To further confound the enemy and make their arrows harder to defend against, the archers didn’t release all at once in a volley. Instead, Jenefer had apparently directed them to choose a specific target and shoot when they had a single victim squarely in their sights.
Once their arrows were spent, with very few of them wasted, the archers withdrew from the battlements.
“And again!” Jenefer shouted.
The lasses moved forward in unison to pelt the foe with hammers and pans and platters. Those English who were foolish enough to fight their way through the falling objects were subsequently picked off when the archers took over.
It was ingenious.
Morgan looked at the lass with new respect. She was a warrior maid. Not only could she handle a bow. She could wage war. Indeed, he’d never seen a more capable commander.
He was about to tell her so when a sudden hard impact made the stones shudder beneath his feet.
Jenefer turned and caught his eye. “The doors!”
Morgan’s heart plummeted as his glance landed on the cart blocking the entrance. It was tipped at a dangerous angle, and his men strained to keep it from flipping. The rough point of the battering ram was visible between the splintered rift in the doors.
He clenched his jaw. He needed to get down there.
“Go!” Jenefer barked. “I’ve got this!”
He hesitated.
He couldn’t leave his soldiers in the hands of a lass.
Could he?
In the end, it was Jenefer’s steady, self-assured gaze, burning like fire, that convinced him.
“I’ve got this,” she repeated. “Go.”
He knew she was right. With a nod and an exhale to settle his nerves, he snatched up his claymore and raced down the stairs.
Stepping into the courtyard was like marching into hell.
Time screeched to a halt, dragging at Morgan’s boots as if he slogged through sludge, while he took in the turmoil around him.
In his shifted reality, panicked livestock kicked up clouds of dust at a snail’s pace while their keepers labored to keep them penned.
As if they moved through thick sap, breathless lads raced back and forth, fetching weapons from the armory.
Scowling men-at-arms shrugged slowly into their cotuns, snarling drawn-out oaths at one another to whip up their courage for the hand-to-hand battle to come.
At a sluggish pace, sweating servants piled barrels, chests, casks—anything heavy they could find—onto the cart to give it weight against the oncoming tide of English soldiers.
Then, in the midst of it all, appearing through the rising silt like a calm angel, rose Alicia. Oblivious to the pandemonium, she seemed as tranquil as the eye of a storm.
In this strange, stretched time, it felt to Morgan like he stared at her in puzzlement for an eternity, unable to comprehend her peace.
And then he glimpsed the bairn in her arms.
A prolonged, painful, rasping gasp racked Morgan’s chest. His precious son was in the clutches of the one who saw him, not as an innocent child, but as a hostage. Alicia was no heavenly being. She was the Angel of Death.
A calculating smirk slowly bloomed on her face. Her eyes closed down to scheming slits. Her hand drifted up to the back of Miles’ head.
An impotent roar choked Morgan’s throat as he saw his son frozen in time—red-faced, body arched, crying in terror, and helpless in the witch’s grasp.
In that protracted instant, he tried to gauge whether he could cross the courtyard to recover his son before she did him harm.
But before he could act, a mighty crash and a loud, grinding noise jarred him back to real time.
His gaze flew to the entrance of the keep.
The battering ram had splintered the doors.
The wheels of the cart were skidding back under the pressure, despite the efforts of his men to anchor them.
One more blow would let the English into the breach.
“To arms!” he bellowed to his men, brandishing his claymore as he thundered forward.
Jenefer heard the horrendous crack and felt the wall shudder. The English had burst through the doors.
It was time to change tactics.
“Archers, disperse along the walls!” she cried. “Guard the doors!”
The archers abandoned the battlements, facing inward and finding the best vantage points to keep the entrance in their sights.
As for the women atop the wall, though they would have no parapets to hide behind when the English streamed in, Jenefer felt they were safer up here than sitting in the great hall, waiting like lambs to be slaughtered.
Apparently, they agreed. Not a single one fled down the stairs. Instead, the determined lasses hefted up what projectiles remained in their arsenal and prepared to launch an attack inside the walls.
For one moment, her breast swelled with pride.
Then, with a brutal punch of its wooden fist, the battering ram shattered the doors. Her chest caved as the breath hissed from her lungs.
The cart keeled over and smashed onto its side. A man who didn’t dodge fast enough screamed as the weighted conveyance crushed his leg.
But what wrenched at her heart, making it knife sideways, was the sight of Morgan down there, in the thick of things. He and his men stood before the doors, baring their teeth and brandishing their claymores.
Too soon, like angry wasps knocked from their nest, the English began to swarm through the narrow opening and over the overturned cart.
She swallowed down her fear and stiffened her spine. I’ve got this, she’d boasted. Now there was no turning back.
At her direction, the women flocked to the section of wall directly above the attackers, lobbing rocks and dropping pitchers on them as they came through the entrance.
Her archers, aided by the disarray the women sowed, performed expertly. They wounded nearly half of the invaders as they slipped through the gap.
The English lucky enough to evade their arrows were met by Morgan’s claymore-wielding giants.
As for Jenefer, she gave herself the singular mission of keeping Morgan safe. She shot at anyone who came within a yard of him, not even noting or caring that she might have killed a man for the first time.
By some miracle, the Highlanders repelled the first wave of invaders and righted the cart again. Once the injured man was carried away, five men-at-arms shoved the cart up against the splintered doors and held it there with their backs.
It wouldn’t keep the enemy out forever. But now maybe Roger would think twice about the cost in casualties if he attacked again. A dozen bodies lay strewn about the courtyard, feeding the grass with English blood.
But one person in the keep wasn’t pleased with the outcome.
“Nay!” Alicia screamed, frowning in fury at the carnage.
Only one thing could make her that angry, and that was having her plans foiled. She must have been counting on the English to seize Creagor and take Morgan. She expected them to rescue her. Which confirmed that it was she who’d misled them, telling them Morgan had committed the murders.
Afire with rage at Alicia’s betrayal, Jenefer drew her bow, aiming at the treacherous woman’s back.
Then she hesitated.
She remembered what Bethac had said. Morgan would never forgive her for shooting Miles’ mother.
Her hands faltered on the bow as she saw Morgan turn toward Alicia, his blade still in hand, his chest heaving, his face grimy from battle.
Still Jenefer fought the urge to slay the woman where she stood.
But Alicia shifted her posture then, enough so Jenefer could see the bundle in her arms.
Alicia had Miles.
He writhed in her arms, bleating to be free.
Jenefer’s heart plunged. Her hands quaked. A knot of horror clogged her throat.
Bloody hell. What if Jenefer had fired that shot and accidentally hit Miles?
Before her grip could slip, before she could do something she�
��d regret, Jenefer lowered the bow. But her fingers still trembled on the grip. And her gaze as she kept Alicia and Miles in her sights could have pierced steel.
“Let me out!” Alicia snarled, clinging tightly to the babe.
At that moment, Danald came stumbling out of the great hall. He gripped his head in one hand.
“M’laird,” he grunted, “I lost him. I lost…” He stopped as he took in the situation and saw who had taken the babe from him. His brow clouded. “’Twas ye. Ye took Miles.”
Now all the men-at-arms faced her. Their blood was hot from battle. Their grim blades were bare. What was one more victim?
Alicia must have sensed their hunger for violence as well. It fueled her desperation. She slid a dagger from her belt.
“If you don’t let me go,” she bit out, “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill your heir.”
Chapter 64
Morgan felt all the air go out of his lungs.
Could Alicia do it? Kill an innocent child? Her own flesh and blood?
A few days ago, he would have thought it impossible. But now…
“Back away!” she ordered.
The eyes of everyone in the courtyard were fixed on Alicia as she clutched Miles. Frozen in shock, no one moved a muscle.
“Back away, I said!”
They shuffled back. Morgan stood his ground, but slowly and carefully set his sword on the grass. Maybe—if he could calm her down and avoid falling apart—he could talk some sense into his wife.
“Listen to me, Alicia.”
“Stand back,” she warned, pressing her dagger against Miles’ pale wee neck. “I’ll do it.”
“Please,” Morgan choked out. “Whatever’s happened, whatever ye’ve done, I can help ye. There’s no need to go back to the English. I can keep ye safe here.”
The last thing he expected was Alicia’s jangling laughter.
“You fool,” she said. “’Tis the English who are going to keep me safe from you. You’re the coldblooded killer who murdered their lord and stole my infant.”
Of course. He’d forgotten. Alicia had neatly pinned the blame for her crime on him.
He could deal with her treachery later. For now, all he cared about was safely retrieving his son.
“Now out of my way,” she growled.
Morgan couldn’t let her leave with Miles. If she did, he knew he’d never see him again.
“Please, Alicia,” he said. “Can’t we talk this over? Leave the bairn here. I’ll give ye safe passage beyond the wall.”
She smirked at his offer. “Ye’d have a knife in my back ere I reached the door.”
“Nay. I swear. Only don’t take him.”
“I need some assurance you won’t come after me,” she explained. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to poor wee…what are you calling him now?”
Yards away, Danald snapped, “Miles!” Though his tone toward Alicia was venomous, he probably blamed himself for the bairn’s capture.
Morgan issued a steely promise to her. “If ye take him away, I’ll hunt ye down, I swear. I’ll follow ye to the ends o’ the earth.”
She raised her dagger, reversing it in her hand and letting it hover over Miles’ belly. “Maybe I’ll get rid of him to save you the trouble.”
One downward thrust would end Miles’ life.
“Nay!” Morgan’s cry was hoarse and full of torment.
In the end, he had to admit defeat.
She wouldn’t negotiate with him.
She didn’t want to stay at Creagor.
And he couldn’t convince her to surrender Miles.
He couldn’t even risk taking the bairn by force. He saw now that Alicia had no feelings for her son. She had no feelings for him. He wondered if she had feelings for anyone save herself.
The slow march toward the doors was interminable. Alicia warily advanced, clenching her hand around the dagger that threatened Miles’ vulnerable body.
Morgan and his men followed her at a safe distance, waiting for her to make a mistake.
Trip up somehow.
Falter.
Drop her guard.
Change her mind.
Anything that would give them the advantage.
But she never stumbled. Never veered from her course. Never hesitated or had second thoughts.
She took a dozen tortuous steps.
Then, on the thirteenth, the sudden earth-shuddering crack of the battering ram made everyone jerk in distraction. Everyone except the highly focused archer who sent an arrow spiraling through Alicia’s upraised forearm.
The thud at the doors didn’t garner as much attention as the tortured scream Alicia emitted when she felt the arrow’s wicked bite.
The dagger fell from her hand. Her eyes rolled wildly as she stared at the shaft impaling her and the blood dripping down her arm. While she staggered in shock, Morgan rushed forward, easily snatching Miles out of her arms.
Then he scanned the battlements to see who had shot the arrow.
A lone archer lowered a bow.
Jenefer.
The mist swirled around her like smoke off a fire. Her face was grave, graver than he’d ever seen it. She must know the risk she’d taken. If her shaft had drifted by so much as an inch, she might have killed Miles or one of the men behind him.
He wanted to be vexed with her. But the truth was she’d saved Miles’ life.
He gave her a nod of gratitude. And he prayed he’d live long enough to thank her properly.
The battering ram thudded against the doors again, opening the crevice. The men shoved the cart forward, sealing it again.
Soon he’d have to prepare for a second round of hand-to-hand fighting. He needed someone to take his son to safety.
He glanced at Jenefer again. As if she’d read his mind, her gaze dropped to Miles, and she started down the steps.
But he shook his head, stopping her.
He wouldn’t waste her talents.
Anyone could look after a bairn.
There was only one Jenefer, master archer.
“I need ye on the wall,” he called to her.
She nodded and immediately started issuing commands to a group of lads on the wall. “You lads! Gather all the arrows. Pry them out of the dead if you have to. Quick! Bring them up to the archers.”
Meanwhile, Morgan spotted Danald, who stood apart, twisting his cap in his hands.
“Here, lad,” Morgan said, “I need ye to take Miles.”
“Are ye certain, m’laird?” Danald asked. “I failed ye once. Lady Alicia—”
Behind Morgan’s shoulder, Alicia screamed in agony.
Two of the Campbell brothers had taken mercy on her. They’d broken off the arrow head and were pulling the shaft out of her arm.
“Won’t be seizin’ anythin’ for a while.” He placed his son in Danald’s hands.
The lad gave him a solemn nod and fled with Miles to the safety of the great hall.
Alicia screeched again, this time in outrage. The Campbells were tearing her fine leine to use the linen for a bandage.
The next crash against the doors came with an ominous creak. One or two more hits, and the doors would not only open. They’d splinter off their iron hinges. Then there would be no trickle of English soldiers through the entrance. There would be a flood.
“Archers at the ready!” Jenefer shouted from above.
“To mac Giric!” Morgan bellowed, brandishing his claymore to embolden his men.
They roared in response.
The Campbells had no more time to tend to Alicia. They handed her the bandage, leaving her to bind her own wound.
Jenefer’s throat thickened with pride as she watched the archers all along the wall nock their arrows in perfect unison. Her eyes welled with tears of admiration as she saw the mac Giric lasses reassemble above the entrance, armed with whatever they had left.
How could she ever have imagined they were dimwitted savages? These Highlanders were fierce and brave, loyal and resource
ful, a clan anyone would be proud to claim.
She only prayed she wasn’t condemning them to death.
She drew her own bow, watching the doors, determined to defend them with her last breath.
Then she felt a strange tingle at the back of her neck.
Something was coming.
She dared not look away from the doors. But the sensation persisted.
Swiftly, what began as a prickling became a sound, as if someone were calling to her.
Hardening her jaw against distraction, she kept her focus on the entrance as the battering ram once again tried to break through the thick oak.
Again the men-at-arms were able to hold back the beast, shoving the cart firmly against the doors. But the oak had splintered partially away from the heavy iron hinges. The doors wouldn’t withstand one more pummeling.
In the few moments the English would need to regroup, Jenefer eased the tension of her bow and stepped to the battlements. Still feeling the queer shiver along her neck, she cast a glance toward the palisade gates.
The field was thick with fog. An archer could shoot an arrow and never see where it landed. But she thought she glimpsed something stirring in the mist.
Figures.
She blinked her eyes to make sure she wasn’t imagining the shapes.
And then she saw clearly that they were figures. Dozens of warriors marching through the gates and toward the castle.
She held her breath, fearing they might be English reinforcements.
And then she glimpsed the familiar banner emerging from the fog.
“Rivenloch,” she breathed, her heart leaping with hope.
When she recognized her cousin Feiyan leading the charge, she knew at once that rescue was at hand. And when she spied Hallie and all the parents at Feiyan’s flank, armed and armored for serious battle, she knew the English were finished.
“Rivenloch!” she cried, grinning in triumph when she turned to call down to Morgan. “Rivenloch is coming!”
It didn’t occur to her that Morgan would perceive Rivenloch as the enemy.
His face fell. His shoulders dropped. His mouth turned down, grim but resolute. Still, he lifted his claymore in defiance, as if to proclaim he wouldn’t lose Creagor without a fight to the death.
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