Betrayed by Christopher Dinsdale

to his ribs, was a huge welt.
    â€œNo, you are not bleeding. But you are going to have one nasty bruise. He must have turned his sword broadside before striking.”
    Sir Wingard hobbled over to a stool and gingerly let himself down. He released a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I’ve killed you twice in less than two minutes, youngAngus. I can tell that you are going to be as stubborn a student as your father. Now, you boys have a choice. You can either follow my directions,
without question
, or I’ll arrange to have you both sent back to Roslin and continue your outstanding work in the art of stable mucking.”
    Angus winced as he held his ribs and tried to straighten himself. “I’m sorry, Sir Wingard. I will not question your judgment again.”
    The old man stood up. “Good, then we may actually get something accomplished today. Both of you grab an Italian sword and follow me.”
    Sir Wingard led them to a small practice field in the corner of the grass-covered bailey. For the rest of the morning he taught them how to refine their parrying moves.
    â€œWith the proper angle of deflection,” he explained, “you can take your opponent’s strength and have it work against him.”
    Although Angus was still nursing his tender ribs, he did his best to throw himself into the exercises. Sir Wingard displayed little sympathy for the injured boy.
    â€œDo you think your enemy will go easy on you because you are injured? Just the opposite! He will attack with twice the vigour because he can smell your pain! Like a predator, he will move in for the kill. What I am teaching you could make the difference between life and death on the battlefield!”
    He demonstrated to Connor and Angus how to perfectly angle the blade in order to fight off an attack with the least amount of effort. Connor was amazed at how little energy was now required to deflect Angus’s blows, as he stepped back defensively, patiently waiting for his opponent to tireand make a fatal mistake.
    When the mistake came, sometimes a pause for breath from Angus or an overextended follow-through with the blade, Connor would counterattack with vigour. It was then Angus’s turn to parry the attack. So it continued until both would stop in exhaustion, their arms and shoulders burning from effort. Sir Wingard finally allowed a short water break. As they sipped from the rain barrel, the bell in the keep began to ring once again. Sir Wingard looked to the castle with concern.
    â€œThe bell?” muttered the knight. “Now? Something must be wrong. Quickly, boys, we must get to the Great Hall.”
    As they ran across the bailey, several soldiers flew by them in the opposite direction.
    â€œClose the main gate!” they shouted. “Hurry, men!”
    â€œWhat’s this about?” huffed Angus.
    â€œFrom the look of the fighters,” replied Connor, “I don’t reckon it will be good.”
    The few soldiers remaining in Kirkwall were busily suiting themselves up in armour. Connor noticed that the remaining fighters in the Great Hall were older, dressed in leather armour instead of the more expensive chain mail. Prince Henry had taken the strongest fighters with him to deal with the Bishop. Sir Wingard grabbed the nearest man.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” the knight demanded.
    â€œThe English!” he cried. “They sailed in from the north and are now just entering the harbour! They must have known about Prince Henry’s raid and timed their attack to coincide with his absence. I knew the bishop was a scoundrel, but I never thought he would stoop so low as to collaborate with the English bloodsuckers!”
    Sir Wingard’s brow furrowed in anger. Angus and Connor looked to him for direction. Finally, the older knight turned and faced the boys.
    â€œKirkwall Castle is a Templar-built fortress, designed and built by the best masons in Europe. The English will not