The old warhorse tore up the road. I held on to Tom, bleeding, aching, afraid I might fly off the back. And an image came to me then, as we’d seen it in Paris.

Two brothers on one horse, I thought.

A symbol of the Knights Templar. Was it an omen?

Then I heard the sounds of battle up ahead.

CHAPTER 48

IT WAS A SCENE OF horror.

The road stretched away, disappearing into the woods.

And that road was littered with bodies.

There had to be nearly forty of them, starting from the edge of the trees, over a span of seventy yards. The king’s carriage, adorned with golden trim, lay overturned, its horses dead, still tied in the traces. My stomach dropped as my eyes fell on the wreckage, expecting to see the lifeless form of His Majesty

(my fault)

but he wasn’t there.

More horses lay among the men, the scene cast in the eerie glow of fallen, fluttering torches. There was enough light to see that most of the dead did not wear beige tabards with the king’s coat of arms—they were not the King’s Men. These were Covenanter dead.

The roar of battle came from our right. There the King’s Men were making their stand, fighting atop a ridge to which they’d retreated. It was a good defensive position—at least, the best that could be found in the meadow. Around the ridge was a ditch, which acted like a natural, dry moat. It gave the King’s Men the advantage of height, from which they could strike down at the surrounding Covenanters.

Around them was a ring of bodies: carcasses of the King’s Men’s horses, which, from the bullet wounds, had taken the brunt of the initial volley of gunfire from the ambushers, saving the men sheltered behind them. Now more bodies were being added to the ring, as the battle was fought, forming a mound the enemy needed to stumble over.

Lord Ashcombe stood side by side with his troops, holding the Covenanter mob at bay. The odds looked grim. Even though the King’s Men were in a strong position, I counted less than twenty of them standing. There were four times as many Covenanters still alive.

Holding Lightning’s reins one-handed, Tom drew Eternity from its sheath. The blade rang with holy song. Tom’s arm was steady, even as his voice quavered.

“Hold on tight,” he said, trembling.

Then he turned his horse directly into the fray.

Lightning’s hooves churned the dirt as he reached his full speed. He roared, a challenge, as if remembering battles long fought and eager to relive them. I drew a pistol, my other hand clinging to Tom’s waist.

A gap was forming in the circle of King’s Men atop the ridge. Tom angled Lightning toward it, sword held ready. The Covenanters, focused on the surrounded Royalists, didn’t see us coming until it was too late.

Eternity caught one of the enemy in the back. Three more men screamed as they were trampled, falling under Lightning’s iron shoes.