Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  Thomas spoke again. “How many did you face?”

  “Sixteen,” Dougal said bitterly, “with Bertram himself the last. By then I was covered in wounds and could barely stand. The mind may remain willing, but the body gives out. At least, mine did that day. Bertram took me down on the stones and cut my face—deep—with his sword, giving me something to remember. As if I could ever forget!”

  “What happened then?” Thomas asked softly.

  “They hauled me up, half dead and bleeding, dragged me out, and dumped me beside the burn on the border of my land. I made my way home somehow and never spoke of it—not to anyone. I was too sore ashamed. Next morning, early, I told my servant I was off hunting. I took myself away to the wood, meaning to wait for my wounds to heal. And while there alone, I felt Aisla leave this world—believe that as you may. I returned home only to have Meg shout at me. Word had come that Aisla was dead. Meg called me a coward and blamed me for it. She has never stopped. Nor have I.”

  “By God!” Catherine exclaimed.

  And Thomas added, “But you cannot blame yourself, man!”

  “Och, I do.”

  “It was not a fair fight!”

  “And that is what I should have known. That is what I have learned. MacNab does not play fair. I wasted my one chance, and Aisla died for it. How can I ever put that aside?”

  Isobel caught her husband’s hand and, trying to speak round the emotion that clogged her throat, said, “The courage you showed on Aisla’s behalf surpasses what she could ever have asked. She would have forgiven you, had she known what you endured that night.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “Yes! If she loved you, she would forgive. Yet you have continued to punish yourself all these years and allowed Meg to punish you with her hate. Why did you never tell her? How did you hide your wounds, your scars, when you did return from the wood?”

  Dougal laughed bitterly. “A many nights’ drunken stupor and a number of brawls can disguise many things. Aye, and I would have crawled inside my flask then. But as I have learned, there is no escape, even in the drink.” His eyes met Isobel’s. “I could not tell Meg, or anyone, and admit my shame.”

  “There was no shame,” Thomas insisted, “for you were cheated.”

  “Yes,” Catherine agreed, “and it will not end so, this time.”

  Dougal rounded on her. “What makes you think I can trust them now, any more than then?”

  “You are no child now,” Thomas said. “You have many witnesses, and you can insist Bertram face you fairly. Unless he is a coward, he must agree.”

  “Must he?” Dougal grimaced. “Tell that to him.”

  “I will, and gladly.”

  “This decision,” said Isobel, speaking from her heart, “cannot be ours, Thomas, Dougal alone can decide.”

  “There you are wrong.” Once more, Dougal touched her face tenderly. “’Tis yourself and your sister, Wife, who will pay the price, should I fail.”

  “You will not fail,” Isobel said fiercely, her eyes holding his.

  “I did, last time. You have no right to have such faith in me.”

  “I have every faith in you. I entrust you with my life. Yet, I would not have you do anything in which you do not believe—”

  “You know what will happen to you if I leave here without you, Isobel. Even if I go straight to Stirling to plead our case—against James’s loyal subject and friend, no less—’twill take too long. Once I am gone, MacNab will unleash his every perversion...”

  “I know.” Isobel thought of that terrible room—Aisla’s prison and death place—the ropes on the bedposts, the threatened wave of warriors. Could she endure it? Maybe not, but neither could she endure costing this man, whom she loved, the one remaining occupant of his heart. “Yet surrendering your lands will beggar you. I cannot send you—send all of us—penniless into the world!”

  “We shall not leave you here.” Thomas spoke. “I shall offer to fight the bastard myself, if need be.”

  Dougal looked hard at Thomas before giving a tight smile. “You, the son of a bailiff, when here stand I, descendent of chieftains? I would fight the bastard in a heartbeat, man, if I thought we had a fair chance.”

  “Then let us put our heads together,” Thomas growled, “and see how we can assure it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “So that is our offer—our only offer!” Dougal roared into his opponents’ faces. “Combat, single combat, one on one between myself and Bertram. When I win, you will release all of us—myself, this man, Thomas Hewett, and both our wives.”

  Randal MacNab smiled into Dougal’s face. “We have been here before, I think,” he tossed back at Dougal with satisfaction. “I remember you lying in a bloodied heap on the stones of my forecourt. You were taught a lesson then, MacRae. Have you truly forgotten?”

  Dougal felt rage rise to his head, so strong it barely left room for thought, and fought it down. Now, of all times, he needed a clear head.

  “We ha’ not been here before,” he shouted. “This time it shall be done fairly—one on one, I say, and with honor, if you can muster any.”

  Bertram spoke. “Och, and listen to him whinge and whine. Your combat last time was one on one, was it not, man? You faced but one opponent at a time.”

  Dougal stiffened in ire. He wanted to strangle Bertram, the bastard, with his bare hands, wanted it so badly the desire felt like fire in his blood. He wanted to leap upon the man now, but he felt Isobel, at his side, reach out and touch his arm.

  “This time,” he told Bertram through his teeth, “if you have the balls for it, I will face you and only you, not the master of your guards, nor so many of your warriors I lose count. Two men only, yourself and me, with two swords—to the death, if need be.”

  Bertram and his father exchanged glances.

  “And,” said MacNab the Senior, “should my son prove victorious again?”

  Stony-faced, Dougal replied, “I sign away my lands to you—this night—all MacRae holdings in Lothian.”

  “And the women?” Randal’s eyes narrowed.

  “They go free, either way. You can keep me if you wish—”

  “You,” said Bertram flatly, “will be dead.”

  “Na, na,” Randal objected, “I canno’ see that. One of these women will, one day, inherit a fine holding in Yorkshire, after their father dies. ’Tis what you are thinking, MacRae, is it not? Surrender your lands here, crawl away on your belly, and take up the lands of your wife’s father?”

  “He will crawl nowhere,” Bertram put in, fingering the hilt of his sword. “He will lie leaking his life’s blood.”

  “Aye, so,” Randal mused, “yet I am a man who likes assurances. What of this, MacRae—if you lose, I keep the women and your lands. Let us make the stakes high and the contest interesting.”

  Dougal shook his head. He had to bargain cannily, now, and get this thing right. “No, we fight for the lands only. The women will leave here first, under the protection of my wife’s brother-in-law.”

  He shot Thomas a look. The bailiff’s son stood strong and steady. Thomas had his instructions and Dougal felt a bit surprised to realize he trusted the man to carry them out.

  MacNab laughed. “I begin to think you as innocent as you were all those years ago. Do you take me for a fool? The women stay.”

  Dougal looked at Catherine, who stood clutching Isobel’s hand. “At least let my wife’s sister accompany her husband away. She is with child and thus no good to you. Her father will never believe she took your son in marriage.”

  Randal appeared to ponder it. He, too, eyed Catherine and then said, “Hewett leaves before the fight?”

  “Before the fight,” Dougal insisted. “He is my assurance, you see, that you shall play fair this time. He shall travel directly to Stirling and await word from me.”

  “And if you fall?” Bertram demanded avidly. “If you die?”

  “Then he awaits word from my wife.”

 
“No.” Randal balked at it. “She stays with us.”

  “There is no one else here free from your influence,” Dougal pointed out, trying not to reveal his desperation. “How are we to assure the contest is fair?”

  “I shall assure it.” Unexpectedly, the scribe stepped forward. “My name is William Campbell, and I become interested in this.”

  “Trust a Campbell?” Dougal sneered inwardly. “And how do I know, sir, you are not also under his influence? He is the one who brought you here as witness to all this.”

  “I shall write the terms out in a letter,” Campbell said, “which your man, Hewett, will carry with him.”

  Dougal looked at Randal and quirked a brow.

  “Aye, agreed,” Randal growled. “But both women stay. That is my assurance.”

  Catherine lifted her head. “Stay I shall. I am not afraid. I know, Master MacRae, you will prove victorious.”

  If only, thought Dougal, he himself felt half so confident.

  ****

  The flames from the torches on the wall danced in a draft of air as the company sorted itself, the warriors muttering in anticipation, the two women standing close, still with clasped hands. The men had formed a rough ring in the forecourt, site of Dougal’s previous defeat, as he remembered all too well. Randal MacNab, looking every bit the proud laird, stood at one side, the scribe at the other, where he could, presumably, witness fair play.

  Bertram MacNab and Dougal had both stripped down to kilts and leggings, assuring their only weapons were the swords in their hands. But Dougal did not feel the cold wind. His entire being focused on the man in front of him. Stripped down, Bertram looked massive, bulky with muscle and ugly as a boar. Rage touched Dougal again at the thought of Aisla, so delicate and beautiful, in this brute’s hands, but he knew he had to manage his anger, channel it. He would need every advantage at his disposal.

  He glanced at Isobel, who stood straight and tall, and her eyes met his and caught. His heart clenched painfully at what he saw there, for it seemed she offered to him, at that moment, all her faith, all her strength—all her love.

  By God—if, indeed, such a being existed—did he deserve such a woman? Curse his black heart, he felt sure he did not. But perhaps, just now, for one moment in time, he could earn such love.

  And, return it? The idea, pure and golden as flame, blossomed in his mind. Did he love Isobel? Suddenly, it seemed impossible he should not. But his feelings for her were so different from what he had felt for Aisla, gentle Aisla, like a dream. For Isobel, he felt passion, admiration…aye, respect. And he would gladly give his life for her now, to pay for her safety and happiness.

  Was that love?

  “Fight to first blood, for the sake of honor?” Campbell asked Randal MacNab.

  Bertram laughed. “First blood? What coward chooses that? ’Twill be last blood or none at all.”

  Dougal nodded, tore his gaze from his wife’s, and shut down all distractions. There existed, in all the world, naught but himself and this bastard, the man he must kill.

  His sword felt good in his hand; he felt good withal, strong and undefeatable. And so he must prove.

  Bertram came at him like a charging bull, with a snarl that rose to the chill night sky. Using the brute’s own impetus against him, Dougal stepped aside at the moment of impact and raised his sword to slash Bertram’s legs. Aye, and I am no’ the lad you brought to his knees last time.

  Bertram might be cruel and merciless, but he was not stupid and learned caution swiftly. He rounded on Dougal, blood streaming from his knees, and narrowed his eyes.

  How patient are you? How canny? Dougal watched to see.

  Not very. Bertram’s next charge came in a forward sweep of sword and muscle. Dougal, more agile, ducked beneath it and just missed landing a slice to MacNab’s belly. The man moved quickly for a great lout. This time, Dougal rounded and slashed him from behind. His sword just caught Bertram’s shoulder before Bertram turned, and the big man howled in what sounded like outrage. The watching warriors began to mutter again, and Dougal strove to shut them out.

  Concentrate. It may mean your life, and Isobel’s.

  Bertram swung round and faced Dougal again, rage in his eyes, and deadly intent. The next rush came in a flurry—Bertram was learning, and this time Dougal was not quick enough. He felt Bertram’s blade tear the flesh over his left bicep, but felt no pain.

  I must bleed him, and tire him. I shall, aye, give no quarter…

  There began, then, a deadly dance. The wind rose above their heads, and the clouds cleared to reveal the stars. It might, Dougal reflected, have been a contest taking place at any time, anywhere in Scotland. The blood knew, the blood remembered.

  And he, he fought for her. As his breath grew short and his muscles began to scream in pain, as he took and inflicted wound after wound, his heart continued to cry her name.

  Bertram MacNab’s face became a snarling mask before Dougal’s eyes, and all he saw. Move, duck, slash, parry, round, and struggle for breath, let a bit more blood, and do it all again. Almost imperceptibly, Bertram began to tire, and Dougal bared his teeth in a grim smile. He, himself, now had half a score of wounds, but none of them was potentially fatal. They stung and burned, no more. And he knew he had touched Bertram gravely at least twice—a slash to the left thigh and one on the right arm that felt as if his blade had penetrated to the bone. That being Bertram’s sword arm, it had now begun to hamper him visibly.

  They turned again in a dreadful parody of grace, boots shuffling in time, and Dougal caught a glimpse of Isobel’s face: milk white, eyes stretched wide. The breath seared his lungs. He must be more tired than he thought.

  He shook the hair out of his eyes and adjusted his grip on his sword; the hilt felt sticky with blood. In that instant of distraction, Bertram made his move, launched himself in a rush of clumsy energy, screaming.

  Bertram’s sword struck Dougal a glancing blow in the center of his chest and they both went flying, Dougal over backward and Bertram, losing his footing, atop him, a tremendous weight.

  Dougal felt what little breath he possessed leave him as he hit the stones. He struggled to determine the location of Bertram’s weapon—if he did not, he might well lose his head. His own sword remained, miraculously, in his hand.

  Bertram’s face, covered in gore, hovered just a breath above his. Bertram grinned, his eyes wild, and growled, “Bastard! Are you ready to die? Get you to hell where you belong!”

  Not quite yet, Dougal thought, and struggled, using every muscle, to buck the man off. His sword arm felt numb, yet his fingers still gripped the hilt.

  “Will you die for her?” Bertram spat. “Even as you would for the other, weak bitch that she was? I enjoyed her, MacRae—liked breaking her, but she broke too easily. This one, I think, will last longer.”

  Hatred sent a spear of pure energy through Dougal’s veins and limbs. He brought his feet up, used them to kick at the bastard’s legs, and must have got in a lucky blow to the injured thigh. Bertram howled and, in one motion, Dougal brought up his sword, struck the side of the man’s head, and heaved him off.

  Somehow, he got to his feet.

  Bertram lay on his back, on the stones, a new ribbon of gore leaking from one ear.

  The ring of warriors had now closed in so tight they virtually breathed down Dougal’s neck.

  “Back!” He swung his sword in a wide arc, chasing them, then nudged Bertram with one foot.

  “Is he dead?” The words came from Isobel in a rough croak.

  Bertram’s eyes stared upward like those of a dead man, but his chest still rose and fell. Dougal leveled the point of his sword at the fallen man’s throat.

  And Bertram erupted. With another of those bovine bellows he rose, disregarding Dougal’s blade as it sliced into the skin from neck to shoulder.

  Bertram had lost his sword yet, maddened, he came at Dougal with his bare hands. A woman screamed and all the warriors yelled. Dougal felt Bertram’s hands close
on his throat. He kicked out—once, twice, landing solid thumps. But the eyes now staring into his were utterly mad. Dougal, no longer sure Bertram could even feel pain and rapidly running out of air, drew back his sword and used it to thrust upward, a short, brutal blow. Bertram sank, slowly.

  “That is for Aisla,” he said, his voice roughened and yet so full of rage it rang against the stones. He bent over his opponent and once more brought the point of his sword to Bertram’s throat. “And this, for Isobel—”

  Isobel! He fought for another breath and shook his hair back, thinking for once beyond the anger and the desire to mete out what was deserved. He wanted so badly to press the blade home, to end this cur’s life, yet he trusted in Randal MacNab’s honor not at all and they had yet to get free of this place.

  “Get up!” he rasped at Bertram. “Up!”

  “Finish it,” Bertram told him.

  “Och, I will. Just not yet.” Using strength he did not know he possessed, he hauled Bertram up by the remnants of his kilt and held the sword to his throat. He looked round, saw Randal MacNab staring like a man struck, and found the scribe.

  “Campbell! You saw it all? You wrote it down?”

  “I did, Laird.” Campbell glanced at Randal MacNab uncertainly. “I will so testify. But I pray you take me with you.”

  “No fear. MacNab, your son comes with us also. If you want him to live, you will give the four of us safe passage away from here.”

  “’Twas not in the agreement,” Randal began to bluster, “that you should take Bertram with you.”

  “A temporary hostage only, to assure our safety. Whether he lives or not, once we are away from here, depends on how quickly you move.”

  “Bring their horses,” Randal commanded, his expression sour. “And, aye, open the gates.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “This is not over,” Dougal said as the five of them rode away through the windy darkness. Bertram MacNab—well-bound and still streaming blood—rode double with Dougal, so Dougal could keep his blade at Bertram’s throat. “I have still to decide the fate of our captive.”