Liam and Galen split off from the rest of the group near midday. Alethia continued to keep her distance from them for another hour or so, then urged her mare into a gallop to catch up. She came over a small rise and reined to a halt in a panic. The two men had disappeared.
She scanned the ground and the horizon for any sign of them. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her eyes stung with tears. No matter. If necessary, she’d get there on her own.
“Alethia Grace!”
Alethia jerked in the saddle at the sound behind her, and Ikwe sidestepped in agitation. She fought for control of her horse and turned in the saddle to see Liam emerge from behind the rise.
“What the devil do you think you are doing, lass?”
His tone, a mixture of anger and exasperation, grated on her already raw nerves. “I think I am saving my husband’s life,” she snapped.
Galen appeared from the other side of the trail and snatched her horse’s bridle.
Liam stood beside her, his face a furious scowl. “God’s blood, True, you must be mad.” He put his sword back into its sheath. “Turn back. Now.”
“I won’t. Nothing you say or do will stop me. I’m going—with or without your help.”
“I could tie you to yon tree.” He nodded toward a single young oak growing nearby.
“You would risk having something happen to me while I’m tied? I’d be unable to defend myself against man or animal,” she reasoned. “We don’t have time to debate the issue. I’m coming with you, or I’m going alone.”
“My lady,” Galen pleaded. “Malcolm will feed my innards to the crows if we dinna stop ye. Please, turn back.”
“No. I have to be there.”
“Galen, you take her back. I’ll continue on.” Liam retrieved his horse from behind the hill.
“Nay, Liam. You ken as well as I ’twill take both of us to rescue your lass. Besides, ’tis our way to see that none go without another watching his back.” Galen scowled at Liam. “We stick together.”
“Aye, but we canna leave True here, and we canna take her with us. You must take her back to Moigh Hall,” Liam commanded as he glared at her. “She willna return on her own.”
She jerked Ikwe’s head up and kicked her into a canter, breaking Galen’s hold. Let them bicker; she hadn’t the time to waste.
Both men wore fierce expressions as they rode up to flank her. Neither tried to stop her. They must have concluded she’d be safer in their company than by herself. Good. That’s exactly what she’d counted on.
By late afternoon, the keep came into view. As far as castles went, the small stone edifice fell far short when compared to Moigh Hall’s imposing size.
“Castle Rait is no’ much in the way of a holding. The MacKintosh held this keep at one time. ’Twas long before my birth, or Malcolm’s.” Liam reached for her mare’s bridle, bringing them to a halt. “From now on, we use only signing. You will remain with me and Galen until we return home, True.”
“Liam, I must get to the minstrels’ gallery inside the keep. I’ll stay there until the fight is over.” He started to protest, and she placed her hand on his arm. “I had the visions for a reason. I know the outcome. I can guarantee that if I am where I’m supposed to be, all will be well. If I am not, Malcolm will die today.” She could see in his eyes the internal battle he fought. “Shall I tell you what happens? Will that convince you?”
She waited for his reply and watched as he came to a decision.
“Nay.” With a nod, he kicked his horse into a canter.
She and Galen followed suit, and the three continued on in silence.
“I will see you safe to the gallery,” Liam signed.
“She must remain with us,” Galen argued.
“I won’t remain with you, no matter what. And you two must see to Mairen.” She watched him struggle against her words, finally accepting what she knew to be inevitable.
They kept close to the brush near the surrounding forest and worked their way around to the rear of the castle. They hid, waited and learned the rhythm of the single guard walking the catwalk of the curtain wall facing them.
“The door lies just beyond the rock formation, there.” Alethia pointed. Liam and Galen nodded.
“We are to wait until the sun meets the horizon,” Liam signed.
Alethia reached into her pouch for pieces of venison jerky and handed each of the men a share of her cache. Liam passed her a skin full of water, and she drank her fill. Galen offered oatcakes, and the three shared their meal in silence.
Once the sun had reached the horizon, Liam turned to her. “I must see to the guard. Galen, you and True meet me inside the door. I’ll signal when it’s safe.” Galen nodded, and Liam left. Alethia’s stomach knotted with fear. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She knew what she had to do.
Galen tugged at her sleeve, nodding toward the catwalk. She saw Liam, just as he disappeared below the edge of the stone fortress. She and Galen crept toward the castle, moving in the shadows and scrambling around the rocks hiding the door. They reached it without incident and slipped through like shadows in the dusk.
Malcolm’s skin prickled with unease as he and his men rode through the portcullis and into the inner bailey of their enemy’s keep. His wife had said the villagers knew nothing of their laird’s plan. He looked over the villagers crowding the courtyard. Their eyes were filled with a wary curiosity.
Malcolm caught the eye of a large man wearing the long leather apron of a smith, and he offered a smile. Was that hope flaring in the man’s eyes? The smith nodded, a brief smile lighting his face. He lifted a young lad to his shoulders to watch their procession. Encouraged, Malcolm smiled and greeted any whose eyes caught his, signaling his men to follow suit.
What to do about these people had plagued him from the onset. Like him, most of them wanted nothing more than to live out their lives in peace.
Ronald the Red, the laird of clan Comyn, and his son, John, approached from the keep, surrounded by their men. Malcolm watched as father and son sauntered toward them. Both wore smug looks. Neither hid their disdain for him and his men.
“Welcome, Malcolm of clan MacKintosh.” The laird spoke loudly for the benefit of his assembled people. “Today we end the feud between our two clans.”
A cheer rose among the villagers. The Comyn’s shrewd eyes assessed their party as they dismounted, and several lads approached to take their horses. Malcolm held a hand up to stop them. “We will see to our horses ourselves. Your lads can lead the way to the stables,” Malcolm said.
A few of their young warriors not yet blooded in battle had volunteered to come along for this purpose. Malcolm’s young men gathered the reins as he spoke. They would see the horses were fed, watered and cared for before removing them to the agreed upon spot outside the curtain wall. “I’m sure you understand.” Malcolm turned to challenge the Comyn. “’Twill take some time for trust to build.”
The Comyn snorted derisively. “So be it. Come, let us enter. A feast has been prepared. We wish to offer our hospitality.”
The laird’s smile reminded Malcolm of a serpent before it swallowed its prey whole. His hackles rose. Flanked by Angus and Robley, he followed the snake into its lair. True’s description of the great hall proved accurate. The large table, already laid for the feast, dominated one end of the hall. Stairs leading to a minstrels’ gallery and the passage into the private living quarters lay to the left of the large hearth.
“As you can see, we are unarmed.” The laird spread his arms, his hands empty. “In good faith, will you no’ lay aside your weapons?”
The Comyn’s request brought Malcolm’s attention into sharp focus. “If, as you say, your intent to end the feud between our clans is sincere, we have no need of our weapons.” A murmur of voices rang throughout the hall. “So it will make no difference whether or no’ we are armed.” Moving toward the dais, Malcolm studied the laird’s reaction to his words. “We keep them.”
“Y
ou insult our hospitality and our honor,” John cried, as angry accusations flew through the air, polarizing the room into two distinct factions.
“Come, you canna expect us to trust the word of a Comyn blindly,” Malcolm challenged Ronald. “We have been enemies for centuries. If you are honorable, it makes no difference whether or no’ I have my claymore to hand. My sword will remain in its scabbard so long as no act of aggression occurs against me or mine. You have my word.”
Again the Comyn’s cunning eyes assessed him. Malcolm kept his expression neutral.
“It changes nothing,” Ronald announced, gesturing to his men to take their places at the table.
That too proved to be exactly as True had described. The Comyn warriors took every other seat, separating him and his men. A chill crept down his spine as Malcolm imagined what it must have been like for his wife to watch as every MacKintosh man in the hall bled to death before her eyes. She had proven again and again to possess an inner strength and resourcefulness that humbled him and filled him with pride.
As soon as he’d taken his place on the dais between the laird and his son, servants came forward and filled their goblets with uisge beatha. Another point True had warned them about. Raising his cup in a toast, the Comyn bid them all drink to their truce. As agreed, he and his men did no more than to touch the liquid to their lips. Servants rushed forward bearing platters of food, as the Comyns made idle conversation and encouraged them to partake of the fine spirits they offered. ’Twas their best, they claimed, in honor of their reconciliation. Malcolm forced himself to relax and waited.
“Wait.” Liam pressed himself against the wall and watched both the kitchen and the door to the keep. Once clear, he grabbed Alethia’s hand, pulled her inside and dashed for the stairs ahead.
At the top, Alethia took the lead. “I know the way. There are no guards here at present. You must go back to help Mairen.”
“I said I would see you safely to the minstrels’ gallery, and I shall.”
Arguing with him would be a waste of valuable time. Instead, she led him the short distance down the dark corridor to the small door into the gallery. “This is it. Return to Galen. Mairen waits for your signal.”
She watched him leave as soundlessly as they had arrived. Holding her breath, she put pressure on the door and prayed the hinges were well oiled. It didn’t budge. Frustrated and tense, she waited until noise from the great hall rose loud enough to cover any noise the door might make. It didn’t take long before an argument broke out below. Sending them her silent thanks, she pushed with all her might. The door creaked open, and she slipped through.
The small gallery hadn’t been used in a good long while. She covered her face with both hands to smother the sound of a sneeze, as each step sent up a cloud of dust. She crouched low and crept toward the half wall overlooking the hall below. Unfastening her cloak, she let it fall and slipped her bow out of the quiver slung on her back. She reached the railing and pressed herself up against the wall far enough back that any man happening to glance her way wouldn’t see her.
She found the folded skin holding the bowstring in her pouch and drew it out. Her hands shaking, she fit the loop at the end of the string onto the notched end of the bow, stepped through it, and bent the wood over her leg to loop it over the top notch. Sweat beaded her forehead.
Cautiously, she peered over the railing at the scene below. It was not yet time for the toast. Notching an arrow, she listened. Her body thrummed with tension and dread. She forced herself to breathe deeply. It wouldn’t help anyone if she couldn’t shoot straight because of nerves. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the wall and again prayed for courage—courage and a good aim.
The laird gave the signal for slaughter. His voice rang loud through the hall, and her heart jumped to her throat.
“From this day forward, let there be peace between our two clans. Come, lift your cups and let us toast the dead.”
Each MacKintosh warrior leaped from his place as the signal was given. Man-for-man they stood behind their Comyn foes as if the move had been choreographed. The sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards filled the air with a metallic twang, making her ears ring.
Angus crossed to the doors of the keep and lowered the beam of wood that would keep the innocent out of the impending fray.
Malcolm pressed the tip of his sword against the throat of the treacherous laird, staying well out of the man’s reach. Everything went still. Tension filled the hall. She held her breath.
“Before we toast, raise up your right hand so that we might bear witness to your sincerity,” Malcolm shouted.
The laird roared with rage and brought up the hand gripping a dagger. Every Comyn followed suit.
“So much for the word and the honor of a Comyn. Move and he dies,” Malcolm proclaimed. “Unlike you, who would win a battle through cowardice and treachery, the MacKintosh will only fight fair. Let us end this once and for all.” He stepped back, but remained poised to strike. “Gather your weapons.”
The Comyn warriors scrambled for their swords and clubs where they rested against the opposite wall. The MacKintosh men kicked the trestle table over, sending the contents of their goblets and trenchers crashing to the rushes covering the floor. The smell of the spilled feast mingled with the scent of fear and sweat radiating off the men. The warriors faced each other from opposite ends of the hall, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then all hell broke loose with the crash of metal against metal and the sounds of men exerting themselves in a fight to the death.
Alethia readied her weapon and fixed her eyes on her husband. He fought John—just as her vision foretold. Without sparing a glance toward the others, she watched Malcolm and John. Her husband had the upper hand, but she’d witnessed this fight before and knew the outcome.
John forced Malcolm into a retreat with a flurry of blows. Malcolm fended them off easily enough, took one step back, then another. She pulled her bowstring taut, holding it in position until her muscles shook with the effort.
Another step, and the laird himself appeared behind Malcolm, tripping him with an outstretched leg. It took only an instant as Malcolm fell to the floor and tried to roll away. John struck, opening a gash in her husband’s thigh. Malcolm shouted with rage as John lifted his broadsword to attack Malcolm while he was down. Pushing himself back with his legs, he attempted to scramble away, but his body met solid wall. He lifted his sword to deflect the blow, and John kicked viciously at his wrists, sending Malcolm’s sword flying through the air to land out of reach.
The enemy stood poised to deliver the blow that would end her husband’s life.
She aimed for the most vulnerable spot on John’s body. Taking a deep breath, she held it and released the arrow. Time slowed. She watched without breathing as the arrow flew toward its target and pierced his neck. John dropped his sword, sending it clattering to the floor. Both of his hands clawed at the wooden shaft protruding from his throat. His mouth opened and closed, and blood spurted down his chest. He dropped to his knees and fell over. His body twitched, and his blood formed a crimson pool in the rushes beneath him.
Frozen to the spot, she turned her eyes to Malcolm. He’d followed the arrow’s trajectory back to its source. Their eyes met—and held. Disbelief flashed across his face, followed by fury like she’d never seen before.
Gasping for breath, she pulled back. Her ordeal wasn’t over. Bringing another arrow to her bow, she faced the door into the gallery. Ronald the Red had also followed the arrow’s path back to her. She’d killed his son. He would be on his way with murderous intent—and this time, she had no vision to guide her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The coppery scent of blood and death permeated the keep and wafted up to the minstrels’ gallery where Alethia stood her ground. The groans of the dying and the occasional clang of swords from those few still fighting filled the air. Above it all, the sound of her own ragged breathing and her heart pounding in her chest fille
d her head. A single bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She sucked in her breath—and held it.
The door to the gallery slammed against the wall with a loud crack, sending a cloud of dust into the air as the laird burst through. “Bitch. I am going to kill you,” he growled.
Her skin crawled, and her stomach roiled at the murderous rage aimed her way. The arrow she aimed at his heart was the only thing keeping him at bay. “Don’t move. Not a muscle. Help!” she shouted, not taking her eyes off Ronald the Red. “I need help in the minstrels’ gallery!” She shouted again, her entire body trembling. Weak from fatigue and the aftereffects of adrenaline pumping through her system, would her muscles obey the demands she made on them?
Killing someone threatening a loved one was one thing. Facing your own death—or killing a man while he looked you in the eye—was another thing altogether.
God, let one of the MacKintosh warriors get here in time. She caught a movement as the laird’s right hand shifted. The glint of metal gave her a target, and instinct took over. Another arrow flew from her bow.
It pierced the palm of the laird’s hand, and his dagger dropped to the floor with a thud. Ronald growled with pain, his face twisted in a mask of hatred. She notched another arrow and watched beads of sweat form on her enemy’s forehead. He bit the end of the arrow to break the shaft behind the steel point and pulled it from his palm, never taking his eyes from her.
Another dagger appeared from his sleeve as he advanced. She knew he meant to get close enough to render her weapon useless, He meant to slit her throat.
“Don’t move,” she croaked, taking a step back. “Or the next arrow will go through your eye.” Why hadn’t any of their men come to help her? Had they lost the battle after all? Her legs and arms now felt like rubber bands. She wouldn’t be able to stand for much longer, much less send an arrow with any force. And if she fell, she’d be defenseless, an easy kill. She drew her arrow back as taut as she could manage, resolved to kill him if she could. Ronald came at her. She released the arrow. It grazed his shoulder, hit the wall and came to land on the floor behind him. “No,” she sobbed.
True to the Highlander (The Novels of Loch Moigh) Page 25