They walked up the slight incline and Deidre looked at the few stones left to mark the foundation. The building had been rectangular and probably could hold no more than ten people. There was an opening where they stood, which had probably been the entrance. At the far end stood a marble slab, no more than four cubits long by a cubit wide and three cubits high. Deidre slid her hands across the smooth, cool surface.
“This looks like an altar of some sort.”
“Aye. It was a hermitage built by one of St. Patrick’s monks.”
Deidre was puzzled. “If this was a Christian place, no magician—or Druid, if that’s what he was—would set foot in it. Besides, they didn’t believe in worshipping in man-made structures.”
“True, but this chapel sits on top of a pagan burial ground.” Gilead smiled. “I think it was a way for the Christians to think they were doing away with the old religion.”
Deidre scoffed at that. “They couldn’t quite kill off the Goddess, though. Even in their religion, one aspect of Isis remains as the Holy Mother and another aspect in the Magdalen.” She looked down and probed a loose stone with her foot. “Will you help me dig?”
“Aye. We’ll have to be careful, though, because this will be difficult to explain. I’ll bring some shovels and hide them in that small shack, there.”
She regarded the remains of what must have been attached to the chapel at one time and nodded. He was going to help her! She smiled happily and reached up to hug him, but he stepped out of reach, his face impassive.
“We’d best be getting back,” he said.
She stared at his broad, retreating back as he went to get the horses. And then a thought came to her as clear as the Sight. He was afraid of her. But why?
◊♦◊
Niall wished he had his sword. It was comforting keeping his hand on the hilt, even though he had no chance of escaping if his plan didn’t work. But the Saxon brutes who met him on the muddy shores of Loch Leven disarmed him before he’d even fully dismounted. And then they blindfolded him and made him walk, instead of ride, since they’d brought no horses. It was nearly a league to the hidden camp along the river that led to the port of Leven on the Firth of Forth. By God, Ida’s mead had best be strong to make up for this indignity!
If Fergus had been willing to come south and take on Turius and Gabran’s armies, Niall could have saved himself this encounter. He’d had a devil of a time convincing a select few of his men to try and treaty with the Saxons. He’d sent three scouts to the northern shores to watch for longboats. That fool, Angus, may be willing to take troops to Lothian, but Niall didn’t think the Pictish king had quite scared off the Saxons as he thought he had. Sure enough. It didn’t take long to spot another keelboat wedging its way into the narrows along the southern peninsular of Fife Ness.
His men had almost been killed. Even now, Ida held two of them hostage and had let only one return.
The guards removed Niall’s blindfold and shoved him through a flap in a tent. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and he blinked in the candlelight.
Ida sat on the edge of his cot, a wolf-hide cloak about his shoulders, his yellow hair hanging down in two thick braids. He motioned to a tree stump that served as a chair and picked up a skin of mead from the floor. He poured hefty amounts into two wooden cups and handed one to Niall.
“You vant to talk, ja?”
Niall swigged a good draft, letting the mellow liquid slide down his throat before it lit a fire in his stomach. “Aye. I think we have a common goal.”
The Saxon looked at him, unblinking. “Vat vould that be?”
“Land.” Niall pulled a parchment from his sporran and handed it to Ida.
Ida spread it out on the cot beside him. A large area had been circled.
Niall leaned forward and pointed. “This land belongs to Angus Mac Oengus. Part of it is rightfully mine. The other half could be yers. Ye wouldna even have to fight the Picts for it.”
Ida ran a thick finger around the radius of the circle. “A fine piece of land. Fertile. Shoreline for fishing and shipping. I doubt that the man vould give it up.”
“Aye. He wouldna,” Niall agreed. “But the clans expect ye to sail on south to Lothian. Angus has already sent forces there so he is but half-manned at his fort.” He waited and was pleased at the reaction on Ida’s face. Greed was always a good motivator. “And my troops wilna resist ye. All I ask is for my half when it’s over.”
“Culross is a good distance in,” Ida said. “Ve’d be spotted vell before ve could attack. I’ll not sacrifice brave men needlessly.”
Sacrifice! By the Dagda! What were a few hundred men for such a reward? Niall never could understand that softness in Turius, and here was a supposedly fearless Saxon spouting the same garbage. Well, perhaps once they’d taken Oengus, he’d overthrow Ida, as well. It shouldn’t be hard. Niall struggled not to sneer.
“Certes. Ye divert their attention. Ye have smaller boats attached to yer keels? It is not so verra hard to paddle the river to Loch Leven and then ’tis but a few leagues overland to Culross. They’d never be expecting Saxons to attack from the land. While their attention be turned, yer main force can sail right through the Firth and launch a full attack from the water side.”
Ida stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It’s risky splitting my men.”
Bel’s fires! Did the man think war was sitting down to tea? Niall wondered how the Saxons had ever gained a foothold in the south if they were all so hesitant to fight. Och, Turius with his undying hope for peace probably welcomed them!
“Then we need Fortune on our side.” Niall eyed the skin of mead meaningfully and Ida shoved it toward him. He poured himself another good serving. “What if I told ye I know a hidden passageway that leads directly to the lairdess’s chambers? Mayhap abducting the laird’s wife would make him more willing to bargain with ye in the end.”
Niall doubted that stealing Elen would bother Angus at all, but the laird would not want to incur the wrath of Mac Erca, either. And if Niall could manage to “rescue” Elen back from the fierce—ha!—Saxons, Mac Erca would have to look favorably on him. And if Angus were killed, he might even marry his widow! Although not until he finished breaking that bitch, Deidre. Och, he’d ravish her first. More than once. And then he’d arrange for an accident when he was through thoroughly humiliating her.
He pulled another, smaller, piece of vellum from his sporran. “A map of the castle. The postern gate lies here.” He indicated with his finger. “Once I unlock it, yer men can slip inside from there and cause the distraction needed.” He turned the paper slightly and pointed to a spot near the Forth River which flowed directly beneath the south wall. “There is a cave here, inaccessible at high tide but easy to maneuver at low. There’s a stone passage that leads underground and into the keep. A good way for the lairds to sneak in and out if the fort were under siege.”
Niall had discovered it quite by accident several years ago. He’d suspected that Angus and Formorian were trysting and he’d followed Angus one day, only to see Formorian emerge from a shallow pool of water near the cave like some water sprite. He’d waited until they’d gone into the wood and then discovered the hidden stairwell. Aye, he’d expose that rutting, too. If Angus survived, Mac Erca wouldn’t take kindly to his exposing the adultery. Especially when Niall would promise to take such good care of the gentle lady.
With Mac Erca behind him, he could even take on the Picts. Fergus Mor wouldn’t gain another league of land. Niall liked the idea.
◊♦◊
From the corner of her eye, Deidre watched as Gilead heaved a shovelful of dirt from the chapel ruins. He had taken his shirt off with the heat of the July sun, and his body glistened with a light beading of sweat. The muscles in his back bunched and expanded as he lined the heavy shovel, his well-defined biceps bulging as he threw the dirt. If only she were the swooning sort. She’d love to fall right into that strong embrace and smell the sun-freshness of him.
Sud
denly, he dropped to his knees and began pawing the ground. “I think I’ve found something.”
Deidre was on her knees beside him, her lustful fantasy momentarily forgotten. They’d managed to ride out twice before and dig, but found only grave markers.
Gilead pried at the stone until it came loose. Raising it, he scraped the dirt off and handed it to her. She looked at the symbols scratched on it. Only another marker.
He must have seen the look of disappointment on her face, for he took her hand and stood, lifting her with him. He leaned on his shovel. “That’s probably all we’re going to find, Sassenach. Markers of those who lived and died here.”
She knew he was right. They had cleared almost half of the small area. Once they’d dug skeletal remains, which they carefully reburied to keep its shade from rising. But that was all. Still, she wanted to finish the job.
“I just have to know. I feel that the Stone is close.”
Before he could answer, the bell in the little kirk in the village near the castle started clanging, followed by a ferocious screeching of bagpipes and the blowing of sheep horns.
“What on earth is that racket?” Deidre asked, but Gilead was already running for the horses.
“We’re under attack!” he said quickly and plopped her unceremoniously into the saddle. “We’ll try to head back through the postern gate.”
They took the precaution of stopping well within the protection of the forest. Gilead narrowed his eyes, squinting. “The postern gate is open. Strange. We’ll leave the horses here and approach on foot.”
It seemed to take an infinity to reach the shadow of the stone wall and Deidre could hear the ruckus long before they slipped unnoticed through the unmanned gate. Still, she wasn’t prepared for what she saw in the bailey.
There were Saxons everywhere, their light hair matted with blood, the saexes clanging against the shields of Turius’s men. Angus’s warriors countered the Saxon battle-axes with their own heavy claymores. The archers on the battlements were firing furiously at the front of the fort, no doubt holding back more invaders.
She saw the stable boys hauling buckets of pitch and boiling water up the ladders. Some of Turius’s men had formed a turtle-like shell, guarding the massive gate to keep it from being opened by the Saxons already inside the walls. Their spears stuck out between the front shields, as well as the side panels.
Warriors in the center of the formation crouched and held their shields over their heads, protecting all of them. A classic Roman strategy. Deidre had heard Childebert discussing it more than once, but she had never seen it used. And she hoped she never would again.
She caught a glimpse of Angus and Turius fighting back to back, both of them strangely calm, even though they were surrounded by the fiendish barbarians. They both moved with determination, circling slowly, eyes wary.
Gilead pulled her toward the back wall, out of sight, and drew his sword. “Come, I’ll get ye into the keep. Find my mother and bolt her door. Doona open it for anyone.”
“Aid yer da, Gilead,” Formorian said as she dashed toward them, long sword in one hand and dirk in the other. “I’ll take her inside.”
Gilead hesitated only a second. “Ye stay inside, too. I’ll not have my father fashing about yer safety while he’s in battle.”
For a moment, Formorian’s eyes narrowed. She was dressed for battle, her hair pulled under a helmet, smears of blood on her hauberk. Then she nodded. “Aye. I’ll watch over yer mother. Go to him.”
Gilead gave Deidre one lingering glance and then he was gone.
Formorian thrust the dirk into Deidre’s hand. “Don’t be afraid to use this if ye have to.” She peered cautiously around the corner. “Ye havna been spotted yet. A pity ye’re in that dress, though. We have to make a dash to the kitchen door.” She reached down and pulled a sgian dubh from her boot. The black handle on the knife glistened ominously in the shadow. “If we’re attacked, pretend to swoon. Get in close, slash the groin. Thank Boudicca, the brynies the Saxon wear are short and their privates unprotected.” She grinned. “Arrogant of them, isna it?”
Deidre stared at her. How could she laugh at a time like this? They might very well be killed in the next few minutes. She wanted nothing more than to clap her hands over her ears and shut out the clamor of steel against steel, and the screams of the wounded and dying.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
Formorian gave her an appraising look. “We doona have time to be scared. Ye must keep yer wits about ye until we’re inside.” She cocked her head and listened. “The noise is lessening, it shouldna be long now.”
Deidre gathered up her skirt, not caring if her legs showed. She was going to run like the horned god himself was after her. “It shouldn’t be long for what?”
“Until we win.” She smiled wickedly. “I doubt that the barbarians knew that Angus’s troops were reinforced with Turius’s. Else they would not have been so stupid as to send in only a small contingent and leave their main forces outside.” She looked around the corner again. “Let’s go!”
Deidre had only a whirlwind glimpse of the devastation as they raced toward the back entrance to the kitchen. The bailey was littered with bodies, but Angus and Turius were still on their feet. She saw Gilead’s sword flash in the sun.
“A woman!” she heard someone shout and she drew on an inner strength she didn’t know she had and darted forward.
“Two of them,” another voice shouted from close behind. Far too close. She felt rough hands on her arm jerking her backward and then the hand went slack. She turned briefly to see the Saxon face down, a dirk in his back. Looking up, she saw Gilead nod toward her before he returned to the battle.
Formorian was wielding her sword against the second man. “Get behind me,” she ordered, and Deidre moved blindly, realizing that they needed to inch toward the door before someone else spotted them. She held her dirk a bit more firmly, wishing she had more skill. Please, Goddess. If I survive this, I vow to practice with the dirk for hours, just as Formorian had told me to do. Just let me live!
Formorian deflected the shorter saexe easily with her sword, her footwork as graceful as a dancer’s. She feinted to the right and then the left, the heavier warrior trying to match her light steps. With his fur cloak tossed over his shoulders, he looked like a big lumbering bear.
Deidre’s back bumped against the door. They had made it. She tried to pull the door only to find it locked. Bolted from the inside. She turned and pounded on the door, trying to shout above the din.
Formorian never took her eyes off her opponent, concentrating her efforts. If it seemed as though she had been playing with the man before, she was serious now, with the door locked. She parried quickly, careful to keep enough space between them so she would not press her sword against his. She disengaged suddenly, passing her blade beneath the saexe, and lunged in a blur of movement.
Deidre heard the soft swishing sound as the sword drove home, impaling the man. Funny, she thought, that death would come so quietly amid the battle. And then the door opened behind her and she nearly fell through.
Formorian leaped over her and Meara slammed the door shut again, sliding the bolt with one hand. In the other, she held her meat cleaver. Deidre didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to see the cranky cook. No Saxon would live to get past her.
She rushed up the stairs, Formorian at her heels. They found Elen cringing in a corner, holding her little paring knife that she used for eating in front of her.
Formorian gave it a cursory glance and shook her head as she fastened the bolt. “Did ye not even think to lock yer door?”
Elen’s eyes were huge in her white face. “Get out of here!”
Instead, Formorian pulled up a chair next to the door and laid her bloodied sword across her knees. “I canna do that. Yer son asked me to take care of ye and Deidre.”
Elen looked at Deidre, who nodded. “Formorian saved my life just now.”
“Well, then,” Elen
said in a calmer voice, “I suppose I must put up with her.” She straightened her shoulders and walked toward the table where she sat daintily on the edge of a tapestry chair. “Would ye care for some wine?”
Formorian’s eyes glittered and Deidre was afraid she would start laughing. Not a wise thing to do. Elen might have a gentle nature, but the steely glint in her eyes showed Deidre that there might just be a bit of something much stronger in Elen. She just hoped, when the battle was over in the bailey, that another battle wouldn’t have begun in here.
◊♦◊
Angus stripped off his bloody and torn shirt and sank down on a stool in the infirmary. “See to him first,” he told the medic. “I can wait.”
Gilead clamped his jaw tight as the medic poured whisky into the deep cut on his thigh and then began the painful stitching together of the ragged flesh. It hurt like hell, but that didn’t matter. If he hadn’t turned in time, his voice would have been noticeably higher in a week or two. The man had just finished binding the leg in linen when the door burst open and Deidre, his mother, and Formorian all came through at once.
Deidre and Elen rushed over to him. “How badly are ye hurt, son?”
Gilead managed a smile. “I’ll heal.”
“He needs to stay off that leg a few days,” the medic said as he poured clean water into the basin and handed Elen a cloth. “If ye’ll see to the cuts and bruises on his chest, I’ll tend to the laird.”
“No need,” Formorian said. “I’ll do it.” Already, she had cleansed Angus’s shoulder wound and was winding the needle through in tidy little stitches. She tied a knot and bent her head to bite the thread.
Gilead hoped he was the only one who noticed Formorian’s tongue flicker to lick the skin near the wound, but then he saw how pale his mother had grown. Could the queen not contain herself even when his father was wounded and his mother was present? Formorian’s hair was plastered to her head with sweat and she was covered in grime. Blood splattered her clothes, but Angus was looking at her as though she’d just stepped out of a hot bath. Gilead shook his head. “Playing with fire,” he muttered under his breath.
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