Chapter Five
“More wood for the fires,” Fiona shouted to the lads carrying baskets on their backs, teeming with cut wood. She stood on the battlements where large cauldrons of water lined the parapet, suspended over hot flames in preparation for a breach of the inner wall.
“Fiona!”
She whirled around and crossed to the other side of the battlements and looked down onto the courtyard, which was filled with her kinfolk. The alarm had sent villagers rushing from the fields and their vulnerable peat homes to the safety of the keep. She prayed the many cottars that dotted their lands had made it to one of the fortified towers built to protect those who lived too far to reach Castle Creagan in case of attack.
Below her, she glimpsed mothers trying to soothe crying babies while children huddled in their skirts. Farmers were being turned into warriors. They took up swords and targs, listening intently to orders from the MacDonnell captains.
“Fiona!”
Again, her father called to her. Looking down, she met his gaze, his face red with fury.
“Blast it all, lass! Get yerself to the keep,” he shouted.
She shook her head. “I will not hide away, Father. I’m needed here.”
“Who needs ye?”
“I’m helping Broden.”
“Fiona, Broden can handle it. Get down here!”
She stood her ground, despite her father’s protests. “Ye can yell at me after we’ve saved our necks.”
She turned away from her laird and scanned the outer curtain. Dozens of MacDonnell warriors lined the battlements, standing in the crenels with pikes and crossbows at the ready. A sudden cry snaked her attention to the stone stairs leading up to where she stood. One of the wee lads had tripped, spilling his basket of wood.
“Hurry, William,” she shouted and raced down to help. The lad thundered up the stairs in front of her when his basket was righted, then dropped to his knees, adding fuel to the hot flames.
“’Tis still not enough,” she cried.
William nodded, jumped to his feet, and scurried back down the stairs.
“Look, my lady,” Broden shouted from where he stood further along the inner wall. With crossbow in hand, he pointed beyond the outer curtain. Her gaze followed his. At least five score riders charged down the sloping moors. Her hands gripped the wall as they disappeared from view only to rise up, cresting over the next hill. Each rider clasped a torch. Fire blazed and danced as they barreled toward the outskirts of the village.
“Nay,” Fiona screamed, leaning over one of the crenels. Helpless, she watched the enemy circle their fields, swinging their torches. Her heart quaked when their crops went up in flames.
She whirled around the instant she heard the MacDonnell war cry rend the air and the clanking of the drawbridge being lowered. Horses thundered across the cobblestones beneath her. Holding her breath, she watched as her clan’s warriors cleared the outer wall and raced out to meet the enemy with her father in the lead. Fire spread. Flames licked the peat huts, but when the enemy reached the heart of the village, her heart sank. So much destruction. The clash of metal rang out, distracting her from the fiery scene. She strained to distinguish her clansmen from the enemy, but the skirmish was too far away.
She tore her gaze from the fray and hastened across the battlements, a surge of determination coursing through her when she saw the large cauldrons had begun to boil.
“Ready yerselves,” she called to her men.
Then she cupped her hands and shouted across to the warriors on the outer wall.
“What do ye see?”
“The enemy retreats,” Alasdair shouted back.
Her heart leapt. The men around her cheered.
She turned back to look beyond the battlements to the village, but her view was obscured by a blanket of thick gray smoke.
The enemy had withdrawn. Still, they had set her world on fire.
She prayed her father had fended them off before the blaze found their stores.
Fiona raced down to the courtyard and waited breathlessly at the gate for her father and the warriors to return. When she spotted the riders, she scampered out of the way. Hooves pounded the wooden bridge. Her father dismounted. She raced to his side, weaving around the horses and men.
“Father,” she cried, throwing herself against his broad chest. Strong arms encircled her. “I’m all right, pet,” he crooned. Pulling back, he looked down at her and gently brushed at a tear streaming down her cheek that she had not known she’d shed. A smile tugged at his lip. “Ye’re my lioness with unfailing courage, but ye’re still my sweet, wee lass. Do not cry, Fiona. Yer da is fine.”
She swallowed back further tears. “Who were they? We could not make out their colors from the distance.”
Gordon’s nostrils flared. His lips pressed in a grim line. “It was the MacKenzie.”
Fiona sucked in a sharp breath. She backed away from him, shaking her head. “Ye’re mistaken, of course,” she began. “We’ve made an alliance with the MacKenzie. I am betrothed to Adam. What ye say is impossible.”
He reached for her hand. “I’m telling ye what I saw with my own eyes, Fiona. The men who just attacked us, who burned our fields, who lit those fires…” He pointed toward the smoke billowing high in the sky. “They wore colors of the MacKenzie.”
Fiona gripped her head between her hands, her mind racing.
But she had just visited the clan not a fortnight ago.
Adam had professed his love for her.
The MacKenzie, himself, had embraced her warmly and called her daughter as she bade him farewell.
“’Tis impossible,” she snapped once more before she turned on her heel and stormed back through the inner wall toward the keep.
Gordon followed quickly behind her. “I do not tell ye this to hurt ye,” he said, reaching her side.
She hurried through the courtyard and mounted the steps. Already the council was beginning to gather in the great hall. The murmur of their conversations reached her ears.
“Are ye certain is was the MacKenzie?” someone said.
“I’ve no doubt,” came the reply.
“Enough,” she shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Everyone grew silent. All eyes were on her.
“I am telling ye—there is no way the MacKenzie is behind this attack.”
Graham, one of her father’s fiercest warriors, stepped forward. His skin was streaked with soot and blood. In his hand, he clasped a strip of torn plaid. The colors made her heart sink. “Forgive me, my lady, but ye’re mistaken.”
She shook her head. “But if it was Clan MacKenzie who attacked us, then why did they send a rider to warn us of their coming?”
No one replied. The men around her exchanged glances.
“Ye’re right, lass,” her father said. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Where is the rider?” Fiona demanded.
An elderly woman with a brown scarf covering her long, gray hair crossed to Fiona’s side. The healer rested her gnarled hand on Fiona’s arm. “He sleeps.”
“Well, wake him up,” Gordon MacDonnell growled.