Chapter Twenty-Five
“Now hold thy peace!” the lady said,
“For as I say, so must it be.”
— Thomas the Rhymer
The attack came. Just as he expected.
The rain clouds had sounded high in the passes all morn, but thus far had not broken to pour their life-giving blessings upon the parched land. He had so hoped for rain. There was no rain in his dream. Since they were near the two cold-water lochs, moisture hung in the air to see the haar stayed heavy and low to the ground. The damn stuff swirled about him as he rode ahead to scout the landscape.
Luck holding, they had passed onto the vast holding of Kinmarch, thus they should be nearing Glen Shane anytime. And thus far, he had found no sign they were being followed, spotting nothing untoward to cause alarm. Just The Kenning kept him believing otherwise.
He patted the horse’s neck, soothing the sweating animal. His own nervousness was infecting the horse’s disposition. Trying to reassure the beast, he spoke lowly to him. “Galleon, ’tis impossible to see far down the trail―or in any direction, for that matter. I will be glad when we are within the curtain of Glenrogha. You earn extra rations of oats for all your hard work.”
The horse nickered softly and tossed his head up and down, bringing a chuckle to Damian.
Tamlyn had told Julian the mists that perpetually hovered before the passes of Glen Shane were part of an ancient warding placed upon the valley by the first lady of the glen. Supposedly, the haar screened the passes, hiding the entrance so none could find the opening to the granite cliffs. For centuries, no invader had put foot on their soil in the pristine pocket in the Highlands. None until Challon had come. Her people saw that as an omen and accepted Julian’s arrival as blessed by the Auld Ones.
“I wonder…might this damnable haze be a blessing instead of a hindrance this day? If I cannot see them, then they cannot see us either, eh?” Damian asked the animal.
In his dream he saw the fog as leaving them vulnerable to attack. What if the mists were the key to saving them? If their party could reach the passes, could the Sacred Mists enfold them within their protection, close behind them, and block out the ones with evil in their hearts from finding a way to follow them? Mayhap the shrouded landscape was their salvation to surviving. They just needed to hurry their pace.
Excited by this possibility, he lifted his reins to turn Galleon.
Then he heard them.
Thousands of ravens high in the hills of the passes of Glen Shane. The blackbirds let him know he was close. And yet, in the same breath they were the harbingers of his nightmare. The shrill cries shattered the muffled stillness of the mist-shrouded Highland glen.
Warning him it had begun.
Startled, endless scores of ravens took to the sky. For a peculiar instant, the world held its breath as the heavens were transmuted to black. Upset by the discordant cacophony, Galleon reared slightly on his rear hooves as Damian spun him about-face. He did not blame the animal. The screeching set Damian’s teeth on edge as well. The fog shifted, eddied thicker about him, the loch breeze ruffling his hair, as his eyes followed the spiraling path of the noisy blackbirds.
Time had run out.
♦◊♦
A single thought pounded through his brain: he had to reach Aithinne. Save her.
Could life be so cruel? Now that he had found her, knew she was the woman from his long-ago dreams, would Fate snatch away the very thing that gave his life meaning? Auld Ones, be damned! Aithinne was his. He would fight to his last drop of blood to protect her.
As he rode over the crest of the knoll, The Kenning slammed into his mind. Men. On the far side of the hill, they were lying flattened to the ground, waiting to ambush the column. Some were archers with longbows. A few had the more costly crossbows―an assassin’s weapon. Feeling a slippage, he could see them as clearly as though they were before him.
Withdrawing his sword, he sent Galleon forward to defend Aithinne. Nothing―nothing mattered more than saving her. Without hesitation, he would give his life to protect her. Knew he likely rode to his death.
As he galloped past the assassins, several let loose with hastily aimed bolts from crossbows. One sliced with a dull thud into the side of his thigh. Just like the dream. His warrior’s mind tried to block the pain; white hot, it spread out in both directions within his leg muscles. ’Twas fortunate, the shaft had lodged in the side or he might bleed to death before he reached Aithinne.
Fully anticipating danger, Challon reacted to Damian galloping toward the column. He quickly marshalled the squires into a phalanx before Tamlyn and Aithinne. Arrows hammered into the tall shields, whilst behind them Gervase and Vincent aided the women to dismount. They circled their animals, putting the women between the horses, trying to use the animals’ massive bodies as a barrier to the raining arrows. Three plowed into the side of Gervase’s bay steed. With a deep-throated groan, the horse collapsed in a scream of agony. The young man loved that stallion, but he never hesitated to move before Tamlyn, covering her with his shield.
Damian’s eyes searched for Aithinne. Vincent guarded her on one side, with Moffet moving in to cover the other. “Oh, God, protect them. Please,” he whispered.
Swinging Galleon about, Damian prepared to clash with riders closing in on them. The enemy materialized out of the fog on both flanks. And they came like Hell unleashed. Challon spurred Pagan forward, intercepting the charge arriving on the left. Damian faced the half a score striking from the right.
Damian dispatched two with ease, then whipped Galleon about to join Dyel and Michael to attack the remainder. The trained squires fought valiantly and would earn their spurs this day—should they live that long.
“Damn!” he cursed under his teeth, his eyes assessing where they stood.
Bodies were on the ground, and yet still men more came. They were facing a large force, likely outnumbered. Trapped, surrounded by the three-prong attack, no aid would come from the garrisons at Lochshane or Glenrogha. The riders―if they had gotten through―had not time enough to reach the fortresses and return with the much-needed reinforcements. They were on their own, battling for their lives.
Using his knees to control Galleon, and leaving his hand free for his sword, he intercepted them. With slashing precision, he dispatched one, and then turned to block a blow from a second. Galleon reacted to his training, and tore into the horse of a third rider, unseating him. Then, the expected bolt sliced into the flesh of his right shoulder, a freakish shot hitting at the narrow point where the breastplate ended and the shoulder spaulders covered the upper arm. The pain was so intense he could hardly grip his broadsword. He shifted the hold to where he could swing with his left, thankful warriors learned to fight with either hold.
Reeling from the raw throbbing, he gritted his teeth and circled the destrier, once more to look for Aithinne. Make certain she was all right. She was still guarded by Vincent, Moffet and Gervase.
Time stilled as his eyes met hers. About them the battle raged, swords clashing, orders being barked, horses screaming. Suddenly, the noise faded, leaving only the discordant screeching of the massive murder of ravens circling overhead.
He could only see Aithinne. Terrified by all that was happening around her, but her fear was for him. He could see it so clearly in her haunting hazel eyes. Damnable woman. She was so beautiful. The long hair with the cast of faery fire flying about her. The face that had haunted his dreams for years. After half his life of wondering if she was real, he had found her. Only to lose her. Regret surged up in him that he had not spoken the words of love to tell her of his deepest feelings, let her know it was never Tamlyn―she was always the one who owned his heart.
Then, she screamed as another bolt slammed into his thigh, not far from where the first one was lodged. Aithinne shoved to get past Gervase. She broke free of the squire, nearly shoving him back against the horse. Running straight for him.
The Kenning exploded his mind, through his heart, molten certainty boiling his blood. If he did not reach her, they both would die.
“No!” he shouted.
Forcing himself to lean forward in the saddle, he spurred Galleon toward Aithinne. “Get down!” He yelled, hoping she would obey him. “Too much to ask?” he muttered.
Driving the spurs into Galleon’s sides, he caused the animal to leap high through the air and over the fallen horse, reaching her just as the hail of arrows sailed directly at her. Galleon caught one the flank, but the valiant destrier held firm, a true warrior. Damian took one to the chest, an arrow from a longbow―the one meant to kill Aithinne. He felt the barbed tip punch through the chest plate, the force driving him off the horse.
Aithinne rushed to him, but he was already up and was grabbing her by the shoulders pushing her down to the ground, struggling to use his body to cover her, and at the same time, trying to reach his dropped sword with his left hand. “Stay down, damn you!”
Just as his fingers closed around the hilt, a new horror filled him. He spied a whole column of riders cresting the ridge, men under the standard of a goshawk on a field of half-red, half-gold.
“Just who the bloody hell is trying to kill us?” He demanded, as Challon dismounted before them.
Tamlyn came at her husband in a run, grabbing his sword arm. Challon, sparing her a heartbeat’s notice, spun her around behind him. The mighty Dragon of Challon stood ready to kill all to protect his wife, his wounded kinsman and Aithinne.
“No, Challon, no! The goshawk be the pennon of Grant Drummond. Duncan MacThomas rides beside him. They come to our aid. Aithinne’s brothers and Einar are in the column, as well,” Tamlyn told them.
At the pronouncement, Damian’s knees couldn’t hold him. He half-fell, half-staggered to the ground. He had been wounded before, but perhaps because he was older it was taking a greater toll upon him. Vaguely, his hand felt around the arrow protruding from his chest. When he realized it had gone through the metal chestplate, but just barely penetrated the jack underneath, he jerked the shaft out, and tossed it away.
Aithinne folded her legs and sat, pulling Damian’s head into her lap. A warm tear fell on his face as she stared at the bolts still protruding from his body. “Your...chest...”
“Not deep. I will bleed some, but naught to worry over.” His hand reached up and stroked the side of her face, then grimaced when the other arrow in his shoulder made itself known.
Her lip quivered. “Shall I pull the others out?”
“Nay, leave them for now. If you yank them out, I will bleed more. We are close enough to Glenrogha. The tending will be better there.” Damian blinked his eyes to summon his strength. This was not over. He needed to find out who was trying to slaughter them.
Damian looked around to see the combined forces from Lyonglen, Drummond and MacThomas had killed most of the attackers. The few remaining took to the hills, fleeing for their lives. Seeing things were in hand, Damian leaned back and enjoyed his head resting in Aithinne’s lap, and gazed up at her beautiful face.
Sucking in a deep breath, he realized that two English knights had been saved by two Scotsmen. “Vagaries of life. What do you think about Goshawk for the name of our son?” he asked Aithinne. A laugh bubbled up in him, but he choked and flinched in pain instead.
“Oh, do hush. To be sure, I shall name him Nodcock after his father.” Then, she burst into tears.
“I command you to hush, wench. Surprise me for once and obey me.” His hand reached for hers, their fingers locking.
Riders cantered back. Some dismounted and set to helping the wounded. The handsome Scotsman, Grant Drummond, called orders that half of his forces, ride ahead and make sure the stragglers were gone.
Challon dropped his sword tip, reached out with his left arm and encircled Tamlyn. “I never thought I would want to kiss a Scotsman before, let alone two.”
The two Scotsmen rode up. The one in the blue plaide, Duncan MacThomas, carried a man, gagged and with his wrists and ankles tied, and slung crossways over the shoulders of his horse. MacThomas dumped the man before Challon. The bound Scotsman landed face down in the dirt
“Figure you might want this, Dragon.” Dismounting, he flashed a wolfish smile, the brilliant blue eyes made all the more intense by the hue of the vivid blue wool tartan.” Duncan MacThomas kicked him in the ribs and then used the toe of his boot to roll him over.
Aithinne and Tamlyn gasped when they stared at Phelan Comyn.
Challon frowned. “And here I was betting coin that the Baron Pendegast was behind the attack.”
Cursing in the Gaelic, Tamlyn marched over and kicked the man in the side. When he rolled away, she kicked him in the groin. He jerked, trying to retch. “Loathsome cur! Hadrian swore never to trust a bloody Comyn!”
Duncan looked up at Grant Drummond. “Mayhap I should cut the gag off him. If he blaws with it on, he will drown in his puke.” He did not sound too concerned. Then added, “God willing.”
Drummond leaned forward, elbow resting on the high cantle of the saddle. A dark brow arched over the gray eyes. “Now, that would be a crying shame, eh?” With a sigh, he dismounted. He removed his leathern gauntlet, and came forward to extend his hand. “Grant Drummond at your service, Englishman. I take this to be the bloody Dragon of Challon we have heard tell about all summer.” His eyes shifted to the ground to Damian. “But you two look enough alike ’tis hard to say.”
“Well-come, Drummond.” Challon shook his hand. “On the ground is my cousin, Lord RavenHawke, now the baron of Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood.”
“Strange times, eh? Saving Englishmen and killing Scots.” MacThomas shook his head. “The enemy of my enemy be my friend―an old Scots saying. Of course, had these two lovely ladies not been with you, Grant and I might have sat back and watched the happenings.”
Tamlyn kicked Phelan again, this time in the arse.
“Kick him again, Tamlyn,” Aithinne called. “Kick him for me.”
When Challon held out his hand to MacThomas, the man glared at him, then looked to Grant. “I saved his English hide. Does no’ mean I have to shake hands with him.” But it was in a teasing manner.
“What do you want to do with this offal? I would kick him, but seems your lady wife does a proper job of it.” Grant smiled, watching Tamlyn.
Damian pushed to a sitting position. “Take the gag off him and cut the bonds.”
“What?” Aithinne and Tamlyn said in the same voice.
“Help me up.” Damian looked to Challon.
His cousin grimaced at the arrows protruding from his body. “You stay down. I shall handle this. It shan’t take long.”
MacThomas stepped to Damian, gave him a hand over Aithinne’s protest. Of course it was not a gentle hand. The man grinned at Damian’s groan, as he set him on his feet. “Since you be talking, this did not do much damage.” He examined the chestplate with the arrow hole. “Penetrated the plate, but the jack over the mail stopped it. Must hurt like hellfire. You will have a nasty bruise.”
“It went deeper, so I will bleed some. Help me out of it.” Damian knew there was no way he could reach the buckles to remove it.
MacThomas snorted a laugh. “Bloody Englishman suffers blood loss. Save his life and he starts giving orders. Thinks I am his ghillie.”
Moffet stepped to Damian and began undoing the arming points at the shoulders and the band looping across his back at the waist. Once undone, Damian dropped the chest plate like it was a snake. “I need be able to move without encumbrance. The arming jack and mail will be enough.”
Aithinne stepped in front of him. “Sir Nodcock, just what the bloody hell do you think you are doing?”
Damian leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “I wouldst kiss you once for every freckle, but I am tired.”
“We need to get you to Glenrogha so we can tend the wounds,” she insisted. She turned to Einar. “Lord RavenHawke needs aid to get to Glenrogha—”
“Einar, ignore your princess.” Damian forced a grin for Aithinne. “As soon as I dispatch this vermin, then we go to the fortress.”
Tears flooding her eyes, she shook her head to the sides. “No! You be too weak. You have arrows sticking out of you!”
Challon took hold of Tamlyn who was going to kick Comyn again, and pulled her back. “I am just evening the odds, my lord.” She batted her eyes innocently at him.
“You canno’ fight,” Aithinne choked out, as Moffet handed Damian his sword. She rounded on the young man. “Stop aiding him, you lackwit. You want to get your father killed?”
“He shan’t be fighting, Aithinne,” Challon assured her. “I will deal with the man who dared threaten what is mine.”
Damian gently pushed Aithinne into Moffet’s arms. “Hold her. I have never raised my hand to you lad, but you let her loose and I shall turn you over my knee.”
“Yes, Father.” He nodded.
“Argh! Sir Nodcock the Second!” Aithinne screamed her rage. “Are all the men in this family created with sheep dung for brains? It does no’ make me view the coming of my child with high hopes.”
Challon blocked Damian’s path to the man on the ground. “I am unharmed. I will―”
“Tamlyn and you were put in harm’s way because of me, Julian. Comyn was coming after me. Aithinne is to be my lady wife―this day I fight for her.”
Damian’s words echoed ones Challon had spoken on the morn he faced Pendegast. The two men stared at each other, feeling a brother’s love, yet each understanding the warrior in the other. Challon finally nodded and stepped back.
Aithinne marched over and kicked Comyn. “You did not kick him hard enough, Tamlyn.”
Her cousin smiled. “Och, I apologize for my failing.” She delivered another blow to the man’s lower back. “Ouch…that hurt my toes!”
Grant Drummond laughed. “Hey, Englishmen, why do you no’ rest on your laurels? I think your ladies have this problem well in hand.”
“You mean in foot.” MacThomas laughed loudly.
Grant pulled his knife from his belt. “You are sure you want me to set him loose?”
“Set him free and give him a sword.” Damian lifted his sword, ready to avenge his lady. Now that he knew they would not perish in the attack, he was finding a renewed power flowing through him.
Grant dismounted and cut the bonds on Comyn’s hands, and untied the gag about his mouth.
MacThomas spat at the man. “Bah. Just kill him and have done with it. Englishmen and their code of honor. Bloody boring.”
Damian looked at Phelan. “What did you hope to accomplish? Kill me and then run to Edward and hope he would give you Aithinne and Lyonglen? Are you that stupid?”
“He tried to attack Lyonglen,” Hugh offered from the back of his white mare. “Why we rode out to meet you. He was going to seize it while you were gone. Guess he figured we could no’ hold it. Grant and Duncan came along and countered the attacked from the rear. Set them to running.”
Comyn wiped the blood from his mouth, looking at Aithinne with hatred. “I hope to kill you both, and that English bastard she carries. Why would I want her after she has lain with an English cur?”
“You are losing blood, Damian. Get it done,” Challon prodded with a jest. “You do not hurry, you will pass out, then I will have to kill him anyway.”
A cornered animal panic flickered in Phelan’s eyes, clearly knowing the instant he took the sword Duncan MacThomas held out to him that he was a dead man. He glanced around, obviously searching to see if any of his soldiers lingered nearby to help him. None remained.
As Duncan pushed the sword’s pommel into his belly, Phelan jumped. He knocked Moffet into Damian, and snatched Aithinne by her long hair. Pulling her back against him, he wrapped his arm around her neck and tilted it at an odd angle.
“Stay back. Stay back or I will snap her neck like a twig.” Just to prove he would, he jerked it sideways, hard, causing Aithinne to cry out.
Suddenly, Einar moved. Before Phelan grew aware of the big man behind him, he threw his knife, the long blade striking Phelan in the middle of his back. The man wore a surprised expression as he glanced down at the tip of the weapon protruding from the middle of his chest. Challon jumped Phelan, as Damian yanked Aithinne away from the standing man who had yet to recognize he was dead.
Hugging her tightly to his good side, Damian let her cry on his shoulder. The peace of knowing it was ended flowed through his blood.
Einar walked over and leaned down to remove his knife from the dying Scotsman. Before extracting it, he gave it a twist to make sure the deed was done. Pulling it out, he wiped the blade clear of blood on the man’s arm. “No one harms my princess.”
Damian sighed and looked to Challon. “Pendegast…” He meant to wonder if Dirk’s brother was behind Comyn’s rashness. Both men had been at Berwick at the same time. MacThomas saying about the enemy of an enemy suddenly becoming a friend sprang to mind.
Julian nodded. “I know. Later―”
One minute, he was standing. The next, Damian was looking up at people hovering above him.
Aithinne knelt once more to place his head in her lap. Her fingers brushed the stray curls off his forehead. “Rest. We will get you home.”
Deward knelt before him, holding a small cup. “Einar, help him sit, we need to get this draught into him, help fortify his blood, until we can get him to Glenrogha and remove the arrows...Oona mixed it, said we would need it for the wounded.”
Damian stared up at the three faces that looked the same. For a moment, as another wave of pain rolled through him, he pondered if he was not seeing everything in threes. Then, he recalled―Hugh, Deward and Lewis―Aithinne’s brothers. Deward―at least he thought it was him—pressed the cup to his mouth. “Come, new brother, drink your fill. Forget what pains you.”
Forget what pains you. Why did the words seem as though he had heard them before?
He struggled to turn his head, to see Aithinne.
Beautiful Aithinne…