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They were nearly naked. ’Twas indecent. Their flesh was covered in blood and muck, their arms, chests and faces painted in pagan lines and circles.
    ’ Twas a mob of them, she lost count after twenty-seven as they swarmed through the gate.
    The Mowbray men did not make a sound, most likely praying the mob would move on without catching sight of their small group. If the Scots turned around, it was highly unlikely she and her men would survive. Hands trembling, she looked down at her meager dagger. She wished Samuel had taught her how to wield a sword. His lessons had been about close combat fighting, hand to hand, and not for a time like this, more for if she was attacked while in her garden or picking crab apples and walnuts in the forest.
    She looked up at the sky, sending a prayer to God that he might see fit to spare her today.
    Then all hell broke loose. One of the rebels caught sight of her, shouted something in Gaelic and the whole horde turned their way.
    “Damnation,” one of her father’s men hissed.
    “The rebels are on their feet, let us go!” another shouted.
    One of the knights grabbed her reins and as one they kicked their horses into a cantor in the opposite direction of the rebels. From behind loud shouts and battle cries sounded, a pike was thrown hitting the flank of one of her men’s horses. She shrieked and wrenched to the side. The horse reared and dumped the knight onto the ground. Arbella wanted to stop, but the guard holding her reins urged her forward.
    “Do not stop! Say a pray er for his soul!”
    She watched with despair as the rebels descended on the knight and devoured him like ants on a piece of fruit. But they didn’t remain there as she hope d. Nay, they came running after her.
    “Come on!” her guards shouted various orders. “To the forest beyond the bridge!”
    Arbella glanced toward the bridge, equally full of Scots fighting English knights. “We’ll never make it past!”
    But there was nowhere else to go. Rebels behind them, a solid wall to the right and a churning river wrapping around to the left. The bridge was their only chance.
    “We must try, my lady.”
    She said nothing, knowing she had no choice and knowing her men were about to die in service to her family.
    She breathed deep and primed herself for the onslaught. She scanned the battling knights for signs of her father, but he was not in sight. Dear Lord in Heaven she hoped he was safe. Only a few more yards and they would be in the thick of it, but the opening of the bridge was clear. If they could get through these thwacking, raving rebels and knights they would be safe.
    Their horses thundered into the thick of it , pounding against the earth, knocking men to the ground. Her knights wielded their swords with skill, eliminating all threats, but the mass of people slowed them down. Sweat trickled a cold path down her spine. Her thighs gripped tight to her mare.
    Arbella was not prepared for how loud a battle was. The clang of metal made her ears ring, the shouts of pain and rage made her gasp for breath . The scent of blood, the press of bodies dizzied her. Nausea threatened to make her lose her paltry breakfast.
    The rebels who’d trailed them caught up, and she heard from somewhere within t he barrage, someone shouted in English, “Get the lady!”
    She sucked in her breath and struck out blindly with her dagger, hitting one rebel in the arm, and another on the ear. Still they grappled for her, their filthy hands ripping a t her skirts, cloak.
    “Get away!” she shouted, while all around her, one by one her men were slaughtered. Panic set in. Tears of fear and rage burned her eyes. She managed to wrench an axe from a weakened rebel’s hands and hit him on the head with it. The horror of the things she was doing in order to survive would never be forgotten.
    Her skirts were torn, covered in bloodied handprints. Her body ached, but still she managed to seat her horse. Kicking one rebel in the face, she