The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  “And what of the king?” she said.

  “He’s staying with you.”

  Helen glanced over to the Bruce, seeing an expression very similar to the one on Magnus’s face only moments before. “Does he know that?”

  Magnus made a face. “Not yet.” He looked at her hopefully. “Perhaps you can think of a reason?”

  “Ha!” she laughed sharply. “I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. She sucked in her breath, unable to look away from the impressive display of muscle.

  The air suddenly grew charged with awareness. There were so many things left unsaid. So many things left undone.

  “Be careful,” she said softly.

  He wanted to kiss her. She could see that he did. Perhaps he would have had they not been standing in the middle of the camp. But all he could do was unfold his arms and nod. “I will.”

  He started to walk away, but then turned back to her. “Be ready, Helen. We may have need of you.”

  She bit her lip, understanding. Men might be hurt. She nodded and repeated just as he had, “I will.”

  She would let him do his job, and when the time came, she would do hers. But please, please keep him safe.

  “I don’t like this,” MacGregor said softly.

  “Neither do I,” Magnus replied.

  The two men had crept on their bellies as far forward as they could on the darkened hillside from which they would launch their attack. Below them lay the forested gully where the hillside met the far edge of the loch before opening up into the Dirrie More pass, where the rest of the royal party waited.

  Magnus had chosen the place to launch their attack well, using his knowledge of the terrain to put the ten men he’d brought with him at an advantage even should they be outnumbered. But if Fraser’s scouting was correct, they’d be evenly matched. The road here was narrow; once their enemies entered, they would be easily surrounded by Magnus’s men on the hillside with nowhere to run but the loch. But where were they?

  “They should have been here by now. Fraser said they were only a few miles back.”

  “I can’t see a damned thing,” MacGregor said. “The mist is as thick as pitch. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if Ranger were here.”

  Arthur “Ranger” Campbell was prized not only for his scouting abilities, but also for his uncanny, eerie senses, which had helped them avoid more than one dire situation. And this sure as hell qualified.

  Magnus had downplayed the situation to Helen, but if there was one place on their journey that he wouldn’t want to be caught with over fifty people to protect from an attack, this part of the road was it. Miles from help, deep in the heart of the mountainous countryside, they could be pinned down as easily as he hoped to pin down the men following them.

  “I’d feel a hell of a lot better if the entire team were here,” Magnus agreed.

  Though he’d chosen the men he’d brought with him well, they weren’t the Highland Guard. They weren’t even the ten best men he had. He couldn’t risk leaving Helen and the rest of the party inadequately protected. It was how he’d finally convinced the king—one of the best knights in Christendom—to stay behind with Sutherland and Munro. Normally, Magnus would welcome the Bruce’s sword. But Bruce was king now and needed to be protected. His role had changed, but Bruce had held the sword in his hand for too long to relish putting it aside—even for the sake of the realm. And with his queen and his only heir currently in an English prison, he had to exercise caution.

  Magnus hated to divide their forces, even by a short distance, but he had no choice. This was the best chance to defuse the threat with as little damage as possible. Ironically, the very thing that had given the Highland Guard an advantage over the English was being used against him: the size and inability of the royal party to maneuver quickly. He had no doubt they would win if they came under attack, but it would be far more difficult to protect Helen and the king. This way he could ensure their safety.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, peering into the nearly impenetrable darkness and mist. “We need to check—”

  A fierce war cry shattered the silent night.

  Magnus swore. Leaping to his feet, he reached for his war hammer. MacGregor echoed a similar sentiment and reached for his sword—his bow would be of little use in close combat—realizing as Magnus did that their surprise attack had just gone to hell.

  They were the ones under attack—from behind.

  He and MacGregor raced back to the place where the other men he’d brought with him were waiting. The battle was already in full force.

  On first glance Magnus wasn’t overly concerned, counting only a handful of men. But that was before he noticed four of the men-at-arms he’d brought with him on the ground. Whatever advantage they’d had in numbers had all but disappeared in the opening strokes of the attack. Still, the numbers didn’t worry him. He and MacGregor would make short work of them. They’d taken down twice—four times—this many before.

  But when another of his men—this one a knight—fell, Magnus knew this might not be so easy.

  “What in Hades?” MacGregor said, not wasting time to look in his direction but jumping right into the battle.

  The words echoed Magnus’s thoughts exactly. Even before his sword locked on his first opponents, he knew there was something different about these warriors—brigands—whoever they were.

  The men were dressed all in black. Although they wore shirts of mail and not cotuns as the Highland Guard did, the mail was blackened, as were the helms that completely hid their faces. Like the Highland Guard, they employed a variety of weapons, from swords to battle-axes, war hammers, and pikes. Magnus would like to say that was where the similarities ended, but he couldn’t. He could tell from the first swing of his opponent’s sword that he was no common swordsman. The man knew how to fight. Well.

  Locked in a surprisingly difficult contest, the din of battle all around, it took Magnus a moment to realize that the noise wasn’t just coming from around him. It was also coming from the west below, where the rest of the party was waiting.

  The king. Helen. Bloody hell, they were under attack! He needed to get to them. But the attackers were positioned to block his path.

  Perfectly positioned. Almost as if they’d known exactly where they would be.

  His blood spiked, heat surging through his veins in a sharp rush. He forced his opponent back with crushing blows of the hammer. Using a curved spike that he’d forged on the other end, he hooked the edge of the opponent’s targe, ripping it from his hand. Without the shield to protect the man, Magnus took the advantage. He waited for the defensive swing of the sword, twisted out of the way, and brought down his hammer with full force on his skull. The man staggered and then fell. Though the blow would probably kill him, Magnus plunged a blade through the mail coif under his helm just to make sure.

  One down, four to go. MacGregor, Fraser, and De la Hay were holding their own, but the remaining man-at-arms—one of Fraser’s men—was clearly overmatched. Magnus was surprised he’d lasted this long.

  Magnus went to his aid, but before he could reach Fraser’s man, the attacker’s blade cleared the man’s head from his shoulders. Magnus swung the hammer at the attacker’s head a moment after, but he blocked it with his sword, pushing him back.

  Damn, the man was nearly as big as Robbie Boyd and from what he could see, wielded a two-handed great sword with enough skill to give MacLeod a contest. Magnus couldn’t find an opening. It was all he could do to keep the long blade from lopping off his own head.

  It wasn’t often Magnus found himself at a disadvantage, but the shorter length of his hammer was proving a detriment against the long blade. He couldn’t get close enough to do damage.

  Where had this man come from?

  In between blows, he could see out of the corner of his eye as MacGregor finally dispatched his man and went to the aid of Fraser, who seemed to be
having difficulty. Magnus heaved a sigh of relief, not wanting to explain to MacLeod how they’d managed to get his young brother-in-law killed on a nice, “peaceful” journey across the Highlands.

  Magnus preferred to fight with the hammer, but right now he needed the sword at his back. When the third of the attackers fell under Fraser’s blade and Magnus’s opponent glanced toward him, Magnus had his chance. He pulled the blade from the scabbard at his back, but before he could bring it down toward his opponent’s head, the man let out a sharp whistle. The next instant he and his remaining companion were fleeing back into the darkness of the forest.

  Fraser started to go after them, but Magnus stopped him. “Let them go—we have to get to the king.” They’d been delayed too long already.

  “Don’t you hear it, lad?” De la Hay said to Fraser. “The king and the others are under attack.”

  It was less than a half-mile to where they’d left the royal party, but the two minutes it took them to get there felt like forever.

  “How the hell did they know?” MacGregor asked, racing through the forest beside him.

  Magnus gave him a quick glance, wondering the same thing. “Either they’re damned lucky or—”

  “Or we’ve been betrayed,” MacGregor finished.

  Aye, but by whom?

  Magnus didn’t have time to think about it. His only concern was reaching the king and Helen before …

  He didn’t let himself finish. But ice was shooting through his veins.

  The scene that met them was one of utter pandemonium. Carts were overturned. Men were scattered, some hidden, a few locked in battle, at least a dozen littered across the grassy floor.

  He scanned the darkness, not seeing either Helen or the king right away. He hoped to hell they’d both had the good sense to get back. But he knew the king. Robert the Bruce would be leading the charge.

  So where is he?

  Magnus helped one of his men fight off an attacker before he finally caught sight of Sutherland. “Where are they?” he shouted, not needing to specify who.

  Sutherland didn’t get a chance to reply. One of the attackers came out of his blind side with a battle-axe. Sutherland barely had the chance to block it with his targe, and the blow caused him to let down his guard. The attacker lifted the axe high above his head.

  Magnus didn’t hesitate. He pulled his dirk from his waist and threw it with all his strength at the man’s upraised arm. It landed with a dull thud, penetrating the mail and causing the attacker to drop his hand and howl in pain. The brigand let out an oath in Gaelic—Irish Gaelic. Sutherland took full advantage and stuck his sword deep into the man’s padded but unmailed leg.

  From the amount of blood that spurted out, Magnus knew even before the Irishman toppled to the ground that it was a death blow.

  “How many?” Magnus asked.

  “Only a handful. But they’re skilled.”

  He’d noticed. Something to ponder after he helped the other men fight off the remaining attackers. But as the first group of attackers had done, with a whistle the remaining brigands retreated into the forest.

  Magnus met MacGregor’s gaze and nodded. MacGregor quickly organized a handful of men to go after them, including Fraser, De la Hay, Sutherland, and Munro.

  Magnus was already looking for Bruce and Helen. But the minutes passed, each second in increasing agony.

  Where the hell are they? He searched frantically, like a man possessed.

  Panic nipped at his heels. He tried to kick it back. They were here. Somewhere in the chaos and misty darkness, they had to be here.

  He ordered the torches lit, then searched the bodies that littered the forest floor and anywhere else he could find. But it wasn’t until he saw Sir Neil Campbell staggering through the trees, blood streaming down his face, that ice penetrated his bones. The vaunted knight would never have willingly left the king’s side.

  “Where are they?” Magnus asked, dreading the answer.

  Sir Neil shook his head dazedly. “I don’t know. God’s bones, I don’t know.”

  It all happened so fast, Helen didn’t have time to be scared. One minute she was waiting—praying—for Magnus and the others to return safely, and the next they were under attack.

  “Get back!” Bruce shouted to her. “Take them and get back.”

  But the king’s command wasn’t necessary. Once the initial moment of shock—when the first brigand had stepped out of the trees and with one swipe of his sword brought down two unfortunate guardsmen—had worn off, Helen had leapt into action. She gathered her two terrified tiring women and the servants who wouldn’t know what to do with a weapon if one were put in their hands, and whispered for them to follow her. She didn’t know where they were going, just that she had to get them out of the way so the warriors could do their job.

  A safe refuge was too much to ask for, but the mist and darkness provided some shroud. In the desolate landscape of the Dirrie More, there were few natural hiding places. The patch of pine trees would have to do.

  From behind the trees, Helen and the others watched the battle unfold. At first Helen was relieved. She counted only a handful of attackers, while the king had perhaps four times that many at his command.

  The surprise of the attack had caught the king’s men unaware, but not unprepared. It took them only seconds to take the weapons that had been readied in hand and begin to repel the attack.

  But to her growing horror, she saw the king’s men falling. She lost sight of her brother and Donald, but the king and Sir Neil Campbell had taken a defensive position in front of her and the others.

  One of the attackers was pushing toward them, cutting down all the men in his path. Sir Neil moved forward to engage him just as another attacker came into view.

  She lost Sir Neil in the hazy darkness, but could still make out the king’s mail-clad form and the steel helm laden with a golden crown as his sword clashed with the brigand’s.

  Helen’s heart jumped with every horrible clash of steel. Though she knew the king was one of the greatest knights in Christendom, it didn’t take her long to realize that the man who faced him was no common brigand. He wielded his sword with a strength equal to that of the king—if not more.

  The battle between the two men seemed to go on forever. But where were the others? Why had no one come to his aid?

  To her horror, she realized that the brigand was purposefully moving the king toward the pine trees where they were hidden, away from the main battle.

  The closer they drew, the more the tension in the small group began to mount. She motioned for the others to stay quiet, but from the wide, horror-filled eyes of her ladies, she feared they weren’t going to last much longer.

  They could hear the heavy breathing of the men as they exchanged blow after blow, until finally, the king’s blade met the other man’s with such force, the sword slipped from his hands.

  Helen nearly gasped with relief. The king lifted his sword to deliver the death blow. But the other man was not going to surrender to death without a fight. Somehow he managed to extricate a battle-axe from his body. Even as the blade of Bruce’s sword was slicing through the air, the brigand landed a one-handed blow of the axe to the king’s head.

  Momentum finished the king’s job for him—the brigand’s neck was nearly severed in two—but Bruce staggered, the blade of the axe still stuck in his helm.

  He lowered to his knees, and then stopped himself from keeling forward by extending his hands.

  Helen didn’t think. With the bag that Magnus had made for her looped over her shoulder across her body, she ordered the rest of the group to stay there and raced forward to help the king.

  When she reached him, she fell to her knees at his side. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight shining through the mist to see the blood gushing down his face.

  It was like some macabre farce. The blade of the axe was stuck into his helm and had penetrated the steel into his brow.

  Dear God, let it no
t be deep.

  “Sire,” she said gently. “Let me help.”

  He was rocking side-to-side, obviously in a daze. “My head,” he mumbled.

  She soothed him as best she could, easing him back until he was seated on the ground.

  Every instinct recoiled from removing the helm and its hideous appendage—fearing what she would find—but she had to see the extent of the damage and stop the bleeding.

  “I need to take off your helm,” she said gently. “Can you help me?”

  He tried to nod, but winced with pain.

  Helen held her breath and slowly started to pull the helm from his head. There was one horrible moment when it seemed the helm would not come off—that the axe was embedded too deep in his forehead—but with one hard tug she pulled it free.

  Helm and axe fell to the ground as Helen did her best to staunch the blood gushing from the king’s brow with one of the swatches of linen she kept in the bag. But the small pad of fabric was soon drenched.

  If only it weren’t so dark. It was hard to see the extent of the injury. But aside from the ringing to his head the king was sure to be feeling from the blow, it looked as if the vertical gash bisecting his left eyebrow and forehead was deep but not necessarily deadly. If she could stop the bleeding.

  The king’s shock had seemed to fade with the removal of the helm and axe.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Lady Helen. I told you to hide.”

  “I will. Just as soon as I tend your wound. Does it hurt badly?”

  A silly question to ask a warrior. In her experience, nothing ever hurt.

  “Nay,” the king said, true to form. “Where’s my sword?”

  Helen gazed toward the body of the fallen man where the sword had landed when the blow had struck.

  The king lunged for it, but Helen had to keep him upright when he nearly fell over, dizzy. “You’re losing a lot of blood. I need to get something to bind the wound.”