Miraculously, no one looked over a shoulder; no one seemed aware of the lone horseman backing away. Once around the corner, Portia turned Penny in the constricted space. Behind her she could hear nothing, not even the shuffle of hooves or a soft whicker, but she could feel the tension like a tight band around her chest as the little troop of Decatur men waited to pit their lives and skills against the enemy.
Suddenly Portia knew that she couldn’t ride away from the approaching action. She had to see what happened. She told herself she could easily leave afterward. In the post-engagement chaos she could be out of there and safely on her way without fear of detection. She dismounted, tied Penny to a spur of rock, and clambered up the cliff face. The Decatur man had made it appear easy, and there were hand- and footholds in the crevices, but it was still an arduous climb and she hauled herself onto the top of the cliff panting for breath.
Lying on her belly on the cold ground, she found she had a perfect view of the ambush point. When Lord Leven’s patrol trotted through the bare trees, her heart skipped and jumped like a grasshopper.
The attack when it came was so swift and silent that Lord Leven’s men were surrounded before they realized it. The Decatur troop rode from the defile, row after row of them, fanning out around the square until they had their quarry encircled. To the watcher above, there seemed to be a moment when it was inevitable that the Scots would lay down their arms without a fight, but then a roaring skirl of sound emerged into the strange flat silence and Leven’s men rose in their stirrups with a shout of defiance.
Portia had not at first noticed the piper, but now as the bagpipes blared their martial call, Leven’s Scotsmen hurled themselves into battle. Muskets cracked, swords clashed, and above it all the great sound rose ever louder, ever more defiant, ever more urgent.
Portia shivered. The pipes always made her shiver. She loved the sound, she loved to dance to it. It filled her with a wild exuberance when she was aware of nothing but the thrill of her blood in her ears, racing in her veins. It was elemental and savage and she responded to it as if it were a deep and essential part of herself.
It was all she could do to stop herself from leaping to her feet to join the fray. But how could she join the fray when she didn’t know which side she was on? And yet she found herself drawing her knife from her boot. Her physical being was operating now without any conscious rational intervention from her brain. She inched forward on her belly until she was lying on a slab of rock directly over the battlefield.
Leven’s men were outnumbered and they’d been taken by surprise. But they fought like demons. And the fighting was soon hand to hand. Muskets were useless in these conditions once they’d been fired. There was no time for the cumbersome process of reloading when a man was pressed on all sides. Swords and daggers flashed; a horse screamed and went down on one knee, throwing his rider.
Portia saw Will on the ground. He was on his feet in a trice, sword in hand, as his horse staggered upright, bleeding from a gash in the neck. One of Leven’s men turned and rode down upon the unhorsed man. His horse reared, hooves flailing, as he leaned down, swiping his sword in a great arc at the disadvantaged Will.
Portia hurled her knife. Only when it lodged in the sword arm of Will’s attacker, arresting the deadly sweep of his sword, did she realize that she’d chosen her side. Her aim had been instinctive and utterly true. Will had time to duck and grab for his injured horse. He scrambled into the saddle just as Rufus, appearing from nowhere, brought his own sword down hard on the enemy’s, disarming him with an almighty clash of steel on steel that made the man scream as his already wounded arm was jarred unmercifully.
Only then did Rufus glance upward, his eyes searching for the origin of the knife that had saved Will. Portia still lay on her rock. She knew she was now in full view; she knew that a minute earlier she could have wriggled out of sight and been safe from detection. The knife would have remained a puzzle until the engagement was over. Then Rufus would probably have recognized the knife as Portia’s. But by then it would have been too late. She would have been long gone.
And yet she didn’t move. His roaming eyes found her, his bright gaze locked with hers, then he wheeled his horse and returned to the fray. Portia, now weaponless, looked around for something with which to contribute her mite. There were rocks and stones aplenty. A catapult or sling would have been ideal, but lacking either, she’d have to make do with manpower. She began a steady bombardment of Leven’s troops.
Her aim was mostly accurate and the rain of stones and rocks began to take a toll, men trying to dodge the missiles that seemed to come from nowhere, their concentration constantly disturbed, leaving them open to the more deadly assaults of the Decatur men. And above it all, the pipes continued to skirl.
It was over within fifteen minutes, although to Portia time seemed to be standing still, the scene below her acting itself out in a constant repetition of noise and violence. But Leven’s men were outnumbered, disarmed, unhorsed in a steady attrition until only their colonel and two of his men still sat their horses, swords still in hand.
The colonel glanced around, then slowly raised a hand to the piper, who immediately began to play the retreat. The colonel turned his sword hilt forward and offered it to Rufus.
Rufus shook his head. “Nay, man, keep it, if you’ll give me your parole. That was well fought.”
“Colonel Neath of Lord Leven’s Third Battalion gives his parole and that of his company,” the man intoned formally, but with a slight question in his tone as he examined his captor for identification of rank if not company.
“Decatur, Lord Rothbury, at your service, sir.” Rufus bowed from his saddle, a slightly malicious glint in the blue eyes.
“Rothbury, eh?” Neath looked surprised as he sheathed his sword. “Your name is well known across the border, my lord.”
“And reviled, I daresay,” Rufus said with the same glint.
“Tare known as a moss-trooper, an outlaw, certainly,” the colonel said in his soft drawl. “But ‘tis said most of your unlawful activities have to do with the marquis of Granville and his property. There are those who say you have good reason to prey upon him.”
Rufus’s smile was ironic. “I’m grateful for the popular understanding, Colonel. But, in my present guise, I fly the standard for Prince Rupert on behalf of his most sovereign majesty, King Charles. We’ll be escorting you and your men to Newcastle, once we’ve tended to the wounded.”
“You’ll give me permission to talk with my men?”
“I have no objection.” Rufus gestured to where his own men were disarming the colonel’s, and Neath with a formal salute turned and rode over to them.
Rufus looked up to where Portia still lay on her belly overlooking the battlefield. She met his gaze with an air both rueful and puzzled. Slowly he sheathed his own sword, then rode over and drew rein immediately beneath her.
“So where did you spring from, gosling?” he inquired pleasantly, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.
Portia sat up on the rock, letting her legs dangle over the side of the cliff. “I was with you all along,” she said. “Right from the stable yard.”
“I see.” He nodded. “And why didn’t you make good your escape?”
“I couldn’t until the engagement began, and then I wanted to see what happened.”
He nodded again. “That seems reasonable. What doesn’t seem reasonable is why you would then announce your presence in such dramatic fashion.”