“Riders. I cannot tell from which direction.”
The horns blew a second time. "That means trouble, doesn't it?"
He cocked his head to one side. "Different pitch. The first must have been from the pass. The second from the west."
Chills raced through her when yet a third set sounded.
Flanders looked ill. "From the south now." He hurried to a trunk, flipped it open, and dug inside.
"The south? But Stephan's camp is to the south."
He closed the lid and came to her with two sheathed daggers in his hands and handed her one. "I'm afraid Gerts may have underestimated her husband’s ability to raise two-thousand. Take this."
She held up her hands. "I have a knife in my belt."
"Take it," he insisted. "Hide it beneath yer skirts, and if ye care for my sanity, hide. Don't so much as look out a window."
She shook her head. "We're past lyin' to each other, aye?"
His jaw flexed. He closed his eyes for an instant as if praying for patience, then he nodded. She took the offered dagger and as soon as his hand was free, he grabbed her behind the neck to pull her up to press a wild kiss to her lips before rushing to the door. He paused once to look back, winked without smiling, and was gone.
Another trio of blasts. The pitch of the horn lower still. What was left? The north? Who would be coming from the Red Hills?
She couldn't bear to sit and wait for word. She had to see for herself. But she did care for Flanders' sanity, so she went in search of an arisaid with which to cover her head. He'd never know...
* * *
Snorre was waitingfor Flanders at the top of the stair and joined him in the descent. “Ye reckon he had more than two thousand, then?”
Flanders nodded. “It looks that way.”
“Not a chance it might be Stout Duncan?”
“There is a chance, but that wouldn’t explain the alarms from the east, south, and north.”
Every able-bodied man rushed to man the walls, along with some very capable women. The still-dark bailey and outer courtyard rumbled from a thousand feet rushing to their stations, while at the same time, the last of the mothers and children headed inside the two towers like so many ants rushing home.
Torchlight and fires made for a hopeful glow in each tower window, and for the tenth time in as many minutes, Flanders thanked God for the shrewd building skills of James Duncan.
When he and Snorre topped the gate, Rolf was there with a long vest of chain, which he held out to Flanders. He insisted Flanders bend so he could help him don the thing. And though he usually eschewed chainmail and armor in favor of fighting as James had taught him, he now had to consider someone other than himself. He had to stay safe so he and Brigid could go on together. A valiant death on the battlefield no longer held the glamor it once had.
Robert stood at the fore of the walkway like a bloody masthead. His chest was puffed with pride, but his hands shook.
Flanders slapped him on the back. “Ye’ve done well, Laird Duncan. We are as prepared as we can be.”
Robert’s wide eyes found his. “Aye, but did we prepare for an assault from all sides?”
“Aye, we did.”
“How did such a bastard win so many loyal friends?”
“Not friends, and not loyal. More likely they have been coerced. Stephan’s favorite pastime has ever been blackmail.”
Flanders turned to search in all directions. Nothing visible yet, even with the growing light. But they would soon know just how many they were up against. They could hold off thousands until Stout Duncan arrived. But tens of thousands?
Memories of Bannockburn flashed in his mind. They were victorious, aye, but Todlaw was small. Well trained, true, but well-trained armies could be overrun by sheer numbers.
Flanders faced south again. “Where is Stephan?”
