LIGHT AND SHADOW
The night was dark. Broderick and his men had been hiding in the woods ever since the afternoon. Now that night fell, they could finally move.
“Thank heaven for that, sir.” Blaine sighed where he sat beside Broderick under the shelter of a tall pine tree. “My back's aching sorely.”
Broderick sniffed. “So's mine. Hush, though. We dinnae want the lookouts hearing us.”
Blaine nodded. Together they walked slowly forward through the darkening woods.
They were in a forest approximately sixty feet from Loch Craigh. The fortress was built on the edge of a tall cliff, overlooking a valley in which the Loch was located. Up here, on this side, was the only access to the place. Which meant, of course, that they would be carefully watched.
Broderick and Blaine led the eighty men through the dark woods. They could not risk lighting a torch lest the sentries on the wall see them. As it was, the forest was less dense here on the edges, and they could be guided by the moonlight. The moon was not full, but the lake down below drank the light and magnified it, making a silver mirror in the valley floor.
“There we are,” Blaine whispered. “Loch Craigh.”
Broderick was beside him at the edge of the tall woodland. He sighed. There in the moonlight, the smooth high walls of the enemy fortification were of swanlike beauty, cool and white and lofty. Unassailable. Except from this side.
The two stared at the fortress for a moment. Then Broderick beckoned the men on.
Fergall was with them, though he had taken the route across the moorland. The siege-engine could not be concealed in forests, and so they had to hope that it had passed over land without interception or holdup and would be there to meet them when they reached the walls.
“Come on,” Broderick whispered.
Together, he and Blaine walked forward to the cool, high walls. The stone was silver in the moonlight and when they stepped out of the tree line, even Broderick breathed in sharply. At the foot of the cliff, the lake was pewter, rippling, the surface living and silvery under light.
He sighed. The beauty stabbed his heart. He had thought it shuttered against everything but the need for vengeance, but still some things could wound. Like Amabel.
Pushing thoughts of his wife aside, Broderick walked out into the open fields.
This was the dangerous part. He had to hope that he could succeed in leading the dark-clad, shadow-colored troops across the field to the walls. He also had to hope Fergall had succeeded and was within hailing distance.
He and Blaine walked forward and then, when they were within perhaps twenty-five feet of the walls, every detail on the top of the wall, each smooth block, each indentation, was clear to them, he drew a breath.
He let out a high, clear whistle.
They could hear the sentries muttering on the wall, looking down, trying to see what was below. One of them threw a stone down to them, hoping to judge what was below. Broderick bit his lip. He could not risk another whistle. But what if no one heard? What could he do... their whole plan hinged on this!
Just as he was about to risk going left to see if he could see the men with the siege-engine – a group of ten counting Fergall and his assistant – he heard it.
Something whistled through the air above their heads.
It was a high sound, like air racing through a crack in the horn pane of a window. And as they waited it became louder and higher, a keening, shrieking sound.
Then the boulder hit the wall and shattered the silence.
Stone cracked from the top of the tower, and Broderick shouted at the men to jump clear. Even though they did so, stone fell a few feet from him, a chunk of fallen masonry slightly larger than his head. He stared.
Up on the wall, men were shouting, calling, running. Someone brought pitch torches and they held them aloft, trying to see what was going on down below.
Then the second rock whistled through the silence.
Broderick watched, amazed, as the defenders ran to answer the new assault. He shouted to his men.
“Ladders... at the ready!”
They had five ladders. In the face of this enormous fortress, they seemed not nearly enough. However. They would have to do. At his instruction, the men with ladders ran forward, throwing them at the walls.
The first men waited for Broderick's command to climb. He paused. This was the right time, while the men were still in confusion on the wall. But he felt suddenly cold. He watched as the defenders swarmed around a fallen comrade, shouting and calling. He felt a sudden separation, as if part of him watched himself.
Is this what you live for, Broderick MacConnaway? To cause such death and destruction? Such pain?
He shook himself. It was. Of course, it was. He was Broderick MacConnaway, son of a laird. He was a Highlander. What else was he to do but avenge the assault on his own fortress, his family?
Shouting orders, he ran to the first ladder. If he had stopped to think about it, he might have stayed with Blaine. But he did not see any reason why he should throw men up ladders into crossbow-fire if he was not the first among them.
“MacConnaway! MacConnaway!” he screamed. Let the bastards know who came for them, he thought breathlessly as he climbed.
As he reached the top of the ladder, the cry changed. Let them know why they died. “Aisling!”
As he screamed it, he cleaved down with his sword. He had chosen to fight with the great-sword instead of the dagger and targe, it being easier to climb when unhampered by a shield. He saw blood fly up from where the man had been, saw him fall away. He turned to his right, hacking furiously down on a young man. He took the man's arm and then turned away from his death. He was vengeance born human, a tide of blood and death and pain.
He was breathing in the scent of blood, of flame, of smoke, his lungs heaving with it, screaming his wife's name.
This is for Aisling. All this death. All this blood. All this fire. In her name. If I bring a hundred corpses to her feet, will she forgive me? A thousand? Will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?
“Aisling!”
As he screamed it, grunting to heft his sword, he paused. Something was not right. Where his enemy had been was suddenly empty space. Feeling his steps slow, he tried to turn. Tried to reach behind him, knowing the man had moved. Something hit him very hard on the back of his head. He lost his purchase on the wall as he fell into the blackness and, already unconscious, fell back into the endless dark below them, the twenty-one feet of aching, quiet death.
* * *
Broderick stirred. Everything hurt. He was drifting in mist. Someone called his name.
“Brod? Broderick!”
Broderick heard the voice through the pain in his head, the ache in his ribs. Why was everything so sore? He recognized the voice. Would have recognized it anywhere. He opened his eyes.
She was standing there, right in front of him, as she had been years before. Dressed in a white gown with her flame-red hair loose and long, like a cloud of fire. She seemed a creature of air and flame, the wind shimmering through her and all around her, lifting the strands of her hair.
“Aisling....” he breathed, a whisper. He held out his hand.
She smiled. It was a sad smile. Her brown eyes were filled with deep, tragic love.
She sighed.
“Oh, beloved. I am pleased to see you,” she said softly. “But...What have you done?”
“Aisling?” he called hoarsely. He tried to reach for her, but he was too exhausted and his arm fell back, lifeless, to the cold, dead ground beneath him.
She was looking down at him with deep sadness. “My sweet,” she said gently. “Why are you drowning me?” The sadness and the horror, too, were there for him to see.
Broderick whimpered. “Drowning you?”
“All this blood, Broderick! Why do you lay it at my feet? It is not mine. It is cutting me off from you. You do not remember me anymore. All you see is rivers between us. The river of blood.”
Broderick gazed at her as she turned away from him. Her tall form wavered on the edge of sight.
“Aisling!” he called. “No. Wait... do not go! I understand. I do! Can you forgive me?”
Aisling turned and smiled, then. Her eyes were radiant, her smile warm as sunset. She was the beautiful girl he had loved and wept for and lost. There was no gulf between them anymore. She glowed with a light that hurt his eyes. She came toward him.
“I can forgive you anything, loved one,” she said with a little sigh. “But can you forgive yourself?”
Broderick stared at her. “Myself? Aisling... what do you mean?”
She was kneeling by him, then. She laid a hand on his chest, a pale hand that shimmered with radiance. She smiled into his eyes, sad and lovely.
“Have you not noticed what you have done to your own life, my dear one? How you have choked the love within it, turning from love to rage and hate and blood?”
Broderick stared at her. It seemed as if her image wavered, and he saw before him the castle of Lochlann. He saw the turret room he shared with Amabel. Saw her behind the screen, on her knees, sobbing. Her cries rang out unheeded through the empty room. He saw Alina, alone in her chamber, pacing with worry. Saw little Chrissie, upstairs, confused because no one would talk to her and she didn't understand why.
Then he saw Amabel again. Saw the tears run down her face. Heard her voice as she turned to her youngest cousin. “He does not like me, Chrissie. I do not know what I did wrong. He cares naught for me.” She turned away, sobbing, blue eyes wet with tears.
Then he was alone again, looking into Aisling's dark brown eyes.
“Aisling?” he called.
“Look, my husband, at the sorrow you cause when you turn away from love.”
“But, Aisling!” he protested. This charge he could answer. “I did it for you! I could not love another, because of you! Only you.”
Aisling looked as if she wept. “I am in your heart, Broderick MacConnaway! I am with you every time you feel joy. If you turn away from love and happiness, you turn away from me. You are killing me, Broderick, beloved! Every dart you fire into your heart hits me. I can bear no more.” Broderick felt each tear as if it was his own.
“My Aisling!” His lips were cracked and bleeding, his voice hoarse. “Do not go. I love you. I will stay my vengeance. I will let myself love again.”
She smiled at him, then, sweet as springtime rain. She stopped, turned back to him.
“Thank you, my beloved. Thank you for walking across that bridge, back to your heart. Now you will be with me always.”
She bent down to him then and kissed him on the mouth. He felt her body press against his and the wonder and sweetness of it tore at him. He wanted to reach out to touch her. As she knelt beside him, he felt the strangest feeling in his chest. A strange suffusion, as if part of all her light, all her radiance, was merging with him, filling his chest.
“Aisling,” he whispered, stroking the satiny red hair. “Aisling. My love.”
He heard her laugh, then, happy and carefree. The suffusing feeling grew and built and flared. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. He was alone. Everything was dark. But there was light within him. And the light was love. And joy. He licked his lips. His body was a mass of pain, ribs aching, head thundering. He coughed.
“Blaine?”
No sound came out beyond a whisper, so he tried again. Where there was life, there was hope. And he was, for the first time in five years, fully alive. He knew what he would do with that gift. He would not squander it again.