“Aye?”
“You survive, Highlander.”
Without waiting for his reply, she wheeled and fled down the stairs and across the courtyard, gathering her weapons on the way.
In the great hall, Lady Alicia ambled through the gathering crowd. The women were flitting around the room like agitated hens.
At first, she’d been horrified to be trapped on the wrong side of the castle wall, with Morgan instead of Roger. But now she saw it might have its advantages. Like a lucky chunk of bread, she’d landed butter-side-up once again.
Without a doubt, Roger’s army would win. They far outnumbered Morgan’s forces at Creagor. And they had more provisions. Whether they chose to lay siege or attack—and knowing Roger’s temper, she would wager on the latter—they would triumph.
Since Morgan had no idea that Alicia was allied with the English invaders, she’d be perfectly safe until Roger declared victory and came to rescue her.
To ensure Morgan’s trust, she created a new tale for herself. And naturally, once she confided in a few maids, the myth spread like fire in a hayfield among the gossipmongers of the mac Giric clan.
Within half an hour, everyone had heard that poor Alicia, wrongly accused of murder, had been pursued by the English and followed here to Creagor. She’d been fortunate to elude them. And terribly grateful to Morgan for rescuing her from the avenging horde.
But there was still a problem. She hadn’t confronted Morgan himself.
He might accept her story as the truth. He might be convinced of her innocence.
But what if Roger’s knights disclosed the tale she’d told to them—that Morgan himself had committed the murder of Lord Edward?
She chewed on her nail.
She needed a safeguard.
Across the hall, beside the fire, young Danald sat, balancing Morgan’s son on one knee. As he jostled the chuckling infant up and down, Danald was grinning like a fool.
With a calculating smirk, Alicia sauntered over to the hearth, keeping a watch out for that intrusive maidservant, Bethac. Warming her hands over the low flames, she glanced at Danald.
Forcing her lips into an indulgent smile, she sat beside him. “Isn’t he the most beautiful child?”
Danald’s grin froze at once.
Shite. He must have been warned about her. The lad gave her a polite nod and cradled the babe against his chest.
She made another attempt. “’Twas so kind of Morgan to take me back,” she said softly, running her finger fondly down the babe’s spine. “After all, a babe should be with his real mother. Don’t you agree?”
Danald’s face clouded.
Alicia silently cursed again. How could he agree? Danald was an orphan, raised by a milkmaid.
“Or at least,” she added diplomatically, “someone who loves him like a real mother.” She twisted a finger in the curls at the back of the babe’s neck. “And that I do.”
Danald still looked guarded.
She lowered her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, asking gently, “You don’t believe what they’re accusing me of, do you? The English?”
Danald cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “I only know the laird entrusted me to keep his bairn safe, m’lady.”
“And you’re doing a fine job of it,” she said with a watery smile, “for which both of us are grateful. I only wish…” She broke off with a sob, then murmured under her breath, “I’m not a murderer. I swear to you, Danald. I wouldn’t hurt a soul. I wish he’d believe me.”
Danald, extremely ill-at-ease now, gulped and glanced around the hall. “I’m sure… I’m sure the laird will do what’s right.”
She smiled through her tears. “I’m sure you’re right.” She placed a tender hand on the lad’s shoulder. “At least you believe me, don’t you, Danald?”
What else could the lad say? “Sure, m’lady.”
She reached out to stroke the full length of the babe’s back with her knuckles. “I’ll confess,” she whispered. “I miss holding the wee babe.”
He said nothing. When her hand slipped farther down to contact Danald’s forearm, she let her touch linger.
“You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t let me hold him? Just for a moment? I promise I won’t move from this spot.”
Danald’s brows came together with worry. “I don’t know, m’lady. The laird—”
“I won’t tell him. It can be our secret.” She bit her lip, letting the tears well in her eyes. “It may be the last time I can hold my son.”
Before he could answer, the doors to the great hall crashed inward, slamming against the walls and bringing the room to silence. In strode that infuriating, bow-wielding wench to waylay Alicia’s plans.
Grinding her teeth in frustration, she withdrew from Danald and the infant. She’d have to adjust her strategy. She sank into the shadows to wait.
Chapter 62
“Hear me!” Jenefer called out, securing the door behind her and holding a hand up for quiet. “I bring grave tidings.”
The room rapidly silenced. But when she looked into the fearful faces of the clanswomen, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. These weren’t the Rivenloch maids, who were accustomed to staring death in the face. They were ordinary women—wives, mothers, milkmaids. Living in the remote Highlands, they’d probably never endured a siege or waged a war.
Still, they were strong, as tough as thistles. She could see that by their callused hands and determined faces.
“’Tis the English who storm our gates.”
Gasps and epithets filled the hall.
She waited for them to silence.
“Ladies of mac Giric, I need your aid. The laird needs your aid,” she said. “I won’t lie to you. The English have a stockpile of resources. More soldiers. More weapons. And more experience. But what they don’t have is the courage and heart of the clan mac Giric. And sometimes that’s more important than experience.”
She perused the faces before her. They were looking at her with trust. She didn’t want to put them in danger. But she needed their cooperation.
“Those are our men out there, she said. Then she paused, realizing what she’d said. Our men. No matter that she’d known Morgan only a few days, that he belonged to another, that their love was hopeless. She still thought of him as hers.
Straightening with pride, she said, “They need our help. And we can give it. Now is your chance. Show me what Highland lasses are made of.”
Her challenge got their attention.
“Do you have the courage to fight alongside your kinsmen?” she asked. “Or will you cower here behind closed doors?”
A few took offense at her remarks and stepped forward.
“I’ll fight.”
“I don’t cower.”
“I can throw a punch as well as any man.”
Several lasses chimed in in agreement.
“What about the rest of you?” she asked. “Will you let the English spill the blood of good Scots soldiers? Or are you brave enough to spit in their faces?”
By the snarls of outrage, Jenefer quickly learned that Highlanders had even less tolerance than Lowlanders for the English.
But despite their growing enthusiasm for the fight, Jenefer wouldn’t put the lasses’ lives at risk. She wasn’t a fool. They had no battle experience. And their laird would have her neck if she endangered his clanswomen.
So she quickly laid out her plans.
“Our best chance against the English is to convince them not to invade. We have to intimidate them, make them believe we’re not worth the battle.”
“Us?” someone said. “Intimidate them?”
“Aye,” she said. “We may not have the strength of wolves. But we have the guile of wildcats. If we can make ourselves look larger than we are, we might make the English reconsider a frontal attack and convince them to lay siege instead.”
Once she explained what she wanted them to do, the lasses’ faces lit up at the prospect of such wily subterf
uge. They quickly dispersed to follow her instructions.
Jenefer’s attention was drawn to the hearth, where the young lad still held Miles safely in his arms. Perhaps Morgan had been right to trust him. She gave him a nod of approval, communicating that she had faith in him to keep the bairn safe.
He gave her a solemn nod in return.
Then she bolted up the stairs. She’d seen no sign of Feiyan, and she needed her cousin’s aid.
Bethac and Cicilia met her on the steps as they scurried from the nursery.
“Who is it?” Bethac hissed. “Who’s stormin’ the gates?”
“The English.”
Cicilia gasped.
“Where’s Feiyan?” Jenefer asked.
“She’s not with ye?”
“Nay.”
Bethac’s brow wrinkled. “I saw her climb into bed last night.”
Jenefer nodded. “And she was sleepin’ this morn when…” A sudden, nasty twinge of foreboding seized the back of her neck. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, pushing past the lasses on the stairs and hurtling along the passageway.
She knew what she’d find even before she exploded through the nursery door. She tore the coverlet off the bed. The lump she’d believed was her cousin was just that—a lump.
“Shite.”
Feiyan had deceived them. It wasn’t the first time she’d used such a ploy to make an escape. The slippery wench must have stolen from the nursery and fled. But when? And to where?
The last Jenefer had seen of her cousin was when she’d returned from the practice field last night. Even then, she couldn’t be sure the lump in the bed beside her had been Feiyan and not just carefully arranged bedlinens.
Could Feiyan have gone after Alicia? Had she been intercepted by the English? Was she lurking in the woods?
Damn her devious cousin! She’d picked the worst possible time to disappear.
Jenefer blew out a steadying breath. Then she whirled and exited the nursery. There was no time to dwell on obstacles. She’d just have to lead the battle on her own.
Alicia, hidden in the shadow of the hearth, had heard enough.
She didn’t think the Highland women were capable of pulling off the lass’s rash scheme. But enough doubt nibbled at the corners of her confidence to convince her she definitely needed to ensure her own safe escape.
With everyone rummaging through bedchambers, collecting men’s clothing, the great hall was essentially deserted except for her, the lad, and the infant. From her secluded spot, Alicia could easily reach the small iron shovel used for scooping out ashes. So while Danald babbled to the babe, pointing to the happily crackling fire, she coiled her fingers around the handle of the shovel.
“Danald,” she called softly from behind him, drawing the shovel back like a club.
He jerked at the sound of her voice. “Oh! M’lady! I’d forgotten ye were ther—”
As he turned toward her, she swung forward. The flat of the shovel struck his temple with a dull thud. He dropped like a stone. The child spilled out of his arms, hitting the hard floor.
She let go of the shovel and scooped up the infant. He was still and silent. She thought he might be dead, killed by the impact. Not that it mattered. She only needed Morgan to believe his son was alive.
After a moment, however, the lad began to squirm. His face turned red, and he opened his mouth to wail in protest.
She smothered his cries against her chest before they could draw too much attention. Then, with her head bowed, clinging to the shadows of the hall, she skirted past the gathering women and slipped out the door.
The courtyard was in chaos.
Men raced back and forth with swords, bows, pikes, and shields, shouting orders.
The penned sheep milled in a panicked circle.
Chickens flapped in the rising dust.
Archers stood atop the front wall, their bows at the ready.
A heavy cart blocked the entrance, and three strong men pushed their backs against it. But a jarring blow from outside rocked the gates, forcing the men to scramble to slide the cart back into place.
It wouldn’t be long now. Roger and his men would break down the gates. They’d charge in with gnashing teeth and slashing broadswords, leaving carnage in their wake.
But she’d be fine. Her safety was assured. She had control of the most valuable mac Giric asset. Morgan would surrender his castle, his clan, and even his life for his precious heir.
With strangely maternal calm, she stroked the back of the infant’s downy head. His cries were loud, desperate, insistent. But they couldn’t be heard above the din of the coming battle.
“Shite,” Morgan muttered as he watched the men shove the cart back against the gates.
They couldn’t hold out forever. The English axes had made a crude battering ram out of a fallen tree. Eventually, the repeated pounding would splinter the wooden doors.
He’d hoped to force the invaders to a siege rather than an attack. Once tempers cooled, he might be able to negotiate for peace.
But it was clear that wasn’t the situation. Their blood was hot. Their thirst for revenge was urgent. Alicia had probably told them that the keep was ill-prepared for battle. That Morgan’s resources were limited and his men were few. It was only a matter of time before they breached the courtyard and started spilling clan blood.
He couldn’t let that happen. He eyed his claymore, propped against the wall. Eventually, he might have to surrender the keep. Or bargain with his own life to save the lives of his people. But he didn’t intend to surrender without a valiant fight.
Abandoning diplomacy, he instigated battle tactics, using a castle’s first, best line of defense.
“Archers, take your positions!” he yelled.
As one, they snapped to attention along the wall. Morgan was impressed with their new discipline, something they’d doubtless learned from the master archer who’d been working with them.
“Aim!” he called, peering down at the invaders. “Draw!” Hearing his command, the English raised their shields to form a protective armor of sorts, resembling a giant scaled dragon. “Loose!”
The handful of arrows rained down. Most of them bounced off or lodged in the overlapping shields. But one shaft managed to find a crevice between the shields, piercing a man in the shoulder.
At this rate, with so few archers manning the wall, even if they managed to hit their mark every time, they’d be lucky to claim a half dozen victims before they spent all their shafts.
Morgan scowled, scraping his hair back with one hand. This wasn’t going to work.
As he racked his brain, trying to think of a better strategy, more clansmen arrived to populate the wall. He narrowed his eyes. They were carrying a strange assortment of objects—rocks, pots, crockery, clay vessels, iron pans, cooking spoons. A few even brought jordans.
It was only when he looked closer that recognition dawned. They were dressed in men’s clothing. But they weren’t men. They were the lasses of the clan, come to join the fight.
It didn’t take him long to guess whose idea that was.
“Jenefer,” he grumbled.
Furious that she’d convinced the mac Giric clanswomen to leave the protection of the great hall, he prepared to order them back.
But before he could intervene, one of the lasses hurled a stone at the English. Another pitched a ceramic bowl. Two more heaved an iron cauldron over the wall.
He heard a yelp and peered over the edge. One of the Englishmen had been knocked flat by the cauldron. The commander beat a retreat as more rocks and pottery hailed down upon them.
The lasses celebrated their moment of victory with silent glee, their eyes shining as they ducked back from the wall to let a second wave of women take their place.
Even if he didn’t approve of the risk, Morgan had to admire their cleverness. Not only had they made the English believe they were confronting a larger army of men, but they’d managed to fend them off with their makeshift weapons.
The strategy wouldn’t work forever, of course. The English quickly perceived that the falling objects might be annoying, but they were fairly harmless. Soon they began shooting back at the culprits who were dropping them.
Morgan had to act to keep his clanswomen safe.
Suddenly, from his left flank, he heard a familiar female voice. “Fall back!”
Damn the wench! Why was Jenefer standing at the embrasure, directly in the line of fire? It was far too risky. Anything could happen.
No sooner did he have that thought than he saw something fly past her shoulder.
An enemy arrow. Sharp. Deadly. And far too close.
Chapter 63
Morgan’s heart seized. His breath caught. His knees turned to custard.
Jenefer, however, didn’t even flinch.
“Archers, move in!” she ordered.
His jaw went slack. He didn’t know whether to be mortified or outraged. How dared the lass interfere with his command? What gave her the authority to tell his men—and women—what to do?
“Take your best shots!” she shouted.
His brows collided. He whirled toward her with clenched fists.
But Jenefer, fully engaged in battle, was blind to everything but the war being waged on the ground below.
Before he could bellow at her to go back to the great hall, he heard the random twang of bowstrings, followed by distant groans of pain. He ventured a glance over the battlements. To his surprise, the mac Giric archers had wounded several of the attackers.
He looked at Jenefer in wonder.
“Second wave!” she called out.
Though he was tempted to haul the lass off the wall, Morgan couldn’t argue with the effectiveness of her strategy. While the English, unprotected by their shields, attempted to recover from the archers’ attack, the lasses rushed forward to hurl stones, cups, and pots down at them.
As the English flinched and dodged the projectiles, unable to form an effective wall of shields in the confusion, the mac Giric archers took over again, stepping in to shoot at them.
Bride of Fire Page 29
