The Knight by Monica Mccarty

were counting on the English to race back to the castle. When the yett that had closed behind them opened again, James, Boyd, and the rest of the men would make their move—James to face the fleeing soldiers and Boyd to take the castle.
    Boyd grew restless beside him, swearing under his breath. “They aren’t breaking. What the hell is the matter with Dragon? He looks half asleep out there.”
    Seton did seem unusually subdued. “Give him a minute,” James said, showing patience he didn’t feel.
    It was rewarded. Suddenly stirring from his lethargy, Seton led a brutal charge right through the heart of the reforming English line. Three more soldiers fell and the first man turned and broke for the castle. The English commander shouted furiously, trying to rally them once again, but it was in vain. More horses turned and the retreat was on.
    It was their turn now. “Almost time,” James said in a low voice.
    The piercing grate of steel echoed his words. His mouth curved as he heard the sound of the yett opening once again. One more piece.
    He could almost feel the press of the men behind him as they waited for his signal. The English were riding hell-bent for leather back to the castle, Seton and his men chasing hard behind them. The yett was wide open. James eyed the distance. He needed to time it perfectly, giving his men enough time to get into position but not enough for them to have time to close the gate. A few more seconds…
    “Now!” he shouted. “A Douglas!”
    The men echoed the battle cry behind him, racing from their cover in the trees. If it had been like a rug had been pulled out from under them before, when the fleeing Englishmen met James and his men it was as if they’d run straight into a wall. They seemed to crumple in a slow backward wave as English horseflesh and mail met the steel wall of the Scottish pikes.
    After the initial strike, James led the charge, swinging his two-handed great sword in a long, deadly arc into the ribs of the English coward who’d turned and broken first. The force of the blow took the man from his saddle. He landed in a dead heap at James’s feet. Perhaps a dozen Englishmen remained. But wedged between the score of Scotsmen attacking from both sides, they had nowhere to go.
    James fought his way toward the center, dodging blows of a hammer and an axe as he wound through the tangle of soldiers to the commander, who’d been dismounted.
    He saw the flicker of recognition in De Wilton’s gaze—and fear. To his credit, the knight did not balk. He held steady, swinging his sword around to meet him. But it was the bravado of a dead man. For that’s what he was. De Wilton had sealed his fate the moment James had learned of his interest in Jo.
    James attacked with a vengeance, anger and jealousy lending a brutal edge to his blows. To James’s surprise, De Wilton held him off, blocking every crushing swing of James’s blade with his own. The clamor of steel on steel thundered in his ears, reverberating in his bones. The Englishman’s skill only made James angrier.
    Vaguely he was aware of the frenzied fight going on around him and the noise of the castle attack behind him, but his focus was locked on the man struggling to hold him off. With two hands, De Wilton held his sword defensively inches from his head, where James’s blade was poised over him. De Wilton’s arms were shaking with the struggle to keep the blade back, but James used his height to press. Below the edge of his steel helm, James could see the knight’s pain. His face was red, his teeth were clenched, and veins were bulging in his temples.
    De Wilton might be strong.
    But James was stronger.
    Slowly the knight lowered to his knees, James’s sword inching closer and closer to his head.
    Their eyes met. Enemy-to-enemy. Knight-to-knight.
    “Yield,” De Wilton gritted out. “Damn it, I yield.”
    James didn’t want to hear him. He kept pressing. Kept inching closer to the deadly victory he