“Tis a betrothal that’ll have tae be broken,” Fin replied.
Castor chuckled then turned his attention back to Henry, apparently done talking to him. His grin became malevolent as he studied the Captain of the Duke’s guard.
“I assume since Duke Hamilton is not here himself, that you speak in his stead. As such, these are my terms,” Castor said. “York will be forfeited immediately and turned over to me. I will be the new Duke of York and will assume control of all property, including his armed forces within.”
“Rubbish,” Henry spat.
“Second, the Duke will be turned over to me for trial. He faces charges of murder for killing my mother,” Castor went on. “And lastly, the Scotsman will also be turned over to me for execution.”
“On what grounds?” Henry asked.
Castor shrugged. “I will think of something.”
“Bollocks,” Fin chuckled. “Ye really dae have a high opinion of yerself.”
“You are outnumbered and outmatched. This is a fight you will lose,” Castor replied calmly, then turned back to Henry. “I will give you this one opportunity to accept my terms. Lay down your sword, and you will live. If not, you will all die here on this field today.”
Fin glanced at Henry, not entirely sure what he was going to do. It wasn’t that he thought Henry a coward. Quite the opposite. But he knew Henry felt a deep obligation to his men and to the people of York. Fin knew he would never unnecessarily put his people in harm’s way. If he could save them, Fin knew he would.
But to his surprise, Henry’s face darkened, and his jaw was clenched as he stared at Castor. The man radiated hostility like heat wafting from a hearth. He leaned forward in his saddle, glaring at Castor.
“You tried to murder Duke Hamilton,” Henry said through gritted teeth. “And for that, you will die. I will see your head on the walls of York.”
“So be it,” Castor replied.
Fin watched as Castor and his escorts turned and headed back toward their lines. He turned to see Henry glaring after the man.
“Ye seem ready for a fight,” Fin said.
Henry’s eyes never left Castor’s retreating form. “More than ready.”
“Let’s get tae it then,” Hollis added.
They turned their horses and headed back to their formations. Fin glanced over to the thick screens of bushes that lined the field. Hollis took a flag from one of the flagbearers standing near him, then held it aloft and waved it. When he was done, the signal given, he handed it back to the flagbearer and waited.
Castor’s men were already on the move, and Fin slipped off his horse and handed it to one of the young retainers, who also took the horses from Henry and Hollis. They all unsheathed their swords and waited. The sound of that many feet marching across the field quickly grew in intensity, sounding like a rolling peal of thunder.
Fin swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade. Castor had not been lying; they were outnumbered and outmatched. He looked toward the west but did not see Col anywhere. They were on their own. And all Fin could hope was that the preparation they’d put into the battlefield would at least help even the odds.
As Castor’s men reached the point they’d had their parley, he glanced at the bushes on the far side of the field once more. The knot in his stomach twisted painfully, and he gritted his teeth. Waiting.
“Now. Bleedin’ now,” he muttered to himself. “What are ye waitin’ for?”
As if in response to his question, a dozen streaks of fire shot out from behind the bushes. Fin watched with a morbid fascination as the flaming arrows streaked through the sky, and when they hit, the ground erupted into giant columns of flame. The sound of a giant “whoosh” of the fireballs bursting from the ground was nearly deafening. It was almost as loud as the screaming of Castor’s men.
Walls of fire sprang up along the lines of the field they’d soaked in pitch, cutting men off from one another, and sending even more screaming off the field, their entire bodies aflame. All at once, the neat and orderly battle lines broke down, and those who were not on fire charged at Fin and his men.
“Turns out you are cleverer than I gave you credit for,” Henry said.
“Ye should’ve kent better,” Hollis chimed in. “We used that same trick on ye the last time we fought York.”
Henry glowered at him, and Fin laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tis a good thing we’re on the same side this time, isnae?”
A smile flickered on Henry’s lips for a moment before he burst into laughter. “It is definitely a good thing.”
“Shall we?” Hollis asked. “I’ve been lookin’ forward tae crackin’ skulls all night.”
“By all means,” Fin replied as he held his sword aloft and called out to the men, exhorting them onward.
Fin, Hollis, and Henry all charged with their men, straight into the teeth of the enemy. Fin hacked and slashed, parting the sea of Irish mercenaries like Moses, parting the Red Sea. He spun to his right and very nearly straight into the blade of an Irishman who glared at him with as much hatred as if Fin had killed his mother.
Fin got his sword up just in time to parry the blow, but the Irishman followed that up with a dagger thrust that opened a gash on his upper arm. Fin felt the blood, warm and viscous, sliding down his flesh, and the cut itself throbbed mightily. But by lunging forward with a desperate slice, the man had left himself open to Fin’s counterattack. Fin’s blade burst from the man’s back, dark, thick blood immediately turning his tunic red. He pulled out his blade, and as the man slumped to the ground, Fin looked around, searching for his next fight.
The high-pitched pinging sound of steel ringing against steel reverberated through the air, and the din of the pitched battle raging around him sounded like the gates of hell had been left open, and all the demons were pouring out. Everywhere he looked, though, he saw the Duke’s soldiers either lying dead on the ground or wounded. They were taking a beating, and despite their trickery, the superior numbers of Castor’s forces were overwhelming them.
Fin searched the field, looking for something he could use to turn the momentum and the tide of the battle back in York’s favor. And that’s when he spotted Castor. He sat astride his horse, watching men bleed and die for him. Dressed in his finest, Castor watched and waited, no doubt, expecting to see his path to York was free and clear.
“Cut the bleedin’ head off the snake, the snake dies,” he muttered darkly to himself.
Pushing men out of the way, Fin rushed toward Castor, his blade in hand, and death in his eyes. Castor noticed him coming and pointed at him. In response, two of his guards ran straight for Fin, their blades up. Fin gracefully spun to the right and slashed at the man as he passed by, opening up a cut along the man’s ribcage. Fin stopped and lunged at him, burying his sword into the man’s stomach.
The soldier coughed up a gout of blood and fell to his knees. Sensing the second man closing in, Fin let go of the sword and dropped to the ground, rolling away from his would-be assailant. He came up with his dagger in hand but felt a white-hot sting of pain in his arm. He turned to see the point of a sword in his upper arm, and the pain was excruciating. But he shut it out as he took the dagger in his other hand and quickly drove it into the throat of the man who had stabbed him.
The blood flowing freely from another wound, and his body gripped by a nearly blinding pain, Fin hunched down as a group of six men encircled him. All had swords at the ready, and just beyond the circle, Castor sat atop his horse and watched, that cruel, smug smirk on his face.
“It is time to die, Fin,” he called. “Do send my regards to your ancestors.”
As the six men around him closed in, Fin’s stomach tightened. He held his dagger and tried to see the way through. But there was no way out. Any way he went was sure to end with steel in his gut or chest. That did not mean, though, that he was going out without a fight. They might get him, but Fin was determined to take some of them with him.
But then
a strange sound permeated the din of the battlefield. Even the men who encircled him had him dead to rights, stopped. All around him, Fin saw heads turning to the west, and when he looked at Castor, he laughed upon seeing the look of wide-eyed fright in the man’s eyes.
Castor opened his mouth to shout something, but he never got the words out as he seemed to suddenly have sprouted an arrow from the middle of his chest. Fin looked at the long, dark shaft and the feathers of the fletching. He knew the unique pattern, and his heart swelled with relief and joy all at the same time.
The six men around him suddenly scattered and ran, giving Fin a view of the western fields, and he cheered. He had never seen a sight so grand in all his life. Three hundred men — some of them from his clan, and others bearing the livery of House Lennox bearing down on them. Col sat atop his horse at the head of his army, firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of Castor’s men, and the cavalry he brought with him cut through the ranks like wind through a field of wheat.
Fin recovered his sword and watched as Castor’s men fell by the score, and the rest beat a hasty retreat, fleeing from the carnage. It was over. They had won. He glanced over to see Castor’s fallen form lying among the bodies and blood on the field. Fin walked over and stood above the man, glowering down at him. A thick rivulet of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, and the arrow stood rigidly straight, pointing high into the air. It had taken him high in the chest — a bad wound, but perhaps one that would have him linger on for a while.
“Th - this changes nothing,” Castor wheezed. “You are nothing but a low, common brute, unworthy of anything but my contempt.”
“Mebbe that’s true. But I’ll still have Ivy. She’s mine, and I’m hers,” Fin said. “And I’ll still take me pound of flesh tae make sure ye never trouble her again.”
A choked, wheezing sound escaped from Castor’s mouth as a ghastly grin crossed his face.
“I do not believe there is a pound left to take,” he gasped. “The wound is mortal, I fear.”
All of Fin’s rage and all of the hatred of this man seemed to dissipate and blow away, suddenly as insubstantial as a puff of smoke on the breeze. Yes, in his righteous anger, he had wanted to kill Castor for all he had done - and all he had intended to do. But seeing him lying on the ground in a spreading pool of his own dark, viscous blood struck a chord within Fin; and he found himself pitying the fallen man.
“You can try to take your pound of flesh, Scotsman,” he wheezed. “I do not believe you will find it satisfying, though.”
His laughter broke down into a series of wet, rattling coughs. More blood, darker and thicker, spilled from his mouth, and Fin could see the fear in Castor’s eyes; he knew he was facing his end, and it scared him. But Fin knew the suffering from a wound like that could drag on for days and could be excruciating. It was not a good way to go out. Fin drove the point of his sword into the damp earth and knelt down beside him.
“I can give ye mercy if ye wish,” Fin said softly. “I can end yer pain.”
Fear colored Castor’s face, and his expression was one of terror mixed with agony. Eventually, it all faded away and become one of resignation. Acceptance. Castor understood he would never get off this battlefield on his own two feet. He looked Fin in the eye and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you for this kindness,” he gasped. “I know I do not deserve it.”
“Nobody deserves tae suffer like ye are.”
Fin slipped the dagger from his belt and positioned the point above Castor’s heart. He pursed his lips as he looked at the fallen man, and when Castor gave him another nod, Fin drove the point straight down into him. With one final choked wheeze, Castor lay still. His eyes were wide and fixed upon something, only those within death’s cold embrace could see. But for the first time since he had known him, Fin thought Castor looked to be at peace.
Slipping his blade gently from the man’s body and cleaning it off, Fin turned and made his way to where Col stood with Henry and Hollis. Both men were bloody, scored by a myriad of cuts and gashes that stained their tunics red. He pulled Col into a bone-crushing embrace, hammering him on the back.
“Tis good tae see ye, mate,” Fin said. “I wasnae sure ye’d make it in time.”
“Are ye jestin’? When I told thae lads we had a chance tae kill Ainglishmen, they ran the whole way,” Col said, then cleared his throat as he glanced at Henry. “No offense meant.”
Henry’s stony visage melted, and much to Fin’s surprise, he broke out into laughter. He grabbed hold of Col and embraced him like a brother, still laughing. After a long moment, he stepped back and clapped Col on the shoulder.
“No offense taken,” he said. “Me and my mates got a chance to kill Irishmen, so I’d say we all came away winners from this.”
Fin looked at Hollis as Col and Henry laughed together. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye. Tis nothin’,” Hollis replied. “Scratches and scrapes. I had a tavern wench that marked me up worse than this once.”
Fin laughed and embraced his friend tightly. They had carried the day and had survived the fight.
“I certainly hope you are not too weak to hug me like that.”
Fin turned at the sound of Ivy’s voice, the smile on his face growing wide. He swept her up in his arms, and she let out a surprised yelp as he spun her around. Fin held her tightly, finding joy and comfort in the feel of her body pressed to his. At that moment, he realized he had not been sure he would ever have her in his arms again and felt a profound wave of gratitude for having been spared and given a chance to hold her.
He set her back down on her feet and looked down into her eyes, then pressed a firm kiss upon her. Ivy melted against him, returning his kiss that was equal parts love and relief. It was only the sound of Col clearing his throat that interrupted the moment. Fin pulled back and gave his cousin a sheepish smile.
“What are ye doin’ here?” he asked. “I told ye tae stay at Westmarch.”
Ivy shook her head. “No, you said to go to Westmarch and fetch Col.” Ivy flashed him a mischievous glint. “You never said anything about remaining there.”
“Ye could’ve been killed comin’ here,” he said, a hint of reproach in his voice.
“I was quite safe. I stayed well away from the fighting,” she said, then cast a glance at his cousin. “It was one of Col’s conditions for allowing me to accompany him.”
“Aye. Twas hard enough tae even get that concession out of her, though,” Col said with a grin. “These Ainglish lasses might be as stubborn as Scottish lasses.”
“We Englishwomen are known for our fortitude and obstinance,” Ivy said with a laugh.
“Aye,” Col said with a nod. “Daenae I ken it. Ye and Gillian have much in common.”
Fin turned to his cousin. “I’m glad ye could make it,” he said with a grin. “How’s Gillian?” Fin asked.
Col nodded. “On the mend. She’s on her feet again,” he said, his voice filled with relief. “The physician said it’ll take some time for her tae be completely healed, though.”
“I’m glad tae hear that, Cousin,” he said. “Tis a great relief.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“We’re goin’ on tae Elix,” Col said. “We’re goin’ tae take the castle and clear out Castor’s people for the Duke. I daenae expect much resistance.”
“I hardly think there will be any at all,” Henry said. “Unless his household staff decides to rise up against you.”
“They will do nothing of the sort,” Ivy said. “For now, I am the Lady of Cherrythorn, and they will do as I command.”
Fin was impressed with the steel he heard in her voice, and at that moment, he knew she would have been ten times the Baroness of Elix than her brother was as Baron.
“Then I suppose that settles it,” Henry said. “We are all going to Elix.”
“Beggin pardon, Lady Welton,” Hollis interrupted.
Ivy looked at him with a wide, gracious smile. Fin had an idea of wh
at was on his friend’s mind. Indeed, there seemed to be little else on his mind anymore. Hollis shuffled his feet, an awkward, almost shy smile on his face.
“I just wanted tae ken how Mira was farin’,” he said.
“She is well. Resting in Westmarch,” Ivy reported, and a sly smile crept across her face. “And she is very much looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Is she now?” Hollis asked, that awkward grin spreading wider as he straightened up and stood taller.
“She is, indeed,” Ivy said. “She called you an uncommon gentleman, I believe it was. She seems to have grown quite fond of you.”
“Aye. And I her.”
Fin and Ivy shared a laugh together, and Hollis could not have looked happier. Henry clapped him on the shoulder as they walked off together, talking and laughing with one another. Apparently, the heat of battle had bonded them as fast friends. Col gave Fin a nod and strode away to gather his own men, giving him a few minutes alone with Ivy. He took her hands and looked into her eyes. She looked him up and down, and he saw the concern in her face as her gaze lingered on his assortment of wounds.
“Tis nothin,” he said. “I’m right as rain.”
“I have never seen rain bleed so much.”
He shrugged. “Scratches.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, when we are done with this, I demand that you see the physician,” she ordered. “And once he has you patched up, I demand that you bed me.”
Fin laughed but felt a flush of warmth and love flow through him swift as any river and deeper than any ocean in the world.
“I sort of like havin’ ye in charge of things,” he laughed.
“I kind of like being in charge.”
They stood together for several long moments, neither of them seeming to want to move and break the spell that had them wrapped up tightly. The love that flowed between them was palpable, and Fin wanted to remain there, at that moment forever. But Col’s voice calling for the men to rally and march cut through their bubble, and reality intruded once more.
“To Elix?” he asked.
“To home,” she replied. “Our home.”
Siren of the Highlands: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance (Highlanders of Cherrythorn) Page 23