by Amy Jarecki
Eoin motioned for his men to fan out. “It looks as if the MacDonalds have the upper hand. We’ll not let them keep it.”
Bellowing their battle cry, the MacGregor warriors pounced like phantoms from the hills. If there was one good thing about Aleck’s dull-witted decision to ride ahead, it gave Eoin and Clan Gregor the element of surprise.
When the MacDonald men realized they’d been surrounded by yet another army, Eoin caught the panic in their eyes. Their movement became more urgent, exerting desperate strikes while they fought to gain any advantage.
Aleck remained mounted in the center of the fight, roaring like a wounded bull. Clearly tiring, he wielded his weapon with sluggish hacks. The two men attacking him on either side grew more daring. If Eoin didn’t reach him quickly, the MacIain Chieftain would be dead. But why am I saving his arse? Eoin battled his way toward Aleck. Because that’s what King James expects of me.
Mayhap if Eoin saved his arse, Aleck would be more humble—develop some respect for Clan Gregor. Eoin reached the chieftain just as a MacDonald drew back for a killing thrust of his sword. Eoin caught the assailant’s arm and used its momentum to throw the varmint to the ground.
“I do not need your help, MacGregor!” Aleck bellowed.
“Aye? Then stop chopping wood and bury that sword in someone’s gut.” Eoin spun and faced the man he’d sent to the dirt. With a bellow, the warrior charged—straight onto the point of Eoin’s razor-sharp sword. With a grimace, Eoin kicked him back and yanked his blade from the dying man’s flesh.
Aleck’s horse reared. Shrieking, the chieftain flew from the saddle, then crashed to the ground in a heap. A MacDonald man sprang over the MacIain with a high-pitched wail. Lunging, Eoin swung his sword up in time to deflect the man’s deadly blow.
The guard regarded Eoin with a grating chuckle.
The two circled, their eyes assessing one another. The MacDonald man sucked in heavy gasps, while he bled from the nose. “Ye come to be killed?”
“Nay. But you did.” Eoin sprang forward. Years of perfecting his trade had turned him into a lethal killing machine, and he quickly dispatched the man, and the next, and the next. When blood changed the dirt from brown to red, the MacDonalds turned tail and ran for home.
Eoin knelt beside Aleck and removed the big man’s helm. He was out cold, but still breathing. Eoin had seen far too much of the bastard whilst out cold—though he preferred comatose to the usual braggart. Beneath the lower vambrace plate, MacIain’s arm rested at an awkward angle. Aye, he’d broken the limb during his fall no doubt.
Eoin inclined his head toward his henchman. “Fergus, bring me a couple sturdy sticks. I must fashion a splint.” He then tore a bit of cloth from his shirt. The same one Lady Helen had recently stitched for him. He hated to do it, but Aleck’s arm needed to be set straight away. Eoin unbuckled the armor guard from Aleck’s forearm.
Fergus came over with the sticks. “Jesus, that’s a nasty break.”
“Aye. Good thing the varlet’s unconscious, otherwise setting it would hurt like hell.” Eoin motioned for Fergus to move beside him. “I’ll do what I can to straighten the arm out, then you slide the splints in place.”
Fergus nodded.
Eoin glanced at a pair of onlookers. “You men, hold him down just in case he wakes.”
Eoin grasped either side of the break and tugged. Then using all his strength he used the heel of his hand to force the bone back in place.
Aleck bucked and bellowed. “Bleeding, bloody, pox-ridden ballocks!”
“Quickly. The splints!” Eoin yelled.
Fergus clapped the sticks in place and held them firm while Eoin tightly wrapped the bandage.
Aleck bellowed like a bull in the castrating pen. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Nay,” Eoin said, tying the bandage. “Just saving your arm, you ungrateful boar.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
Eoin smirked. “Mayhap next time I should let them kill you.”
Aleck hissed through gritted teeth. “I was wearing them down, you smug bastard—I always win in the end.”
Eoin clenched his fist around the bandage, close to smashing his knuckles into the bastard’s face just to shut him up again. “Och, you would have been run through after you fell from your horse and were out cold.”
“Aye,” Grant said with a hint of admiration in his voice. “I’ve never seen a man move so fast. Sir Eoin arrived in the nick of time. Any later and you would have been skewered for certain, m’laird.”
Aleck turned a shade of green as if he’d swallowed a vile tonic.
Biting his bottom lip, Eoin choked back a laugh while he finished securing the splint. Once he’d tied off the bandage, he stood and looked to Grant. “Any dead?”
“Three of ours. Six of theirs.”
“Only six?” Eoin asked, a little surprised. He’d killed four of them. “And the injured?”
“Scrapes and cuts—the usual,” said Samuel.
“Any injured men ride the horses. I ken you’re all tired, but we cannot leave the keep guarded by a handful of aging soldiers.”
He prayed there would be no more surprises. Though he was a trained killer, every time he took a life, a piece of his heart tore away. After many a battle, Eoin had taken to the seclusion of the Highland mountains just to be alone with his demons. He saw every face in his dreams. Men all looked the same when they faced certain death—stunned and terrified until their eyes turned vacant.
Chapter Fifteen
Helen cradled Maggie in her arms and sat in the rocker while humming a madrigal. The bairn cooed and gurgled as if she wanted to sing with Helen too. Reaching up, Maggie grasped at Helen’s linen wimple, her eyes wide as if the bairn liked the feel of the cloth.
“’Tis soft, is it not?” Helen took the bairn’s hand and guided her fingers over her woolen kirtle. Maggie’s eyes rounded with surprise and she laughed. “You like the different textures?”
The babe reached up and tugged Helen’s veil until it nearly came off. “And you’re a strong lassie if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Aye she is,” Sarah said from her perch in front of the hearth. “And almost as bonny as her mother.”
“How sweet of you to say.” Helen smoothed her hand over Maggie’s curly black locks and gazed at her daughter with warmth filling her heart. “I daresay this little one will be far more beautiful. Who could possibly resist those enormous blue eyes?” As soon as the words came out, Helen could think of only one person who wouldn’t be entranced by Maggie’s eyes, and that was the bairn’s father. If only that man would take the time to simply look at her. He would fall in love just like everyone else.
The back of Helen’s neck prickled. It shamed her to think about the incident with Eoin in the shed. I never should have allowed him to kiss me. Even after a day, her lips still tingled…her senses still filled with his woodsy scent.
Helen instinctively cradled Maggie tighter to her breast. Aleck had struck her three times now. There was no longer any doubt his animosity toward her was growing worse. She touched the bruise on her jaw, still tender from his slap. What if he took out his anger on their daughter? He’d already said he’d use Maggie to foster an alliance—garner more lands for himself. Of course that was the way of things…but could Helen trust Aleck to act in their child’s best interest rather than his own?
Deep down, she knew the answer to her questions. And that realization tied her stomach in knots.
The ram’s horn sounded. Helen held her breath as her gaze shot to Sarah.
It sounded twice more.
“Dear Lord, no.” She sprung from the rocker and carried Maggie to the window. A lead ball sank to the pit of her stomach. Two galleys rounded the point of Ardnamurchan.
Sarah stepped in behind her. “Are those MacDonald ships?”
“I’ve no reason to think they’re not.” Helen turned. “Take Maggie and bolt the door behind me. Do not open it for a soul until I return.”
“They’re aiming to attack?”
Helen grasped her skirts and headed toward the door. “They burnt out the Gilles’s croft in Sunart. Why should they be sailing to Mingary on a goodwill sortie?”
Sarah drew in a sharp gasp. “Lord Jesus, help us.”
Before opening the door, Helen faced the nursemaid. “I am leaving my daughter in your care. She is the one person in this world I love most. Protect her with your life.” Blinking to recover her wits, Helen raced for the top of the battlements.
With only a skeleton crew of aged fighting men, this would be a harrowing day indeed. Regardless of the odds, she would defend Mingary and fight until she drew her last breath. May God have mercy on our souls.
***
Atop the wall-walk facing the sea, Helen stared at the black cannon Aleck had brought in from Portugal. It was an ugly thing that looked like death. She glanced at Mr. Keith, the old guard who’d been left in charge of safeguarding the castle. “Do you know how this contraption works?”
“I’ve had a bit of training with it. ’Tis not too hard. You ladle in the black powder, tamp it down, then drop in the ball and set your sights, light the slow match and pray.”
Helen definitely would hold up her end with praying. “Do you have enough of those lead balls to sink both the MacDonald galleys?”
He gazed out to sea and shuddered. “God, I hope so.”
The galleys had sailed close enough that she could see the colors of their pennants. MacDonald for certain.
Mr. Keith pointed toward the stairwell. “You’d best go inside, m’lady.”
Helen crossed her arms. “I will do no such thing. In the absence of Sir Aleck, I shall direct this battle, and pray it does not turn into a siege.” Where in Heaven’s name are the men? Aleck left me here alone with a handful of old guards and had the gall to call me daft? I shall never forgive him for this.
Archers approached carrying barrels of arrows. Helen dashed toward them. “Have you lit the brazier?”
“You want us to fire flaming arrows?” Torquil asked as if she’d sailed down from the moon.
“Aye.” She held up a finger. “Let them make the first move. If they’re hostile, we shall show no mercy, and flaming arrows will set their boats afire. My father always said the most dangerous thing for a galley ship is a fire.” Thank heavens she’d listened to Da’s tales of fighting in The Crusades.
Every muscle in her body clenched while she marched back and forth atop the wall-walk, watching the MacDonalds sail nearer. Never in her life had a sailing ship appeared to take such a long time with its approach. Jitters twitched along her skin.
The men set two braziers burning with peat—one on either side of the sea-facing wall.
Mr. Keith grasped Helen’s arm. “I mean it. You must go inside, m’lady. They’ll be firing arrows soon and you haven’t even a hauberk or a helmet.”
Nor did she have a cloak—and an icy gale blew relentlessly from the sea. “I’ll not leave.”
“Then at least seek shelter behind a merlon.”
The MacDonald galleys were now near enough she could see the warriors lined on one side with bows and arrows ready to fire. She ducked behind the safety of the stone and raised her arm. “They’re preparing to fire. Light your arrows!”
The men stared as if they’d never been in a battle before—or perhaps they’d never been commanded by a woman before.
Sucking in a stuttering breath, she peeked beyond the stone and out to sea. Arrows soared toward them. “Now!” she screamed, covering her eyes.
“In coming!” someone yelled from down the wall-walk.
The men all ducked behind the safety of the four-foot stone walls as arrows hissed overhead and smacked against the stone battlements. Helen dared look. No one had fallen. “Fire!” she shrieked.
She peered around the stone merlon and watched the MacIain arrows fly. Some hit the nearest ship, but they’d need more. Clenching her fists, she mustered her strength. “The only way to keep them at bay is to beat them. We have the power to hold them off, but every single man on this wall must shoot straight and hit your mark!”
The men reloaded their bows with trembling hands.
Helen bolstered her resolve. Cowering behind the stone wall was no place for a woman who must instill confidence in her soldiers. Keeping her head down, she hastened around to the back side of the cannon. “Set your sights Mr. Keith, and sink those two galleys.” She marched down the row of elderly men, now firing their arrows at will. “They think they can attack Mingary? I assure you, it will take a great deal more than two galleys filled with fighting men to conquer us. We have five-foot thick walls and a grand gun from Portugal on our side.”
The cannon boomed. Helen jumped so high, she nearly fell off the wall-walk. She coughed at the acrid smoke burning her throat. And while the haze cleared, her ears took on a high-pitched hum. She peered through a crenel notch and strained until she could again see the galleys. Curses, the cannonball missed its mark, but flames leapt above the hull on one of the galleys.
Helen’s heart skipped a beat.
They’d made their first gain.
She raced toward Mr. Keith. “Can you make an adjustment and actually hit one of those galleys?” The words rattled from her tongue in an anxious high pitch.
“That’s what I’m trying to accomplish.” Sweat dripped from his brow as he turned the crank. “I cannot believe I actually got the blasted thing to fire.”
She gave a sharp nod. “You’re doing well. But we must stop them from reaching the sea gate.”
Baring his teeth, he strained with one more crank. “Stand back, m’lady.”
She stared at the long black gun as if it were about to explode and take down the wall. The thing nearly killed her when she strolled on the beach. Would it now be her salvation? ’Tis time to make the gun worth its while.
At the chilling sound of a man’s anguished shriek, Helen whipped around. “Oh, no.” She sprinted to the far end of the wall-walk. Torquil lay writhing on the stony floor, gasping and grunting from an arrow shot to the shoulder.
Helen dropped to her knees beside him. “Hold on and we’ll set you to rights.” She glanced over her shoulder. Every able-bodied man was needed to defend the keep from the pillagers below. And she knew better than to try to pull the arrow out now—but there must be a way to help him endure the pain. “Have you any whisky?”
“I-I-I’ve a flask in me sporran,” he managed through panting breaths.
Finding it, she held the spirit to his lips. “Drink it all.”
He guzzled greedily.
“They’re coming ashore, m’lady,” Mr. Keith hollered.
She stoppered the flask and set it beside him. “Hold on, sir. We’ll see to your comfort as soon as we are able.”
Torquil’s weathered face ashen, he nodded.
Helen picked up the man’s bow and ignited an arrow tip. The MacDonald men were jumping over the side of their galleys and splashing through the water toward the sea gate. A row of men carried a pole as thick as a tree trunk—a battering ram for certain. Heaven help us, they aim to smash through the gate.
She trained an arrow straight down on a man. She’d hunted deer and rabbits, though had never killed a human being—but these men were attacking her home. Holding her breath, she released. Her arrow fell short. She must raise her sights to account for the distance.
She pulled a second arrow from the barrel and lit the tip.
The cannon boomed.
This time Helen didn’t flinch. With the ringing in her ears intensifying, she focused on another MacDonald raider and let her arrow fly. Smoke and the stench of burning sulfur stung her eyes as she lined up her sights. She hit her mark and the man fell to the ground, writhing and clutching at the arrow.
Her insides squelched like she was about to vomit.
Ahead, the whistling cannonball smashed the stern of a MacDonald galley—though it wasn’t enough to sink the boat, Mr. Keith had
done some damage.
But there was no time to celebrate. The battering ram boomed as it slammed against the sea gate. The bailey walls shook. Stones crumbled. It was a matter of time before the MacDonalds breached the walls.
Nonetheless, Helen and her crew of grey-haired warriors fought while the cannon blasted and the battering ram blow thudded, cracking timbers with each strike.
Helen fired arrows until her fingertips grew raw from the bowstring. Beyond the sea gate, the MacDonald men were chanting a cadence of heave-ho with every thundering impact from the battering ram.
Unable to find a clear shot, Helen closed her eyes and prayed. Dear God in heaven, please save us. Her eyes flew open when a bellowing roar erupted from the courtyard.
Eoin and the men poured in from the forward gate, weapons drawn.
With a horrible crash, the sea gate gave way. Spurring to action, Helen pulled back her bow. She shifted from side to side, looking for a shot. Before her eyes, mayhem erupted while MacDonalds collided with MacGregors and MacIains. If she fired now, she could kill one of her own. Holding her bow at the ready, blades flickered in the sunlight in a brutal battle.
Helen had always thought watching men spar was like a dance, but this was nowhere near the same. Ugly, brutal, vicious, the men attacked. Iron clashed with screeching scrapes of metal on metal. Blood curdling screams made chills slither over Helen’s skin.
Helpless to fight from the battlements, she and the archers watched in horror as blood spurted and the cries of men echoed between the inner bailey walls. Helen had never been witness to a battle in her own home. If the men failed, there would be little hope for survival. They might even try to ravish her…or…
She shuddered in concert with another blast from the cannon.
I will die before one of them places his filthy hands on my daughter.