Page 1 of Ena’s Surrender

1

February 1333

Castleton, Scotland

Ena Davidson gripped the horse’s reins with one hand and self-consciously tucked the other hand into her helm to ensure her long, dark hair hadn’t escaped.

No one could know she was a woman, much less Bran Davidson’s sister.

A village came into view in the distance with Kershopefoot Castle towering behind it. It was an audacious move to steal from the village on the outskirts of the English Middle March Warden’s home, but the food here was plentiful. And they were in sore need of food.

Stealing wasn’t the ideal way to live. She knew that. They all knew that. But one’s conscience had never been located in one’s stomach. A growl from her empty belly emphasized the sentiment.

Scents of village life reached out, beckoning them with the smoky fires and the tantalizing aroma of roasted dinners. Crispy skin that would crackle between her teeth, the succulent meat tender and juicy beneath. Ena’s mouth watered and the growl of hunger turned to a snarl.

The unfairness of it burned inside her. The English supped on fresh meat while on the other side of the border, the Scots starved to death. But then, that was how it always was. The English stole from the Scottish. The rich took from the poor.

Around her, the riders increased their speed, drawing them toward the enticing scents of food at a promising pace. Shadows of an overcast sky blanketed their movements, as if the night was on the side of the Scottish rather than the English. They made up a considerable force. At least three score.

They were there for livestock, for food, and as always—for vengeance.

The closer they came, the faster Ena’s heart pounded. This was what she had been waiting for. To do her own share of the reiving so the danger didn’t always fall on Bran’s shoulders alone. So that there would be enough food for him this time too.

The first horses skirted the edges of the huts, making their way to where the cattle were penned. One of them was Bran’s horse, taking the lead. But then, he was always at the front, with an army of men willing to follow.

Ena’s horse slipped silently between the still homes. The residents within all slept soundly, peasants lost in an exhausted slumber after a grueling day of working for their lord, their food long since eaten, even as those decadent smells hung in the air.

She held back slightly and allowed several others to whip past her. There would be men guarding the cattle. Men who would have to die. She would sneak her way into a reiving to help steal, but she would not—could not—bring herself to witness a man being slain. Even an English one. Even after what they’d done to her. Even if it made her a coward.

Instinctively, she touched a hand to her collarbone where the beginning of her scar marred the visible skin there. Except her fingers didn’t meet her warm flesh. They touched the thick fabric of her padded gambeson.

She’d come here with purpose.

It was time.

She joined the others swiftly and ignored the dead men slumped in the shadows. Not that it ought to bother her. She ought to look at them with vengeful glee, to know the English had lost several more from their evil forces. She ought to, but she could not.

Coward.

She leapt from her horse on shaking legs, her hands trembling with excitement and anticipation and hunger. But not fear. She was well-trained and could handle herself. What’s more, she had been waiting for this moment for the last several years. Since a reiver had been allowed to have his wife accompany him on a raid.

Where one woman had tread, others might follow. Hopefully with a less mortal outcome than that first attempt.

The pathways between the homes within the village were shadowed in the absence of moonlight, but Ena’s eyes had adjusted well enough to make out the large structures of the huts, as well as their doors. It would be a quick thing to enter a cottage quietly and pad through the small space to find any food that had not yet been eaten. It wouldn’t be difficult to locate. Not when she was so hungry. She’d be able to find it simply by following the scent.

But as swift and tempting as it was, the task would be too risky.

The groan of straining ropes cut through the silence and several cattle lowed. In the scant light, Ena could make out the reivers rushing the cattle from their pen. Her pulse pounded at the victory. At how easy it had been.

Her body hummed with unspent energy, charged to a purpose that had not been needed. It left her nerves tight, her muscles tense, every part of her on high alert.

Movement in the shadows between the simple huts caught her attention. She snapped her attention in that direction, straining to see in the murky darkness. A glint flashed in the muted moonlight, but she knew only metal would gleam like that. Only a dagger or a sword, something with a blade.

Without thought, she ran forward while drawing her dagger from its sheath. The man bellowed out a loud cry and a wave of soldiers and villagers rushed from between the huts—an entire army ready to attack.

Ena reached the man the same time as the crash of weapons clanged behind her. She gritted her teeth and swiped her blade at his middle. He leapt back from her assault.

She crouched lower to the ground, centering her slight weight to prepare her for attacking and defending alike. Her opponent roared and raced toward her, slamming into her. She was knocked from her feet and the ground slapped hard at her side. It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen in a fight.