Page 93 of The Scot

Chapter 38

“Your men will be surrendered after the king meets with his barons.”

This time, Ulster wore no helm. Unhorsed, standing just inside the gatehouse, the thin man with a slender nose to match responded with a sneer. “He will never do it.”

Terric was inclined to agree.

“Then your men will rot inside Dromsley’s dungeons.”

In truth, Dromsley’s dungeons had not been used, in Terric’s memory. He had no intention of changing that now. The men would not be chained up, but they would be kept as prisoners. Best for Ulster to assume the worst, however—it would work to their advantage.

“By nightfall, any men who remain in the vicinity of my land will join the others.”

Terric did not clarify if he meant the prisoners or Ulster’s men who had died in battle.

“You are a traitor to your sovereign.”

He felt Rory stiffen beside him.

“William is my king,” his brother said.

Ulster snickered. “You fight for a cause not even your own.”

“And you fight for a man who has no cause save his own,” Terric replied.

Ulster was no longer looking at him. Instead, he had shifted his attention to Berkshire, who stood next to Rory. Terric hadn’t seen him during battle and had been gratified to learn he still lived. His men, though few in number, had fought well.

“Traitor.”

Berkshire said nothing, and Terric admired him even more for doing what he could not, refusing to let Ulster goad him.

“Where is Langham?” Terric asked.

The question surprised Ulster. “Langham? That coward will answer to the king.”

It was all he said, but it was enough for Terric.

“Nightfall,” he said, turning from the man who, in attacking Dromsley, was ultimately responsible for the death of his marshal.

Terric feared Ulster’s attack on Dromsley might have also been the end of Lord Stanton—news he was loath to share with Roysa and her sister if it proved true. Something truly remarkable happened then . . .

Stanton strode toward them with an easy confidence that made him question if a battle had truly taken place. Although his mail was covered in blood, Roysa’s father appeared as calm as if he were sitting in his hall, awaiting a meal.

“Bastard,” Stanton spat at Ulster, who did not respond. “Kind of you to remain alive.” Stanton stopped in front of them. “Berkshire. I saw your colors and must confess to my surprise. I thought you were John’s man.”

“Not since Bouvines,” Berkshire responded.

“I would speak with you, Lord Stanton.” Terric clasped his brother on the shoulder then, telling him without speaking what would happen next.

“About Roysa? You’ve my approval, brother. Though you do not need it.”

“No,” he agreed. “I do not. But am glad for it anyway. ’Tis a decision that may well alter both my course and your own.” He watched as injured men continued to be carried past them through the courtyard, wishing to say more. To tell Rory he may well stay here, at Dromsley, relinquishing his position as chief to his brother. But he needed to know Rory was, indeed, ready.

“I will finish here,” Rory said.

Terric nodded his thanks.

Once he and Stanton were separated from the others, Terric didn’t hesitate. It would be a long night, and much needed his attention. “What happened?”