CHAPTER 43
He was too late.
Curan’s sides heaved from the hard gallop to reach this valley to stop the ambush. Rory was filled with rage and sorrow as his gaze traveled over the hillside, which was strewn with the headless corpses of slain Munro warriors.
“Rory,” Alex called up to him from the base of the hill, where there was a natural spring that was well known as a holy well. “Ye need to see this.”
Rory dismounted when he reached Alex, and they walked through the tall grass to the spring. His stomach turned at the sight that greeted him. Heads of the dead Munros had rolled down the hill and filled the spring.
“God forgive us.” He knelt with his brother and made the sign of the cross. “Hector and his men have shamed the MacKenzies this day.”
“As long as there are Munros in Scotland,” Alex said, “this holy well will be remembered for this terrible deed.”
This was a disaster in every possible way. The Munros were favored by the crown, and their young chief was expected to replace his father as the crown’s justiciar for the region. In addition to making the Munros bitter enemies, the unprovoked nature of the attack could bring the wrath of the crown down on them.
And yet the massacre would be hailed by Hector’s followers as a cunning attack that would serve as a warning to the clan’s enemies. Hector fabricated threats, whipped up fear, and presented himself as the great war leader who could protect them.
As Rory looked at the grisly sight in the spring, he felt weighed down by the part he had inadvertently played in this atrocity. Hector had done this not to protect the clan, but to serve his goal of taking the chieftainship from Rory. If he had let Hector have what he wanted, these men would be alive.
He and his men stopped for the night at a tavern in the nearby town of Dingwall. He asked the tavern keeper what he’d heard about the attack.
“One of the Munros fled the battle and made it here to our church seeking sanctuary,” the man said. “Big Duncan of the Axe was chasing him, but he made it inside the church.”
That was one survivor. Rory drank down his ale, intent on heading to the church to speak with him.
“When Big Duncan caught him by the arm inside the church door, the Munro warrior shouted, Sanctuary saves me! Sanctuary saves me!” the tavern keeper continued his tale. “But Big Duncan pulled him back out the door. You’re not in the church now, he said, and killed him with one stroke of his axe.”
Rory rubbed his forehead. This just got worse and worse. “Did ye hear if any of the Munros escaped?”
“If they did, they didn’t pass through here.”
Rory prayed the Munro chieftain had survived. He disliked the arrogant young man, but wished him no harm. And as bad as the situation already was, killing their chieftain would lead to all-out war with the Munros.
***
“Where’s my grandfather?” Kenneth looked up at Sybil with Rory’s green eyes, but she had no answer.
“We’ll wait a little longer.” She strained to see the trail into the village through the branches of the trees. Malcolm had insisted they wait in the thick foliage along the river where they would not be seen by a chance traveler.
Perhaps the Grant chieftain was away when the message arrived. She imagined it lying on his table unopened, awaiting his return.
Malcolm pulled her aside. “We’ve waited long enough. They’re not coming.”
“Then we’ll have to take Kenneth to them,” she said. “We’re halfway to Urquhart Castle already.”
“We shouldn’t have come,” Malcolm said. “It’ll be dark soon, and I’ll not take my laird’s wife and son any farther without his approval.”
“But—”
Malcolm held up his hand for quiet and drew his sword.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He tilted his head to the side, listening intently. “Someone is coming. A large party of riders.”
Relief swept over her. The Grants had come at last. She could hear the horses now herself and stepped out onto the trail to greet them.
“Wait until we see who it is!” Malcolm hissed.
His warning came too late. Twenty mounted warriors rounded the hillside and entered the narrow valley some distance ahead. As soon as they saw her, they whipped their horses and charged toward her. In that instant she knew that these men had come expecting to find her here. And they were not the Grants.
Someone had betrayed them.
“Get off the goddamned trail,” Malcolm called to her. “Those are Hector’s men!”
There was no point in running. They had seen her and would chase her down before she could reach her horse. But they had not yet seen her companions. She could still save them.
“Take Kenneth and your wife away!” she called to them while keeping her gaze fixed on the warriors galloping toward them. “Go!”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Malcolm signal to his wife, who was crouched in the brush with her hand over Kenneth’s mouth. She prayed the three of them would escape.
Hector’s men were almost upon her. The man in the lead wore a black helmet obscuring his face and rode his steed straight at her. She stood her ground. If he meant to trample her to death, she would not give him the satisfaction of cowering or shrieking in fright.
Suddenly, Malcolm was in front of her brandishing his sword. The horse’s whinny filled her ears like a scream as it reared up, hooves shooting past her face in a blur. Time seemed to momentarily halt as the hooves of the great beast hovered above her head, then they came crashing down, barely missing her and Malcolm.
“Show your face, ye filthy bastard!” Malcolm shouted. “I know it’s you, Hector!”
The rider took off his black helmet. He would have been a striking man with his rugged features and jet-black hair with streaks of gray, but for his eyes, which held a malevolence that turned Sybil’s blood to ice.
“I might have known you’d be here, old man,” Hector said.
She swallowed as twenty horses surrounded them. Their riders had blood splatters on their arms and faces.
Hector dismounted, drew his sword, and signaled to his men to move back.
“Please, Malcolm,” Sybil whispered, “don’t sacrifice yourself for me.”
“I always hoped for a warrior’s death,” Malcolm said. “I’ll take this traitor with me if I can.”
“It will be a pleasure to run my blade through your heart, old man.” Whoosh whoosh. Hector whipped his sword in the air. “I’ve been waiting to do it for years.”
Malcolm fought well, swinging his claymore with remarkable power and precision. In his prime, he might have been better than Hector. But he was not now. Hector fought with a terrible ferocity, each strike harder than the one before and with such speed that his blade was a blur.
Sybil watched in horror as Hector’s sword left a red streak of blood across Malcolm’s thigh and then another across his right arm. Malcolm fought on valiantly with only his left arm. He managed to draw blood on Hector’s cheek with the tip of his sword, but anyone could see how the fight would end.
“Nay! Nay!” she shrieked when Hector plunged his sword into Malcolm’s belly and the older man fell in a heap.
She managed to sink her teeth hard into the hand of the man holding her and break free. She fell on top of Malcolm, covering his body with hers to protect him. When her captors hauled her away from him, she clawed and kicked and bit at them like a wildcat.
“Let me go!” she cried. “Let me help him!”
“He’s dead,” Hector said, and slapped her so hard her ears rang. “Now keep your mouth shut, or I’ll let my friend here ruin your pretty face—and worse.”
She sucked in her breath as an enormous man with a pockmarked face appeared in front of her. To confirm her fears, she slowly lowered her gaze from his hideous face until she saw the giant axe tucked in his belt. Its blade was covered with blood.
God have mercy on her. She was face to face with Big Duncan of the Axe.