Page 53 of The Scot

“We could hold out for months, mayhap even a year. But by then—”

“By then John will have won,” Stanton said with a nod. “A siege here would be akin to a victory for him. Word will spread,” Stanton said.

“Our allies will worry,” he agreed. “If the right ones abandon our cause . . .”

“It will be lost.” Stanton crossed his arms as if surprised no one had gone to the trouble of arguing with him.

Satisfied, Terric looked pointedly at Gilbert, who had been against his plan from the beginning.

“Unfortunately, it may still be our best hope.”

Terric’s smile fled. Stanton could not mean . . .

“By your account, it does not appear they are waiting on the weather,” the earl began. “At least, we cannot assume as much.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “We have been moving forward with plans to move out within the next few days. As a precaution. Though our scouts have not reported anyone approaching, we will set up camp outside the castle walls in an area to our advantage.”

“My daughters?”

“We considered having Lance escort them to you—”

“But if delaying the meeting was a ruse for more time, we must also consider the possibility John will also send men from the west.” Which was exactly the conclusion Terric and Lance had reached after days of discussing the matter.

“Aye. Which means your daughters would be safest here.”

“You do not have the numbers to defeat Ulster if he brings reinforcements.”

Terric would not allow anyone, not even Roysa’s father, to alter what he knew was the best plan they could possibly have devised under the circumstances.

“Unfortunately, there is no other . . .”

He froze.

A memory had slammed into him—something his friend Conrad had said to him the day everything had changed. The day his sister’s trusting nature had been shattered. The day he’d vowed to avenge his sister by striking against King Henry’s line.

“I failed my sister,” he’d said to Conrad, the one who’d ultimately slain the bastard who’d tried to hurt Cait. “The king’s man knocked me down as if I were a young girl.”

“Failed?” Conrad had said. “The man is dead. Your sister safe. If you need help to succeed, then take it. Burn a bridge, if you must, but take the win.”

“Burn a bridge?” one of the other boys had asked. Terric could not remember if it had been Lance or Guy.

“Aye. Burn a bridge. My grandfather once held off an attack by burning the bridge over which his enemies needed to travel. There are many ways of defeating your enemies. The direct approach isn’t always best.”

Burn a bridge.

He had his answer!

“We will burn a bridge,” he announced, his tone brooking no argument.

Lance shot him a curious look—although Terric couldn’t be sure if it was because he remembered the conversation too or because he thought Terric had gone mad. Everyone else simply stared at him.

“The Watershed Bridge,” he clarified. “Without it, Ulster and Langham will have to travel far north or south to make the crossing.”

“Or risk losing men crossing it before the thaw,” Lance said.

“Either way,” he continued, “they will be delayed.”

“Giving me time to return with men,” Stanton added.

“And my own men time to arrive from Bradon Moor.”

That seemed to surprise Stanton. He needn’t ask why—this was an English sort of argument, and they were men from Scotland. But they were his men. “Your clansmen are coming?”

They should already be here.

But Terric chose to keep that thought to himself. “Aye,” he said simply, not willing to discuss the situation.

“Very well.” Stanton stood up straight.

Terric looked from Lance to Gilbert. Neither appeared to have an argument with the plan. Although they would likely object to his next point.

“And I’ll be the one to burn it down.”