by Ruth Langan
“Take the lady below. And see that she does not leave.”
Meredith backed away from Brice’s touch and gave him a look of pure venom. “Aye. I shall go below while you and the others settle this thing.”
She moved past him and hurried to the door. With her hand on the door pull she called, “But though you fancy yourself a mighty warrior, be warned. Do not turn your back on your attackers, my lord. Or you may find a MacAlpin dirk buried between your shoulders.”
He watched as she flounced away beside Angus. As he bent to his weapons, the taste of her was still on his lips.
Chapter Ten
Dust plumed in great clouds as the horsemen crowded through the entranceway and milled about in confusion. Above the din of horses’ hooves in the courtyard there was a great roar of men’s voices shouting encouragement to one another as they prepared the attack on Kinloch House. The door to the castle was rammed. And although the massive door had been braced by thick timbers, it eventually sagged and gave way beneath the assault. Swarms of men poured through the doorway of the castle, their voices a chorus of cursing and screeching.
At the sudden mournful wail of bagpipes they seemed to fall back for a moment before regaining their momentum.
Brice saw the looks in the eyes of his men. They had expected no more than a dozen or more Lowlanders. But there were ten times that number. And many of them, though dressed like Lowlanders, had the look of the Highlands about them.
A warning bell rang in his mind but there was no time to fathom it. Something did not ring true about the men attacking them. There was something very wrong here.
In that one brief moment of confusion the Highlanders returned the attack with a vengeance. The air was filled with the sound of sword clanging against shield, of fierce battle cries, of the moaning and shrieking of the first to fall in battle.
In the light of candles set in sconces along the walls, the bearded faces appeared wild and frightening. And because Brice Campbell, the most feared of all men in the Highlands, had a price of one hundred pounds sterling upon his head, he found himself at the point of dozens of swords.
He had been raised with the sword. From his earliest days he had known that there would be men eager to challenge him. But though he willingly accepted the challenge, he took no joy in killing. It was something that had been thrust upon him as leader and warrior. It was his death or theirs. And in his hands rested the fate of his people.
There was no time for fear. He parried each thrust with equal skill, matching move for move. But though he was a skilled warrior, the endless fighting was wearing him down.
As the hour stretched into two, and then into a third, he glanced around at his comrades and felt a heaviness around his heart. This day many good men had fallen. And many more would never again rise up.
Below the castle, in the flickering light of the dungeons, the women rocked their babies and sought to comfort the crying, frightened children. Their eyes mirrored every emotion, from absolute terror to quiet resignation. The battles were as much a part of their lives as eating and sleeping. They had been the daughters of warriors. Now they were the patient wives of warriors. And every woman there knew, like a knife thrust to the heart, that they were also the mothers of future warriors.
Meredith stood with her ear pressed to the heavy door. When she heard the sound of the guards outside the door being engaged in battle, she clenched her hands at her sides and strained to make out the voices muttering savage oaths and barely coherent phrases. A scream pierced the air and she heard the thud as a body dropped to the floor just outside the door. The fighting went on for what seemed an eternity. She heard a second body fall. Then she detected the sound of footsteps receding.
For long minutes she continued listening with her ear pressed firmly to the massive door. There was only silence outside the room. But from the upper floors she could hear the distant sounds of battle.
How much longer should she remain here with the women? This room offered shelter, a safe haven from the battle. But those were her men fighting, dying. And they were here to rescue her. Regardless of Brice’s words, Meredith knew in her heart that she had no choice. She must show herself to her men and order them to cease this battle at once and return with her to the Lowlands.
She lifted sweating palms to the latch that secured the heavy door from inside. Behind her the women lifted pleading eyes that spoke of their disapproval.
“Please, my lady,” Cara whispered. “There is only death beyond this room.”
“I must go. I have the power, the authority, to stop this slaughter.”
“Nay, my lady,” Mistress Snow said, coming to place a restraining hand upon her arm. “My lord Campbell ordered us to stay here where we are safe. He is the only one who has the authority to end this battle. I beg you, please do not disobey him.”
Meredith lifted her head a fraction. No one, not even these well-intentioned servants, would dissuade her.
With her shoulder to the door she pushed it open an inch and peered about. Two men lay in pools of slowly congealing blood. She recognized the two as men who rode with Brice and her heart went out to their widows still waiting bravely just beyond the door. At least for a little while longer she would spare them the gruesome sight of their loved ones.
Motioning for Mistress Snow to latch the door behind her, Meredith slipped out and hurried to kneel beside each of the fallen warriors in turn. Both were dead. Judging by the bloody swords beside them, both had fought furiously before giving up their lives.
She lifted her head and listened to the sounds of battle being waged above her. Lifting her skirts she ran to the stairs and began to climb.
The great hall was littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Blood spattered the walls and tables. The hulking forms of men writhed and twisted as they moaned or choked back sobs. Pain and death were everywhere.
Meredith walked among the fallen men, kneeling to whisper a word of comfort, to offer a tankard of water. Not one of them, she realized was a MacAlpin. All except Brice’s men were strangers to her. Brice. She studied each face, and though she was not aware of it, her heart sought only one. When a search of the entire room did not reveal him, she let out a long sigh of breath. Brice had survived the first wave of attack.
Meredith heard the sound of the pipes from the direction of the courtyard. When she reached the door she looked out at a scene of such carnage it took her breath away.
The storehouse had been burned. Black acrid smoke filled the air. Animals, free of their pens, milled about while swordsmen battled all around them. Chickens, ducks, geese, were trampled in the melee. Goats bleated and ran about, seeking to escape.
Young Jamie, standing alone in a corner of the courtyard, struggled to play the bagpipes while all around him were fallen comrades. Meredith saw tears streaming down the lad’s dirt-streaked face, but he continued to play, though she was certain he no longer knew nor cared what the song was. He played because Brice had ordered it. And he would go to hell and back for his beloved Brice.
Seeing a flash of saffron sleeve, Meredith cried out Brice’s name and watched in horror as a tall man fell to the ground. His hands pried in vain at the blade of a sword buried in his chest. But when the man’s head lolled to one side, she realized he was not Brice.
Her gaze scanned the swordsmen who milled about the courtyard. There were twenty men for every one of Brice’s. Where had they all come from?
Hearing a cry from above her, Meredith looked up. A man was pushed from a balcony and hurtled past her, landing with a terrible shudder on the hard-packed earth of the courtyard. A bushy red beard covered his chin. He proudly wore the garb of a Highlander. His vacant eyes stared heavenward.
Meredith looked up toward the balcony. Peering down from his position of victory toward the fallen man was Gareth MacKenzie. On his face was a smile of supreme confidence.
Meredith was certain that Gareth had not yet spotted her. He was still staring intently at the
man he had defeated.
Scanning the faces of the crowd, Meredith felt her heart lurch. Brice. Did he lie even now in a pool of his own blood?
She ducked back inside the castle and raced up the stairs toward Brice’s chambers.
Outside the door she came to an abrupt halt. Brice, his sleeve hanging in shreds, his shoulder bleeding profusely, faced three opponents. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. In his right hand was the gleaming broadsword. By the light of the fire the jewel-encrusted gold handle winked with brilliant color.
While she watched, all three men attacked.
Meredith longed for a sword. Though the men fighting Brice were MacKenzie clansmen, and therefore considered her protectors, she chafed at the uneven odds. With a weapon she could at least make the battle a bit more even.
As she watched the dueling swords she heard the sound of running feet. Dropping to her knees, she hid herself in a little alcove. It was a terrible thing to be forced to listen helplessly to the sounds of battle and be unable to join in. Nor could she any longer witness the outcome.
“So.” The voice of Gareth MacKenzie rang through the hall. “At last we have backed the Highland Barbarian into a corner. Let us now show him how the Borderers fight scum like him.”
Meredith got to her feet. She would show herself to these men to prove that she was truly alive and unharmed. And then she would demand that Gareth’s men join her and follow her back to their home in the Lowlands. Though Gareth would insist upon taking Brice prisoner, she would at least see that he was kept alive.
As she began to step from her place of concealment, she heard Gareth’s voice, low with fury.
“You men. Join these three and pin the Highlander against the wall. I want it to be my thrust that ends his life.”
Meredith sprang from her place of concealment and stood in the doorway.
Five men held their sword points against Brice’s chest while Gareth MacKenzie faced him. Brice’s sword lay gleaming at his feet.
Seeing the flicker of movement in the doorway, Brice’s eyes narrowed. God in heaven. Not now. Meredith must not be seen. If these animals caught sight of her, all would be lost. For there was no doubt in Brice’s mind that Gareth MacKenzie was an evil man, bent upon destroying everyone who stood in the way of his lust for land and power.
“And when you have killed me, where will you lay the blame for your next murder? When innocent lads and old men are cut down in the night, whose name will you curse?”
“When I have taken over your land, and that of the MacAlpins, there will be no further need of deception,” Gareth stated. “It will all be mine.”
“And what of the woman?” Brice’s lips curled in a hint of a smile. “What if Meredith MacAlpin refuses to be wed?”
“She will be given no chance to refuse. And I will see to it that this time she is not snatched from my clutches at the altar.”
Meredith took a step forward, then froze at Gareth’s next words to his men.
“Without her clan here to give witness, I will personally see to the woman. I want Meredith MacAlpin wed and then dead. We will take her body back to the MacAlpins for viewing.”
“Why are the MacAlpins not here with you? It is, after all, their leader you fight for.” Brice’s voice was low with fury.
“They feared that their mistress would be harmed in battle. They favored bartering with you for her safe return.”
“Then who are all these men who fight alongside you?”
Gareth gave an evil leer. “I have an unending supply of warriors. It seems the Highland Barbarian has incurred the wrath of many Scotsmen.” With a low, mirthless laugh he added, “Now, if viewing the body of Meredith MacAlpin is not enough to secure the loyalty of the MacAlpin clan, the rest of my plan will be more than enough.” He studied the bloodied foe who faced five of the MacKenzie’s most skilled swordsmen. “I intend to place your sword through the heart of Meredith MacAlpin for all to see.”
The men surrounding Brice burst into words of encouragement and taunting laughter.
“Every man on the Border will swear allegiance to me in our fight to rid the land of all Campbells.”
“So you admit that it was you who killed the helpless and laid the blame on me.”
“Aye.”
“Then hand me my sword and fight one who is not helpless. I seek to clear my good name.”
“Who would believe the word of a barbarian?” Gareth laughed and lifted his sword until the blade was pressing against Brice’s flesh. “Especially a dead barbarian.” To his men Gareth shouted, “I will strike the first blow.”
Meredith saw the flash of blade as Gareth plunged his sword. Then, as the others attacked she leaped back into her place of concealment just as Gareth strode from the room. She pressed her hand to her lips to keep from crying out. And while Gareth seemed to take forever to descend the stairs, she was forced to listen to the sound of his men’s crude laughter as they continued to thrust their blades into the already fallen Highlander.
When at last Gareth was out of sight, the battle was over. Five bloodied swordsmen strode from Brice’s chambers and made their way to join their leader in the dungeons. One of them carried Brice’s bloody sword, which he laughingly declared to his comrades would be used by Gareth to plunge into Meredith’s heart.
On trembling legs Meredith crept from the alcove and made her way to Brice’s sitting room. The fur throws that lined the walls and floor were stained crimson. Against a far corner of the room lay a crumpled form.
With tears streaming down her cheeks Meredith stood over Brice’s body. Blood oozed from so many different wounds, she could not count them. And when she knelt and placed a hand to his throat, he did not move. In her overwhelming grief she could not detect a pulsebeat.
At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Meredith looked up. From the rumble of voices, there were several men. Brice’s men? Or Gareth’s?
Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the deep, familiar voice. Gareth. But why was he returning? What more could he do to the man who lay dead upon the floor?
Racing to Brice’s bedchamber, she grabbed a dirk from the mantel. She watched as a shadow fell across the entrance to Brice’s sitting chamber. The sound of footsteps ended.
With the blood pounding in her temples, Meredith crawled beneath the bed. She heard the sound of booted feet scuffling about the other room.
“Campbell is dead.”
“As I knew he would be. Did I not pierce him with my sword?” The sound of Gareth MacKenzie’s voice sent tremors racing along her spine.
“What of the woman?”
“Search every room.”
“We have already done so.”
“There was no sign of her?”
“Nay, my lord. All of the women and children were below.”
There was silence. Gareth swore. “The witch must have escaped into the forest during the battle. We must find her before she makes her way back to her people.”
“Surely you do not think that one lone female can survive the Highland forests?”
“We will see to it that she does not. Come. Let us fetch our dead and wounded and be done with this place.”
“What will we tell the MacAlpin clan? They trusted you to return their leader to them.”
Gareth paused, considering this new obstacle. “We will tell them that she has been spirited away by one of Campbell’s men. I will order them to remain in the safety of their homes until my men and I can rescue her.”
“But then you will not be able to blame her death on Brice Campbell.”
“Even if Campbell’s sword does not pierce her heart, I can still convince her people that it was his fault that their leader died. Was she not attempting to elude his grasp when she fled into the forest?”
One of the men nodded in agreement. “Will we burn the castle, my lord?”
Meredith’s heart stopped. She forgot to breathe.
“Aye.” Gareth’s chilling words rang throug
h the hall. “We have killed their leader. Now we will destroy his stronghold and scatter his clan. But work quickly. Let us waste no time in finding the woman.”
Meredith heard the shuffle of feet and waited until she was certain they had gone. She lay under the bed and fought back the tears that threatened to choke her. She must do something. But what?
She pulled herself from her place of concealment and crawled to the other room where Brice lay. The tears that she had been fighting now spilled over, running in little rivers down her cheeks.
Brice. Her strong, angry, giant of a man was dead. She brought her hands to either side of his face and studied his proud, handsome features.
“How wrong I have been about you. You are not some cruel savage. You are a gentle giant, surprisingly fair with me, generous with your friends.”
The tears began anew, and she struggled to hold them back. “You were even right about Gareth. And I have been so wrong. Gareth is evil incarnate.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks and she made no move to check them. “What a fool I have been. If I had not been prevented by fateful circumstances from marrying Desmond MacKenzie,” she said, pressing her forehead to Brice’s, “I would already be dead, and my land and people would be in the clutches of the cruel Gareth.
“Oh, Brice. I see now that it was because of you that I have been given a chance to discover the awful truth about the MacKenzies.”
The tears came harder now, and she struggled to subdue her emotions.
She felt a tingling at her fingertips and studied Brice’s face, so handsome in repose. She thought she saw a flicker of pain cross his face. Impossible. Brice was dead. And then she felt the tingling again. A pulsebeat? She touched a finger to his lips and thought she felt a slight breath. With a last flicker of hope she pressed her fingers to his throat a second time. Aye. A pulsebeat. Feeble. Thready. But a pulsebeat all the same.
Alive. Brice was alive.
With a little cry she began to cut away the blood-soaked tunic. Tears sprang to her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. There was no time for tears now. There was work to be done. She would stem the flow of blood. She would warm him, with her own body if necessary. And she would keep him alive until he was strong enough to fight his wounds.