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atop the stone tower walls. None in the dirt packed streets either. No mingling peasants. Simply no one. Not even a chicken or a stray cat.
    And yet the sounds were all around them. Where was the battle taking place?
    “ Stay here, Bella,” her father ordered.
    “No, don’t go! Let us go back to England!”
    “We cannot, my love. Swear to the Holy Father you will stay here. I will see what is happening and return for you. You’ll be safe here, away from the fray.”
    There was no arguing with her father. She’d only to heed his warning. “I swear.”
    Her father ordered a dozen guards to surround her, then with another dozen men took off through the village toward the direction of the melee.
    “He rides to his death,” she said, panicking. Her lips trembled, but she forced herself not to cry from her distress.
    “Nay, my lady, your father is a great knight. ’Tis probably only a few villagers intent on revenge for the fires we passed.”
    The guards nudged her to stand in the shadows of the thick stone village wall so their backs were covered. She prayed her father’s men were right.
    Ironic that she’d been wondering how often the castle was attacked and that it should be so upon her arrival. She would beg her father to take her back to England—appeal to his need to protect her. As she sat with the solid strength of her mount between her thighs, she realized she’d never been so close to danger. Her father and brother had kept her and Aliah well protected from danger. She did not want to stay here. Did not want to bring children into this world.
    But her pleas to the baron would have to wait. In the meantime, she had to keep herself alive.
    She took the small dagger she kept tucked into her belt and gripped it tight, ready to thrash the blade through anyone who dared to endanger her. If there was one thing her brother Samuel had taught her, it was how to fight. Arbella was not a skilled warrior by any stretch of the imagination, but she would not let someone take her life without a fight. Her own thoughts startled her. The entirety of the trip from England to Stirling, she’d been set on her impending death. Giving into a fate she thought she had no control over. She was stronger than that. She could endure. If it was her fate to be set inside this barbaric land, then she would take Fate by the horns and ride it without falling off, maybe only sliding a little.
    The shouting grew closer from over the wall and her father’s men pressed in on her, their horses tight against hers, she could feel the heat of them on her legs. Her mare bounced her head and Arbella tried to release the tight grip she held on the reins. The men said nothing, only listening, their swords at the ready. She too held her dagger rigid.
    The shouts were not in English. The language was guttural , and she understood not a word only exacerbating her anxiety of the unknown.
    “Scots. ” One of the men confirmed her fears. They were speaking Gaelic, a language she’d never bothered to learn. If she were to survive this day, being ignorant to the language was a fault she’d be quick to remedy.
    “Do you know what they are saying?” she asked, peering all around. There was still no sight of them, but they sounded ever closer. Shouting, cheering.
    “Nay, my lady, only that ’tis Gaelic.”
    The thunking of boots marching and the scraping of metal as it swished in scabbards echoed close by. Saint’s above ! The rebels would be upon them soon. And they sounded blood-thirsty. She wished she knew what they were saying.
    Before she took another breath , blood and gore covered barbarians threaded through the gate. They had not yet spotted Arbella and her men and she prayed they would keep on their way and not turn around. The site of them was heinous. Sure to give her nightmares for weeks to come. They were tall, wore plaids loosely over their hips, a scrap thrown over their bare chests. Boots were tied to just below their exposed knees.