Ena’s Surrender

  Ena’s Surrender

  Madeline Martin

  Copyright 2020 © Madeline Martin

  ENA’S SURRENDER © 2020 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.

  * * *

  ENA’S SURRENDER is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Madeline Martin

  1

  February 1333

  Castleton, Scotland

  * * *

  Ena Davidson gripped the horse’s reins with one hand and self-consciously tucked the other hand into her helm to ensure her long, dark hair hadn’t escaped.

  No one could know she was a woman, much less Bran Davidson’s sister.

  A village came into view in the distance with Kershopefoot Castle towering behind it. It was an audacious move to steal from the village on the outskirts of the English Middle March Warden’s home, but the food here was plentiful. And they were in sore need of food.

  Stealing wasn’t the ideal way to live. She knew that. They all knew that. But one’s conscience had never been located in one’s stomach. A growl from her empty belly emphasized the sentiment.

  Scents of village life reached out, beckoning them with the smoky fires and the tantalizing aroma of roasted dinners. Crispy skin that would crackle between her teeth, the succulent meat tender and juicy beneath. Ena’s mouth watered and the growl of hunger turned to a snarl.

  The unfairness of it burned inside her. The English supped on fresh meat while on the other side of the border, the Scots starved to death. But then, that was how it always was. The English stole from the Scottish. The rich took from the poor.

  Around her, the riders increased their speed, drawing them toward the enticing scents of food at a promising pace. Shadows of an overcast sky blanketed their movements, as if the night was on the side of the Scottish rather than the English. They made up a considerable force. At least three score.

  They were there for livestock, for food, and as always—for vengeance.

  The closer they came, the faster Ena’s heart pounded. This was what she had been waiting for. To do her own share of the reiving so the danger didn’t always fall on Bran’s shoulders alone. So that there would be enough food for him this time too.

  The first horses skirted the edges of the huts, making their way to where the cattle were penned. One of them was Bran’s horse, taking the lead. But then, he was always at the front, with an army of men willing to follow.

  Ena’s horse slipped silently between the still homes. The residents within all slept soundly, peasants lost in an exhausted slumber after a grueling day of working for their lord, their food long since eaten, even as those decadent smells hung in the air.

  She held back slightly and allowed several others to whip past her. There would be men guarding the cattle. Men who would have to die. She would sneak her way into a reiving to help steal, but she would not—could not—bring herself to witness a man being slain. Even an English one. Even after what they’d done to her. Even if it made her a coward.

  Instinctively, she touched a hand to her collarbone where the beginning of her scar marred the visible skin there. Except her fingers didn’t meet her warm flesh. They touched the thick fabric of her padded gambeson.

  She’d come here with purpose.

  It was time.

  She joined the others swiftly and ignored the dead men slumped in the shadows. Not that it ought to bother her. She ought to look at them with vengeful glee, to know the English had lost several more from their evil forces. She ought to, but she could not.

  Coward.

  She leapt from her horse on shaking legs, her hands trembling with excitement and anticipation and hunger. But not fear. She was well-trained and could handle herself. What’s more, she had been waiting for this moment for the last several years. Since a reiver had been allowed to have his wife accompany him on a raid.

  Where one woman had tread, others might follow. Hopefully with a less mortal outcome than that first attempt.

  The pathways between the homes within the village were shadowed in the absence of moonlight, but Ena’s eyes had adjusted well enough to make out the large structures of the huts, as well as their doors. It would be a quick thing to enter a cottage quietly and pad through the small space to find any food that had not yet been eaten. It wouldn’t be difficult to locate. Not when she was so hungry. She’d be able to find it simply by following the scent.

  But as swift and tempting as it was, the task would be too risky.

  The groan of straining ropes cut through the silence and several cattle lowed. In the scant light, Ena could make out the reivers rushing the cattle from their pen. Her pulse pounded at the victory. At how easy it had been.

  Her body hummed with unspent energy, charged to a purpose that had not been needed. It left her nerves tight, her muscles tense, every part of her on high alert.

  Movement in the shadows between the simple huts caught her attention. She snapped her attention in that direction, straining to see in the murky darkness. A glint flashed in the muted moonlight, but she knew only metal would gleam like that. Only a dagger or a sword, something with a blade.

  Without thought, she ran forward while drawing her dagger from its sheath. The man bellowed out a loud cry and a wave of soldiers and villagers rushed from between the huts—an entire army ready to attack.

  Ena reached the man the same time as the crash of weapons clanged behind her. She gritted her teeth and swiped her blade at his middle. He leapt back from her assault.

  She crouched lower to the ground, centering her slight weight to prepare her for attacking and defending alike. Her opponent roared and raced toward her, slamming into her. She was knocked from her feet and the ground slapped hard at her side. It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen in a fight.

  While those previous times had been practice, this one was real. And she didn’t doubt herself for a moment.

  Men were strong, but she was faster than lightning. She spun around, kicking her foot out and catching him behind the knees. He tumbled to the ground with her as an “oof” escaped his lips.

  Before he could register what had happened, he was on the ground with her and she was on him, straddling him, dagger pushed to his neck. Someone had set a fire in the distance and the red-orange light glowed on his face.

  He glared up at her with pale eyes, his straight teeth bared. An ugly Englishman.

  She tightened the grip on her dagger. A man like him had killed her mother. She pushed the blade more aggressively against the man’s tender neck, but he didn’t so much as flinch.

  Her eldest brother was only a boy when he’d been cut down. This was a man. An Englishman. One who would kill her—or worse—if he had the chance.

  Breath huffe
d in and out of her lungs. One firm drag of the blade over his throat and he would be dead. An Englishman who would no longer be able to hurt anyone else.

  Her blade rested on the vulnerable spot just under his sharp jaw. A single thrust would end his life.

  But this man was someone’s son. Once, he had been an innocent boy like Gregor had been, whose mother who had loved him the way Ena’s had loved them. With a father who had been proud of him the way Ena’s had been of Gregor.

  Tears stung her eyes.

  She couldn’t do it. She knew it and so too did the man beneath her blade.

  Renault Blanchard had faced death countless times before. This instance was no different. He stared into the helm of the small man who pinned him down with an almost laughable weight. The bastard’s face was cast in darkness. Not that it mattered. All Scots were the same. It was why the Warden had enlisted him for the esteemed task of spying on the Scots.

  The man pressed the blade to Renault’s throat, but did nothing more. Was the whoreson trying to intimidate? If so, his efforts were as threatening as that of a child.

  His opponent’s hand trembled and Renault immediately understood. The man who had landed a quick blow to Renault’s legs, who had moved with speed faster than a blink, was a new warrior. One who had not yet killed.

  Renault was stronger than this youth. That much was apparent by the insignificant weight sitting atop Renault. But the imp was fast. It would be a gamble.

  And the odds were in Renault’s favor.

  In a single move, he slid his left forearm between his neck and the dagger, pushing it away. He shoved solidly at the man’s torso while thrusting his hips upward, rocking the Scot off in a graceless tumble. Renault leapt to his feet and tightened his grip on his sword.

  Where his inexperienced opponent had hesitated, Renault would act. This fight would end now.

  The man got to his feet, his head moving in a frantic search on the ground, his hands empty. Renault sighed.

  He wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, damn it.

  He kicked the lost dagger toward the Scot, who hastily retrieved his weapon and readied for another round of fighting.

  Renault lunged, but the reiver blocked the blow with his paltry dagger. A feint to the left and a jab, but the Scot managed to evade the attack once more.

  This was going to be tedious. Eager to be done with it all, Renault delivered a swift kick to the man’s abdomen and snapped his foot back before it could be grabbed, and his balance knocked again.

  The breath fled the Scot’s chest with a soft cry of surprise. Not the deep timbre of a man, but a softer pitched one. A boy? A woman?

  Regardless, Renault immediately lowered his blade. “Remove your helm.”

  The Scot glared at him. A flicker of firelight glowed off the helm and highlighted a pair of dark, long-lashed eyes.

  Shite.

  A woman.

  He made to go at her left side, then grabbed her right hand while she was distracted and twisted her wrist. Not enough to cause permanent injury, but enough to make her drop the dagger. It thunked to the wet dirt at their feet.

  She growled and tried to spin about to wrench her hand away.

  Renault held tight. “Remove your helm.”

  She pushed herself into him, grabbed his shoulders and jerked her knee upward. He shifted quickly so her blow landed at his hip instead of his groin. The feisty wench. He shoved her back against the wall of the hut nearest to them, his forearm at her throat.

  It stunned her long enough for him to pull the helm free. To confirm he’d been correct.

  The person glowering back at him was indeed a woman. Her black hair was bound, but loose tendrils curled around her face. She had full lips and finely arched brows.

  Were the circumstances different, he’d be asking her for a dance, or offering to buy her a mug of ale.

  How like the Scottish to send their women into a battle of men. Women were meant to be cared for, loved, cherished. They were too delicate for the likes of war.

  In one swift move, she caught his waist, holding him to her and thrust up with her knee. This time, he was too bloody slow and pain exploded through his nether regions. Thoughts fell away as his body collapsed to the ground, cradling his wounded member.

  “English shite,” she hissed. “I’ll kill ye.”

  Renault snatched up her dagger before she could reclaim it and straightened. Everything inside him blazed and his stomach heaved with the need to purge. He immediately doubled over once more; the dagger clutched in his grip.

  “Ena?” A man shouted from the distance, his tone rough with incredulity.

  The woman cursed low under her breath, her voice husky beneath the Scottish accent. “I should kill ye now.”

  Renault looked up at her, rising despite his injury. She hesitated, the same as she’d done earlier when she could have slain him.

  Instead, she swung her elbow at him, slamming the blow beneath his chin. Everything went black.

  When he awoke moments later with his helm knocked off and his face half-laying in the mud, the woman was gone. So too were the reivers.

  And, despite her threats and the real opportunity to end his life, he was still alive.

  2

  Ena had lost her dagger in England. The thought sat low in her belly like a weighted stone and mixed with the anxiety already roiling there. She rode at Bran’s side, trying not to look like a sullen bairn. But though she was the older of the two of them, she felt exactly like one. Chastened, ready for rebuke, knowing she’d done wrong.

  It shouldn’t be wrong for a woman to want to help. Men took all the risks; they faced the possibility of death every day and cut their rations to share with the women and children who’d done nothing to earn it. That was wrong.

  Bran cut a hard glare at her and despite her resolve, guilt pinched inside her chest. The lean months had hollowed out his cheeks, giving his face a fierce sharpness. She hated seeing him wasting away in front of her.

  His large frame had once been imposing with the bulk of his muscles. But over these last months, that strong physique had whittled down so much that she’d had to cut his belt shorter lest the end hang toward his knees.

  “We’re here.” Bran’s entirely unnecessary announcement was delivered in a terse voice.

  She’d seen the pele tower in the distance, most likely before he had. She’d tracked their progress with impending doom swelling like a storm in her chest. She was dreading this.

  She hopped from her horse but snatched the reins before Bran could have the opportunity to do so. His jaw tightened and she knew she’d added another log to the blaze of his ire.

  The man who took their horses caught sight of her without her helm. His eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Nay,” Bran said.

  The man pressed his lips together and quietly led the horses away. The silence left in his wake followed Ena and Bran into the small single room hut they shared. It was not unlike the one they’d lived in when they were children, before the attack that killed their mother and Gregor. Unlike the flimsy door that had let the English soldiers in then, Bran had procured one of thick, hearty wood with a solid piece of metal to secure it to the wall.

  The room inside was cold and gloomy with the fire pit at the center of their home long since extinguished. It was her job to ensure it remained lit, that the scant food they had was hot and ready for Bran’s return.

  He said nothing as he knelt by the tinder and struck the flint rocks together to get a spark. Their small tabby cat, Moggy, emerged from one of the beds and trotted to his side, rubbing her head against his hand while he worked. He stroked her once and continued his task. Within seconds, the fire crackled to life once more, filling the room with heat and light. Still he did not speak.

  The anxiety in Ena’s belly congealed and tightened until she could scarce draw breath. Why wouldn’t he just get it out?

  Instead, he tugged off his gambeson, lifted the top of
f the clay pot used to keep vermin out and took a hunk of the stale bread from within. He split it between them, giving her the larger of the pieces. When she didn’t take it, he sank down in front of the fire, his stare lost in the flames writhing dance as he held the pieces of bread, uneaten. Moggy flopped at his feet and studied him with her amber eyes, as though she too were trying to gauge his unusual mood.

  “I can’t stand this,” Ena said at last. “Watching ye starve, doing nothing about it, waiting helplessly when ye go on raids, wondering what injuries ye might have when ye return. If ye return.”

  A muscle in his jaw tensed.

  He’d always been so bloody stoic. Even when their mother and brother had died, even when Ena nearly perished alongside them. A year her junior and far too young to face the burden of caring for the dying, he had stayed by her side all those years ago. He’d risked himself to pilfer food from the surrounding homes; homes with their murdered neighbors rotting within.

  He’d done it for her. To save her when he could have saved himself.

  Ena snatched the pieces of bread from him and threw them back into the clay pot. “Say something,” she demanded.

  He swallowed, the action visible in the flex of his neck muscles, and his expression became intense with a look of determined concentration.

  She plopped onto the ground beside him, startling Moggy, who flicked her ears with irritation before sauntering off to sleep elsewhere.

  The heat of fire tingled at Ena’s chilled toes and fingers. “Yell at me,” she said vehemently. “Do it and be done. Tell me how foolish it was for me to go into battle. How I could have been killed. Do anything to end this silence going sour between us.”