by Cathy MacRae
Swallowing the gorge rising in her throat, Riona cast a furtive look at the dead around her. Nearby, she spied a bow and quiver, and she ran to pull it from its owner’s limp grasp. The wooden bow filled her hand, smooth and familiar, and she spared a brief thought for Fergus who had taught her skill with the weapon.
Now fortified with a sense of power and control, she turned back to the battle, its horrors displayed more clearly than before. Men struggled, their feet slipping in the mud that churned with last night’s rain and freshly spilled blood. She heard the harsh cries of voices, the crash of steel. And inhaled the stench of death and dying.
Across the yard, a familiar pair fought back to back.
Ranald! Finlay!
Riona almost dropped her bow and quiver in relief. They lived. She picked out others in the crowd, silently, fervently urging them on.
Another group of men burst through the portal of the great hall, pushing past her with scant notice. The tallest of the group, notable for his arrogant demeanor and coal-black hair, crossed the bailey with long, easy strides.
Manus.
Her heart lurched and she shrank into the shadows. He scanned the melee before him and Riona knew the instant his gaze locked on Ranald and Finlay.
No!
Manus drew a deep breath, his voice catapulting across the bailey as he bellowed a challenge. “Ranald Scott!”
The laird’s head jerked to attention. The two men faced each other across the churned grass and mud. Slowly, as though none others existed around them, they dropped the points of their swords, shifting their hands about the hilts as they advanced in the loose-hipped stride of men readying for action.
Riona gripped the bow tightly, the urge to shoot Manus strong. She was too far away and a miss would endanger Ranald and others as well. Her chance, fleeting though it was, had come and gone. She was left with the devastating knowledge her inaction cost her the opportunity to save Ranald.
Her heart lurched and she swallowed against the urge to vomit. She blinked to clear the sting of tears, unable to look away.
No words passed between the men as they circled each other on the bloodied ground. Helpless, Riona crept closer, uncaring that someone might recognize her and thus label her a target.
Feinting and retreating, the men tested each other for weakness, but Ranald drew first blood. Bright red blossomed on the sleeve of Manus’s sword arm. He grinned, swinging his blade about, testing his grip. Shifting the sword to his other hand, he ignored the seeping wound.
“First blood doesnae go to the victor this day, Laird,” he taunted. “The MacEwen cannae stay long away from his ships, and I will rule Scaurness in his stead.” He lunged at Ranald but skidded on the slippery grass. He recovered instantly and retreated, his sword held en garde.
Ranald growled, “Save yer breath, ye traitorous bastard. Ye’ll be without it soon enough.” He exploded in a series of lightning-quick attacks, pressing Manus back as he struggled to parry the onslaught. Steel blades screeched and metal hilts clanged as they slammed together.
Manus dropped to one knee, his head slightly bowed, his sword over his head as he held Ranald at bay. Then, in a sudden move, he slid a knife from his boot and brought it into play with a sweeping upward arc of his arm.
Jerking his elbow up, Ranald deflected the blow from his ribs, though it slid along his upper arm, opening a crimson path in its wake. With a hard blow to the inside of Manus’s wrist, he sent the knife thudding to the ground.
Following immediately on his attack, Manus surged to his feet, crashing his fist into Ranald’s bloody shoulder. With a grunt of pain, Ranald spun around, arm stretched out to stop his fall. He landed on his side and rolled quickly to his back, his sword countering Manus’s next move.
Riona’s heart skipped as Manus stood over Ranald, swaying, his lungs heaving. With his back to her, she saw the opening she’d missed earlier.
Nocking an arrow to the string, Riona wasted no time bringing the weapon to bear. An instant’s judge of accuracy before she released the arrow, and it buried itself deep in Manus’s lower back.
He jerked as the arrow pierced him, its momentum forcing him to his toes. He hung an agonizing moment in the air as though suspended by invisible ropes. His hand spasmed and his sword clattered to the ground.
* * *
Ranald scrambled backward as Manus lurched forward, landing face down in the mire. Leaping to his feet, he twisted about, searching for his defender. With a jolt of shock, he spotted Riona by the bailey door, bow in one hand, the other bent back to draw the next arrow in the quiver. She was alive!
With heartfelt gratitude and relief, he sketched a brief salute before returning to the fray.
A horn sounded in the distance. Men clustered about the gate, struggling for possession. Ranald shoved past them as he raced to the bailey stairs, taking them three at a time.
He stopped at the parapet, leaning over to survey the newcomers, then shouted, “Open the gates!”
Sounds of battle died as men put their shoulders to the bar locking the massive, iron-clad double gates. Released, they swung wide with a protesting groan.
In the guardhouse, men gripped the windlass controlling the portcullis. Chains clattered and wood creaked as they turned the enormous wheel. Around them, soldiers ranked, swords menacing outward as they protected the men doing their laird’s bidding.
Slowly the portcullis edged upward, baring the castle to those who waited, their tattered blue standard snapping in the morning breeze, the stag emblazoned on it prancing as it waved.
Ranald leapt down the stairs, skidding to a halt as a shriek rent the air. He peered over the heads of the people and spied Riona as she flung her bow and quiver to the ground. Clawing her way through the crowd, she headed straight for the gate.
“Riona!”
She showed no indication she heard him.
Damn! He was certain of the identity of the man leading a score of men through the gate, but MacEwen soldiers still lurked about, and to draw attention to herself that way . . .
Shite!
He motioned for Finlay to follow her, but his captain had already taken stock of the problem. He dogged her heels, bringing three more Scott soldiers to flank her as well. Her skirts billowed at her heels and her white shoulder glistened bare in the morning sunlight. Ranald jerked his gaze back to her torn gown, pure hot fury shooting through him. His cursing became more creative as he rushed to greet his guests.
“Kinnon!” Riona’s voice choked on a sob.
Ranald’s long strides carried him to her side and he motioned to Finlay with a nod. “Secure the castle, then see to the wounded.”
Finlay bowed his head and turned to do as bid. Ranks of soldiers fell in with him, and Ranald spared a moment’s attention as MacEwen soldiers were rounded up and marched to the dungeons. He pivoted to the tearful reunion mere feet away.
A young man, scarcely older than himself and heartbreakingly gaunt, struggled to stand against Riona’s crushing hug.
* * *
“Dhe, eisd ri m' urnuigh,” Tavia sang softly as she rocked Gilda in her arms. The comforting lull of her voice could not drown out the sounds of battle only a few feet away, but the wee lass seemed reassured by the words . . .
‘God, Listen to my prayer
Bend to me Thine ear,
Let my supplications and my prayers
Ascend to Thee upward . . .’
The cries and clashes outside the old stable increased and Tavia’s voice faltered. Something had changed, and she could not tell what. Gilda shifted in Tavia’s lap, a pout of protest whimpering from her lips at the silence.
“Wheesht, lass. I must listen,” Tavia cautioned.
Gilda grew still, her body curling smaller against her. Tavia stroked the tangled red curls soothingly. A horn blared in the distance, walls and vegetation muting the sound.
Grasping the bairn close, Tavia rose to her feet. She swayed beneath the healthy load, settling Gilda to her hip
as she crept to a crumbled window in the wall. Through the yellowing leaves, she saw men rushing the gates, their bodies bent to lend power to the task of turning the massive windlass, raising the portcullis. She could almost hear the grunts of effort as others shoved their shoulders beneath the bar holding the iron-studded main gates closed.
“What is it, Auntie?”
Tavia did not break her gaze away from the activity in the yard as she answered the child’s whispered question. “Someone is coming to the gates.”
Gilda lifted her head from Tavia’s shoulder. “Are the bad men gone?”
“I dinnae know, lass.” She searched the bailey for sight of Ranald or Finlay, afraid of what she would find.
A dark-haired man leapt from the parapet stairs, sword swinging from his hand, a shout sounding from his lips.
“Riona!”
It was Ranald. Tavia’s indrawn breath left her in a whoosh of relief, her arms suddenly trembling. The castle had been retaken by the Macrorys and the Scotts. But what of Manus and Morgan MacEwen? And where was Riona? Cold panic washed over her.
Gilda clutched her fiercely. “I want Ma,” she whispered into the side of Tavia’s wrinkled neck.
“We’ll find yer ma, lass, dinnae fash. We must wait a bit.”
“I want her now!” The petulant wail rose.
“Wheesht! We dinnae want to be found just yet. Cease yer greetin’.”
But Gilda had reached the end of her bravery—and her cooperation. Shoving away from Tavia, she broke the old woman’s grip, slithering to the ground as Tavia grabbed futilely at her.
“Gilda! Stay here! Dinnae go out there!”
Two men, crouched on the floor, lunged forward to intercept the lass, but Gilda darted past them, out into the brambles covering the path to the bailey.
“Gilda!” one of the guards shouted, his fingers closing on empty air.
“Useless men,” Tavia muttered as the guards clambered to their feet and elbowed their way out of the stable, chasing the lass.
Tavia scrambled after Gilda, but her old bones were no longer able to go dashing through thickets, and she quickly lost sight of the burnished curls and the white night shift shining like a beacon in the morning light.
Thorns pricked her hands as she warded off the smallest branches. She stumbled out into the yard, halting at the sight of the bodies littering the ground. A few moaned, lifting arms in supplication as the castle healer and her helpers moved among them.
A sharp cry captured her attention, and she spied Gilda, tiny fists clenched at her sides, the sparkle of tears on her face.
Tavia hobbled toward the child, one hand stretched in a calming gesture. “Gilda, a chuisle, dinnae move. I’m coming for ye, lass.”
“Kinnon!”
The voice was Riona’s and both Gilda and Tavia turned toward the sound. Before Tavia could stop her, Gilda darted away, skirting the men on the ground, straight for the now-open gate and her mother.
* * *
Riona flung herself at her brother as he slid from his horse. Aghast at his wasted frame as he swayed against her, she could not bring herself to let him go. His arms circled her in a fierce hug belying his weakened condition, but within moments, he relaxed, his arms dropping to his sides.
“What have ye done to the keep, lass?” He teased her softly, motioning to the chaos within.
Riona’s laugh laced with hysteria and she choked on a sob. Swiping at her face with the back of one hand, she surveyed her brother, not ready to delve into the upheaval of the past days.
“Where have ye been? We received word ye were missing . . . or worse.” Her voice cracked again and she stared at him with wide eyes, drinking in the sight of him.
A small weight flew against her legs and Riona stumbled. Her hands went instantly to the form buried in her skirts, caressing the red-gold hair.
Kinnon sighed, his exhaustion plain. “I’d like to come inside, if ye dinnae mind.”
“Aye. It seems we have much to discuss.”
They looked up at the sound of the new voice. Ranald stared at them, his sword still drawn, blood matting his hair against one side of his face, his eyes bright and piercing behind narrowed lids. Riona’s stomach lurched, the emotions of the past hours still fresh and raw.
Sheathing his sword, Ranald swept Gilda into his arms, ignoring Riona’s gasp of protest. He strode to the door of the hall, leaving her and Kinnon to follow.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Riona sat next to Kinnon, Gilda curled in her lap, as they awaited Ranald’s return. With a glare pinning them in place, he’d set Gilda in her chair, pivoted on his heel and stalked from the room, Riona and Kinnon gaping after him.
Kinnon patted Riona’s knee. “Dinnae fash, Ree. He needs time to gather himself. A splash of cauld water will help.”
Riona shook her head. “He’s verra angry with me.”
“Tell me what has happened.”
“First I want to know where ye have been, Kinnon. Ye are so verra thin. I was so afraid . . .. We’d heard . . ..”
He gave her knee final a pat as he leaned back in his chair. “I went to fight in France. I was wounded and nearly died. It took me a long time to regain the strength to come home. Let’s not speak of it now.”
Riona inhaled a shuddering breath, aware how painful the past weeks must have been for him. As much as she needed to know what had happened, she didn’t have the heart to pry further.
“Aye, then. Ye are welcome to talk when ye are ready. I willnae press ye.”
“Thank ye. It looks as though ye have a lot to tell me.” He gave her an even look that brooked no further distractions. “Talk.”
Riona shifted uncomfortably and Gilda burrowed closer. “I’d rather not talk with her here,” she murmured, nodding at the lass surveying Kinnon with solemn eyes.
“Give me the quick version, then. Ranald won’t be gone long, and I think there are things needing to be said just between ye and me.”
Riona sighed. “After ye left, Da taught me the way of the clan. I learned to use a bow, practiced with a sword, and was at his side to listen on his judgments and help our people. I was fifteen and such knowledge and freedom was exciting.” She fell silent, remembering the impudent lass she’d been.
“Laird MacEwen offered for me and Da refused. He dinnae think a laird who made a living in piracy would be the proper husband for me, and he realized the MacEwen wanted the land in my dowry more than he wanted me. But he was persistent, arranging to accidentally meet me in the village, or, once, on the beach below the castle.”
Riona shrugged, trying to forget the day he’d cornered her by the firth and she’d discovered how deep the caves ran beneath the cliffs, how she’d not believed no one would hear her scream. The dark, tunneling cave had absorbed her cries, and by the time he’d released her, her childhood was destroyed and she’d gained a deep fear of the power of men.
Kinnon sucked in a harsh breath. “Merde.” His gaze met hers and she felt dismay at the wealth of sorrow she saw on his face.
“Dinnae fash, Kinnon. I shouldnae have . . ..”
“Ree. ’Twas not yer fault. I should have been here to protect ye.”
“Kinnon, even Da couldnae protect me when I was so reckless. ’Tis over, and Gilda is much loved.”
Kinnon sighed. “I can see that. Tell me about Da. I heard rumors as we approached Scaurness there is a new laird here. Is it Ranald?”
Riona nodded. “Da was sick and wrote to yer commander to send ye home. He was devastated when we received word ye were presumed dead. He seemed to fade a bit more each day afterward. One day he collapsed and fell down the stairs, and ’twas only a matter of days after that before he died.”
“I’m sorry, Ree. I would change it if I could.”
Riona shook her head. “He wrote to King Robert for a man to take over Scaurness. He dinnae want the clan in dissension when he passed. The king sent Ranald.”
“I remember him. He isnae much of a sailor, but
he was a good friend when he and his brother visited.”
“Kinnon, now that ye are back, ye will be laird—” she began.
“Nae, lass. I willnae be laird.”
“Why?”
“I may never regain my health and I have seen enough killing. I have chosen to enter a monastery.”
“What?”
One of the doors to the hall suddenly swung open and booted footsteps sounded loud on the stone floor. Riona’s gaze jerked to Ranald as he strode toward them.
Then a shout from the stairwell made her swivel in her seat. “Laird! He isnae here! The MacEwen is gone.”
* * *
Ranald came to an abrupt stop. “Shite.”
The anger he’d managed to ease with fresh, cold water as he sluiced off the worst of the battle grime, flared anew.
“Have ye searched the rooms above?” Ranald’s voice cracked like a whip in the silent room.
“Aye.”
He ran a hand over his face as he turned to Riona, noting again her torn dress, her pale, drawn features.
“Where did ye leave him?” His question was blunt, taking no care for her battered emotions. There was a dangerous man still loose at Scaurness and smoothing ruffled feelings would have to wait.
Riona’s eyes widened in agitation, then narrowed in annoyance. And what looked like hurt. “My room,” she bit out.
The soldier at the stair nodded. “Aye. There was blood on the floor an’ a MacEwen guard just inside the door.” He ducked his head in Riona’s direction. “My lady cracked yon rascal’s heid, she did,” he noted with due respect.
“The MacEwen?” Ranald glared at the soldier, unwilling to be impressed with Riona’s prowess. Had she listened to him, she could have avoided the need to crack yon rascal’s heid. She hadn’t believed him able to save her life or that of the daughter he’d claimed for his own. He didn’t trust himself to look at her, afraid to see what her lack of confidence had cost her. He knew what it had cost him.