Simon held a broadsword in his right hand, a mace in the other. Isabelle scrambled out of the way of the fighting men. With a brief sneer in her direction, Simon charged Campbell who ducked, the mace swinging perilously close to his head. Campbell swung his claymore in a great arc, coming down upon Simon, but the Englishman proved quick and dodged the blow, parrying with a jab at Campbell’s shoulder. Campbell slouched and spun out of reach of Simon, reaching up to touch his shoulder.
He has no armor. Isabelle noticed it now. Campbell had not anticipated the fight so he wore no armor; Simon’s men wore mail or plate.
Simon allowed Campbell no respite and attacked with a fury of sword and mace. Campbell fought him off, defending himself against the blows, backing up on the uneven hillside. Campbell took one more step backward, hitting a loose stone, which rolled out from underneath his foot. Isabelle stood in horror as Campbell went down.
“No!” shouted Isabelle.
Simon pointed at her. “Kill her!” He swung his mace down at Campbell for the death blow but Campbell rolled and jabbed up with a knife he pulled from his boot. Simon was quick and deflected the attack with his sword, but the movement put him off balance and he stepped backward. Campbell was up and on the attack. Campbell swung his blade against Simon’s mace, slicing the weapon in two, the iron-spiked ball flying through the air and hitting Simon’s messenger in the side of the head.
Simon’s men rushed at Isabelle, but she was defended by Corbett and her guards. She wondered how long her line could hold. Campbell attacked without expression, his face stone, his actions precise and meticulous.
“You defend the wrong woman,” sneered Simon. “She is naught but a whore. A favorite at court for an easy roll between the sheets. My father found out only too late what she truly was.”
“Ye do yerself no favors by insulting the Lady Tynsdale,” growled Campbell.
“By all means, I have no complaints from my poke with her. She was a most eager bed partner.”
Campbell attacked in anger, powerful but careless. Simon easily evaded and sliced back with his sword in a move Campbell was barely able to deflect. Campbell stumbled back a few steps before finding his footing.
“All I want is to return the lady to her country,” Simon continued in his slick voice. “Our king will wish her back and take it poorly that she be taken. Do you risk war with England over this one wench? Is an easy lay worth the death of your family? Because make no mistake, King Edward will come after you, leaving your kin slaughtered.”
“You vile creature,” screamed Isabelle. “You speak nothing but lies. King Edward has not a care for me. And I have never even been to court, you lying dog.”
MacLaren and Chaumont joined Isabelle’s guard to fight against Simon’s men. Their considerable skill turned the tide and Simon’s men fell back. The din of battle lessened, and an eerie quiet hung in the air. Simon’s men on the hillside had been flanked and defeated. The men he had with him were either dead or taken. He alone stood against Campbell.
Simon glanced around with narrow eyes and took a step back. “All I ask is for the Lady Tynsdale to be returned. King Edward will certainly take offense if the lady is not returned after the ransom has been paid.”
“Campbell,” said the Steward of Scotland. “This man is right. We cannot refuse to return the Lady Tynsdale without condemning Scotland to another invasion from the English.”
Campbell and Simon continued to circle each other, the weapons at the ready.
“If I give her to this man, he will kill her, you ken that to be truth,” said Campbell.
“’Tis not our concern,” said the steward. “She belongs to the king of her country, to their damnable King Edward. If he canna protect her, ’tis not our job to do so.”
“Listen and hear me well,” growled Campbell. “I will no’ give up the Lady Tynsdale to a fiend who only wishes her harm. I will not give her up!”
Isabelle clasped her hands together and held them over her lips to refrain from cheering. To claim her before his friends and enemies alike, he must truly care for her.
“Even if it means open war wi’ England?” asked Douglas. “Think, lad. Is one Sassenach lass worth the blood o’ yer countrymen?”
“She is worth all to me. My actions are on me alone.”
“The king will not see it in such a light, I fear,” said the steward. “It is often the innocent who suffer for the misstep of another.”
“And what would you have me do? Give her back to this bastard?”
“She must be returned, lad,” said Douglas. One lass canna possibly be worth the destruction o’ yer clan. Think on yer brothers and sisters. Where will this leave them?”
“I will take her back to England,” said Captain Corbett. “I will keep her safe.”
Isabelle closed her eyes for a moment and breathed the morning air. She could smell the dirt that had been kicked up in the fight and clung to her gown. She breathed in the scent of loch and the tang of blood of the wounded. Campbell risked his family, his kin, his very brothers and sisters to protect her. The power of this fact struck deep, but she could not let him or his family be harmed.
“I will go with my captain,” Isabelle said in a voice that didn’t quite sound her own. She met Campbell’s eyes. She hoped he understood. “I will go back to my king.” It was an acceptable solution, considering her options. She would probably be given in marriage to another English baron who would make war against the Scots. The thought filled her stomach with gall, but there was nothing else to do.
Simon’s attack was swift and decisive. He lunged at Campbell who, though still holding his claymore, was distracted by the negotiations. Simon stabbed forward with his sword, but Campbell was not as inattentive as Simon thought. Campbell spun to the side, deflecting the thrust with his sword and rolling around to the side of his enemy. With a cry he jumped up and plunged a knife into the gap of armor at Simon’s neck.
Simon gasped and fell to the ground. Isabelle stared in silence at his crumbled body until she was sure Simon was dead.
It was over. Isabelle gasped and her legs swayed beneath her. Since girlhood she had feared her husband, living in dread of being put back into his power. Now her husband, Lord Tynsdale, was dead. And the true monster, the one who planned her murder, was dead too. She was free.
“Riders approaching!”
More riders? She glanced around at the people before her. Who could possibly be missing from this assembly?
“’Tis the minstrel returning.”
Out of the mist the minstrel returned on horseback. His same wool cloak was pinned at the shoulder, but underneath chain mail glinted beneath his bright blue surcoat. A sword was belted around his waist. What on Earth was this about?
“Isabelle?” growled Campbell.
Isabelle shrugged. For once, a strange occurrence was not of her doing. Why Campbell was always blaming her was beyond her.
“Welcome, minstrel. What brings ye back to us dressed for battle?” asked Campbell, his sword still drawn.
The minstrel opened his mouth to speak but paused a moment looking around him. It must have seemed an odd sight to him too. “I come to bring you news and to make you an offer in the name of my lord, but I seem to have arrived late for the party. What goes here?”
“I will ask the questions, minstrel,” growled Campbell. “Who are ye and whom do ye serve?”
“I am Sir Dragonet. I serve the Duke of Argitaine, the Golden Knight.”
Silence descended on the group as everyone took a moment to comprehend his statement.
“Another spy in yer midst, Campbell?” asked Stewart. “Ye should have a better watch on whom ye invite to entertain yer guests.”
Campbell raised one eyebrow at Stewart, and turned back to the minstrel turned Sir Dragonet. “Ye have deceived me once, and I have little time to be fooled by yer words again. Get to your own business and let me to mine.” Campbell wiped his blade clean and sheathed his sword.
�
�Forgive the ruse, my friend,” said a shadowy man. His horse clopped slowly out of the mist. Isabelle stared at the figure, her mouth open wide. The man on horseback was dressed in golden armor. His helm and gauntlets were golden. The plates on his legs and arms were golden. Over this he wore a red and blue surcoat trimmed lavishly in gold thread. The cost of his harness alone would be enough to cover her ransom fiftyfold.
“I am the Duke of Argitaine,” said the Golden Knight in a smooth, easy voice. “I sent my trusted knight, Sir Dragonet, to seek the will of the Scots to determine if they would continue to respect the Auld Alliance with France. I am pleased to know that Scotland still maintains her freedom against English aggression and domination.”
“I am the Steward of Scotland,” said Stewart, stepping forward. “May I ask what has driven ye to travel so far from yer home to visit us today?”
“Only the most desperate of circumstances, and the desire to help my brother Scots in their struggle against the English oppressors. Behold, I bring a token of France’s support of Scotland against the English devils.”
The Golden Knight motioned, and four soldiers rolled forward a cart carrying a large, wooden trunk. They took a moment to open a large lock and opened the lid. Isabelle was not the only one to gasp. It was full of gold.
“And what would ye have us do to earn such a boon?” asked Douglas, ever suspicious, his arms folded across his chest.
“Join me in arms against the English. Together we will stand victorious where divided we will fall alone.”
“Join ye in arms?” asked the steward. “Ye mean for us to go to war wi’ England?”
“Yes. We fight the English in France. If Scotland invades from the north, we shall surround our mutual enemy and drink to her defeat.”
“Or we could be slaughtered like the last time we invaded England. I saw what was done at Neville’s Cross. I know how many o’ our men died that day,” put in MacLaren.
“MacLaren!” The French duke raised his hand in greeting. “You are well met.”
“And ye have bought yerself a new set of armor since the last time we met,” replied MacLaren with a glint in his eye.
A slow smile crept over the duke’s face, and he inclined his head. “I do ask you to join with us against our common English enemy, but this time we not only request your help but pledge our support to raise your armies. And we will send French troops to march alongside you.”
“’Tis a fair offer, to be sure,” said Douglas, his eyes on the chest of gold.
“I would hear more,” agreed Stewart.
The Duke of Argitaine dismounted, and the lairds met with him, discussing details of the proposed French plan.
Isabelle’s heart sank. Her holdings were on the border so her King Edward would no doubt use her castle to reinforce the line against Scotland. She would be married off to some warrior who could promise security. Would Alnsworth be home to battle? Would she see Campbell again from the other side of her castle wall?
A low moan caught her attention. It was Cait, weeping over the body of Andrew McNab.
“Cait!” cried Isabelle, rushing to her side. “Is he… is it too late?”
Andrew McNab made a raspy noise that gave Isabelle hope. “Look, he lives still. Oh, stop that crying and see what you can do to help.”
“Does he live?” asked Gavin, taking a keen interest.
“Dinna hurt him!” cried Cait, trying to cover Andrew with her body.
“By the saints, I’m no’ going to hurt him,” replied Gavin, irritated. “Give him some room to breathe now.”
Cait sat back up, and Gavin gave Andrew some drops from his flask. Andrew’s eyes opened wide and then blinked at the faces around him.
“Am I dead?” rasped Andrew.
“No’ yet,” said Gavin, helping the lad to sit up and giving him a healthy swig from the flask. “Are ye well, lad?”
“My throat pains me, but all things considered, I am glad to feel it.” Andrew took the flask from Gavin’s hand and drank until his color returned. He offered it back to Gavin who shook his head.
“Keep it,” said Gavin, a smile brightening his face. “Consider it a wedding present.”
“So ye will no’ press yer right to wed me?” Cait asked, eyes wide, her blond hair falling down around her.
“I would ne’er press anyone into marriage,” responded Gavin gallantly.
Isabelle noted that Gavin was a broad-shouldered, attractive lad. Had she known Cait’s betrothed to be such a handsome young man, she doubted she would have assisted her escape. Isabelle wondered why she had doubted Campbell’s plan for his sister. Surely he would care to make a match for Cait better than the one that had been made for her.
“He lives?” asked Campbell, not sounding particularly enthusiastic.
Andrew struggled to his feet and stood before Campbell, his arm around Cait, more for support than affection.
“Since he saved my life,” Isabelle caught Campbell’s eye. “I would ask that you grant me this one boon and let the lad live.”
“I also advocate for the life and freedom of this lad,” said an elderly voice, new to the conversation. Isabelle turned to see a man in white robes with an equally white beard walk up to Campbell.
“Bishop!” stated Campbell, clearly surprised. “What do ye do here?”
“I come to ask for Andrew McNab’s life. He is important for the Church.”
“How could Andrew be important for the Church?” asked Campbell. Even Andrew’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Andrew McNab,” said the bishop. “Are ye prepared to make a new life for yourself? To walk the path of righteousness and not follow the path yer brother was on?”
“Aye, yer grace.”
“And will ye convince yer brother by any means necessary to serve me.”
“Aye, yer grace.”
“There’s a good lad. Now introduce me to your lovely bride.” The bishop was all smiles.
Campbell sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Andrew McNab, for acts of heroism in saving the life of Lady Tynsdale from the hands of a madman, I pardon ye from the sentence of death by hanging. Now take yer arm off my sister and get the hell off my land.”
“Thank ye, Brother,” said Cait with a brilliant smile that immediately turned mulish. “But I will leave wi’ my husband.”
“Ye will marry Gavin Patrick as ye are betrothed to do,” growled Campbell.
“I canna marry him when I am wed to another,” cried Cait.
“Forgive me, sir,” broke in Gavin. “I am conscious of the honor ye do me to accept a betrothal between yer sister and myself, but I feel I must break the engagement, for the reasons of…” Gavin stumbled over his words and gestured in Andrew’s general vicinity. “I mean no disrespect, but I would like to find a bride o’ my own choosing.”
Campbell sighed again, but nodded saying, “I understand and hold naught against ye.”
Campbell glared at Andrew, then Cait, then Isabelle. “How is it ye were wed?” Campbell’s voice was deceptively soft.
Andrew swallowed and put a hand to his throat. “Last night an old man came to my cell and performed the wedding rites.”
“Ye were there, Cait?”
She nodded.
“And how did a priest come to be in your cell, or Cait for that matter?”
Andrew grew pale once more and paused, the silence loud and painful. “That I canna say.”
“Isabelle!” Campbell barked. “This was yer doing, dinna deny it.”
“I have no desire to deny it,” said Isabelle, holding herself up a little taller.
“And what concern is it to ye that ye be meddling in it?”
“She came to me for help and why should I not assist her? People talk of love and sing of love, but so few people actually experience it for themselves. True love is found so rarely. I wanted someone to have it.” Isabelle’s words came out in a jumble, and she felt perilously close to spilling tears.
“The Church acce
pts the marriage of Andrew McNab to Lady Caitrina Campbell.” The bishop spoke with religious authority. It was done. They were wed.
Isabelle glanced at Campbell expecting to see his anger, but he was staring at her, his eyes dark and mournful.
“Gavin!” shouted MacLaren and Gavin immediately returned to his uncle’s side. The men had huddled around the Duke of Argitaine and were speaking in low, fervent voices. MacLaren gave Isabelle a hard stare.
The steward stepped forward. “This is a fortunate day for ye, Lady Tynsdale. The man who wished ye dead is now himself a corpse. ’Tis time to return to England with yer guard. I wish ye well and I advise ye not to dawdle long in Scotland, but return home by the shortest route possible.”
Campbell’s face returned to stone, expressionless in the gray mist. He had protected her, killed for her, and now he said nothing. He was letting her go.
“Good-bye then, my lords.” Isabelle curtsied to the men. “Your Grace.” She inclined her head to the bishop.
Captain Corbett motioned for his men to move out. It was past time to go. At least Cait was going to be able to keep her lover. Campbell would have to pick between two poor choices for a bride and Isabelle would be given to another man.
“Farewell, Lady Tynsdale.” Campbell stepped toward her.
“Farewell to you, Laird Campbell.”
“Godspeed.”
Isabelle nodded and bit back tears.
“Hold there,” said MacLaren. “The lady and her guard know too much. She should no’ be allowed to return and give the news to her king o’ this meeting wi’ Argitaine.”
Isabelle glared at MacLaren, then at Campbell. Would he dare to make her a captive again? Her anger wilted the moment she looked into his eyes. Campbell’s expressionless mask cracked, revealing raw hope. He wanted her.
Though others stood around, Campbell was the only one she saw. If they were speaking, she heard nothing. Wind played with her hair, clearing the mist so the castle was once again in sight. It had never been far away.
The Highlander’s Heart Page 31