“Takes plenty of practice,” he allowed as they worked together with the finishing touches. He kissed her forehead.
“Possibly, I will be more curious to learn how to remove it,” Maggie returned with her face tipped up to him.
She was rewarded with a seductive grin and a full kiss before they left the room.
An hour later, they stood side by side on the beach, with Glenna and Duncan and several others, waving farewell to the Hawkmore party as they happily took their leave. The dory had been pushed out to sea only minutes ago, but the soldiers manning the oars had already moved them well away from Berriedale’s shores.
“Would it not have been safer for them to go by land?” Maggie wondered, albeit belatedly.
“Seas are calm,” Iain replied. “Rhys and William will get them home in time for the midday meal.”
“I would think—” Glenna began but was interrupted by the sounds of shouts from the castle wall.
No sooner had they turned to glance up the hill than the alarm sounded, a long wail of a horn. And while Maggie and Glenna were frozen, Iain and Duncan and the other soldiers moved instantly.
Iain addressed his mother and Maggie sharply. “Right up to the keep, inside the hall and you stay there until I say otherwise.”
They nodded in unison, and Iain turned and sprinted up the hill, following the others.
Exchanging yet another anxious gleam, Glenna and Maggie followed as well, though not as quickly as the men had.
“That horn is beginning to get on my nerves,” Glenna said as they strode arm-in-arm away from the beach.
Maggie completely agreed, letting a wee wobbly grin come for Glenna’s grousing. But her mind flew to all the possible reasons the alarm might sound on this glorious day and settled immediately and with a fantastic and horrific surety that Kenneth Sutherland had finally come.
“God help us,” she whispered.
IAIN, DUNCAN, ARCHIE, and others gathered at the forefront, high atop the battlements, surveying the scene before them. They were in no immediate danger, but no man staring out at the hundreds of combat-ready Sutherlands lined up well beyond the old chapel thought for one second that they would escape the coming battle wholly unscathed.
“Praise be, ye kept the army near,” Duncan remarked, knowing some relief as he watched several units of the McEwen forces, directly below them and on the castle side of the narrow bridge, complete their move inside the gates. Their tents were abandoned, but all weapons, horses, and other gear was brought inside before the drawbridge was raised and secured.
“How’s he think he’s gonna get four hundred men across a span of a hundred feet, over a bridge wide enough for but two at a time, to mount any kind of offensive?” Archie wanted to know.
“He’s coming at us all pissed up,” Duncan supposed. “Obviously, dinna do any planning aforehand.”
“If he did,” Iain said thoughtfully, “they’d be coming from the beach as well.”
“They’ll be coming from the beach anyway, eventually,” Archie said, pointing across to where the Sutherlands gathered, “once he realizes he canna get here from there.”
Iain nodded. “Right. Put the focus there, then. They might come, but they’ll have a hell of a time charging up that hill and the sand from the beach. There’s no reason we canna take out any and every man coming that route. They can try from the river side, but they’ll never be able to scale those cliffs.”
Duncan agreed and left to address this, intent on setting up the bulk of the archers on the seaside wall for now.
Iain chewed the inside of his cheek and decided, “Arch, send Eideard and Boyd, whoever else you see fit. Tell ‘em to come up from underneath, get under that first bridge and take it out.”
Archie grinned at this. “I like the way you think, lad.” And he spun to leave as well.
“Arch,” Iain called. When his lieutenant turned back to him, he reminded him, “Dinna get dead.”
Archie harrumphed. Walking backwards, he replied cheerily, “I canna. I saw Rabbie starting on that apple and raisin pudding earlier. You ken that’s my favorite.”
Iain rounded the entire wall then, checking preparations and provisions, calling out orders as he circled the battlements. The wall was crowded as Iain himself had never seen it, hundreds of McEwen men readying and waiting and praying. He was two thirds the way around when he heard loud shouts at the southwest side again and hurried in that direction. Men were pointing out to where the Sutherlands had gathered that he assumed they’d begun their charge.
He and Duncan, likewise beckoned by the shouting, met at the spot they’d stood at only moments ago. Iain latched on to the stone merlon and leaned out through the embrasure.
“Leaving so soon?”
That was Arch, returned as well, seeing what Ian and Duncan did, the entire Sutherland army turned about face, facing the ridge they’d climbed. They weren’t still, but restless, the unit moving with some anxiety but going neither forward nor backward. From the distance, it seemed the Sutherland army shifted in the same manner as the starlings did, gyrating and shifting in changing patterns.
“What the bluidy hell?” Iain wondered.
And then as one, the Sutherland army pivoted again, charging toward Berriedale now. Iain was perplexed by this strange onslaught, and then wholly flummoxed when he spied something rising over the hill beyond the Sutherlands.
“It canna be,” Duncan breathed, just as Iain saw it too.
Lifted high into the air upon a long wooden spear and snapping smartly against the wind, a lone banner crested the ridge first. The banner displayed was an unmistakable bright yellow, the center depicting a roaring and fighting red lion.
Archie spat out a laugh and it grew and grew at the sight before him. The Sutherlands still came at them so that Archie drew his sword, but he kept right on laughing as an entire army followed that incomparable banner and chased the Sutherlands toward Berriedale.
Duncan called out to those soldiers who might hear him, “Look lively, lads! Our beloved king is bringing the stampede himself!” And he laughed as well, the very idea so fantastic, that their deliverance should come from so high, from Robert Bruce himself.
“Beyond the gate!” Iain commanded, not about to let his liege lord find any trouble from the Sutherlands on his behalf, even as he supposed that the combined armies of the Bruce and the McEwens probably outnumbered the Sutherlands.
Donning his helm, Iain left the wall as the gate was opened and the drawbridge lowered. In the midst of all the charging McEwens he lifted his sword and bellowed, “To your king! To your king!”
Thankfully, the lads had yet to destroy the small bridge that the planks held as hundreds dashed across it, their war cries constant and deafening. Fortunately as well, the Sutherlands were at a distance yet that the McEwens managed to get across that narrow strip and into the open field beyond, where the first clang of swords sounded out larger and louder than any other noise.
Kenneth Sutherland was distinctive in his bright tartan and ridiculously ornamental helm, judiciously located in the center of his army, yet astride his destrier, neither forward near the McEwens nor at the rear where came Bruce’s ragtag band. Iain took on one man and then the next, keeping one eye constantly on Alpin, and working his way toward him.
One known truth about paid mercenaries—such as Kenneth Sutherland had employed—was that when the battle seemed not to be in their favor, they were quick to seek escape rather than fight unto death. The Sutherland numbers thinned quickly then, attacked on two sides, and so many of its hirelings scuttling away from the melee, that Iain reached Kenneth Sutherland fairly quickly. He took note of Kenneth’s clean blade and the man’s frantic dancing around, all but circling his horse in place while the fighting closed in on him.
Iain was not surprised, had judged him a coward a long time ago. He took advantage of Alpin’s prancing and thwacked his sword across him when his back was turned. It was not a death blow—Iain had no intentio
n of granting him a simple demise—but was enough to unseat him.
Kenneth scrambled on the ground, collecting the sword that had been dropped from his hand in the fall and turned anxiously to gauge his situation.
Iain stood calmly, waiting, a dozen feet away. When Kenneth noticed his watching, Iain doffed his helm, tossing it aside, let there be no question who was about to kill him.
Eideard was running at Kenneth from his backside.
“He’s mine!” Iain bellowed and Eideard left off, bringing his attack to the nearest Sutherland instead.
In the midst of all the fighting, swords thrusting and bodies falling, limbs detached and blood oozing, Iain and Kenneth faced each other.
With more bravado than conviction, Kenneth seethed, “I’ll carry your head on my sword when I collect my wife.”
Iain smirked and used his own bloodied sword to point to Kenneth’s clean blade. “That sword?”
Kenneth lifted it and set up a pose that Iain supposed was meant to intimidate him. Two hands held the sword aloft to his right side, his fingers flexing repeatedly.
Iain allowed the smirk to remain. “She is no more your wife, will cry with joy when she kens you are dead.” He stepped closer, leaving his blade low, his grip upon the hilt firm and sure. “All of Caithness will rejoice, in fact, with the death of Alpin.”
He had to know that he was about to die, but Kenneth Sutherland grinned now. “I canna decide which was more entertaining, the abuses heaped upon your precious Caithness or the fun I had with her.”
Having been a prisoner of the English, having known pain and torture and unending taunting, Iain was not agitated at all. “She’s over it. And your seed dies with you, today, since your son died as well.”
This widened Kenneth’s eyes, and then curled his lip. He charged, swinging wildly, that Iain easily dodged the wayward blow, listing left but reaching his arm out, slicing his blade across Alpin’s thigh as he passed. Facing off again, while blood dripped from Sutherland’s leg, Iain let everything clear his mind. He could not let emotion rule this fight, could not afford even one mistake, wrought by cockiness or any superiority.
They parried and danced, moving in time to one another, always the same distance apart until their swords clashed above their heads, Iain deflecting Kenneth’s blow. Both their free hands gripped the raised forearm of the other. Iain surged forward, pushing Kenneth back as their sword arms swung ‘round, toward the ground with Iain’s blade on top. He lifted his hand, drew back his sword and pounded the hilt into Kenneth’s cheek. Bone crushed with a sickening cracking noise and Kenneth dropped to one knee. He surprised Iain though by letting no time pass before he swung his blade from right to left. Iain arched his midsection backward to avoid the blade and Kenneth rose and followed, their blades clanging once more. Iain swung at Kenneth’s right shoulder, which was easily deflected, but Kenneth did not recover quickly enough as Iain arced his sword in a smooth moulinet, up and over Kenneth’s head and down upon his left shoulder, cutting through the chain mail and leather, dipping into flesh, though not deeply. Not yet.
Iain pushed him away, and Kenneth stumbled, now with several injuries, that he fell onto his backside. Fighting continued all around them, but Iain had some sense that it was heavily in the McEwen favor now that several of his men only maintained a perimeter around this exhibition, warding off any who might think to intrude.
Kenneth rose once more. Iain wouldn’t have assumed he would, thought he might sit and await the death blow. He did not consider it bravery, though, didn’t suppose it was resilience that brought him to his feet, only desperation.
There blades met once more, first above their heads and them between them, free hands on the other’s forearms until Ian’s greater strength allowed him to move Kenneth’s sword out to the right. Kenneth attempted a lame kick to Ian’s groin, which missed that Iain was able to fling him around and away, almost behind him. A counter attack was instant that Iain pivoted and ducked low as Kenneth charged with such poor execution but greater momentum that he impaled himself on Iain’s blade.
Immediately, Iain stood, raising the blade as he pushed it further into Kenneth’s chest. The man took one last feeble swing at Iain, but this was stalled as Iain grabbed the arm of his sword hand. Iain rose up over him as Kenneth sank to his knees. He rolled both wrists, one turning the blade inside Kenneth, the other forcing him to drop his sword. Kenneth fell onto his back, his knees bent awkwardly. Iain leaned over him, embedding his sword completely.
“For Maggie Bryce,” he ground out. “For the monks at Wick. For the souls at Helmsdale, and every other person you’ve terrorized, slain, or otherwise brought grief to.”
He read no emotion in the man’s wide-eyed gaze, saw only death. Disgustedly, he yanked his sword from Kenneth’s chest. Breathing heavily while Kenneth Sutherland died at his feet, he realized then that all the fighting had stopped. Lifting his gaze, he met that of Duncan and Eideard. His captain inclined his head, sending Iain’s attention behind him.
Iain turned and saw Robert Bruce sitting atop his destrier very close to him. The king removed his helm and showed Iain his steady, light brown eyes and his unkempt brown and gray hair.
Iain dropped to one knee and felt all those around him, all the McEwens still standing, do the same. He stayed on the ground for a long moment, his head bowed.
“Rise, my faithful friends,” the king called out.
Iain did and stepped closer to his king.
“How did you ken?” Iain had to ask, wondering what had brought Robert the Bruce to his most timely aid.
Robert Bruce chuckled, which was not a regular thing. “Providence, apparently. While Edward II twiddles about, I thought it a fine time to make sense of some of our peskier Scottish nobles. Gregor Kincaid said you’d been down to Stonehaven, that you and others had talked about amassing several armies up here, further north.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d come see where you were at with that.”
Iain laughed, slowly at first, but it grew quickly. The King of Scotland had just come to his rescue, and shrugged about his blessed involvement, basically admitting he was but out and about and thought he might stop in for a wee spot.
Iain’s laugh was contagious, that so much of his army, and all the great warriors on this field began to laugh as well. Iain struck his sword into the air.
“Long live our one true king!” He saluted in a deep and loud voice, his gaze keeping with the Bruce, who was well pleased by Iain’s appeal.
The cheer that answered was thunderous.
IAIN BADE DUNCAN ASSUME command outside the keep that he might bring the king within. He then directed Robert Bruce inside the hall.
“Sire, will you allow me a few minutes to recover...the valuables?” His grin was crooked.
The king favored Iain with a wee smirk. “Go on then, bring the fine silver to me. I haven’t seen Artair since I was but a lad, nor your dear mother since last we met at Hawkmore.”
Bowing briefly, Iain left the king and his few officers in the hall and jogged quickly down to the tunnels, twisting and turning through the corridors and using a nearly unseen door that appeared only to be part of the dark stone wall.
His mother rushed him first, as soon as he came into sight of the seven persons underground. He kissed her cheek and announced to all, “It is done. The Blackhouse Sutherlands are dead or flown.” His gaze went further into the tunnels, where Maggie slumped with relief against the cold and possibly damp wall.
A collective and joyous cry sounded. Keeping his gaze on Maggie, he whispered to his mother who waited upstairs. She jerked her cheek away from him and gave him an incredulous look. Iain nodded. “We will join you anon.”
Glenna swept passed him now with some agitation, a royal guest come to Berriedale and she locked in the tunnels. Others filed passed, Rabbie and the kitchen lads and lasses and then Artair, who touched his gnarled fingers to Iain’s forearm and showed him a watery gaze, filled with pride. Iain grabbed Artair by th
e neck and touched their foreheads together.
And then only he and Maggie remained in the tunnels. She leaned still against the wall, hadn’t moved a muscle since his coming. Iain slowly stepped forward.
“Is it truly done?”
Iain nodded.
“Is he...gone or imprisoned?”
“Gone.”
“By your hand?”
Another nod.
She wept a bit, lowering her chin to her chest. “I shouldn’t feel joy at the death of another.”
“Nae, lass,” he was quick to counter, closing what little space hung between them, drawing her away from the wall, wrapping his arms around her. “Nae, that’s no’ joy you feel, Maggie. You’re no’ made like that. That’s relief. Liberation. You are free.”
He needn’t tell her that his own heart knew joy. He was indeed made like that, happy to rid the world of its most grievous sinners. He rubbed his hands up and down her back and rested his chin on the top of her head, allowing her to compose herself and come to grips with it.
“I had no intention of getting into any boat,” she confessed.
“I should have never told you about Mari Sinclair.”
“Florie and Edie did first,” she informed him, her arms around his waist. She heaved a great big sigh. “I want to be where you are, even if it’s not a good place.”
He grinned against her hair and squeezed her tenderly. “Here’s a good place.”
“My favorite place.”
“We canna stay, though, love. An army arrived to assist, and I want you to meet their chief.”
She nodded against him and pushed herself back. Iain took her bonny face in his hands and kissed her lips. “Always get on the boat though, when I say.” He took her hand and led her up and out of the tunnels.
When they returned to the hall, Robert Bruce was towering over Glenna and Artair, listening intently to whatever their conversation was. Iain joined them, drawing Maggie forward, holding one hand, his other at the small of her back.
The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Page 29