A SUDDEN RESCUE
The wind ruffled the cloaks of the defenders where they stood on the wall. Duncan shivered, drawing his cloak closer about him. He could barely hear the soft sigh of wind over the maelstrom of activity in the courtyard below.
The men beside him on the wall were armed with bows. He had with him his longsword, suited for combat should any reach them here. So far, it did not seem their assailants were equipped with rope or ladders. They were more intent on breaking down the gate.
Which held.
At least, Duncan thought grimly, for the present. The men attacking the gate were armed with a great ram, made of a single tree trunk from deep in the forest. It took twelve of them to bear it, and each time it rammed the gate, he felt the tremor of its impact even here, a good twenty feet away along the wall.
He wanted to be closer. Blaine, in charge of defenses, had sent him to the edge. He had asked him how he was with a longbow, and when Duncan admitted to barely using one had sent him to the margins. Being assessed as a foot soldier by the young man was bitter, but Duncan could understand his thoughts. The longbow was a fierce weapon. The men who wielded it were the masters of this kind of warfare. He could utilize a crossbow as well as the next man, but the range was not as good or the strike so fierce.
I should be here to keep men from entering the place.
That was what he feared most. Men in the castle would kill mercilessly. He had no idea who the enemy was – Blaine didn't either – but whoever they were, if they entered, they would pillage. Violence and slaughter would be foremost and he had a family to protect. Alina's family.
“Back!”
The men below were retreating. Duncan sighed relief. He knew why: Blaine had ordered pots of oil brought up. He shuddered to think of using them, but knew it was the only way. The searing heat would kill the men below in the most appalling manner. The thought that his young friend ordered it surprised him. Lethal on the field or in combat, Duncan still hated the idea of siege warfare, thinking it dishonest in comparison to fighting one-on-one.
“MacConnoway!”
Duncan whipped round. He faced Brien. He stared. The old man was perfectly at home up here. He wore a chain-mail coat and carried a dagger. He looked as serene as if he was overseeing a banquet.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Round the back. We need defenders at the other side.”
Duncan stared at him, confused. “My lord? There are few men,” he began, waving a hand at the band below them. Besides the twelve with the tree, there were perhaps fifteen others. It was a tiny force, probably no more than thirty men. The danger of being surrounded was infinitely small.
“I ordered you elsewhere,” Brien said. He turned away, expecting Duncan to obey without question.
Duncan drew in a breath. He wanted to argue. However, it was the thane's fortress and if he wanted Duncan away from the single place he could be useful, there was no arguing with him. He sighed.
He cast a last glance at Blaine, but the youth, livid in firelight, was busy instructing the bow-men. He turned away.
As he walked across the courtyard, glancing back at the wall where the defenders were outlined by their torchlight, he heard something.
A shout. Coming from the other side of the castle.
Lord Brien was right, he thought, already running. They had entered through the rear gate.
Feeling himself sweating, Duncan ran across the darkened flagstones and into the great hall. Inside, he found chaos. The men-at-arms, dressed in green, were rushing out, each heading to the rear gate to address the threat. Leaving the place undefended. Duncan stared at them.
“Stay!” he commanded a man, snarling the order. “If you all go, who'll stop them?”
The man blinked at him. While he was dazed, others seemed to hear Duncan's order and gather to listen. However, there were few of them left. As it was, the force was mostly on the front wall. With half of those left already dispersing in ragged order towards the back of the castle grounds, Duncan was left with a dozen men.
“We guard the hall,” he said firmly.
“Yes, sir.”
The man he had addressed seemed to find his voice, and Duncan breathed out a sigh. Someone, at least, listened to reason.
“Thank you, soldier,” he said. He led them into the hall.
Inside, the lamps were lit. Duncan was impressed. The place was full of serving women, ladies' maids, the old, and the sick. The children and stable-hands. The old men-at-arms. As of yet, no one was panicked. Everyone was calm. Looking toward the dais, he realized why.
Alina. She was there, a lamp in her hand. She was talking calmly to a small, older woman, dressed in pale blue velvet, who was nodding agreement before she headed towards the back of the hall. He stared at Alina.
Her hair was loose and she wore her darkest gown. It fell in a narrow skirt from her waist, trailing from the silver kirtle around her small hips. She wore a fillet of silver across her brow and her oval face was tranquil and pale.
She looked up, black eyes heavy lashed and serene. She looked straight into his eyes.
“Alina.” He could say nothing more.
“Duncan.” She smiled. She looked calm. Tranquil. Happy. He could not quite belie it, and yet he knew he should. She would be thus – the eye of any storm. He loved her then as he had never known he loved her.
At that moment, havoc broke out. A splintering crack echoed through the room. The door of the hall fell back and men – wild haired and wild eyed – burst in.
* * *
“Duncan!”
Alina screamed it. One of them ran at her, and at that moment Duncan lost all thought. All he could see was the red haze of rage. All he could feel was the urgent need to kill. To do anything to save Alina.
The man had her round the waist. His one hand was in her hair and he was dragging her back. Duncan took a swing at his head, but he could not risk a blow with his longsword without fear of the blade cutting Alina. He swore.
“Blaine!” he roared it over the din, wishing the young man had come down with him. He cursed again, remembering that Blaine was in command on the wall.
“Fergal!” he saw the old armorer.
“Aye!”
The old man grinned at him, blood streaking his white hair. Duncan had no idea if it was his own – there wasn't a chance to ask. He waved his arms to indicate that he had no weapon.
“By yer feet, laddie!” the old armorer shouted. He chuckled, wheezing, and then delivered a death blow to his opponent. Duncan looked on the ground. Wishing he had thought of it a second ago, he picked up a spear.
The man who was holding Alina had dragged her to the rear door. Duncan sprinted across the hall, stabbing at a man who reached out to grab him as he passed. He reached the door.
“Duncan,” Alina breathed. The man's arm was around her throat and he could see she was struggling to breathe. He felt his heart fill with rage.
He roared and lunged, aiming low for the man's knees. He was blocked by Alina's body. The man chuckled, drawing his sword. He dropped Alina.
“Run!” Duncan shouted to her urgently. She was doubled over, coughing, unable to draw breath to run. Duncan turned and faced his assailant.
The man swung a sword at him and Duncan dropped the spear even as he drew his own. He danced aside from the blow and then brought his own sword crashing down at the man.
Who had moved.
Duncan cursed under his breath as his sword hissed through air and then changed the angle, raising it afresh. The man's swing crashed into his and the impact shuddered along his arms.
Duncan twisted the blade, freeing it, and raised it again. All around him men were shouting, weapons clashing. The few guardsmen he had brought with him were doing well. However, were there enough to fight so many? He could not guess.
His attention had been torn by Fergal, shouting a battle scream as he swung his ax. When he looked back, there was a blade coming for his head. He moved, but no one can out-move a blade.
At the height of the arc, the blade faltered. Seemed to lose its strength. He saw his assailant gasp, but no sound came out. The man was coughing, and foam appeared on his lips. He crashed forward.
Duncan looked down. Alina was on the ground. She was looking at the man in horror as he twisted and writhed, the spear still in him, torn from her grasp as he fell.
Duncan stared.
White-faced, black eyes wide with horror, Alina looked up at him. She looked at the man, then at Duncan, and covered her face with her hands. Duncan bent to hold her and she breathed against him, breath shuddering, shoulders shaking.
“I killed him,” she whispered.
“You did, lass. You saved my life.”
“I have never killed anyone or anything before.”
She sat on the floor, white-faced. She had let go of the knife, but her hand still lay in her lap as though she no longer knew it as part of herself. She was rocking back and forth, eyes wide.
“I killed him.”
Duncan held her and rocked with her as she shuddered in his arms. All around him, the sounds of fighting were dying down. He looked across the hall. The older woman who had been with Alina was in the corner, still as a statue, somehow untouched. On the other side of the hall he saw another face he recognized.
“Blaine!” he shouted.
How had he got here? He looked around, information slowly filtering through to his weary mind. There was, somehow, suddenly, more than twice the number of guard he had brought with him. They filled the floor and they moved through the hall with brisk efficiency, dispatching any enemy who were too wounded to stand.
Blaine must have brought them. If he had not, Duncan thought somberly, they would all be dead by now.
“Blaine?” he called.
Blaine seemed not to notice him and Duncan looked into the shadows, wondering what held his attention. Behind him, face white and streaked with tears, was Chrissie. Duncan felt relief at knowing the girl was safe, and, somewhere in his heart, he was pleased for Blaine – at least in protecting her he had a chance to prove his love to her.
In his arms, Alina had stopped shaking. She looked up at Duncan. Together they sat on the floor while the hall filled with groans, gasps, and the sound of men and women recovering from a nightmare.
Alina's body was very close to Duncan's, her heart fluttering, chest shuddering with gasping breaths. Her warmth flowed through to him and he could smell the scent of rosemary in her hair. He grit his teeth, feeling his body ache to possess her. Now was not the place or the time and he pushed that feeling away ruthlessly, knowing she needed care more than anything.
“Duncan?” she whispered it. Her voice was even. He looked into her eyes.
“Yes?”
“Can we go elsewhere, do you think? I need air.” She asked it shakily, voice quiet.
Duncan nodded. He stood and helped her to her feet. Her hands in his were like ice. She leaned on him and he held her, arm around her shoulders, as, together, they walked from the crowded hall.
Outside, the courtyard was empty. Duncan could hear men repairing the shattered rear gate. The air was cold and his cloak snapped in the breeze. He drew it around Alina. She looked up at him.
“Duncan?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for coming back.”
He looked down at her pale oval face. Her eyes were round and very black, her lips parted, moist and warm.
His heart thumping, body shivering with need, he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips met the sweet softness of her mouth, tongue slipping, wet and hot, between them.
Alina gasped. She, too, seemed possessed by the same urgency he felt, for her arms held him close and her lips parted to allow him in. His body throbbed, his heart pulsing hard in his chest. His loins were aching and he shook and trembled with rising need.
“Alina,” he whispered. His hands moved down her back, stroking her long, slim throat and burying themselves in the black satiny-softness of her hair. She moaned and pressed against him and he felt the soft curves of her body press into him. He closed his eyes. He moved his mouth to hers again and they stood, locked together in a place that was so close to heaven, he thought he had already died.
Alina gasped and her mouth moved from his. She was shivering, too, and it was not all with cold – his cloak was wrapped around her, her body against his.
“Duncan,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“We should...stop,” she said. Her hips were pressed to his and he noticed, with panic, that his body had been thrusting closer and closer to hers, as if his loins had made the decision for themselves and acted outside his jurisdiction.
“Yes,” he agreed. His heart sank. He wanted her. He wanted her more badly than he had ever wanted anything. His body was stretched taut with need, urgent and quivering with it.
“I...am sorry,” she gasped. She turned away, hands smoothing her skirts. “But we cannot.”
She turned to face him, long hair swinging around her slim body. In the faint light of the empty courtyard, she was a shadow, sweetly curved and made living by the silver of the starry sky.
He stared at her, his eyes drinking in her form – high breasts, narrow frame, and long legs. His whole being vibrated with need and he was sure there was nothing more beautiful than she who stood before him now.
Reluctantly, he broke the contact, turning away to look up at the wall of the hall behind.
“Duncan?” A voice called from the door, thirty feet away. The voice was weary, barely reaching them. Even so he recognized it.
“Blaine?”
“Yes. We're repairing the damaged wall. We need some help?” It was a question, a request.
“Of course,” Duncan called. His voice was a strangled whisper, so he cleared his throat. “Coming soon,” he explained. He turned to Alina, who was looking at the sky, face grave and still. “Thank you,” he whispered. He wrapped her in his arms again and kissed her hair. This was a chaste kiss, a kiss of solemnity.
“Thank me?” Alina asked, confused. She looked up at him, lips parted in an expression of confusion.
“Yes,” he said, smiling.
“What for?”
He smiled again. “For saving my life?” he said, then, when she closed her eyes, he added, “for the kiss. For being you.”
Alina looked into his eyes, and her own black ones were wide, long lashes framing their inky darkness.
“Thank you, Duncan MacConnoway. For all of that, and more.”
Duncan smiled and closed his eyes, wrapping her in his arms. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, head against his heart. He bit his lip and thought that, even in this world that the priests insisted was wicked, there were moments that were completely, entirely perfect.
Around them the ash drifted from the part-burned rear gate, the men grumbled, and the castle settled, slowly, into silence and gathered itself from shattered peace into order once again.