Fallen: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Sisters of Kilbride Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  Hatred rose within him, clawing up from his gut like a beast that had been waiting far too long for reckoning.

  Finally, after all these years, the time had come.

  23

  The Yoke Breaks

  WHEN CRAEG DIDN’T answer, MacKinnon smiled. It was a cold expression, full of malice.

  Of course, his half-brother had waited a long time for this day too.

  “Still proud,” MacKinnon drawled. “Still believe ye are my equal, don’t ye?”

  “We’re not equals, Duncan,” Craeg said finally. The calmness of his voice surprised him. No one would have suspected the turmoil that churned within. “I’ve always been yer superior … and ye and I both know it.”

  The response was inflammatory, designed to anger, and when MacKinnon’s smile faded and his gaze narrowed, Craeg knew he’d hit his mark.

  “Ye have been a burr up my arse for too long, Bastard,” he murmured. “I shall enjoy watching ye die.”

  Craeg smiled back, showing his teeth this time. “Ye should have killed me that day. Ye have made many mistakes over the years, but that was yer most foolish.”

  MacKinnon’s dark brows knotted together, something feral moving in his eyes. He shifted his attention from Craeg then, just for a few moments, his gaze sweeping the line of warriors upon the brow of the hill behind him. “Coira is with ye, I take it?”

  Craeg went still, his fingers flexing as the urge to draw his sword surged within him.

  Seeing his reaction, MacKinnon’s eyes gleamed. “Enjoying my whore, are ye?”

  A taut silence settled between them then. The cold knot of hatred in Craeg’s gut drew tighter. The impulse to rush howling at MacKinnon was almost overwhelming, yet Craeg mastered it. Instead, he let those words hang between them, let battle fury kindle in his blood.

  Long moments passed, and when MacKinnon realized that Craeg wasn’t going to bite, his mouth twisted. “Coira will be mine again soon enough. Get ready to taste steel, Bastard.”

  Once again, Craeg didn’t reply—he didn’t trust himself to. Instead, he turned his back on his half-brother and walked away up the slope, back to where his men silently waited. All the way up, the skin between his shoulder blades itched. He almost expected his brother to throw a knife into his back.

  Yet no such strike came.

  Still, it was a long walk up the hill, and Craeg was sweating when he reached Gunn’s side once more.

  The big red-haired warrior met his eye and raised a ruddy eyebrow. “Well?”

  “He’s sick,” Craeg replied.

  “The pestilence?”

  “Could be.” Craeg drew his claidheamh-mor, the scrape of steel echoing over the hillside. “But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.”

  He shifted his attention from Gunn then, back down the valley. MacKinnon was riding away, cantering back to join his men.

  Swiveling on his heel, Craeg’s gaze swept over the ranks of men who’d joined him from all over the territory. He saw the fierceness on their faces, the glint in their eyes. They were ready to fight for him, to die for him. Craeg’s pulse accelerated. He raised his claidheamh-mor high then, drawing their gazes to him.

  “Long have we prepared for this day.” His voice rang out across the hillside. “Ye all know what ye must do … I won’t remind ye of it.” He paused then, his chest swelling. “Ye know of the bad blood between MacKinnon and me … but remember this fight is about much more than just vengeance … it’s about freedom. Long has MacKinnon’s iron fist crushed ye all into the dust. His Guard came to yer villages, took all yer savings, and robbed ye of yer last sack of barley—the only thing between yer families and starvation. And then when ye fought back, he called ye criminals and put a price on yer heads.”

  Craeg broke off here, breathing hard as fire caught in his veins. He wasn’t used to giving speeches like this. But his men needed to hear these words. His gaze swept the ranks then, and there, near the back, he glimpsed a lone woman.

  Coira stood watching him, her eyes gleaming, her jaw set. He didn’t want her to fight—didn’t want her to risk her life. But she had her own score to settle with MacKinnon today, and he wouldn’t take that from her.

  His belly twisted all the same, when he thought of her facing men swinging claidheamh-mors. Although he’d witnessed Lady Leanna with a longbow, he hadn’t seen Coira fight. What if she’d overplayed her abilities to him? What if, in the heat of battle, her nerve failed her?

  Craeg swallowed the lump that suddenly rose in his throat. He wouldn’t be able to help her. Once the fighting began, Coira would be on her own, and she knew it.

  Pushing the realization aside, Craeg forced his attention back to the ranks of warriors watching him.

  “The yoke breaks today!” He shouted, thrusting his broadsword high into the air. “Today, we take back our lives!”

  A cry went up among the outlaws, rippling out across the hillside.

  Craeg’s skin prickled at the sound. Turning, he looked back across the valley and saw that MacKinnon’s warriors had urged their horses forward. They were now careening down the slope toward the bottom of the valley.

  Craeg’s heart leaped. “Archers!” he yelled. “Ready!”

  And then, as he and his men had planned long before this day, Craeg dropped to one knee. Beside him, Gunn did the same—as did all the warriors in the first three lines.

  But the row of men behind them—those bearing longbows—didn’t crouch. Instead, they notched arrows and sighted their quarry.

  Craeg held his breath, his gaze tracking the line of horses that thundered toward them, and then a shout tore from his throat. “Loose!”

  I’m taking them all to their deaths.

  Leading the way up a steep hill interspersed with wildling pines, Mother Shona tried to ignore the guilt that dogged every step, yet it hung over her like an oppressive shadow, darkening with each furlong they journeyed east.

  She’d made her choice; there wasn’t any point in regretting it now.

  Although the women traveled fast—alternating between a brisk walk and a steady jog—worry had begun to form a hard knot in the pit of the abbess’s belly.

  They’re on horseback … we’ll get there too late.

  Indeed, the urgency that had driven her to call the Sisters of Kilbride to arms had faded, and in its place grew a gnawing worry.

  Things hadn’t started well at dawn. Once she’d gathered the sisters to her, it had become evident that three of the nuns were unwell: Sisters Anis, Fritha, and Morag had all come down with fevers and coughs overnight. A chill had settled over the abbess as she’d sent the nuns back to the dormitory to rest—she’d feared that MacKinnon had brought the sickness with him to Kilbride, and she’d been right. She’d left Sister Magda to tend them; ‘Old Magda’ wasn’t agile or strong enough to join the others anyway.

  Mother Shona frowned as she pushed aside a pine branch. She didn’t want to leave the nuns behind with only an aged woman to tend them, yet she had no choice.

  She had committed to this now.

  Breathing hard, the abbess pushed herself up the last few yards toward the tree-lined brow of the hill. Like the other nuns, she’d adjusted her clothing for this journey. Under her skirts, she wore woolen leggings, and she had knotted her underskirts and habit, tying them around her hips with twine. It wasn’t an ideal solution, yet it enabled the nuns a far greater freedom of movement.

  Although she was one of the oldest women in the group, she had deliberately led the way. The sisters depended upon her strength and guidance. She could not lag behind.

  Fortunately, the hard, physical toil of a nun’s life prepared the abbess for this journey. Even so, as she shouldered her way between two embracing fir trees, Mother Shona noted that her legs now ached and her lungs burned from exertion.

  However, when she stepped out of the trees, and her gaze alighted upon the valley beyond, the abbess came to an abrupt halt.

  Behind her, Sister Elspeth, who’d
kept pace with her the whole morning, breathed a prayer.

  A pitch-battle was taking place in the valley below. Men on horseback—the Dunan Guard—had engaged a host of warriors on foot. The clang of metal, the meaty thud of weapons connecting with flesh, and the cries of the injured and dying rang out.

  “The outlaws came out to meet them,” Elspeth gasped.

  “Aye.” Mother Shona glanced over her shoulder at the nun. She knew an abbess shouldn’t play favorites, but she’d warmed to Sister Elspeth far less than many of the other sisters over the years. She could be a trouble-maker and a gossip. And yet, this morning she’d shown a different side to her character.

  The moment Mother Shona had announced her plan, the nun had swung into action, ordering the younger sisters about and ensuring they were ready to depart as quickly as possible.

  There had been no word of complaint from her on the journey east. She had not questioned Mother’s Shona’s decision—not once.

  Meeting the nun’s eye now, the abbess saw the trust, the utter conviction that whatever Mother Shona decided was right.

  The abbess’s breathing hitched. Merciful Lord, I hope I have made the right decision.

  She’d fought in battles during her time with the outlaws. But the women who followed her had not. She only hoped she’d prepared them adequately for this.

  One by one, the sisters emerged from the trees and halted upon the brow of the hill, their gazes sweeping to the fight unfolding beneath them.

  Mother Shona searched their faces, her belly clenching when she saw some of the nuns pale, their eyes growing huge as they observed the violence. One or two even swayed a little on their feet, as if they might faint.

  What have I done?

  “Mother Shona!” Sister Elspeth’s voice rang out, drawing the abbess’s attention once more. “Look … it’s Sister Coira!”

  Following Sister Elspeth’s pointing finger, the abbess turned and peered into the fray.

  And there, at the heart of it, she spied a tall woman, fighting with a quarter-staff.

  Mother Shona’s breathing caught. Coira was no longer wearing her habit—her long dark braid flying as she whirled, ducked, swung, and jabbed. Yet she stood out amongst a crowd of men—and as the abbess watched, Coira brought a big man down with a deadly swing to the jaw.

  Mother Shona’s heart started to pound. I taught her that move. Indeed, she had—although she’d never been as deadly with a quarter-staff as Coira was.

  “She’s magnificent.” The surprise in Sister Elspeth’s voice jerked the abbess back to the present. Sisters Coira and Elspeth had never been friends, and yet the nun stared at Coira with awe upon her face.

  The expression jolted the abbess into action. Heart pounding, she turned to the nuns following her. “MacKinnon has brought nothing but misery to the folk of this land.” Her voice lifted above the roar of battle that echoed up from below. “Our own sisters have suffered at his hands. He hunted Sister Ella and abducted Sister Leanna. They would likely still be with us, if not for him.”

  Breaking off there, Mother Shona saw the gleam in the nuns’ eyes, the determination in their faces. Then, inhaling deeply, she continued. “Sister Coira is down there fighting for her life. Are we going to let her do so alone?”

  A few feet away, Sister Mina drew the knife at her waist. A slight tremble betrayed her nerves, yet her gaze was fierce. “No!”

  “No!” The other nuns echoed, drawing their weapons.

  “Those with longbows remain at a safe distance and pick off as many men wearing MacKinnon colors as ye can,” Mother Shona instructed. Calmness descended upon her. “The rest of ye, with me.”

  Her gaze swept over the line of nuns once more. There were only twenty of them: women armed with dirks, longbows, and quarter-staffs. Mother Shona was the only one of their number who wielded a sword. It was a different weapon to the huge claidheamh-mors that the men below used. She’d had a smith in Torrin fashion her a lighter blade not long after she became abbess, one that she could wield one-handed.

  Mother Shona drew her weapon. The double-edged blade glinted in the bright sunlight, and a tight smile curved her mouth.

  If only Aaron could see me now.

  Her lover had taught her how to wield a sword. He’d taught her that speed and agility mattered just as much as strength when it came to swordplay.

  It was at the end of one of their long practice sessions that he’d kissed her for the first time.

  Aaron and the life she’d once lived had seemed an age ago until now. The walls of Kilbride had sheltered her from her past and kept the memories at bay. Yet at that moment, she wasn’t Mother Shona, Abbess of Kilbride—but Shona of Lismore. Wild, brave, and fearless.

  With a howl, she fled down the hill and to battle.

  24

  Legacy

  COIRA KNEW THAT Craeg wanted to be the one to kill MacKinnon—but that didn’t stop her searching for the clan-chief all the same.

  Craeg needed to have his reckoning, yet so did she. However, she couldn’t get close to the front. The press of male bodies was too thick.

  From early on in the battle, she was glad that the quarter-staff was her weapon of choice. Although tall and broad-shouldered compared to many women, she still lacked a man’s brute strength. Those massive broad-swords that even a warrior had to wield two-handed would never have suited her.

  Instead, the iron-tipped quarter-staff cut a path through the ranks of the Dunan Guard. She’d just knocked two men off their horses, when a warrior came at her, sword swinging.

  Blood coursing down one cheek, he had a maddened look upon his face, an expression that warned her the man had passed the point where he cared about his own mortality. If he died bringing her down, so be it.

  Coira spun the quarter-staff, using a two-handed under-arm spin. The weapon flew so fast that it became a blur. Leaping forward, she struck the warrior across the face with the staff, before his blade could reach her. He reeled back, kept his feet, and lunged for her.

  She spun the staff once more and struck her opponent again, felling him this time, before stabbing him through the throat with the pointed end of her weapon.

  Breathing hard, Coira turned quickly to face another warrior and blocked his attack. She then delivered a downward strike, hitting him hard across the ribs. The man hissed a curse and attacked once more, but this time Coira ducked and swept low, knocking the warrior’s feet out from under him.

  Sweat trickled down Coira’s back, heat pulsing through her as she struck, swept, and thrust her way through the fray.

  And then, through it all she caught a glimpse of black and white on the hill above.

  Three nuns, spaced around half a dozen yards apart, were firing arrows into the fray.

  Coira gasped.

  The Sisters of Kilbride were here, fighting alongside the outlaws.

  A few feet away, a MacKinnon warrior went down, a feather-fletched arrow embedded in the back of his neck.

  Coira’s attention snapped back to the fighting then, as another man launched himself at her, dirk drawn. He was trying to get under her guard. Coira gritted her teeth and struck hard, bringing the staff down on his hand. She felt the bones crack under the impact. The warrior howled, the sound choking off when Coira swung her staff into his face.

  Whirling away from the fallen man, Coira peered through the fracas and spied the abbess.

  Mother Mary … she can fight!

  Coira had sparred with the abbess often over the years, but had always known the woman was holding herself back.

  She just hadn’t realized how much.

  The abbess moved like a woman half her age, striking like an adder and dancing away from any attack that came near her. She toyed with the big men who swung at her with their claidheamh-mors. She made them look like lumbering giants as she escaped the reach of their blades again and again.

  Blood splattered across Mother Shona’s face and her snow-white wimple. Her delicate features were set
in hard lines, and her brown eyes gleamed. An instant later Coira recognized Sister Elspeth fighting at the abbess’s side. The woman wielded a dirk, its long blade dripping with blood. Coira remembered that Sister Elspeth was as good with blades as Sister Ella had been. Nonetheless, it was a shock to see the nun fighting with such savagery. The left sleeve of her habit was torn, and blood oozed from a long cut to her upper arm, yet Sister Elspeth paid it no mind.

  Coira’s fingers tightened around the ash quarter-staff.

  She wouldn’t let them face the Dunan Guard alone.

  She resumed her path through the press of MacKinnon warriors and horses. Eventually, her breathing coming in short gasps, she staggered from the press to join the nuns.

  Mother Shona yanked her sword free of a fallen warrior and favored Coira with a savage smile. “Thought we would leave ye out here on yer own, did ye?”

  Coira shook her head, too exhausted to answer. The battle was starting to drain her, and she realized this was where men held a distinct advantage. Their stronger, more muscular bodies withstood battle for longer. They had greater endurance. It was just as well she now stood with the Sisters of Kilbride, for her arms had developed a slight tremor as she spun her staff and readied herself to face a man on horseback who now charged at her.

  This wasn’t the time for her body to fail her.

  She widened her stance, anchoring herself on the ground. And then, an instant before she swung her staff at the warrior bearing down upon her, she caught a glimpse of two men fighting with claidheamh-mors in the heart of the melee: Craeg and MacKinnon.

  Craeg slashed his way through the fray, searching for his half-brother. It seemed that MacKinnon had done the same, for when they finally found each other, the two men paused amongst the chaos, frozen for a moment.

  We share the same blood, Craeg thought, a strange heaviness settling within him, and yet he’s my mortal enemy.

  Craeg knew he shouldn’t be surprised by the hatred between them. How many siblings had turned against each other over the centuries? There seemed to be no greater hate than that between brothers.