by B. J. Scott
“There were two men reporting back to me, but last night only one returned. The other was captured outside the village by Bruce sympathizers. I sent a party to check out the encampment at first light, but they found it empty. The fire pit was cold, and their tracks led off in all directions.” Dungal downed his ale then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
“The ploy to throw the enemy off and to keep them from following has been used for centuries,” Aymer pointed out. “My guess is they moved deeper into Bruce territory, hoping to pick up supporters along the way.”
“Aye,” Dungal agreed. “They eluded us again, but not for long. When we do find them, the battle will be over before it begins. Between your warriors and mine we number over three thousand. At best, the Bruce’s force is a mere five hundred strong, most of them untrained crofters.”
“Never underestimate the enemy, my friend. Look what happened at Methven. Robert let his guard down and we easily defeated him. He and what was left of his army of rabble were on the run for almost a year.” Aymer laughed, then finished his ale. “Good thing I took the precaution of sending a spy of my own. He told me the Bruce is heading to Loudon Hill. A logical choice given it is in the heart of Carrick and a strategic place from which to launch an attack or to make a stand. The Romans used it for the same reason and even built a fort there. The remnants still remain.”
“You dinna appear concerned given they’ve escaped and are headed into Bruce territory.” Dungal stroked his chin.
“It is too late to intercept them, but the flat plain around the base of the hill is an excellent place for a confrontation. We canna possibly lose,” Aymer replied. “I’ll send a messenger issuing a challenge.”
“Do you think they will stay and fight, or turn tail and run? I always thought the Bruce was a coward. He proved it when he ran after Methven and in the way he tricked Red Comyn into meeting him at Grey Friar’s Abbey, then murdered him.”
“Robert will accept. To refuse would make him appear weak, diminishing his chances of ever establishing his reign in Scotland. If he hopes to unite the clans, he has no choice but to face me. Let’s go.” Aymer stood and motioned for his men to join him.
“Meet me at Loudon Hill two days hence, Dungal. I devised a plan and with any luck this will be the last time we fight the Bruce. Once defeated, he’ll hang along with what is left of his men. I suggest you brief your forces and leave as soon as possible.” Aymer turned and left the inn.
“You heard the man. Drink up and we’ll be off. Slainte!” Dungal raised his tankard then downed the contents. “The sooner we arrive, the more time we’ll have to prepare for our victory.” Dungal leaned closer to his brother. “We’ll gather supplies from the village stores before we depart. See that the men are armed and ready to ride.”
Fallon watched them leave then backed away from the door. Concerned for Bryce’s safety, she began to pace the length of the kitchen. “I must find a way to warn the Bruce.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Fergus entered the room. “Bryce entrusted me with your safety and you will stay here until he returns.”
Maeve dashed across the plank floor and threw herself into her husband’s arms. She kissed him repeatedly on the cheek, then drew back, and punched him in the chest. “You old fool! What demon possessed you to behave like a reckless buffoon? You could have been killed.”
“I’ll not be dictated to in my own inn. Not by the likes of Dungal MacDougall. They are not welcome and I told them so. They’re gone now and guid riddance to the lot of them.” He grasped his wife by the shoulders, kissed her brow, then gently moved her aside. He pointed his finger at Fallon. “And you are not going anywhere, lass. Do you understand?”
“Please. They are in great danger and I must warn them.” Fallon resumed her pacing. She had to reach Bryce.
“I’ll send a messenger. He’ll arrive well before de Valance and the MacDougalls, but dinna fash. King Robert was caught in a surprise attack once and he’ll not let that happen again. I’d not be surprised if he wanted the blackguards to follow him.”
The door to the inn opened and Fergus brought his finger to his lips. He quickly poked his head around the corner and blew out a deep sigh. “Take a seat, lads. I’ll be right with you. The first round is on the house. My way of apologizing for the rude way you were tossed out earlier.”
“Nothing like a free drink to make a man forget his anger,” one of the men called in response to Fergus’ offer.
Fergus entered the inn and Maeve approached Fallon. “I know you are concerned about your man, but my husband is right. King Robert willna be fooled again. Now that Dungal is gone and you’re safe, why don’t you go to your chamber and try to get some rest?”
“Nay. I am too nervous to sleep.” Fallon picked up an empty tray. Maeve was right. The danger had passed now that Dungal was on his way to Loudon Hill, but she’d not rest until the messenger reached Bryce with his warning.
“I’ll help clean up the mess left by our unwelcome visitors.” She was at the door before Maeve could protest and despite Fergus’ icy stare of disapproval, she crossed the room. As she placed the last dirty tankard on the tray, she noticed a dirk on the table. She recognized the ornately jeweled hilt immediately. It was the same blade Dungal had held to her throat before her uncle’s execution. She slid the weapon onto the tray and was about to head to the kitchen when someone flung the door open.
A dark silhouette blocked the light from outside. “I forgot something.”
Fallon shuddered at the familiar cadence of Dungal’s voice and dropped the tray, spilling the contents of a tankard onto one of the patron’s lap.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing.” The man sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the arm. “You need to get a serving wench who can handle the duties, Fergus.”
Fallon didn’t respond, her eyes remaining fixed on the figure standing in the doorway. “Dungal,” she muttered under her breath.
She watched her enemy storm across the floor, the wooden planks creaking with each of his strides. He clutched her other arm and yanked her free of the patron’s grip. “Sit and finish your drink or you’ll answer to me.” He waited for the man to comply before focusing on Fallon. “I never thought I’d run across you again. Good thing I returned for my dirk.” Without releasing her, he plucked the weapon off of the floor and slid it into the sheath at his hip.
“I suspect you are the one informed the Bruce we were coming. You lied the first time I questioned you and so did your uncle. I should have cut your throat when I had the chance.”
“I dinna know what you are talking about.” Fallon tried to wrench free of his grasp. She stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact. “I dinna know the Bruce or where to find him. How could I warn him of anything?”
“Still the coy minx.” Dungal tightened his hold, his menacing grin darkening to an evil scowl. “You betrayed me once, and no doubt you intend to do so again. I must say, the fact you arrived before us surprises me. Who helped you?”
“What’s taking so long?” Dungal’s brother and one of his cousins returned. “I was beginning to worry, but see why you dally.” His brother joined him. “This is the same lass we met in Galloway, the one who helped Fraser to escape.”
“Unhand the lass. She happened along a few days ago, looking for work and lodging. We needed a serving wench, so we took her in. She did nothing to warrant this assault.” Fergus spoke up, his voice never wavering.
“She should have been hanged along with her uncle, an oversight I intend to rectify. As for you, the English should have finished you off at Sterling. I grow tired of your interference. Arrest him.” Dungal waited until his brother and cousin flanked Fergus and grasped his arms.
“On what charge and by whose authority do you arrest him?” Fallon challenged. “He committed no crime.”
“His kind never needs a reason.” Fergus struggled unsuccessfully against his captors.
“Housing or aiding a fugitiv
e is a punishable offense, as you are well aware. We also have every reason to suspect Fergus has been conspiring with and offering aid to Robert the Bruce,” Dungal replied.
“You murdered my uncle using the same excuse, one that holds no credence on Scottish soil. I’ll not see an innocent man put to death on my account.”
“Please dinna take him.” Maeve crossed the room with a wild cry, then clung to Dungal’s arm, but her plea went unanswered. He shook her free with a force that sent her crashing to the floor.
Fergus’ back stiffened and his expression turned lethal. As if given the strength of ten men, he broke free of his captors and lunged at Dungal. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands if you ever touch my wife again.” He raised his fist, then grunted as Dungal’s brother struck him hard on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword.
Fallon watched in horror as Fergus tumbled to the floor in a heap. Blood matted his gray hair and trickled down his cheek.
“What do you want me to do with him?” Dungal’s brother nudged Fergus with the toe of his boot. Getting no response, he wiped the blood from the grip then sheathed his weapon.
Fallon’s heart clenched. This was her fault. Fergus had only been trying to protect her and now he would surely swing from the gallows. No matter how much Maeve begged, Dungal would show no quarter. He’d feel compelled to set an example.
Dungal bent down, fisted his hand in Fergus’ hair, and raised his head. “I warned you,” he snorted and released his grip, allowing Fergus’ forehead to strike the floor with a loud crack. “Drag him out of here and put him in irons. He’ll give you no trouble. Pick two men to accompany you and take him back to the camp. The rest of us will meet you there.”
“Nay! Please dinna take him.” Maeve made another attempt to intervene, but Fallon grasped her arm and held her in place.
“You canna stop them, Maeve. Fergus would be furious if he knew you tried. I know how much you love him and want to help, but there is nothing you can do.” Her voice trailed to a whisper and tightness squeezed her chest as Maeve sank to her knees sobbing. She wanted to offer the older woman comfort, but Dungal’s hand wrapped around her upper arm and he yanked her away.
“Now, my little chit, tell me about your visit to the Bruce’s camp. Did you go for a roll in the grass with Fraser while there?” He lifted a stray strand of hair from her shoulder and twisted it around his finger.
“Dinna speak to me in such a lewd manner. I dinna go to the Bruce’s camp and I roll in the grass with no man.”
“A good tumble is exactly what you need. If I raise your skirt, mayhap you’ll be more cooperative.” Dungal dragged her into his embrace. “Either Fraser is a eunuch, or you are lying.” He buried his face in her hair and nipped at her neck.
“I told you before, I’d rather die than permit you touch me.” Fallon struggled to break free. She pounded on his chest with clenched fists and tried to knee him in the groin when he refused to release her.
Dungal trapped her wrists and held her at arm’s length. “Your death can be arranged, but I have plans for you first.”
Maeve slowly climbed to her feet, her face flushed and streaked with tears. “What do you intend to do with her? She is innocent, as is my husband.”
“You’re wrong, Madame. I can give you a list of her offenses. She will be interrogated at length then accompany me to Loudon Hill as my prisoner.”
“What do you hope to gain from this? For her to go with you without an escort is not proper, and arresting her will serve no purpose,” Maeve pressed.
“As long as she is in my company, Fraser will think twice about attacking my camp. When the time is right, I will offer to trade her life for his.”
“You have no intention of honoring such an agreement, do you?” Fallon fought to hide the tremor of fear in her voice. “Bryce won’t fall for your trickery.”
“I have no intention of letting either of you go.” His sinister laugh filled the inn. “Once Fraser gives himself up, I will present you both for execution.”
Chapter 13
Fear and uncertainty gnawed at Fallon’s belly as she was unceremoniously taken from the inn. There was no point in fighting or trying to escape—not yet. Dungal’s size and brute force were enough to deter an attempt. Being surrounded by the enemy dashed any hope.
Dungal lifted Fallon onto his warhorse, swung his leg over the animal’s back, and mounted behind her. He dug in his heels and the powerful destrier sped away, leaving a cloud of dust and a spray of dirt and gravel in their wake.
Heavily muscled arms encircled her waist as he gripped the reins and guided the beast through the winding streets of Turnberry. Certain she’d tumble over the animal’s neck at any moment, Fallon furled her fingers in the coarse, black mane, and prayed she’d remain seated.
Within minutes they arrived at the MacDougall camp on the outskirts of the village. Greeted by the shouts from his men, Dungal slid from the saddle, pulling Fallon with him. She spotted Fergus tied to a tree a few feet away. He sat slumped over, eyes closed, with his chin resting on his chest. His age-weathered features were ashen. Without regard for her own safety, Fallon bolted to his side and fell to her knees.
She gently stroked his brow. His skin felt clammy beneath her trembling fingertips. “Fergus. Speak to me. Please.” She tapped his cheek with the flat of her hand, but he didn’t respond. Her eyes shot in Dungal’s direction. “He is badly injured. I must tend to him.”
Dungal stomped toward her, clasped her wrist, and hauled her to her feet. “You’ll grant him no boons by prolonging his life. Better he die now than to wake up and find the noose around his neck.”
“He’s a Scot and so are you. Have you no honor or pride in your heritage? Where is your compassion?” A swift backhand sent her tumbling to the ground. She tasted blood and her head spun, but she refused to cry out or cower before this brigand.
“Talk back to me or dart off like that again and you will sample a lot worse.” Dungal reached for her arm, but she swatted his hand away.
“I dinna need your help.” Fallon rose on wobbly legs, stumbled, but managed to remain upright. With her shoulders squared, she crossed the camp with Dungal shadowing her every move.
They stopped at a large canvas tent and Dungal threw back the flap. “Get in.” He waited for Fallon to do his bidding, took a moment to speak to one of his men, then followed her inside.
“Is this where you stay?” Fallon glanced at the dimly lit surroundings for possible means of escape. Unfortunately, the only way out appeared to be through the front opening, and Dungal had that heavily guarded.
“Aye. This is where I sleep when we make camp for an extended period of time, but dinna get accustomed to these comfortable conditions. We usually bed down on a pallet of leaves under the open sky.”
A glimmer of hope shot through her mind. Mayhap she’d be able to escape during the journey. Dungal couldn’t possibly watch her every minute and when he was distracted, she would make her move.
Dungal strolled closer, but stopped suddenly and spun around as the tent flap opened and his brother entered.
“I dinna believe the rumors being bandied amongst the men. Now I know them to be true. Are you daft?” His brother glared at Fallon.
“Stop babbling, Keith. Speak your mind then get back to work. I want this camp dismantled, and expect to be on our way within the hour,” Dungal snapped.
“You canna bring a lass along. She’ll be nothing but trouble. I’ve also heard she brings bad luck.” Keith spat on the floor.
“What do you propose I do with her?”
“Hang her for treason along with the old man and be done with the matter. Aymer will be waiting for us at Loudon Hill and we dinna need the added burden,” Keith concluded.
“She is coming with us. I’ll not have my authority challenged. Should any man step out of line in her regard, I’ll personally sever his head from his shoulders.” Dungal opened a wooden chest, pulled out a clay jug, then removed the st
opper and brought the vessel to his mouth. After imbibing, he offered the flagon to his brother.
Keith waved him off with a sweep of his arm. “What about Fergus? He is in a bad way.”
“No thanks to you.” Fallon’s words spilled out.
“He got what he deserved, as should you, but Dungal’s head is up his arse, and he thinks with something other than his brain.” Keith grabbed the crotch of his trews and made a lewd gesture.
“Enough.” Dungal capped the jug, tossed it into the chest, and slammed the lid closed. The glower on his face spoke volumes. “If you weren’t my brother, I’d kill you where you stand. Dispose of Fergus however you see fit. Hang him or run him through. The method of execution is unimportant.”
“Fergus is not some mad dog to be put out of its misery. I demand you set him free,” Fallon blurted. “He’s a good man and was only trying to help me. If someone must die, take my life instead.”
“Silence! Dinna give me orders. The decision is made and Fergus will be executed.” Dungal glared at his brother. “I expect this to be carried out quickly. Finish him off then prepare to move out.” He faced Fallon and pointed to the pallet on the floor. “Sit and dinna give me any reason to tie you up. I have issues to attend to. The door is heavily guarded and if you try to escape, I’ll not go easy on you.”
His harsh words and the way he glared at her caused the hairs on her neck to bristle. Had he read her thoughts on running away? Rather than challenge him, she bit back the urge and lowered herself to the pallet. The moment Dungal left the tent, she dropped her head, cradling it in her hands. The image of Fergus’ death brought tears to her eyes and a sob to her throat, but she managed to choke them away.
Her fate was yet to be determined, and minutes dragged until the guard poked his head inside the tent. “Dungal gave me orders to fetch you.” He held back the canvas, allowing her to pass. “He doesna like to be kept waiting.”