Chapter Thirteen
Richard Og de Burgh glanced at the Scot before him, a traitor to his own kind. Though Richard hated the Scots with a venom that left a bitter taste in his mouth, he was happy to use them when they came calling. And Hector Fraser, cousin to Simon Fraser—who was also a traitor but one who had gained Richard’s trust—had recently arrived at Westminster and requested to see Richard. It seemed the Scot wanted to be laird of the Fraser clan, and he had traveled here to make a bargain. He’d secure information for Richard if Richard would ensure neither Simon nor his brother Grant, who were both ahead of Hector in the line to be laird, ever returned to the clan. Richard raised his wine goblet to his lips and studied the man, deciding what to reveal and what to truly do.
It wasn’t that he liked Simon necessarily, but the man had proven useful. But in order for Richard to get his clutches on Lillianna, he’d sell each and every offspring he had to the devil himself. The king needed his niece to tell him whether to go forth with the attack on Edinburgh or not, and if he didn’t find her, he feared he’d become engaged in a battle with Edward.
What to do, what to do…
Richard took a long drink of his wine, enjoying watching Hector start to fidget. A fidgeting man was a desperate man, and desperate men would do whatever was asked of them. Donovan had not returned with Lillianna, and he should have by now, so what Richard needed most was someone who could find her and bring her to him.
His mind made up, he set his wine goblet on the dais, where he sat alone, and leaned his elbows on the table. “This is what I require from you,” he said, his voice echoing in the empty great hall. “My niece has disappeared with a Scot named Angus MacLorh. I wish you to find her and bring her to me. I am sure you know him,” Richard said. He had been informed just recently by another one of his spies that a wench at the King’s Head Inn had made mention of a sick English lass with a Scot, and the lass and Scot fit Lillianna and MacLorh’s description.
“Aye, my lord,” Hector said. He tugged at his red beard, which annoyed Richard. Unkempt people disturbed him. “Do ye ken where MacLorh was headed with her?”
“Ettrick Forest,” Richard replied easily. “It seems MacLorh took her with him to warn Bruce’s men that King Edward was coming for them.”
Hector’s eyes widened at the news, but the man wisely held his tongue. Richard would not say more. He did not need to relate that MacLorh had been used by them and was riding, hopefully, to his death.
“I imagine the man would send her to safety,” Richard went on. “Perhaps to the MacLeod hold or to his own home. Find her and bring her to me, and I will ensure that Simon Fraser meets his death, and I’ll aid you in ending the other Fraser’s life, if he does not die before then.”
Richard stood then, circled the dais, and went to stand in front of the man. At six foot two, Richard normally looked down on men, but he was eye to eye with Hector, which made him think the man might need a good glimpse into what Richard could do to him if he failed. “Fail me,” Richard said slowly, “and I’ll ensure the Fraser clan knows you are plotting to become the next laird by murder.”
He expected Hector to look surprised, perhaps even slightly nervous, but a razor-sharp smile came to his face. “I’ll nae fail ye.”
Lillianna sat on the forest floor with her knees pulled to her chest and her arms encircling her knees. One hand rested there while her other hand gripped her dagger. Allisdair sat quietly beside her, holding his own weapon. Every so often, he would clear his throat and nibble on his lip. It was obvious he was scared but trying not to show it. She knew how frightened she was and could only imagine how fearful a young lad of fourteen summers must be.
Tentatively, she extended her hand. “I’m awfully frightened. Will you hold my hand?”
He nodded, sitting up a bit taller, which made her smile inwardly, and then he more clutched her hand than held it. He leaned close to her. “They will return,” he whispered. “And soon, I expect. Angus is the brawest fighter in all of Scotland. He has nae ever been defeated in combat or a tournament,” Allisdair boasted.
She didn’t doubt the truth of what he said. She could recall the feel of Angus’s muscles under her fingertips, and she’d watched him move with the speed and grace of a warrior, born and bred. Honestly, she’d never seen a man as quick with his hands—or his lips—as Angus. Heat consumed her as she recalled the kiss he’d given her before he’d left, and her lips started to tingle all over again. What had that kiss been about? Had he lost his senses again because of his desire for her? She seemed to lose hers nearly every time he was near, and when she thought about the possibility of never being near him again, never being kissed by him again, she felt hollow, like a shell of a person who had never been loved.
What if one or both of them died today? Suddenly, a lifetime of being too afraid to love seemed the worst fate she could imagine. If—no, when—they were together again, she would speak to him and see if he was willing to discover if anything more lay hidden under their passion. For her part, she was certain there was something there, and she thought she might want to take a chance with Angus. Her greatest fear had always been of being duped as her mother and grandmother had been, but Angus did not even believe, or seem to care, about the legend of her powers. If one day he awoke them in her, after she was sure of his love, she would tell him. Before she could consider anything else, Allisdair’s hand suddenly grasped her tighter, and her breath caught as she listened.
In the distance, to their right, the distinct sound of metal clanging against metal echoed in the looming night. She swallowed the large lump in her throat. The fighting had begun. She and Allisdair huddled closer together, both of them breathing heavily with worry. Anxiety flowed through her, and every clank, every clash, every cry in the night made the cold knot in her stomach grow bigger and harder, and made her more aware with each passing moment that she simply could not imagine never seeing Angus again.
The urge to jump up, to defy what he had said and run to fight beside him was so unbearable that she had to choke back a cry. Instead, she let out a moan. Allisdair patted her hand. “Dunnae fash yerself. My brother will return.”
God, she hoped so.
By the time Angus got to the fork in the river where Robbie’s men were hiding, it was too late. Everywhere he looked Scots fought the king’s men. Swords swished and arced through the air, and men fell as blood splattered to cover the ground. It appeared that the English outnumbered the Scots three to one. Angus did not know if his brother had led the king’s men to the hiding place, if Edward’s men had found it by luck, or if they had discovered the men some other way. It mattered little, though. All that mattered now was saving as many Scots’ lives as possible.
The deafening roar of battle filled the normal silence of the forest and hummed in his ears. He turned to shout to Grant that they should stay together, but as he did so, Grant gave his own shout. “Behind us!” he bellowed.
Angus spun around and swore. A line of at least twenty English knights was closing in on them. It seemed he himself had led some of the enemy to Robbie’s men! He could not think how, but then he saw Simon, a giant of a Scot with a chest like a barrel, at the front of the line, and Angus felt a blow of betrayal to the center of his chest. With a savage cry, he raised his sword to deflect any blow Simon might deliver, and when his sword met that of his longtime friend, his fellow Renegade, rage and sorrow exploded within him.
Horses raced past Simon and Angus as they fought, but Grant remained by Angus’s side and raised his own sword to fight his brother. Yet, when the last English knight had galloped into battle, Simon’s swings became less accurate, less forceful. But one would only know it if they were on the receiving end; a mere spectator from a distance would never be able to tell.
A moment of uncertainty to whether Simon was friend or foe made Angus pause, and as if Simon could read Angus’s doubt, he snarled, “Flee the damn forest! This cause is lost!”
Angus jerked his sword back just before it connected with Simon’s skull. “Are ye a turncoat or nae?” he demanded, his voice vibrating with anger.
“Ye ken damn well I’m nae a traitor,” Simon said, his blue gaze moving to Grant. “Brother,” he said. He swung his sword again, but this time Angus was certain it was for show. Simon’s gaze was pleading. “I’d hoped to meet ye soon and mend the rift between us, but nae here, nae now. Ride away, both of ye. King Edward’s men are everywhere. We rode here ten thousand strong.”
“Christ’s blood,” Angus muttered, apprehension coursing through him. “Robbie’s men will be massacred if we kinnae aid them in escape.”
“Ye kinnae save them all,” Simon said, swinging his sword again. Angus did the same in case anyone looked to them.
“We’ll save as many as we can,” Angus replied, knocking his sword against Simon’s. “How did ye come to ken Robbie’s men were in Ettrick Forest?” He needed to discover the traitor among them.
Simon glanced toward the melee, as did Angus. If anyone had been watching them, it was doubtful now. Men battled each other on every space of the ground, and where there was not a battle, men lay dead.
“I dunnae ken who told the king,” Simon said, “but it was Elizabeth de Burgh’s idea to tell Bruce so he would send ye to warn his men, and some of the king’s men would follow ye.”
Angus faltered at the news, and his thoughts swung immediately to Lillianna. Had she known this about her cousin? Did Lillianna have a hand in leading him to this treachery? He could not believe it of her.
Unaware of the doubts and questions in Angus’s mind, Simon continued. “And it was her father’s idea to send a message to yer brother Ross in case ye did nae come. Half of us rode straight here to wait for him. That is how we found Robert’s men, or most of them, not long ago. We lay in wait for Ross, who led us to them.”
“I knew Elizabeth de Burgh would be Robbie’s downfall,” Angus growled. “Where is my brother? Where is Ross?” When Simon’s face fell, Angus’s chest squeezed.
Dear God above, dunnae let Ross be dead.
He shook as he asked, “Captured or dead?”
“Captured,” Simon said, and Angus let out a relieved breath that his brother still lived. “But the English mean to kill all who have been captured,” he hurriedly added.
“Let them try,” Angus snarled. He would not fail his brother. Ross would not die this day. “Where are the captured men?”
“Just over the hill,” Simon said, nodding to the left. “They are only guarded by four knights. If ye can kill the knights…”
“You two head into battle,” Angus said, already preparing to go to his brother. “Grant, the Scots will need your sword arm, and Simon, ye must maintain the pretense as long as ye can that ye are on the side of the English. Robbie needs King Edward to think ye loyal until the very moment ye rise against him.”
Simon nodded. “It sickens me daily, but I will do it.”
Angus nodded his understanding, then focused on Grant. He had to ensure Lillianna and Allisdair had someone to watch over then. “Grant, if I’m felled this day—”
“I’ll guard Lillianna and yer brother with my life,” Grant swore, “until the day I dunnae have breath left in me.”
Angus nodded, noting Simon’s frown. He would have no notion about Lillianna and her presence here with Angus, but there was no time to explain it now. Two English knights had turned their way and were galloping toward them.
“Ye’ve company,” Angus warned just before he swiveled on his heel and raced in the direction Simon had indicated. The woods were thick, but when he glanced behind him, Grant was fighting the knights. Simon pretended to swing at Grant but, at the last minute, felled the knight who was lunging at Grant.
Angus turned away, flooded with relief that Grant had survived. It gave him peace to know that if he died, the man would do all he could to protect Lillianna and Allisdair, and God willing, Ross would survive to aid him. Angus raced up the steep slope of the forest, grabbing at rocks and vines to speed his ascent. He barreled through shrubs and jumped logs, never reducing his pace. He had to get to Ross and Robbie’s men before the battle was lost and they were executed. At the top of the ridge, the ground leveled, and between rows of tall trees, near a cave, he spotted an English knight, then another, followed by two more. They stood facing the Scots they had captured. A quick scan showed twenty Scots tied to a post that had been driven into the ground. “God’s teeth.” The English had planned this carefully.
Angus slowly took out two of the four daggers from the holders at his thigh and sheathed his sword. If he was quick, he could fell all the knights in two breaths, which would give them no time to sound a warning or kill any of the Scots. Angus judged the distance between him and the knights, then carefully aimed the daggers in his left and right hands. Thank God the English were so arrogant as not to fear a man might approach them from behind.
Clenching his teeth, he said a prayer for accurate aim and then released the daggers, grabbed the other two as the thrown ones struck his intended targets in the back of their heads, aimed the other two daggers just as the remaining started to move, and threw those daggers, as well. One hit true in the third knight’s skull, but the other knight proved quick, ducked to the ground, and came up. But by the time he’d gained his feet, Angus was there, plunging his sword deep into his enemy’s gut. The man grunted, his eyes went wide, and then he fell to the ground to join his three comrades in death.
“Angus!” his brother Ross cried out.
Angus swept his gaze over the men to cries of thanks and found Ross at the very end. Blood and dirt smeared his face, but as Angus went to his brother, he could see that Ross did not have grave injuries.
“Brother,” Angus said, his voice cracking under the weight of what he felt as he untied the knot that bound Ross to the stake. Everywhere Angus looked there were stakes in the ground with men tied to them. When Ross’s hands were freed, the men clasped arms, their eyes locking, and silently acknowledged the bond that had almost been severed. Angus swallowed back a wave of emotion.
Ross swiped a hand across his face, leaving a trail of blood. “The king ordered his men to kill us here, cut off our heads, and then put them on the end of the stakes,” Ross said derisively. “King Edward said to line the forest with our heads.”
Angus clenched his fists, his rage so hot he felt he would burn to ash. Taking a deep breath, he spat at the ground, as did his brother, to show that they thought Edward had no honor.
“Come,” Angus said to his brother, “let us make haste to free the others.”
Soft words of gratitude came from the men as Angus and Ross untied them and answered their questions about Robbie.
“Ye all need to flee this forest,” Angus told the men. “Bruce will be rising soon, and he will unite us all against King Edward, but ye need to continue his fight where ye can win. Make yer way to Loch Doon Castle. The castle keeper Gille abandoned it to the English because he did nae see any hope.” Angus’s heart pounded. “Go there! Take back that castle from the English. Ye outnumber the men King Edward left to hold it. Take back that castle for Robbie! Take back that castle for yer future king and for Scotland!” Angus brandished his sword in the air, and the men roared a cheer. They started toward him one by one, some clasping Angus’s arm, some clapping him on the shoulder, some just meeting his gaze with gratitude. Angus saw the tide of change rising before him like a great wave in a violent, unstoppable storm.
He turned to his brother. “Ross, make haste to where ye left Allisdair.”
“Ye saw Allisdair?” Ross asked.
“Aye, ye should nae have brought him here, but there will be time to discuss yer mistakes later.”
Ross nodded. “I’m sorry, Brother.”
“Dunnae be. Learn from this. Ye will find a lass with Allisdair,” he said, motioning the men standing around them toward the six horses he’d seen tied in the distance. “Take five of those horses there.” The king’s colors were draped on the beasts, and Angus was more than happy to relieve Edward’s knights of their destriers. Some of the Scots would have to double up on a horse, but they would survive. He focused on his brother once more. “Take Allisdair and the lass, Lillianna, to our home. Dunnae stop until ye reach it, and then rouse our men to be battle ready.”
“I kinnae leave ye,” Ross protested. “Ye need me—”
“I do need ye,” Angus interrupted. “To keep our brother, the lass, and yerself alive. If I fall, someone must lead our clan, and as the next eldest brother, that someone is ye. We are far outnumbered here. Ye must flee.” Angus pointed to the last horse in the distance. “Ride that beast and when ye get to Allisdair and the lass, take my horse as well. It’s tied close to them.
“And what will ye ride when ye escape?” Ross asked.
“An Englishman’s horse,” Angus said with a wink. “Now away with ye!” He gave his brother a gentle push. “I’m to the battle, and my mind will be easier and more focused if I ken the three of ye are away.”
Ross nodded, turned, and headed to the horse. He mounted it in a flash, and Angus watched his brother just long enough to ensure he got safely away. When Ross was out of sight, Angus quickly removed his daggers from the dead men, sheathed them, and gripping his sword, ran back toward the battle. As he cleared the trees by the fork in the river, he spotted a destrier without a rider. The horse would not only give him an advantage in the battle but he’d need it to escape. He approached the horse, mounted it, and then charged into the fray, swinging at English knights as they came at him. One by one, he cut men down, but it seemed for every Englishman he felled, three more appeared.
The fight was lost, and the only hope now was for him to help as many of his fellow Scotsmen get away as he could. “Ye!” he shouted to a nearby group of Scots battling some of Edward’s knights. “Mount the destriers and follow me! Spread the word.”
“What destriers?” someone cried out.
“These, man!” He shifted on his horse and shoved an unexpecting knight off his mount. “Take it,” he roared to the nearest Scot. He turned his horse around to the left, and with two swings of his sword, he stabbed an Englishman in the gut and slashed another across the back. The men fell, and Scots scrambled out of the shadows to mount the horses. By the time Angus started to fight again, the three Scotsmen beside him were involved in their own battles. Four more Englishmen fell, putting seven Scots on destriers, and then the tide changed.
It was as if someone had realized what they were doing. A line of riders was headed for them. “Take to the woods!” Angus ordered the Scots mounted alongside him. “If we can lose them, we can survive.”
The thundering of horses’ hooves sent a prickle of fear down Lillianna’s spine. She did not think a contingency of men would be coming for them. “Stay here,” she ordered Allisdair. “I’m going to peek out and see if I can tell if enemy or foe approaches.”
“I’ll go,” Allisdair said. “I’m the man.”
“No,” she said, using her sternest voice. “I’m your elder, so—”
“We go together,” the boy insisted.
“Fine,” she relented, knowing he’d not yield, just as she wouldn’t.
The minute they crept from their hiding place, she knew it was a mistake. Five English knights rode hard toward them, and the one in the front spotted them. He pointed and yelled, “Capture the woman and boy.”
“Allisdair, run!” Lillianna screamed. She turned and nearly barreled over Allisdair. She caught him by the hand, and they raced toward Angus’s and Grant’s horses tethered in the distance. Hooves pounding against hard dirt vibrated the ground beneath Lillianna’s feet, and the intensity increased rapidly. The English were closing in on them. “Get to the horses!” She released Allisdair’s hand and turned, yanking her dagger out of its holder.
She sucked in a sharp breath of shock at the sight of a large Scot with thick, shoulder-length brown hair, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He had come from the woods on a destrier, straight onto the path between her and the English, and brandishing his sword, he glanced to her for one moment and shouted, “Go with Allisdair. Flee here!”
She hesitated for one moment, not wishing to leave this man, who she assumed was Angus and Allisdair’s brother Ross, to fight the English alone, but as the knights approached him and he easily cut two down in the time it took her to blink, she felt more confident that he would survive. Still, she could not abandon him without aiding him at all. Gathering all her courage, she ran toward Ross and the three knights he battled. One of the knights broke away from the foray and headed toward her.
“Please,” she called, waving her arms at the Englishman, “help me!” When he drew close and slowed his horse, she wasted no time. “These filthy Scots took me! Please, please, you must save me.”
“You’re English,” the man said, his surprise evident, but his sword was still poised to strike her down.
“Yes,” she said. “De Burgh is my uncle. I was stolen from the forest near the castle.”
And that did the trick. The man lowered his sword and leaned toward her with his hand extended to her to swing her onto his horse. She reached her own hand out, and when his fingers grazed hers, she whipped up her dagger and plunged it into his chest.
He dropped his sword, and his hand went to his chest, but then with a roar, he lunged toward her. Yelping, she jumped back, turned, and ran, glancing behind her only once to see the man struggling to right himself. She barreled through shrubs and trees, the limbs scraping and cutting her as she went. Finally, she burst through the thick bushes to almost run smack into Allisdair. He sat atop a horse while holding the reins of another.
“What are you still doing here?” she demanded, equally angry and glad that he’d not listened to her.
“Coming to save ye,” he gloated.
She mounted the horse, automatically went to sheathe her dagger, and then remembered she’d left it in the knight’s chest. “Your brother Ross is behind us.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and as if by silent consent, they turned their horses back toward where they had just fled. But as they did, they heard a shout from the distance. “Ride! Ride! I’m surrounded!”
“That’s Ross,” Allisdair said in a frightened voice. “If he’s surrounded…”
He was defeated, and she with no dagger and Allisdair with only one would be no match. “Let us ride to the Fraser castle and get aid for these men.”
Allisdair nodded, and they turned, taking off into the descending darkness. Behind them, the sound of horses giving chase thundered in her ears. When she glanced back, she could see the English were close. She urged her horse faster, ducking trees and racing across a stream. Cold water splashed up between her and Allisdair, and they drove their horses across a wide expanse of rolling hills at a gallop and then back into the thickness of woods with the English still close behind.
They wound down another hill and toward a shadowed valley between two steep inclines, when horses suddenly neighed from in front of and behind them. Lillianna pulled her destrier up sharply, thinking they were trapped, but Allisdair waved at her. “Those are plaids ahead. Scots. Those are Scots. Keep riding.”
Lillianna’s heart beat viciously against her ribs. She gripped her reins and urged her horse back into a gallop. Ahead, the Scots pulled their mounts to a stop and seemed to create a line across the narrow valley. At first she was confused, but then she saw them withdraw bows and arrows, and as she ducked, arrows flew through the air, hitting the pursuing Englishmen. Men fell to the ground, and she nearly wept with relief as she continued to thunder toward the Scots. By the time she reached them, there was no one behind her but a lone rider, more hanging from his horse than sitting upright.
She squinted to get a better look. “That’s Ross!” Allisdair shouted. Lillianna started to urge her horse toward Ross MacLorh, but the man beside her shot out his hand and grabbed her reins.
“Ross?” he said, his Scottish accent thick. “Ross who?”
“MacLorh,” she answered, certain the Scot wanted to ensure he was not letting an enemy approach.
“I’m Allisdair MacLorh,” Allisdair added proudly.
“Are ye now?” the man asked. Something in the way he drew out the sentence set fear in her heart. The man moved his horse to Allisdair and took the lad by the chin. “Where is yer brother, the laird? Is he near?”
“I dunnae ken,” Allisdair said, fear sweeping his features. He obviously sensed something was wrong, as well.
“Ross MacLorh!” the man suddenly roared. Lillianna flinched at the sound, and she looked toward Ross. He was struggling to right himself, obviously wounded. “Tell yer brother that the laird of Belfaine has wee Allisdair, and if he wants him back, he’ll have to relinquish his castle to me.”
She gasped. They had ridden straight into the arms of Angus’s enemies.
“Who are ye, lass?” Laird Belfaine demanded.
Lillianna felt as if she were being strangled. What could she say in order to survive and protect Allisdair?
“She dunnae matter to my brother,” Allisdair sputtered, giving her a warning look.
“Dunnae fear, lass,” Belfaine said, but his words had a threatening ring to them. “I’ll take ye anyway.” He released Allisdair, motioned for one of his men to grab the boy, and then grasped her by the jaw. “I’m in need of a plaything for my bed.”
Lillianna tried to jerk free at that ominous threat, but Belfaine held tight and snickered.
“Nay!” Allisdair shouted. “My brother will kill ye.”
“Will he now?” Belfaine grinned wickedly. “Why would he care if the lass dunnae hold worth to him?”
There was no answer Allisdair could give to save her. If this man thought she had worth, he’d use her to strike at Angus, and if he thought she had no worth, he’d simply use her for his pleasure. Her only hope was for them to escape, but even as she thought it, Belfaine leaned over, gripped her around the waist, and yanked her off her horse as if she weighed no more than a feather. His men chuckled as he pulled her onto his horse instead of setting her on the ground. She immediately twisted toward him and brought up her fists to hit him. He captured her wrists with his hands and moved his face a hairsbreadth from hers. Eyes like a cold blue wave fastened on her, as if she were being pulled under by evil.
“I look forward to learning all about ye,” Belfaine said, making her stomach turn. When he released her wrists, she slapped him.
A menacing smile spread his lips, and his hit came so fast across her face, she had no time to react. The force of it sent her flying to the left, but Belfaine caught her and tugged her back into the saddle and hard against his chest. A wave of nausea rolled over her as he brought his lips close to her ear. “I like a feisty lass,” he said.
Escape was her only hope.