Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3)

by Kenna Kendrick

  The men moved closer, all eyes flickering between Anne and Thorvald. Anne’s prowess with a blade was well-known, and few of the men would be willing to tussle with her, blade-to-blade if they could help it. Thorvald backed away a few steps, realising quickly what was happening – they were trying to herd him and Anne like sheep, splitting them off from one another so they could not protect each other. With three quick steps, he was at her side.

  “I’m with you, my love,” he muttered.

  At that moment, three of Neil’s men rushed toward them. Anne had her blade in and out of one of them quicker than he could blink, Thorvald, not as quick but still a competent fighter, stepped in toward the other, parrying his blow aside and thrusting his blade forward with the ruthlessness of a man at the end of his options. Neil’s man stumbled back, blood gushing between his fingers, and Thorvald realised that he had killed again. It was not a pleasant feeling. The third man leapt away from Anne’s blow but did not answer it, instead dropping the tip of his blade toward the ground and falling back toward his fellows.

  In the time it had taken for that one taste of fighting, Thorvald realised with cold dread that Neil’s men now filled the road behind them, as well as in front. His back was to the sloping sea cliff, Anne at his side, and far below the grey-water lay deep, moving restlessly, pockmarked by the rain.

  “There are too many of them,” said Anne in a tight voice. “If they rush us, they’ll have us for sure.”

  “Why don’t they, then?” asked Thorvald.

  “Make way there!” came a shout from the crowd. The crowd parted, making way for a man holding a big, heavy crossbow.

  “By your leave, Captain?” he asked. Neil glared at Anne, and then, in a move that was even more chilling than his rage, she saw him dismiss her.

  “Oh, very well,” he said, looking away. “Kill the woman, and then we can take the boy without losing more of you fools than we absolutely have to. He’s the one worth something, after all.” He looked away, wandering back up through his men, and Anne felt something inside her finally die. She had loved the man, as much as it was possible, and had always hoped that somewhere, somehow, he still loved her too. She blinked a tear quickly from her eye.

  “Anne!” shouted Thorvald, and she snapped back from her reverie. “Can ye swim?”

  “We cannot jump it, it’s certain death!”

  “And this is not? Have ye never dived before?”

  “Well, yes, but...”

  The air near her head thrummed as if a giant bee had buzzed by her. A crossbow bolt sailed past them and disappeared over the edge.

  “Damned fool!” shouted Neil. “Hurry up and finish it!” The crossbowman, muttering, began to reload his cumbersome instrument.

  “Alright,” said Anne. “Ye think we can do it?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m willing tae try.”

  “What are they doing?” they heard someone shout, and Neil was yelling, “No! No! Stop them! Get the boy, get the boy!”

  Anne and Thorvald grasped hold of each other, stealing a last, passionate kiss, and then separated. Arms outstretched, they leapt together into the void.

  Cold, dark, and deep. Anne was floating in a safe and endless place with no up nor down, no here nor there, nothing to fear and nothing to hope for. It was dark, and when she opened her eyes, all she could see was the greenish-grey of the ocean, stretching off into nothingness. For the first time that she could remember, she felt safe, calm, and at peace.

  A sudden hand gripped her by the collar and pulled at her cruelly. The peace was broken, snapped like a spider’s web, and pain lanced into her like a bright light in a dark space. Pain, cold, and sudden panic. She tried to breathe but could not. There was pressure on her face, all around her, enclosing her. No ground beneath her feet, and the hand yanked again at her collar, pulling at her as she began to thrash wildly. Finally, the light-flooded her eyes as Thorvald yanked her out and up above the surface of the sea. The water rushed from her ears, and the sounds of the world came crashing in again, painfully loud as the bright light of the February sun stung her eyes. She tried to breathe, but retched instead, puking up a bellyful of saltwater.

  “Swim, Anne, for God’s sake, swim! Kick!”

  It was Thorvald, shouting in her ear. He had her by the collar and was hauling her toward the cliff that lay not far away.

  “Kick!”

  She kicked, remembering finally that she could swim. She shook free of his hand and began to kick toward the cliff, her arms getting the rhythm as she began to move. After a moment treading water beside her, he seemed satisfied that she was back with him and began to swim toward the cliff behind her.

  It was not that far, but the cold sea current pulled at them, and when finally they hauled themselves up onto the slippery, jagged rocks at the cliff’s base, they were both gasping and exhausted.

  “Hey,” Thorvald gasped, “Anne! Are you with me? Are you alright?”

  “I... I’m here,” she choked, “I’m alright.” She reached across and gripped his hand in hers, shivering violently.

  “Oh, God,” she muttered, then heaved forward again, retching and coughing. He slithered clumsily over the slippery rocks toward her, catching her in his arms and holding her dripping body close, trying to still her violent shuddering. She clung to him, her teeth chattering. The water lapped against the rocks below their feet.

  As the tide slowly dropped, it revealed nothing but a steep slide of rock down to the water. There was no beach, no shore, and no way of getting along the cliff that they could see.

  “We’ll have to swim it,” said Anne eventually. “Look, it’s getting dark. We can’t stay here all night. When the tide comes up, we’ll be drowned like rats. Here...”

  She rummaged in her sodden pack and came up with the brandy. They slugged back mouthfuls of it, waiting for it to take effect and warm them.

  “But where can we swim tae?” said Thorvald, “look at it, there’s bloody nothing there!”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I’m not staying here. I’ll have tae get rid of my sword belt.”

  “So will I,” he said, reaching for his belt with a doubtful expression. “But are ye sure it’s wise?”

  “We have no choice!”

  She managed to stand precariously on the rock. The sword meant a lot to her, but not as much as her life, and she knew it would weigh her down too much for swimming. She was fumbling the wet leather with her cold fingers when Thorvald’s hand suddenly gripped her upper arm.

  “Look, Anne, look!” he cried. She looked where he was pointing and let out a sigh of relief. Coming around the coast, was a little boat, with its single white sail furled and a man rowing steadily round the cliff. He would pass right by them on his current course. Together they stood up as best they could and began to shout and yell, waving their arms in the air. For a terrible moment, it seemed as if the man in the little boat would not hear them over the rush of the rain falling on the shushing sea waves, but then he stood up, gazing around, and then waving to them changed his course. The water was deep and the rocks sheer, so he was able to bring his boat right up to them.

  “Well, now,” he said consideringly, once they were safely loaded, “there’s a tale here, and there’s no mistaking that, but I think it’s a tale for another time. I am bound for Harrow, which lies around the headland here,” he pointed one skinny arm away west. “It’s not far, and there’s an inn and a house where ye can both get dry clothes, and a bite tae eat. That will suit ye both just fine, I’m thinking?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Thorvald, with as much dignity as he could muster. “That will suit us just fine.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “This is the place, alright,” said Captain Morton to Iain Grant as they stood in the bow of the Grants’ ship, staring out into the grey evening. “Just round that point, on the top of the hill. See?” There was a sea-chart half-unrolled in his hand, and he pointed at it with one clean, neatly trimmed fingernail. “W
e’re here, and the castle is just over that ridge of land there.”

  Iain nodded with concern.

  “Aye, I see it right enough. Stop us here then, I don’t want tae come in view of the castle just yet. Where is Tom Fisher?”

  Thorvald’s foster father, Tom Fisher, was called for, and Iain walked with him across the clean timber of the ship’s deck. The captain excused himself to go and see to setting the watches for the night. It was a cold evening even for February this far north, but despite the oppressive grey cloud, it was not raining... yet.

  “What do ye know about these pirates, Tom?” Iain asked once Alice and John had joined them. “We have fifty men here, the twenty who came with ye from the village and thirty of our own. What are we going intae up there? Do we have enough men?”

  Tom Fisher pursed his lips and frowned.

  “I know little about them, Mr Grant. Neil is descendent of a fearsome pirate named John Gow, who was executed in Stromness, oh, fifty years ago now – I’m not sure what the relationship is between the two, but it’s said that Neil got hold of some of John Gow’s wealth and used it tae set himsel’ up as a pirate. He’s got a full crew, I know that much, and he’s some relative of the Earl of Caithness, and of the old Sinclair Earls of Orkney – a good family, but not without their black sheep, apparently. They say he receives some kind of support from the Earl, but I don’t know the truth of that. The Earl is an upright man, and I can’t imagine him having dealings with a pirate, even if it was his cousin.”

  Iain listened patiently, but now cut in. “What about men, Tom? Have ye any idea how many men he might have up there?”

  Tom thought for a moment.

  “Well, there will almost certainly be all those who fought at the raid, plus the non-fighting sailing crew, if any of them are not fighters as well. I’d say at least fifty, maybe more.”

  “And them in a fortified castle, as well.”

  “Aye,” said Tom, “and then there’s Sir Magnus Bain.”

  “Bain?” said Iain. “What about him?”

  “Well, he went off the same day as us. I heard men speaking about him on the docks as we were getting ready. He was marching about making a fuss, trying tae hire a boat tae take him tae the mainland. It’s here he’s coming, Mr Grant, you mark my words. He’s in league with those pirates. He’s a bad sort, that one. He keeps bad company and has the money to indulge them. That’s my opinion.”

  It had become apparent to Iain and Alice on the journey that Tom, though a solid, hard-working, good-hearted man, was not the brightest, but this idea made Iain think. Could it be? The gigantic Sir Magnus Bain indeed presented a terrifying prospect, but to jump from that to him being involved in kidnap and murder was surely too great a leap? However, as Iain had said, the key to the Earldom was a prize a man might play a deep and desperate game for. In such circumstances, it was best to treat everything with caution.

  John Grant broke in on his thoughts.

  “Father, we should not stay here. Let us land a party of men onshore on this side of the headland, then march up tae scout the castle on foot. I don’t want tae get caught on the water by these pirates. On land, I’d be confident that we could take them, even if they do outnumber us, but this Neil Gow-Sinclair and his men know about fighting on the water better than we do. I don’t want to get caught out by them.”

  Alice nodded in agreement, and Iain saw the sense in it.

  “Aye, I was thinking the same thing myself, son. Come, where has the captain gone? Find him and give him the orders. We’ll retreat a little in case they come out in their ship and catch us unawares, and then we’ll drop anchor in some sheltered cove. The men can get ashore, and we’ll head overland tonight and see what we can in the morning.”

  Grim-faced, John Grant obeyed his father’s orders and went to find the captain, who agreed whole-heartedly with that plan. He had no desire to face the dreaded Neil Gow-Sinclair in a pitched sea battle. With remarkable speed, the ship got underway, putting distance between themselves and Borve castle.

  Iain Grant stood in the bow and watched the land retreating from them. In his mind, he saw the image of the gigantic figure of Magnus Bain, looming in the doorway of the cathedral at Kirkwall. Ye and yer damned priests, he had said to Benedict. Could he be up there already, in Borve Castle, bargaining with Neil Gow-Sinclair for the boy’s life? He had the gold for it, as Tom said. And how would the giant respond to Iain and his men turning up, trying to affect a rescue? Iain had the uneasy feeling that Sir Magnus Bain was the kind of man whom one did not want to fight. Ever.

  * * *

  “Damn it, Magnus,” he muttered to himself. “Get a grip on yerself. Ye cannot go on like this.”

  Blood spattered his gauntleted hand. He wiped his mouth with the corner of his cloak and spat into the dirt. The last coughing fit had been the worst yet, but he could master it. He would have to.

  The disappointment of finding Neil’s castle empty had gutted him. He had raged from room to room of the old place, looking for something, anything, that would tell him where they had gone, where they had taken the boy. It was the damned priest, he just knew it. Father bloody Hallam, may you burn in Hell, he cursed the little man. The priest had got there ahead of him, stolen the boy or warned or paid the pirate; somehow, they had spirited him away. There had been nobody there.

  Eventually, Magnus calmed himself enough to get out of the castle and sit for a while, eating a little food and drinking some water – he had little enough appetite these days, but he forced himself to eat. His new horse looked at him dolefully from where he had tied her, in a little copse of woodland away from the entrance to the gloomy castle. There had been nothing of value in the room that was clearly the captain’s office. Well, he thought, that was not strictly true.

  He drew it out again, the long, thin slip of paper, beady eyes peering at it as he walked back toward the horse.

  Honoured cousin, it began, and went on to list a whole range of items which were being delivered today, “with this missive and my good wishes for yourself and our mutual charge....” It was signed “William,” and the top of the sheet bore the distinctive coat of arms of William Sinclair, 10th Earl of Caithness who, though only recently having taken up his position, had already begun to make a mark on the region. A very respectable man, the Earl. So why on earth was he provisioning and facilitating his ‘honoured cousin,’ the most un-respectable Neil Gow-Sinclair? And who was their ‘mutual charge?’

  Magnus filed the information away for later use, tucked the note into a pocket, and got back on the horse. The animal whinnied unhappily and danced a few steps. He couldn’t blame the poor beast for protesting. Magnus was a heavy load, and he knew it.

  “Not long now, lad,” he said to the horse, and he flicked his ears up at the sound of Magnus’ deep, growling voice. “Not long now.”

  For want of anything else to do, he rode slowly back along the road toward Harrow. It was perhaps a day and a night’s ride at a comfortable pace, and he thought that it would probably be the best place to wait since anybody coming to or from Orkney was likely to pass that way. If nothing else, he would almost certainly catch Hallam there. If he could restrain himself from wringing the priest’s neck on sight, he might be able to get some answers from him.

  He had been riding this road in silence, deep in his own thoughts, when the coughing had taken him again. He slid from his horse and waited for the fit to pass, and when eventually it did, he rose and looked around, wiping his hand absent-mindedly on a corner of his cloak. Voices were coming up the road toward him. Instinctively, he felt that he should hide, and he pushed the horse off the road and away into the deeper woods that flanked the road. Clambering up a slippery bank, he reached a point where he could lie down and see the road without being seen. He waited.

  “No way they could have survived that,” were the first words he heard. A rough, Scots accent, but with a trace of another accent too.

  “Ah, I don’t know, more lives than a c
at, that one,” replied a second.

  “Oh, come on, did ye not see that drop? Dead as dead, the two of them. A pity, though. The captain is not happy, and not likely tae get any happier either.”

  Magnus was looking down on two armed men, dressed scruffily in bright colours and both sporting beards, earrings, and gold jewellery. They were big men, heavy-set and brawny, with swords and daggers at their belts. As they conversed, they kept glancing over their shoulders as if afraid they might be overheard.

  More men followed, but these two seemed to be scouts. Not that they were paying much attention to anything but their own conversation.

  “And two more of ours dead, too. That damned fool McManus, trying tae go up against her. Everyone knows she’s the fastest blade that’s ever been seen in Neil’s crew.”