Chapter Thirty One
Ranulf swung his sword, striking the blade of one of his dead brother’s so-called fierce warriors. His opponent’s sword dropped to the ground.
“What has happened to the Highlands that I can’t find a worthy challenger?”
Ranulf stormed toward the warrior with his blade raised high, but the young man stood his ground. His face held neither defiance nor fear. He simply stood, unwavering, as if he had given his fate up to God…or the Devil.
Ranulf’s lips curved in a slight smile. “What ye lack in strength and skill, ye have in courage.” He dropped his sword at the young man’s feet. “I will allow ye to live. Now, polish my sword.”
“Father!”
Ranulf turned. “What is it, ye bastard?”
“Scouts are reporting the army will reach our outer walls before the sun reaches its highest point. Their cavalry is one-hundred strong, and five times that number march on foot.”
Ranulf walked through the door that led out to the battlements. “Let them lay siege. We shall watch their struggle from above and bring Hell down upon their heads.” He turned then and looked at Kenric. “We’re prepared. Our stores are full, and my defenses are in place. We can hold them off for months.”
“Father,” Fergus stepped forward. “Should we not alert the villagers and bring them within the baily?”
“Nay,” Ranulf snapped. “They, too, can defend my chiefdom.”
Still, Fergus persisted. “But the villagers are farmers and women and children. They are no match for an army of trained warriors. They will be slaughtered.”
Ranulf had never wanted to kill his bastard son more. “What has happened to ye? Has clan life made ye soft? Ye know as well as I that only the weak will die. Clan MacKenzie will be stronger for it.”
Fergus knelt at his feet. “Forgive me, Father, but Clan MacKenzie will be ruined. Ye need the cottars to farm the land. Without them, ye’ve no food to feed yer strong warriors.”
Ranulf grinned, realizing his son’s logic. “Stand Fergus.” He reached out and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Ye’ve done well.” He smiled before turning to another of his men. “Gregor, bring the villagers within the baily.”
Then Ranulf returned to the solar and shouted, “Captains, to yer positions.” He watched his men hasten from the room, all but Kenric and Fergus.
Ranulf strode to the bowl of water on the table and splashed some on his face. He took the piece of linen from Kenric’s outstretched hand, patting his face dry. All the while, his thoughts raced. Finally, the day had come. He had no doubt that his clan could defend the castle. They would wear down the approaching army. And when the time was right, he would unleash his forces and annihilate the enemy. Then, at last, the entire northwest region of the Highlands would be his, from beyond the Summer Isles to Loch Carron.
And this was just the beginning.
Fergus handed him his newly polished sword. The sound of it sliding into the scabbard attached to his back made his cock hard. Had Donald shared his vision and wisdom, he might have stood at Ranulf’s side. Instead, his bastard son and his second in command were the only men lucky enough to share in his victory.
“Come,” he said to both men as he returned to the battlements. He stared out past the outer curtain and nodded approvingly as he scanned his warriors at the ready. The outer wall was lined with archers and warriors with crossbows. Catapults were pulled taut and loaded with jagged rocks. Logs as thick as a man’s waist reinforced the gate while cauldrons of water and oil boiled over hot flames.
The inner curtain was also lined with men, and along the battlements to his right and left, fierce warriors stood at the ready to protect his keep. At the far end of the parapet, he also spied three torches blazing brightly. He felt emboldened by the fiery sentinels, a clear warning to the approaching enemy—only fire and death awaited those who stood between him and his pursuit of power.
“Kenric, ye’ve done well,” Ranulf said, patting his second on the back. He continued to scan the courtyard below. Villagers had begun to stream through the stable entrance. Women clung tightly to their crying whelps. Cottars huddled with their families.
“Ye know the one thing I despise about being laird,” he said to Fergus.
“What is that, Father?”
“Having to tolerate the people,” he sneered.
“Many of those children are warriors in the making,” Fergus pointed out. “While the others are labor for yer fields.”
“Perhaps, ye need to make them work harder,” Kenric suggested.
“Ye’re right, Kenric. When this battle is over, I will raise the rents. I will also ensure that every son suited to the challenge is trained in the ways of the hired sword.”
Kenric smiled. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners.”
“We will dominate the Highlands!” Ranulf turned to his son. “Where is the MacLeod’s bride? I want her here by my side to watch her husband’s defeat.”
~ * ~
Fiona sat on the floor of the empty solar, straining to free her wrists from the tight bindings. Breathless, she leaned against the wall, resting her head against the cool stones, taking a break from her efforts. Her eyes darted to each of the doors around the perimeter of the room. Ever watchful, she feared when one would open, inviting in new danger.
Taking a deep breath, she held her wrists to her mouth and chomped down on one of the loose ends of rope and tugged hard. She screeched in frustration as the bindings only tightened. A moment later, the door that led to the battlements opened. She glimpsed Ranulf, his back to her as he looked over the parapet, but it was Thomas, or rather Fergus, who entered the room, closing the door behind him.
“My father has requested yer company,” he said, gently taking her by the arm and helping her to her feet.
“Was it all a lie, Thomas?” Fiona asked.
The young man’s gaze darted to the floor. “My name is Fergus,” he said simply.
“Or is yer name Bastard?” she snapped. “Because I’ve heard yer father call ye both?”
Fergus’s eyes flashed with anger. “Be careful, my lady. I do not take kindly to being insulted.”
“It was not I who did the insulting, but rather yer father. He does not love ye, Thomas, not like Abby does.”
Fergus hesitated. “She loves me?”
“With her whole heart,” Fiona answered.
His face softened. He seemed to consider her words, but then he shook his head. “She loves Thomas, the legitimate son of cottars. If she knew I was a bastard she would never love me.” His eyes grew distant and hard. “No one could ever love a bastard.”
“That’s yer father speaking,” she argued. “He could never love ye. His heart is not capable of love. But Thomas—ye have spent time with my clan. Ye have now experienced the love kin are meant to have for each other. Do ye not see that there is more to ye than a young man willing to do anything for his father’s love.”
“Enough,” he snapped.
“Thomas, please—”
He jerked her toward the door that led out to the battlements. “My name is Fergus.”