Devil in a Kilt

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “’Twas the laird himself who declared you shall not leave this chamber, my lady,” the taller one, Malcolm told her, his voice so calm and courteous Linnet wished to hurl something at him.

  “Please, lady, you must becalm yourself,” Alec, the other one tried to coax, a pleading note underlying his deep voice. “We canna go against the Black Stag’s orders. ’Tis for your own good.”

  Linnet bristled. Angrily, she cast a glance at Elspeth, who sat by the fire, holding the sleeping Robbie against her ample girth. The boy’s old mongrel, Mauger, slept, too, curled on the floor at Elspeth’s feet.

  ’Twas apparent from the way Elspeth pointedly avoided her gaze that her old nurse sided with the two giants sent to keep her from her duties.

  “’Tis well and good to keep my lady and Robbie safe behind barred and guarded doors, but I am lady of this castle. ’Tis my place to tend the injured.” She paused, then aimed her next words at Elspeth. “Your betrothed is likely in the middle of the fray as well. Would you not that I be there to tend him should be struck down?”

  “I am but a servant,” Elspeth said, the humble words foreign to her usual self-assured demeanor. “It would not be seemly for me to dispute the laird’s wishes.”

  Fair desperate and spurred to action by a series of hollow-sounding thuds as arrows thwacked against the closed window shutters, Linnet dashed across the room and snatched up her herb satchel.

  Near tears, she waved it under the odious guards’ noses. “In this bag is everything needed should harm befall my lord or a single one of his men.” Pausing, she blinked back the stinging moisture burning her eyes. “And you would keep me from aiding them.”

  The men grew still, nodding in silent admission they’d heard her, but not budging from where they stood.

  “Do you not care if one of my husband’s men dies for lack of proper care?” she pressed, clutching the satchel close to her chest.

  The look they exchanged told her more than spoken words.

  “Who?” she demanded, dropping her bag of herbs and rushing up to them. With trembling hands, she clutched at the tunic of the one called Malcolm. “Who is—” she broke off, panic seizing her. “Not my husband?”

  Malcolm swallowed and slid a sideways glance at Alec.

  “You will tell me,” she cried, pulling on Malcolm’s shirt. “I demand it.”

  “Naught has happened to Sir Duncan, lady,” Alec spoke up. “’Twas Iain. He took an arrow in his neck. Naught would’ve saved him.”

  “There will be others, and they deserve my care,” Linnet said, letting go of the warrior. She stepped back and straightened her shoulders, her determination growing upon hearing this dire news. “Mayhap even my husband.”

  “You’ve no need to fret over the laird,” the more talkative one, Alec, tried to reassure her. “A more able warrior never lived. I’ve seen him cleave a man in two with one stroke of his broadsword.”

  “And if he cannot wield it? If he takes an arrow?”

  “He’d fight on. Your husband is a masterful opponent, my lady,” Malcolm said, breaking his silence. “He fears naught and would challenge the devil himself to defend his own.”

  “I can fight, too,” Robbie piped up, suddenly awake. He sprang from Elspeth’s arms, his little wooden sword held high. “I will fight Uncle Kenneth to the death.”

  “And surely you will,” Elspeth granted, pushing herself out of her chair and gathering Robbie up in her sturdy arms, toy sword and all. “’Tis a fine and noble warrior you’ll no doubt be. Someday,” she crooned, settling herself back in the chair, the lad held firmly upon her aproned lap. “But first you’ve a mite bit of growing to do.”

  “Well, I am grown,” Linnet boldly proclaimed. “And I can fight well. My brothers taught me.”

  At Elspeth’s shocked gasp, Linnet defiantly lifted her skirts and displayed the finely honed dirk tucked into her boot. “’Tis sharpened, and I ken well how to use it.” She paused to glare at Alec and Malcolm as she let the hem of her gown fall back into place. “Dinna make me show you.”

  “My lady, you go too far,” Elspeth warned. “Have you forgotten the tales of Sir Duncan’s valor? He does not need your help to fight off his enemies. As for the wounded, if there be any, Fergus will have thought to see such needs are taken care of.”

  Linnet shot her lady a furious look and resumed her pacing. But after three rounds of the chamber, she halted in the middle of the room. “Do none of you hear the shouts and screams out there?” she cried, wringing her hands. “Are you all deaf?” Her frantic gaze raked first Elspeth, then her husband’s two men. “I can’t bear it, do you hear me? How can you expect me to stand here and do naught?”

  The old hound, Mauger, stirred at her outburst. As if unsure of the welcome he’d receive, he crept forward, his head low, his straggly tail held between his legs. Whining softly, he nudged her, pressing close against her legs.

  “Mauger,” Linnet breathed, the one word almost too thick to get past her painfully constricted throat. The dog gazed up at her, his brown eyes filled with concern and adoration. Not taking his gaze off her, he gave another pitiful whine, then bathed her hands with kisses.

  His display of devotion snapped the tenuous threads holding Linnet together. With a little cry, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around the ancient mongrel, burying her cheek against his shoulder. “Oh, Mauger, why will they not listen?” she murmured against the soothing warmth of his rough coat. “’Tis important… so important…”

  Holding tight to Mauger as if only he understood, she kept her eyes squeezed shut, refusing to let her tears fall. Even when Elspeth laid a gentle hand upon the back of her head, she kept her cheek pressed firmly against the dog’s shoulder, clinging to him and drinking in the solace he so lovingly offered.

  If only something would drown out the horrid sounds reaching them from the battlements.

  Then something did.

  Something infinitely more terrifying for its portent.

  ’Twas Sir Marmaduke’s voice, loud and gruff, ordering young Thomas to unlock the door.

  Linnet scrambled to her feet at once. She remained where she stood, frozen to the spot, whilst Alec slid back the heavy bolts barring the door from inside, for it had been secured against intruders both within and without.

  An unnatural silence fell heavily over the chamber as the door creaked open to reveal the tall Sassunach. His formidable presence filled the archway, but it was the grim expression on his scarred face that struck terror into Linnet’s heart.

  That, and the pity in his one good eye.

  “Nay!” she cried, her world crashing around her feet. “My lord? Is he…” She let her voice trail off, unable to put her fear into words.

  Sir Marmaduke shook his head, then drew an arm over his begrimed forehead. “I am sorry, my lady, but I must escort you to your husband. He lives, but I fear he will not much longer if he does not have his wounds tended.” He paused. “The fool refuses to leave the battlements.”

  No! He must not die! Linnet didn’t know if she screamed the words or if they sounded only in her head. She couldn’t tell, for the floor had tilted crazily beneath her feet, and the room seemed to be spinning around her.

  Ever faster, a dizzying whirl of colors and blurred faces, all crowding around her, staring at her.

  He must not die!

  The English knight’s strong arm went around her, supporting her, and someone… Elspeth?… pushed her herb satchel into her arms, then draped her mother’s arisaid around her shoulders.

  And somewhere behind her, a young boy cried.

  “God go with you,” one of the guardsmen said, but she didn’t ken which one.

  Then Marmaduke was guiding her from the room, urging her toward the stairs to the battlements. “The wounds are not so grave, my lady, do not fear,” he sought to console her. “’Tis only he will not stop fighting and his movements are causing him to lose too much blood. You must convince him to leave the battlements
. He will listen to you.”

  He must not die!

  Linnet’s knees gave out halfway up the stairs. Before she could crumple to the stone steps, Sir Marmaduke caught her, easily lifting her into his arms.

  “He will live,” he assured her, “and I will not let any harm come to you. Do not be afraid.”

  Holding tight to her herb bag, Linnet pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  “All will be well,” he promised as they rounded yet another curve in the stairs.

  He must not die!

  “We are almost there.” Marmaduke halted before the door to the wall walk. “Lady, have you listened to me? Have you heard a word I’ve said?” he asked as he eased open the door with his foot.

  “Aye, I hear,” Linnet whispered, her voice ragged.

  But she didn’t mean his well-meant words of comfort.

  Nay, Holy St. Margaret have mercy on her, she only heard the words in her head.

  Over and over again.

  He must not die!

  She simply wouldn’t allow it.

  16

  “I dinna believe my own eyes!” Duncan raged, glaring at his addlepated Sassunach brother-in-law. “Has your brain turned to mush, English?”

  Bold as day, Sir Marmaduke stood before him, Linnet fair crushed against his mailed chest. With his brawny arms and broad shoulders, he all but swallowed her, one arm wrapped tightly about her waist, the other holding a shield over her head and upper body.

  Only a fleeting glimpse of her lustrous red-gold hair and the bulge of her herb bag peeking from beneath the shield revealed just who the English knight cushioned so protectively with his great, lumbering form.

  Duncan swiped at the blood dripping into his eyes and let loose a string of vicious oaths. He didn’t give a pig’s arse how carefully the witless dolt sought to shield her from the arrows whizzing all about them, his lady wife did not belong on the battlements.

  He’d given strictest orders she was to be kept under guard.

  In her chamber.

  Safe.

  Away from danger.

  Not here on the wall walk exposed to a hail of fire arrows and broadsword-wielding assassins bent on slashing anything that moved.

  Still cursing, Duncan cast aside his crossbow and, heedless of the blood on his hands, yanked Linnet from Sir Marmaduke’s grasp and thrust her to her knees before the crenellated wall. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain the effort cost him, he shoved her down, lower and lower, until she was completely sheltered by one of the stone merlons.

  Staunchly ignoring his agony, he straightened and snatched the shield away from Marmaduke. “Cover yourself and dinna move,” he barked, shoving it at Linnet. “Do as I say,” he snapped when she started to protest.

  “But, my lord—Duncan—plea—”

  “Silence!” he cut her off, whirling to face Marmaduke. “Have you lost your wits, you fool? What were you thinking bringing her up here? If aught—” he broke off suddenly and clutched his side. A fresh stream of hot blood spilled onto his hands.

  He’d been clipped by a crossbow bolt.

  This time it was Sir Marmaduke who swore. His arm shot around Duncan, supporting him. “’Tis not I who would be a fool this night. If you will not heed my advice and abjure yourself below, then pray listen to your lady.”

  “Aye, Duncan,” his wife pleaded, her head popping up above Marmaduke’s shield. “Merciful saints, you’ve an arrow in your arm and I do not want to know how many other wounds. ’Twill serve no pur—”

  “Get down, I said!” An arrow whistled through a gap between the merlons, barely missing Linnet’s head. A sickening thwack and a pain-filled grunt bore testament to the arrow’s having found another mark.

  Glancing quickly to his right, Duncan saw one of his younger squires go down, the arrow shaft protruding from his back. Rage as red as the blood trickling into his eyes surged through him at the sight.

  Beside him, Sir Marmaduke muttered a quick prayer.

  The squire was but a lad.

  A boy who, mere days before, had proudly showed Duncan the first signs of facial hair sprouting on his youthful chin.

  And now he was dead.

  Duncan threw back his head and roared out his anger.

  Turning back to his wife, he found her creeping on hands and knees towards the boy. “Crucifix, woman, stay where I put you! I will not see you killed.”

  “Yet you would have me a widow before morn,” she argued, still moving toward the fallen squire. “If you dinna care to have your own wounds tended, I shall lend my talents to others.” She glanced defiantly at him over her shoulder. “And you willna stop me.”

  “You cannot help the lad. He is dead.”

  Linnet froze and stared at the inert youth. Her face paled as if she only just noticed the queer bend of his limbs, only now realized the arrow had surely pierced a lung, mayhap even the lad’s heart.

  She opened her mouth, perhaps to scream, but no sound came forth. Her stomach fair turning inside out, she could do naught but stare at the slain squire.

  Heaven help her, ’twas the one who’d reminded her of Jamie, her favorite brother.

  As Jamie’d looked in his youth.

  ’Twas fond she’d been of the young squire, a cheery lad who’d oft gifted her with a broad smile, then blushed furiously when she’d smiled back.

  “Nay!” Denial burst from her throat. Blind and deaf to the pandemonium going on all about her, Linnet hurriedly scrambled the last few paces to where the boy lay so still.

  “He is not gone,” she insisted, rolling him onto his side. “He is not.”

  But the loll of his head and his blank stare told another tale.

  Horror washed over her, colder and more biting than the chill sea wind tearing at her hair and whipping the loose folds of her arisaid.

  Her gaze flew from the dead squire to her husband. He’d retrieved his crossbow and now leaned heavily against one of the square-toothed stone merlons, struggling to discharge a quarrel through the open space between.

  His concentration was apparent in the tight set of his jaw, his waning strength in the way his powerful frame trembled as he cocked the bow with his foot, took aim, then loosed the deadly weapon.

  From below, a sharp yelp of pain proved he’d hit his target. Duncan sagged against the merlon and let the cumbersome crossbow slip from his bloodied grasp. “God willing,” he breathed, his normally booming voice, ragged and weary, “God willing, that was the brigand who took young Ewan’s life.”

  Linnet swallowed hard, her heart aching at the anguish she saw in his eyes. Pain she knew came from seeing his young squire meet such an untimely death and not from the grievous wounds he bore.

  Tears of anger and fear jabbed into the backs of her eyes but she refused to let them fall. She could weep later, now she must get her husband to safety, see to his wounds. Pushing to her feet, she ran forward and clutched his uninjured right arm.

  “Have done with this show of MacKenzie valor and come inside, my lord,” she begged, pulling on him in vain. Though gravely injured, he stood as immovable as the stone of his castle. “I beseech you.”

  His face set in tight, grim lines, he shook her off as if she were naught but a pesky fly. Ignoring her pleas, he stooped to retrieve his discarded crossbow, his chest heaving with agony as he slowly straightened. Clenching his teeth, he made to reload it, but Sir Marmaduke wrested it away from him.

  With a mastery that made the breath catch in her throat, Linnet watched the Sassunach right the unwieldy weapon, fix his bolt, draw, take aim, and release the lethal quarrel before she could let out her pent-up breath.

  Then he propped the crossbow against the crenellated wall, boldly placing himself between the weapon and Duncan. “You will not live to use that crossbow or any other bloody weapon again lest you remove yourself from here at once.

  “Duncan, please,” Linnet pleaded anew. “’Tis covered with blood you are. Ne’er have I seen a—”


  A fierce scowl darkening his blood-smeared face, Duncan suddenly lunged forward, grabbing Linnet by the elbow and yanking her out of the way as two kitchen boys hurried past carrying a large vessel of hot, bubbling grease. “Careless whelps,” he called after them, “watch what you’re about!”

  He held her tight, his grip no less powerful for his injuries, and kept her out of harm’s way as two of his men took the vat of boiling oil from the kitchen lads and hurled its contents over the wall.

  Screams pierced the night as the scalding brew rained onto the heads of those unfortunates who happened to be in its sizzling downward path. Duncan gave the men who’d tossed the hot oil over the wall a grim nod, then loosened his hold on Linnet.

  “See her back whence you fetched her,” he said tersely to Marmaduke, fair pushing her into the Sassunach’s arms. “And do not even think to disobey me,” he added, then limped toward a small cluster of men clashing swords with two of Kenneth’s miscreants who’d gained the wall walk. He drew his own blade as he went.

  “Lady, come,” Sir Marmaduke said, wrapping his arm about her shoulders. “Allow me to return you safely belowstairs. I should have known it would do no good to bring you here.”

  Linnet held back. At the far end of the battlements, Duncan wrangled with a man lashing furiously around himself with an ugly-looking battle-ax. And Duncan’s movements were slow, hampered by his injuries.

  Yet he fought on.

  Despite the hail of fire arrows arching overhead, trailing acrid smoke behind them before clattering on the stone floor of the wall walk in a shower of sparks and ashes. Pages dashed madly about, their sole task stamping out the flames with their feet.

  But the mighty Black Stag of Kintail fought on—just as his guardsmen had told her he would.

  “Lady, come,” Sir Marmaduke urged again, trying to drag her away. “’Tis not safe for you here.”

  “Nay. I will not go,” Linnet argued, stiffening in the Sassunach’s iron hold on her, straining against him.