.”

He took another bite of his bread and chewed it thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed at her. “Ye’ll go without me to save him.”

It wasn’t even a question. He knew her too well.

She nodded, resolute. “Aye.”

He sighed and returned the remainder of his bread to the pot, moving slowly so as to liberate his feet from Moggy. “We’d best go now then.”

Ena’s heart stammered its beat. “Now?”

“Did ye want to wait?” He lifted his brows.

“Nay, but I dinna…” Emotion tightened in her throat again. “I mean, I had hoped, but I dinna expect ye to actually offer to help. I thought I’d have to beg ye.”

“I’ll no’ ever leave ye to fight a battle without me, Ena.” He ruffled her hair. “Ye know that.”

Ena swallowed and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“I’ve some English armor that I stole.” He opened a chest set against the back wall near their beds and rummaged about. “I thought we might use it to surprise them.” He shrugged. “I guess we will now, aye?”

Ena grinned at him. “Aye, we will.”

As soon as they were dressed in the armor, they were on their way back into England with a plan at the ready. Bran had predicted the guards would be preoccupied with the remnants of the attack. She hoped he was correct.

They skirted the village by way of the surrounding forest. Even there, the odor of blood and death was apparent beneath the smoke from burning homes and the natural, wet earth of the woods.

Englishmen ran about like ants from a kicked hill. But then, their hill had been kicked, hadn’t it? By Scots who had exacted upon their enemies what had been done to them. War was ugly, with no winners. Not when everyone lost so much.

Bran put a hand up and stopped. “Here.” They dismounted and tied their horses to a nearby tree. He led her to the forest’s edge, stopping when they were concealed by the shadows, and scanned the area.

The English armor Ena wore held the musty odor of stale sweat and the helm was too big. But it was a worthy disguise. They could manage their way into the castle. Hopefully into the dungeons.

To Renault.

“Now.” Bran strode out from the thick brush, his pace causal.

Ena followed suit, mimicking his gait. He had said to act normal, as though they belonged there. In general, people constantly glancing over one’s shoulders were the ones to get caught.

Ena didn’t even think it was possible to look over her shoulder without the helm twirling around backward on her face. Even with her world wobbling about in the narrow vision of her visor, she managed to keep up with her brother.

Kershopefoot Castle rose up before them, mere steps away. Her heart slammed with force, pumping energy into her veins. If Bran’s plan didn’t work, they’d be captured. No one would rescue Renault. They would all be put to death.

Her rapid breathing echoed in the metal helm, reverberating in her ears and fueling her panic. They strode past several men running toward the village.

“Tell them we need more men outside,” one said as he passed Bran.

Bran nodded, then caught the arm of the first man he saw. “More men are needed out front,” he said in gruff voice that mimicked the English accent. He’d used it before in mockery of English lords, to elicit a laugh or two from his reivers.

Now, it was a way to keep them safe.

They continued walking casually without calling notice. They did this straight through the castle’s entrance, through halls with more opulence than Ena had ever seen. Tapestries glittered on the wall with gilt thread, fires were lit in every hearth—even ones with no one nearby to enjoy the heat—and carved wood furniture sat in the hallway, polished to a high gleam. Why would anyone even need a table in a hallway?

More than anything was the heavy scent of roasting meat and baking bread that hung in the air like sin. And it was sinful the way the rich lived, how they had so much.

Another turn led them down a dark hallway to where the dungeon gaped open. She was unsure how Bran knew the way with such certainty but didn’t dare ask. He stopped in front of a wooden door and pressed the latch. It swung open to reveal a staircase that descended into pitch black. A damp, dank smell rose from it, like the icy breath of an unnatural beast.

Bran lifted a torch from its sconce and lifted his brows at her. Without needing to say a word, she knew he was seeking her confirmation that she was prepared for whatever they might find. For there was no guarantee Renault would be alive. He might have been tortured; left for dead, broken and bleeding.