She backed herself into another raider, and she jumped away from him. The foul-smelling man ran his eyes up and down her body with a sneer, such that she had a sudden desire to wash off the filth of what his expression suggested.
“Mayhap I’ll take ye as my spoil of war.” The brigand reached out for her, but the helmed warlord suddenly pulled her behind him and stood tall against his fellow marauder.
“This lass is mine!” bellowed the warlord. “None shall touch her but me.”
Seven
Cormac glanced around with some anxiety, having to turn his head back and forth to see out of his ridiculous helm. He needed to protect Jyne and her people from his father’s men, without seeming weak before them or letting her discover who he was. He was sure any chance at another kiss would be dead and buried if she knew it was him beneath the helm.
Now, all he needed to do was to show Bran and his men the gaping hole where the postern gate had been only a few minutes before. The raiders would be so overcome with his extraordinary achievement in alchemy that they would forget all about the treasure and escort him home as a hero.
The men would then share the amazing tale with his father, who would be duly impressed with his son for the first time in his life, hailing his remarkable achievement. All other concerns would be forgotten, and the monk could scurry back to his monastery, his library safe. Core could sneak back to Kinoch Abbey, convince Jyne the departure of the brigands was due to his bold interference, and enjoy the sweet reward he would undoubtedly get.
At least, that was as good a plan as he could devise. He glanced at Jyne, a mistake, since she was seething at him. He had no doubt that if she could manage it, he would be impaled at the end of a pike.
“Let’s tear this place apart, stone from stone!” cried one of his men. The others hollered after him and raced around the outer ward like wanton, headless chickens, bent on destruction.
“My men, follow me, for I have something o’ great import to show ye,” shouted Core.
The men cheered and raced to him, no doubt expecting him to produce the treasure. Core grabbed Jyne’s hand and took her with him. He did not trust his men enough to leave her unprotected in their midst. The only way to keep her safe was to keep her within arm’s reach. The look of disgust on her face was enough to let him know his efforts were not appreciated. It was of little consequence. Nothing could reduce the thrill of his triumph.
“As ye know,” began Cormac, “I have been doing experiments in alchemy.”
“All can me?” asked Dubh, scratching his head.
“Red Rex told ye to quit that nonsense,” growled Bran.
“Then I have disobeyed him,” said Core boldly. “For ye see the results.” Core stepped over the stone rubble and pointed to the hole where the gate used to be. Beside him, Jyne gasped.
The men stared in silence at the hole. The gaping wound in the wall was still slightly smoking.
“So ye found a hole in the wall. Good for ye. What did ye want to show us?” Bran asked.
“I dinna find a hole in the wall. I made the hole in the wall,” cried Core. “Do ye no’ see? My experiments finally worked!”
The men stared at the smoking hole. “But where is the treasure?” asked one of the men.
“But this is better than a thousand gold bars,” cried Core, exasperated that his men did not see the potential of his discovery. “Why, with this, we can breach any wall we wish!”
The men glared at him.
“Nothing’s better than a thousand gold bars,” growled one man.
“Looks like this here hole’s been here a while,” said another.
“It’s still smoking!” cried Core. “There was a gate here, wasn’t there?” He turned to Jyne for support.
Jyne crossed her arms and said nothing, skewing him with a glare so laced with malice, even his father would have been proud.
“How is this going to get us the treasure?” asked Bran.
Core ground his teeth from within his helm. This was not working the way he planned. “Do ye no’ see? I harnessed lightning and struck the wall! Ye’ve heard the English have done this, no? Now we can fight like them!”
“That’s what the English say. All them Sassenach are liars,” said one man.
“Nay, I’ve seen the cannon wi’ my own eyes at the battle o’ Crecy,” argued another man.
“Ye’re a liar too!”
“I’ll cut out yer tongue, ye bastard!”
“Stop!” roared Core. “I harnessed the power o’ the black powder. I’m the first Scotsman to do it. I ken ye all heard the thunderclap.”
“We heard something,” said Bran slowly, disbelief clear in his tone. “Why dinna ye show us this lightning o’ yers.”
“Well…that is…I need time to prepare more o’ the powder.”
“Powder? Och, wee lamb, ye need to grind some more flour?” mocked one man, and the rest of the men laughed.
“Can this powder o’ yers lead us to the treasure?” asked Dubh.
“We can use it to our benefit,” Core muttered, defeated.
“Where do we start?” asked one man.
“Mayhap the wench knows where it is.”
“Let’s put it to her.” A thin man with long, slimy hair grabbed hold of Jyne’s other arm.
“The lass is mine!” roared Core. “Besides, she knows naught. Can ye no’ see the poverty o’ these folk? If they knew where the treasure was, they would be living like kings.”
The men grumbled, but this was at least logic they could understand. Finding treasure—spending treasure. This made a good deal more practical sense to them than lightning that rained down from heaven.
The men walked into the main keep. Core slowly followed, his plan a smoking pile of ruin, much like the hole in the wall.
“Ye best find this treasure,” Bran said, walking by, “and fast.” He rapped the hilt of his sword on Core’s helm, sending a loud ringing tone reverberating through his helmet. Core wished to remove it, but one glance at Jyne reminded him he needed to maintain his secret.
Life was about to get even more difficult.
* * *
Jyne’s heart raced in fear, or maybe anger. How dare this warlord breach the walls of her domain and then claim her for his own! She could see he had wished his friends to be impressed by his handiwork at the gate, but she had no interest in helping him.
“What do ye want? We have no treasure. There can be naught for ye here,” demanded Jyne as she was marched back to the courtyard. She may be the smallest of the Campbells, but she was still a Campbell.
“The hour grows late. We request food and drink,” said the warlord.
Though his tone was low and ominous, she could not help but be surprised by his words. He requested food? Should he not demand it?
“As ye wish,” said Jyne, considering that feeding the men may be the easiest way to appease them until they moved on. Perhaps they only wanted shelter for the night and would leave tomorrow, once they realized there were no riches here for them. She could hope.
“Let her go!” Alasdair came charging toward them, sword in one hand, cane in the other. “By clan Ranald, ye winna hurt Lady Jyne as long as I can draw breath.”
“That winna be long,” laughed one of the marauders, easily tripping the man. The brigand grabbed Alasdair’s sword and held it above him for a death strike.
“No!” screamed Jyne, trying to run forward, but she was caught by the leader in the horned helmet.
“Stop!” commanded the leader of the brigands. “We need them alive to serve us, unless ye fancy making yer own victuals.”
The brigand stopped midstrike, but snarled at them.
“Tell yer clan to serve us well and no’ attempt aggression, or I swear they shall not live to see the morn,” said the horned leader in a harsh whisper. Jyne was no
t sure if it was a threat or a simple statement of fact. Either way, the result was the same.
“Aye, we agree.” Her arm was released, and she ran forward to help Alasdair Ranald rise. “Are ye all right? Can ye stand?”
“Aye, m’lady. I am sorry I failed ye.”
“Nay, ye have been braver than is wise. But now is the time to be wise, aye? Please tell yer people to comply wi’ the brigands, and hopefully they will move on soon.”
Alasdair’s wrinkled face collapsed into a picture of concern, but he nodded his head in agreement.
The raiders stormed into the main hall, making a good deal of noise and being as obnoxious as they could, but at least none of the elders had been harmed. The attackers threatened and terrified, but were content to let the elders run about and prepare them a meal.
Jyne gave some commands and moved toward the kitchen, but the warlord grabbed her hand and held it fast. He marched through the center of the great hall, dragging her behind him. He claimed the center chair of the high table as his own and pointed at the chair beside him for her to sit.
She had no choice but to sit beside him and watch as the elders were forced to serve the marauders, bringing out ale and whiskey to appease the voracious drinking habits of the men. The great horned leader sat at the high table, smugly surveying all that was before him. At least, Jyne assumed he was smug. He refused to remove his helmet, so she could not see his face.
“Dinna forget yer guest,” said one of the men in a mocking tone, and a monk was brought forward and made to sit next to her.
“Ye travel wi’ these men?” she demanded of the monk.
“It seems I do,” replied the monk with an accent that branded him a foreigner. “Though not of my own volition.” He was a young man, wearing the black robes of the Dominican order.
Jyne turned to the warlord sitting on her other side. “Ye would capture a man o’ God? A man in holy orders? Have ye no shame?”
“Apparently not,” replied the warlord. He sounded a little disappointed in himself.
“This goes beyond all bounds, even for such a loathsome creature as yerself. Have ye no fear o’ God Almighty? Ye need to release this man immediately,” Jyne demanded before she remembered she was trying not to antagonize the leader.
The warlord turned to look at the monk, causing Jyne to duck to prevent being speared by one of the treacherous horns.
“Ye’re free to go,” the warlord told the monk.
Jyne stared at the warlord in surprise. Had she just convinced the warlord to do as she said?
Jyne turned back to the monk. “Do leave before he changes his mind,” she urged. And get help for us.
The monk scowled into his ale. “He knows I cannot leave.”
“Has he threatened ye if ye do?” she whispered to the monk.
“Not him…but I do not wish to concern you in my affairs. You have enough to worry yourself with at the moment.”
“He is despicable.”
The monk paused. “There would be few who would disagree with you, though perhaps all cannot be seen at first glance.”
“You defend him, Brother…?”
“I am Brother Luke, and I am no defender of these men, though perhaps it is not the well who need the doctor but the sick.”
“These men are beyond any hope of salvation,” she said bitterly.
“No one is beyond the redemption of God,” replied the pious Brother Luke.
“But only if they choose it,” snapped Jyne. These men knew nothing of salvation. It was undoubtedly uncharitable, but these were not the men with whom she wished to share eternity. It was bad enough to have to share the great room with them. It gave her some consolation to know she would not have to look at the faces of the marauders in her heavenly reward.
The food was brought forth, and the men were pleased with the roasted venison. Jyne was dismayed to see it disappearing into the bellies of the attackers. The meat could have fed her newly accepted people well, but now their share was divided with a pack of ravenous wolves. The more food the raiders ate, the more Jyne was concerned by how much of their limited food resources were being wasted to serve their attackers. These men were like locusts, using up everything around them and then moving on, leaving devastation in their wake.
Her warlord attacker was strangely quiet during the proceedings. He did not engage with the other raiders but instead remained silent, surveying all. The huge, horned helmet could not be comfortable, but still it remained on his head.
At one point, he even raised his chalice to his lips but met with the clank of his helmet. Jyne expected that he would take off the impractical helm. He put his hand to the helmet, as if to remove it, but he turned toward her and apparently changed his mind.
He attempted to shove little bits of food through the grate on his visor, which could not have been effective. It was only the fear of antagonizing him that kept her from asking what he was doing. Was he truly going to go through the feast without removing his helmet? What was beneath the helm that made it impossible for him to take it off?
Through the feast, the horned man said nothing, though his comrades laughed and caroused, growing louder and more intolerable with every chug of whiskey. Since there was no entertainment, they decided to amuse themselves by cursing and throwing insults at each other, chasing each other about the room, and seeing who could hurl knives, spears, and random pieces of furniture the farthest.
Through it all, the great warlord said nothing, ate nothing, and drank nothing. Who was this man?
Eight
Core was miserable. This should have been his greatest triumph. His experiment with the explosive black powder had finally worked! He had blown right through the postern gate. He had demonstrated that all his study and all his careful science could be beneficial in the new manner of war. His men should have been impressed. They should have been astounded and amazed and run back to his father to tell him the incredible thing he’d done. But no, Core’s plan, like so many others, had failed.
To make matters worse, Core could not figure out how to take off the helm without giving himself away to Jyne. The helmet also seemed to garner some respect from his men, not much, but at least they had let him be during their meal. He was not sure if it was respect or, more likely, that they did not care.
So he kept the helmet on and sat at his own feast, his stomach rumbling, unable to eat. The delicious scent of food wafted through the slits in the visor, causing his stomach to complain more and more, yet he couldn’t figure out how to eat without taking off the helmet. And he couldn’t figure out how to stay in the good graces of Jyne if he took off his helmet. And he couldn’t figure out why her good opinion mattered to him anyway. He grabbed a chalice of wine and tried to drink some through the slats of the helmet, spilling wine down his front and soaking his doublet.
He groaned at the absurdity of his situation.
Although…he forced himself to look on the brighter side. His experiment had worked. He had taken Kinoch without getting anyone killed. The bonnie Jyne could not look in his direction without a glare, but at least she was alive and unmolested. Considering where he had been a few hours ago, that was something.
Jyne’s kisses still warmed his cheeks. Yet, if she ever found out who he was, she would never kiss him again, never speak to him again. No, this was one secret he had no intention of ever telling. Somehow, he could make this work. He would find some sort of treasure, appease his father, then return to seek his reward with Jyne. This was only a minor setback.
His stomach grumbled again. When he could take no more of watching other people eat while his own stomach rumbled, he stood at the table. “Good night, my good men,” he called out to his father’s soldiers.
They paused in their raucous games, silence creeping over the main hall. Then they suddenly all burst into peals of laughter. Had he truly just wished th
em a good night and called them his good men? At least they couldn’t see how his cheeks burned at being embarrassed by his genteel behavior and polite turn of phrase.
“I take this wench as my prize for conquering this castle!” he said, trying to recover from his faux pas before the warriors. He grabbed Jyne’s hand and dragged her up beside him. This brought a cheer from the men, or possibly a jeer. Jyne glared death at him.
He marched out of the great hall and up a spiral stone staircase, never letting go of her hand, dragging her along behind him. He went up a few stories and stopped, realizing he had no idea where he was going. He paused on the landing, trying to figure out what his father would do in this case. Probably nothing that Core would ever contemplate doing. Cormac made a horrible warlord.
Jyne wrenched her hand out of his, glaring at him, her arms crossed. She appeared to be considering ways to injure him, for she scowled at him with intense loathing, with an occasional slight half smile, as if she had just devised some new torture to make his life a misery. She needn’t have tried so hard—his life was already rather miserable.
He cleared his throat. “Take me to the master’s chambers.”
Jyne narrowed her eyes at him. “Ye’ll no’ hurt these people. There are naught but elders here.”
“What is that to me? Ye’ll take me to the master’s chambers now!” Whenever his father made a demand, people generally wet themselves and scampered off to obey him with all due haste. Jyne merely scowled at him in a manner so fierce he almost took a step backward.
“I will take ye to the master’s chambers and…and stay wi’ ye if it be yer wish, but I will have yer word as a Highlander that these people winna be harmed in any way.” She held her back straight, her hands clasped before her, her knuckles white with the effort. Her lower lip trembled as she made the offer, which only made her that much more beautiful. Truly, he had never seen a more stunning woman in all his life. She was offering herself to him for the protection of others. She was an angel, which could only make him a demon.
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