Ruth Langan - Briana

Seeing that there was no hope of making it to the safety of the village, the leader of Briana’s escorts signalled for the others to form a circle around her. “Come lads. We must defend the lady Briana with our lives.”

“Give me a sword,” she shouted.

But her voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the shouts and jeers of the approaching army. As soon as Briana and her escorts slid from their saddles, their terrified horses took off at a run. The lads formed a ring around her, swords at the ready, determined to defend her to their last breath, as the soldiers bore down on them.

“Halsey.” A soldier’s shout had the leader of the army turning in the saddle. “Look at this. These lads are spoiling for a fight.”

“Then, let’s give them what they want.” The one called Halsey threw back his head and roared. It was obvious that he was enjoying the killing. “I’ll do the honors myself. The rest of you can see that the sniveling cowards don’t escape.”

His soldiers held back, allowing him to lead the charge. He singled out the leader of the band of defenders, plunging his sword through the lad’s heart with a single swipe.

His voice rang with disdain as the lad fell to the ground, writhing in pain. “Embrace death, Irishman. And may your sons and their sons join you in it.”

At his words the other soldiers began to laugh. When the remaining lads formed a tighter circle around Briana, several of the soldiers slid to the ground and drew their swords.

“Jamie,” Halsey called to a comrade. “Throw me your weapon. Mine’s buried too deeply in the Irishman.”

The soldier tossed his sword, and Halsey easily caught it before engaging a second lad in battle.

Briana watched with sinking heart as the lad fought bravely. But each time he managed to dodge a thrust from Halsey’s sword, the soldiers behind him would strike him about the head and chest with their weapons, leaving him dazed and bloody. Soon, seeing that the lad was too weary to defend himself, Halsey gave a final death thrust with his sword, sending the lad to the ground, where he gasped his last.

“That leaves only three,” Halsey said with an evil grin. “Who would care to test his skill next?”

The last of Briana’s defenders stood back to back, keeping her between them. With drawn swords, they fought with courage and skill, though they knew they had no chance to win. Even if they were to best the one called Halsey, his soldiers outnumbered them by fifty or more. His death would make their own that much more painful. Still, they had sworn to see the lady Briana safely to her home. No matter what the odds, they would fight to the death to keep their word to the lord of the manor.

“Do you think two Irishmen can outfight one English soldier?” Halsey’s voice rang with contempt. “Not even a dozen could best me.”

As if to prove his boast, he cut down the first lad with a single thrust, then turned his attention to the second. Though the lad was clumsy, he was tall and strapping, with muscular forearms. His first blow with the blade caught Halsey by surprise, and the soldier had to leap aside quickly to avoid being wounded.

Annoyed that his soldiers’ taunts had gone suddenly silent, he slashed out, catching the lad’s arm, laying it open. With blood streaming down his arm, the lad fought back, but was quickly slashed a second time, and then a third, until his tunic and breeches were stained with his own blood.

“Come, Irishman. Is this the best you can do?” Halsey leapt forward, causing the lad to back up too quickly.

He tripped and landed on his back. Like a feral dog, Halsey stood over him, the tip of his sword at the lad’s throat.

“You’d best pray that the God you worship is merciful, Irishman. For you’re about to meet Him.” With a laugh he plunged his sword through the lad’s throat. Then, for good measure, he pulled the blade free and thrust it again, directly through the lad’s heart.

His men sent up a cheer as he turned toward Briana, who stood alone.

If her years in the convent had taught her anything, it was that death was not to be feared, but rather to be embraced. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, prepared for what was to come.

“So, lad.” Halsey glanced around at his men, clearly enjoying his role as fearless enforcer. “I see you’re too young to be entrusted with a sword. Is this why the others were protecting you?”

Briana blinked. It took her several moments to realize that this man and the others mistook her for a lad. No wonder. In the coarse robes of a peasant, with her hair shorn, she would never be mistaken for a noblewoman.

“It’s too bad.” Halsey took a step closer, his sword raised for the kill. “I would have enjoyed a bit of a challenge before retiring for the night with my men. Ah well. I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

As he stepped over the body of his last victim, Briana took that moment of distraction to bend toward the lad lying at her feet. In one swift motion she pulled the sword from his chest.

She cursed the fact that it had been too many years since she’d handled a weapon. She was surprised at how heavy it felt. It took both hands just to hold it aloft.

Halsey looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, seeing how she struggled with the heavy weapon, his lips split into a grin.

“That’s my sword you’re holding, lad. I’d wager it doesn’t like being held by Irish hands. Be careful the hilt doesn’t burn your flesh.”

The others roared with laughter.

“Maybe you’re the one who should be careful.” Briana slowly lowered one hand, flexing her fingers. Though she hadn’t held a sword these last three years, she had held her share of plowshares and scythes. Her work with the flocks and in the fields may have whittled her weight, making her lean, but it had also made her strong. She tightened her grip on the hilt of the sword and tested its strength.

Halsey’s smile grew. “You Irish always have so much to say until you taste an English sword. Then your babbling turns to the bleating of lambs at slaughter. Prepare yourself, lad. You’re about to face your own slaughter.”

He stepped forward, giving a deft jab with his sword tip. To his surprise his opponent danced to one side and caught his arm with a sharp slice. The yelp that bubbled to his lips was quickly turned into a string of oaths, in order to save face in front of his watching men.

“The Irishman must pay for that, Halsey,” one of his soldiers called.

“Aye.” Gritting his teeth, Halsey charged forward, determined to inflict pain.

Instead, his opponent once more managed to avoid his sword and swung out, catching his shoulder with a sword tip.

As blood spilled down the front of his tunic, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Gone was the sly smile of a moment ago. Now, this was no longer sport. It had become deadly serious.

“I tire of this game, Irishman.” He signalled to two of his soldiers. “Hold the lad while I teach him a lesson.”

Briana turned to face the two men who advanced. Wielding the sword like a club, she swung out viciously, and had the satisfaction of seeing them back away rather than face her weapon. But, with her back to Halsey, she was defenseless. She felt the white-hot thrust of a sword as it pierced her shoulder. The weapon dropped from her fingers and fell to the ground.

Stunned and reeling, she turned to face her attacker. His smile was back. His eyes were glazed with a lust for blood.

Up close she could see that his face bore the scars of many battles. His nose had been broken. His left ear had been cut away, leaving only a raw, puckered scar.

“Now will you know death, Irishman.” His voice was a low taunt. “Not only your own, but the death of this land, as well. For all of it, and all who live in it, will answer to an English sword.”