Bride of Ice

by Glynnis Campbell

  But this was war. War. Where a slip on the grass or a twist of the wrist or blinking at the wrong time meant the difference between life and death.

  He couldn’t stop imagining Hallie sprawled on the sod, her body still, her eyes blank, her blood soaking the emerald green grass.

  He steeled his jaw. He narrowed eyes as cold as stone. He clenched his fist around the haft of his claymore, its lethal blade riding on his shoulder as they marched in deadly silence toward Creagor.

  After several miles, in the distance, he heard the faint sounds of battle. Disembodied shouts and the clash of steel on steel floated toward him like ghosts in the mist. Then a dull pounding shook the earth, as if a giant were stomping slowly across the glen.

  He knew the sound. It was a battering ram.

  In the next instant, the top of the towers of Creagor could be glimpsed through the fog.

  Then, at Feiyan’s command, the charge began.

  With a mighty roar, the knights of Rivenloch unsheathed their blades and drove forward, rumbling across the sod like the deep roll of thunder.

  As they funneled through the palisade gates, the destruction to the castle became apparent. The doors of Creagor were splintered and sagging on their hinges, damaged by the rabid beast of a battering ram. Mac Giric clansfolk stood atop the battlements in desperation, raining whatever heavy objects they could find down upon the enemy. The dust of battle from within the courtyard rose to meet the low-slung brow of gray cloud.

  On the grassy slope, between the castle defenders and the Rivenloch knights, swarmed the enemy. Dozens of swordsmen. At the sound of the oncoming army, they dropped their battering ram and turned away from mac Giric to fight this new, deadlier foe.

  Colban wasn’t afraid. Hell, he’d singlehandedly fought the knights of Rivenloch in nothing but his braies. But his stomach churned at the idea of Englishmen coming after Hallie or Feiyan or any of the warrior maids.

  How the Rivenloch men managed to keep cool heads and calm tempers as they watched their wives and daughters engage in mortal combat, he didn’t know. He could hardly keep breathing.

  As they closed the distance, he experienced a moment of terror when he lost sight of Hallie.

  But it was nothing compared to the way his heart dropped when he found her again.

  She’d engaged the enemy. Blocking a fierce sword blow with her shield, she lashed out with her blade to slash a second man’s thigh.

  Spinning, she hacked at the first man’s arm, forcing the weapon from his grip.

  But though Colban held his breath, waiting for her to be killed at any instant, he was soon reassured there was no cause for worry. Quiet, confident, deadly, and efficient, Hallie dispatched every attacker with ease and grace.

  In that instant, he recognized what everyone in the Lowlands already knew. The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch were a force to be reckoned with.

  His relief didn’t last long.

  In the next moment, two English knights came at him with raised blades, demanding his undivided attention.

  The length of his claymore gave him an advantage. At first. His reach exceeded theirs, keeping them at a safe distance.

  But it was a slow and heavy weapon. And when a third enemy soldier began to engage him, he was unable to recover quickly enough. He was clipped under the chin with the pommel of an English blade.

  His head snapped back, and his helm tumbled off. Simultaneously, the second man’s blade grated along his chain mail sleeve, nearly stripping the gauntlet and claymore from his hand.

  Then the first stepped in to give him a hard shove with his shield. Colban’s heel caught on a stony prominence, and he fell backwards.

  Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to keep his grip on the claymore. He braced his elbow on the ground and held the point aloft. As the knight lunged forward to give Colban a killing blow, the man’s belly met the point of Colban’s blade. Momentum drove the claymore deep under his ribs, killing him instantly.

  Unfortunately, as the slain man fell, he took the claymore with him, leaving Colban to face the two remaining foes without a weapon.

  Without a helm.

  Without a hope.

  Chapter 31

  Hallie sensed danger.

  Like Isabel with her feelings about the future, she could tell when one of her own was in mortal peril in a skirmish. It was almost as if she had a falcon’s eye view of the battle and could detect where her help was needed.

  This time it was Feiyan.

  Her agile cousin was leaping about with her usual skill, confounding the English with her strange weapons—a great fork that snapped swords in half, flying steel stars, and the slim, curved blade that looked frail, but was sharper and more lethal than any English longsword.

  But though she’d managed to perplex three English knights who staggered about with damaged weapons and bodies, Feiyan didn’t see the fourth man stealing up on her between two of his companions.

  Hallie loped toward her cousin, clearing a path with a violent sweep of her sword. Just as Feiyan’s eyes brightened in recognition, the man behind Feiyan lunged toward her.

  Hallie wasted no time. She gave her cousin a hard sideways shove with her shield that widened Feiyan’s eyes, but moved her out of peril. Then, using the back of her sword and the force of her shoulder, Hallie hacked at the attacker just below his knees, felling him like an ancient fir.

  She didn’t stay to see what happened next. Feiyan could handle what hazard remained.

  Instead, her gaze was drawn again to the most immediate danger.

  Colban.

  He was downed. Blood trickled from his chin. He had no weapon. No helm. Just his shield. And that was quickly torn away by one of the two English knights brandishing swords over him.

  If she’d had another instant to waste, dread would have kicked her in the stomach, stunning her to inaction.

  But she didn’t think.

  She acted on impulse. Before she could be frozen by fear.

  “To me!” she cried in savage demand.

  She suddenly thought of Brand’s hedgehog maneuver.

  Against every instinct, she dropped her sword. In the few moments when Colban’s attackers were distracted by her cry, she dove forward in mid-air with all the intensity of a hawk on the hunt.

  At the last instant, she ducked her head, forming a tight ball and rolling once across the sod. Mid-plunge, she crossed her arms to pluck twin daggers from their sheaths at her waist.

  When she rolled onto her feet again, she was too close to her foes for them to use their swords. Not that they would have had time to slash at her. She instantly thrust her daggers outward with killing force, plunging them into the enemies’ shocked hearts.

  As the two English soldiers fell backward, dying before they hit the ground, Hallie offered Colban a bloody hand.

  His jaw was slack. His eyes were full of awe. But all she felt was relief that she’d been able to keep her word to Isabel. That she’d kept him unharmed.

  “I owe ye my life,” he marveled as he took her hand and let her help him to his feet.

  The admiration and gratitude in his eyes tore at her heart. But when love softened his gaze, her soul melted, and her throat thickened with grief.

  She’d killed for him and saved his life, aye, but for what? It was a hollow victory.

  He would never be hers.

  She’d only saved him for another woman.

  He must have seen the truth in her eyes, for his face dimmed with sorrow and frustration. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  There was no time for regret. The battle still raged around them.

  “Better claim your claymore ere someone else does,” she choked out as she retrieved her daggers from her victims. She wiped the bloody blades on the grass and returned them to their sheaths.

  Once Colban had wrenched his weapon free and reclaimed his helm and shield, Hallie swept up her longsword.

  But there was little more to be done. Al
ready the presence of Rivenloch reinforcements had given the mac Girics an advantage. They began pushing the English back through the sagging doors of Creagor.

  Soon the English commander realized he was not only outnumbered. He was trapped between the mac Girics, who had the castle at their back, and the Rivenloch army, which blocked his escape.

  “To Firthgate!” he cried. “Retreat!”

  In the end, Rivenloch showed them mercy, allowing the English to flee through the palisade gates without pursuit. The English at Firthgate might be the enemy, but they were usually neighbors who could be trusted to keep to themselves. Their attempt to claim Creagor when it was most vulnerable was likely a feat they would not repeat. There was no need to encourage vengeance.

  After the battle was over, everyone assembled within Creagor’s walls. Formal introductions were made between the clans. The wounded were tended to. The dead were buried. The doors to the keep were repaired. A victory supper was prepared.

  Hallie avoided Colban, fearful she might break down in tears if she had to look upon the man she’d loved and lost.

  But while everyone else seemed suffused with victory, she languished in misery. And as she watched Jenefer’s face light up with a triumphant glow, Hallie’s melancholy turned to bitter resentment.

  She hoped Creagor was worth it. She hoped her cousin appreciated the steep cost of her prize.

  Laird Deirdre had expressly forbidden anyone to speak of the king’s decision. She wished to deliver the news in her own time and manner. Sensitive negotiations were not to be rushed. And so she waited until supper to make the announcement.

  Hallie supposed that was a wise choice. With Jenefer’s bow and arrows put away and a full plate before her, it was less likely she would erupt in rage and do anything rash.

  Her mother’s careful diplomacy paid off. With cordial composure, she placed the sealed document on the table before Jenefer and announced the king’s decision.

  The mac Giric clan gasped in disbelief, cursing under their breath to learn the king had allowed Rivenloch to claim the castle they believed was their birthright.

  But Laird Morgan quickly reined in their anger. He spoke of the mercy of the Rivenloch knights in their fight against the English. The king’s will could not be argued, he said. Thus they owed Rivenloch the courtesy of returning to the Highlands as soon as possible.

  “The sooner, the better!” Colban called out.

  Hallie’s heart splintered. She hadn’t thought there was anything left of her heart to damage. But now she realized—despite the king’s decree, despite her impending marriage—she’d been clinging to the fact that Colban would at least remain nearby. She knew she might never be able to touch him, to kiss him again. But living close to him, she could look into his eyes, exchange a few words, share a secret smile, and remember what might have been.

  With his declaration, she knew he had other plans. And his eagerness to return home bruised her spirit.

  As the mac Giric clan began to absorb this news, making the best of things, Hallie stared stonily at her mother. When was she going to explain? When was she going to tell everyone about Jenefer’s marriage? When was she going to divulge that the Highlanders were not being asked to leave?

  Laird Deirdre looked ready to speak again when her sister Miriel clamped a hand on her forearm and leaned in to whisper something. Deirdre frowned, but after a few murmured exchanges, she nodded, and they both slid a sideways glance at Jenefer.

  To Hallie’s amazement, normally cocky Jenefer wasn’t crowing about her win. And now that she looked closer, Hallie realized something about her cousin was…different. She seemed more grown up. Calmer. Kinder. More reflective.

  Feiyan had told her much had happened at Creagor in the last few days. Perhaps being a hostage had doused some of the fire from hotheaded Jenefer.

  But nothing could have prepared her for Jenefer’s next words.

  “Wait!” she said. “I don’t want it. I don’t want Creagor.”

  Silence fell over the hall.

  After the shock subsided, a heated exchange erupted between Jenefer and her mother, who was understandably infuriated by Jenefer’s dismissal of something she’d worked so hard to earn.

  Hallie too was enraged by her cousin’s callous and haphazard decision. What had caused her capricious change of heart? Did the selfish lass not even consider the sacrifices that had been made on her behalf?

  But while Jenefer and her mother continued their war of words, Hallie started to wonder how Jenefer’s decision would affect the rest of the negotiations. Was it possible Hallie wouldn’t have to marry Archibald Scott after all?

  Her gaze slid over to Colban. He must have been thinking the same thing. After a breathless glance of desperate hope, they averted their eyes. How the issue would resolve itself remained to be seen. There was no point—and great danger—in relying on fate and the whims of a king.

  Hope had leaped up in Colban’s chest like a spring lamb at Jenefer’s rejection of Creagor. Not because Morgan might be able to hold on to his legacy. But because it might mean Hallie wouldn’t be forced to wed someone else.

  Still, he knew better. Spring lambs were foolish. While they frisked in oblivious delight, a conniving wolf could snatch away their hope—with the snap of its jaws in the blink of an eye.

  It was unwise to hope.

  Hope led to disappointment.

  And no matter how much he cared for Hallie, he had to admit, when it came to kings and politics and arranged marriages, he was out of his depth.

  He supposed he should have recognized that from the start. All Scots were pawns of the crown. But the closer one was to the king, the more critical the royal control of property and alliances and marriages became.

  Creagor was a key border holding.

  The warriors of Rivenloch were powerful weapons.

  And Hallidis of Rivenloch was valuable currency.

  Colban was trafficking with issues out of his realm of understanding.

  And truthfully, when he thought about it, he realized he was actually freer than any of them.

  No one dictated who a bastard took to wife. No one cared how many children an orphan sired. In a general sense, Colban might have to obey the king. But when it came to life choices, he answered to no one.

  Instead of grieving his loss, he should be celebrating his freedom.

  He didn’t know how this argument would be resolved—whether Creagor would go to Morgan by default or Laird Deirdre would insist her niece follow the king’s will to the letter.

  But it didn’t matter. And the sooner he accepted that, the better.

  Either way, he intended to leave Creagor.

  He’d stay long enough to stand up with Morgan if he was compelled to marry Jenefer. He’d defend Morgan, if need be, from her violent temper if she went unwillingly to the altar.

  But he wasn’t going to linger to endure the torture of watching Hallie exchange vows with a man she didn’t love. It would kill him.

  In the end, Laird Deirdre decreed that Jenefer could not refuse the gift of Creagor. But that didn’t diminish the glacial fury that Hallie felt as she gazed upon her ungrateful cousin.

  Much to her amazement, however, not a word was spoken of the price demanded by the king. Of Jenefer’s betrothal. Or her own. Indeed, it wasn’t until the clan was marching home that Hallie began to understand her mother’s strategy.

  Jenefer was a stubborn lass. She resisted commands like a young ox resisting the yoke. The best way to manipulate her was to make her think an action was her own idea.

  No one was allowed to reveal the fact that Jenefer had to wed Laird Morgan in order to win Creagor, because they knew she’d refuse on impulse.

  Instead, her Aunt Miriel had slyly suggested that Morgan’s people remain for a while to help Jenefer settle in. They no doubt imagined that familiarity would soften the blow of the betrothal.

  As if she’d read Hallie’s thoughts, Feiyan caught up with her as she was cros
sing over one of the silver ribbons of a burn that wound through the glen. She nudged Hallie with her elbow.

  “She loves him, you know,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Jenefer,” Feiyan said. “She loves Morgan.”

  Hallie scoffed. “Impossible.”

  “I was as surprised as you are. But ’tis true.”

  “He’s a Highlander. She hates Highlanders.”

  “Not any more. And she adores his wee babe.”

  “Jenefer? Our Jenefer?”

  Jenefer had about as much use for babes as she did for a boar on a leash. She’d risked death, climbing to Creagor’s nursery window to silence the squalling infant.

  “Aye,” Feiyan said, “and until that whole affair with his wife…”

  “His what?” Hallie stopped in her tracks.

  The knight behind her collided with her, muttered an apology, and continued on.

  “’Tis a long tale,” Feiyan said. “Suffice it to say it wouldn’t surprise me if she asked to wed Morgan mac Giric within a sennight.”

  Hallie shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I told your mother. We’re all wagering on it.”

  “You’re wagering?”

  Hallie’s mother stole up beside them to chime in, “We’re giving them a sennight. If they haven’t settled their differences, confessed their love, and figured out that marriage is the best answer by then, we’ll tell them about the betrothal.”

  Hallie had to admit the deception was a clever ploy. Flies were more easily lured with honey than vinegar.

  Then she let out a silent sigh of self-pity. It was a shame her mother couldn’t dream up a way to make her fall in love with Archibald Scott.

  Chapter 32

  Archibald Scott was inconsolable.

  He should never have answered the knock on his bedchamber door. Normally, he let nothing interrupt his nocturnal entertainment. But the servant had said it was a missive from the king. And Archie had mistakenly assumed it was good news.