“Ready?” Gordon asked.
Magnus nodded.
Gordon wedged his candle between the bags and started to run. “Now!” he yelled.
Magnus secured his candle and did the same.
There should have been plenty of time to make it up the stairs and out of the tower before the first explosion. But something went wrong. Magnus was a few feet from the door—Gordon a few feet behind him—when the first shattering boom exploded beneath them, the concussion of sound and earth knocking him to the ground. The ground was still moving as the second one sounded.
He covered his ears and tried to get to his feet. The explosions were too loud. Too powerful. What the hell had happened?
He couldn’t hear a damned thing, but somehow he knew Gordon was saying something. He turned around, seeing him shout—“Run!”—but it was too late. The walls were coming down, and they were trapped.
He tried to fight his way to the entry, attempting to dodge the falling stone that crashed all around him. One big stone hit him in the shoulder, sending a crushing blast of pain through his entire left side. He staggered. His ears were still ringing, but he could hear Gordon shout behind him and knew he’d been struck, too. He turned around to try to help him, but at that moment the tower collapsed around them.
Magnus put up his arm, trying to shield himself from the rain of stone pelting him mercilessly, driving him to the ground.
He was certain he was dead. But somehow, when it stopped, the tower was gone, and he was still alive.
He extracted himself from the pile of rubble and looked around for Gordon, blinking against the acrid smell of the black powder and the heavy cloud of dust and ash swirling all around him.
Through the ringing in his ears he heard a moan. Gordon! He crawled through the pile of rocks toward the sound. At first he couldn’t see him. Then he looked down and felt his stomach heave.
His friend was sprawled out on the ground in a sickly position, buried under a pile of enormous stones, the largest of which—part of one of the massive pillars of the vault—had fallen across his chest, pinning him and crushing his lungs.
Magnus swore, trying to pull the rocks off. But he knew it was useless. It would take three or four men of Robbie Boyd’s strength to lift that pillar—and he had only one good arm. His left arm had been crushed badly, at the shoulder and forearm. He tried to cry out for help, but the others had to be too far away.
But he wouldn’t give up.
“Stop,” Gordon wheezed. “It’s no use. You have to go.”
Magnus didn’t listen. He gritted his teeth against the pain and redoubled his effort with both hands.
“Stubborn …” Gordon’s voice dropped off. “Go. They’re coming. You can’t let them capture you.”
Suddenly, Magnus was aware of the voices behind him, coming from the sea-gate. He staggered to the collapsed wall and looked over, seeing the English climbing up. They’d been slowed, but not blocked. In a minute or two they’d be filling the bailey.
He swore and returned to his friend. “Try to press up, while I pull.”
Gordon shook his head. “I can’t move.” He held Magnus’s eyes. “I’m not going to make it.”
The sickly liquid sound of his voice punctuated his words. Blood was filling his lungs.
“Nay,” Magnus said furiously. “Don’t say that.”
“You know what you need to do. I can’t do it myself. My hands are pinned.”
Oh God, no. He shook his head. “Don’t ask that of me.”
Gordon ignored him. “Helen,” he breathed. “Promise me you’ll watch over her.”
“Damn it, Templar,” Magnus growled, his eyes stinging.
“Promise me.”
Magnus couldn’t find the words, but he nodded.
Their eyes held. “You can’t leave them to find me,” Gordon said. “I’m not sure how long this will take. I won’t take the chance that anyone can identify me. You know what’s at stake. The Guard. My family. They will be at risk.”
Helen would be at risk. Gordon didn’t need to say it. There was little the English wouldn’t do to discover the names of the Highland Guard. It was why they were so careful. Why they used war names to cover their identities. MacRuairi had been uncovered, and he had such a bounty on his head that all of England and half of Scotland were hunting for him.
Magnus didn’t have a choice. He did what he had to do.
Four
Helen did not let the difficulty of what she had to do dampen her spirits for long. She was confident she was doing the right thing in ending her marriage before it had begun to William, and that it would all work out for the best in the end. It was getting to the end, however, that would be hard.
But she wouldn’t let her brothers change her mind—not this time. Which meant she had to do her best to avoid them until William returned.
It wasn’t easy. The day after the men left, an unusually heavy winter storm descended over Lorn, burying the castle and surrounding countryside in nearly a foot of snow and delaying the departure of most of the wedding guests. The icy blast of winter also left the men—including her brothers—unable to train and confined to the Great Hall.
Thus, Helen spent most of her time with the women and children in the small second-floor solar occupied by Lady Anna and her husband, Arthur Campbell, who’d been appointed keeper of the castle.
After four days of nothing to do but sew (which Helen dreaded even in the best of circumstances) and listen to Christina MacLeod do her best to instill excitement in Pliny (the library at Dunstaffnage was limited to a few scholarly works), while trying to keep the six-month-old Beatrix MacLeod away from the brazier (she’d just learned to crawl) and quiet the four-month-old Duncan MacSorley (who seemed to cry at the barest provocation), they were all going a little crazed.
Ellie most of all. The new mother looked close to tears as she bounced the screeching infant in her arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she groaned, clearly overwhelmed. “He won’t stop. His father does nothing but grin like the devil, but all he does is cry.”
“My daughter did the same thing,” Bella said. “I think she screamed for two months straight when she was his age.”
Helen didn’t miss the note of sadness in her voice. Bella’s daughter was in England, living in exile with her father’s family. She didn’t know the exact circumstances, but it was clear Bella missed her terribly.
“The yarrow and mint seems to help a bit,” Ellie said with a look of gratitude to Helen. “But how I wish Erik were here! He seems to be the only one who can make Duncan quiet.”
“He’ll be back soon,” Bella said firmly.
The women had been trying to hide it from her, but Helen could sense their worry. She felt it, too. For Magnus—and for William, of course. It was the curse of women, being forced to stay behind to wait and worry as the men went off into battle. The reality of her fate unsettled her.
“Why don’t you give him to me for a while,” Christina offered, holding out her hands for the baby. “The snow seems to have stopped for a—”
Bella jumping to her feet and racing out of the room, her face a sickly gray, interrupted her.
Helen stood. “Perhaps I should see if she needs anything. That’s the second time this week she’s not felt well after breaking her fast.”
Christina, Ellie, and Anna exchanged smiles. “She’s fine,” Christina said. “I suspect she’ll be feeling much better in a few months.”
“A few months?” Helen asked.
Ellie shook her head, gazing lovingly at her son, who’d miraculously fallen asleep in Christina’s arms. “I felt ill the entire time. Perhaps I should have guessed he’d be trouble. But he’s a cute little devil. You are fortunate, Anna, that you have escaped the malady.”
Anna unconsciously rubbed her stomach. “On the contrary, all I seem to want to do is eat. I dream about my next meals.”
Finally, Helen understood. “She’s expecting a child?”
<
br /> Christina nodded.
Helen flushed, realizing Bella must have anticipated her impending marriage to Lachlan MacRuairi by at least a few weeks.
“Go,” Christina said to Ellie. “Get a bit of fresh air. I’ll watch him for a while.”
Ellie bit her lip uncertainly. Helen’s heart went out to her. Christina was right. They all needed to get out of this castle. Helen, too. All the talk of marriage and babies made her feel anxious. The walls seemed to be moving closer. But with all the snow …
Suddenly, a broad smile spread over Helen’s face. She had the perfect way to take advantage of the wintry weather and put a smile back on Ellie’s face.
“I have a better idea,” she said. “But you’re going to need to bundle up.”
Ellie had looked skeptical at first, and Helen had the feeling that she’d suggested something silly again.
“Ride down the hill on what?” Ellie had said. But an hour later she was sliding down the small hill behind the castle, screeching with laughter.
The daughter of the most powerful earl in Ireland and sister to Scotland’s imprisoned queen came to a magnificent stop, flying off the targe and landing in a deep puff of powdery white. When she finally managed to extricate herself from the bank of snow they’d built to cushion their landings, she was covered in white. She dusted the snow from her gown, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and shook the rest from her hair.
“Did you see that?” she asked excitedly. “I was going so fast I felt like I was flying. You were right—rubbing the wax on the leather was a great idea.” Her eyes twinkled. “Although I doubt Arthur will be happy when he sees what we have done to the targes hanging in the Great Hall.”
Helen bit her lip. Oh no, she’d done it again. “I didn’t think—”
Ellie laughed. “I was teasing. He won’t mind. And if he does, it was worth it.” She pulled the shield out of the snow. “Ready to go again? The only bad part is climbing back up the hill in all this snow. These boots are slippery.”
Helen laughed. “Aye. But I think we’re going to have a little company.”
She pointed to the castle gate, where a small crowd had gathered. It wasn’t just young children, she noticed, but a number of squires as well. Soon it seemed they had half the castle out with them, sliding down the hill in targes.
Helen was standing beside Ellie atop the hill, laughing as two of the children tried to slide down on one targe, when Ellie suddenly stopped. Her laughter turned into a gasp, and her cheeks, red from the cold, paled.
“What is it?” Helen asked.
Ellie shook her head, her gaze locked on the horizon. “Something’s wrong.”
Helen followed the direction of her stare, seeing at once what had caught her attention. A birlinn had just made the elbow turn around Rubha Garbh, the rocky promontory of land upon which the castle was situated, traveling faster than any ship Helen had ever seen.
“Is it …?”
Ellie turned to her, eyes wide with fear. “Aye, it’s Erik’s ship. He’s going too fast and they’re back too soon.”
They raced down the hill, entering the main gate just as the men rushed into the courtyard from the sea-gate opposite them. A mixture of fear and panic clutched her chest when Helen saw a man being carried into the castle, an arrow protruding from his neck.
Not Magnus! She sighed with relief. Thank God.
Ellie let out a cry that made Helen’s heart clench right before she leapt into her husband’s arms. “You’re all right?” she said, just loud enough for Helen to hear.
The big Norseman didn’t look all right. He looked as though he’d been through hell. All of them did.
Helen didn’t wait to hear his reply. She scanned the crowd of men, heart pounding in her throat. Finally she saw him. He was slowly making his way up the beach from the jetty.
Oh, no! Her heart knifed. He was hurt.
She pushed through the crowd, reaching Magnus just outside the castle gate. She would have rushed into his arms just as Ellie had done to her husband, but his left arm was bound in a sling of linen at his side. He was covered in dirt, soot, and blood.
He stopped when he saw her, his eyes hard with something dark and forbidding that sent an icy chill through her veins.
“You’re hurt,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Gently, she placed her hand on his arm. “Your arm—”
He jerked away from her, gritting his teeth against what must have been a blast of pain. “Leave it, Helen.”
Tears of concern filled her eyes. What was wrong with him? Why was he acting like this? “Is it broken?” She placed her hands on him again. “Let me see it.”
He flinched as if her touch scalded. “Damn it, Helen. Have you no care?”
Helen blinked up at him, taken aback by the fury in his voice. By the passion. Indeed, she’d never heard such passion from him. “Of course I care. I’ve been so worried. I was so scared when I saw you—”
“Me?” he boomed. “I don’t want or need your concern. But what of your husband, Lady Helen? What of the man you married not four days ago? Have you no care for him?”
Helen stepped back, the lash of vitriol so unexpected. “William?”
An icy drop of trepidation slid down her spine.
His soft golden-brown eyes turned as hard and black as onyx, pinning her to the snow-covered ground. “Aye, William. Remember him? Your husband. My friend. The man you took to your bed a few nights ago.”
“I didn’t—”
“He’s dead.”
She let out a gasp of horror, her eyes widening with the shock of his harsh pronouncement. Dead?
She murmured a prayer for his soul.
The look he gave her was full of such hatred and pain it seemed to burn her insides. He turned away, but not before she saw the disgust. “He deserved more from you than prayers. But you’ve never been very devoted in your affections, have you?”
Helen felt a stab of guilt and despair that drained the blood from her body, leaving her as cold and empty on the inside as she was on the outside.
He was right.
For nearly eighteen hours—since he’d stumbled out of the collapsed tower from one hell into another—Magnus had existed in a state of barely repressed anger and torment. Seeing Helen had been the final blow. He’d snapped, giving way to all the emotions lashing inside him.
She’d married Gordon, damn it. It was he who deserved her compassion and concern.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but it didn’t matter. Gordon’s death had finally succeeded in severing the connection between them. Magnus would never be able to see her without thinking of his friend. His dead friend. She belonged to Gordon. Not him.
Magnus pushed aside his anger, knowing he needed to focus on doing for MacGregor what he’d been unable to do for Gordon: saving his life.
By necessity if not inclination, Magnus had become the de facto physician of the Highland Guard. A rudimentary knowledge of healing coupled with “gentle” hands (laughable, given their size and strength) had earned him the position. But it was one thing to press some moss in a wound and wrap it, boil a few herbs for a tincture, or even press a hot iron on a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding; it was another to remove an arrow from the neck of a man who’d taken it to save your life.
When Magnus had emerged from the collapsed tower, it was to find that the English had overtaken the bailey. Only MacRuairi, MacSorley, Campbell, and MacGregor remained. Waiting, it seemed, for Gordon and him.
Leave no man behind. Part of the Highland Guard creed. At least it had been—until Gordon.
Magnus tried to fight his way toward his friends, but the injury to his arm hampered him. Unable to hold a targe or a second weapon, he couldn’t adequately defend himself, and his left side was left vulnerable to multiple attackers. When the English surrounded him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them back for long.
Recognizing that he was in troub
le, MacGregor and Campbell had come to his aid. They’d almost made their way back to the safety of the gate when MacGregor had gone down, ironically felled by an arrow from a longbow. Magnus had seen the arrow protruding from his neck and thought he was dead. He’d let out a roar of pure rage, attacking the English around him with the half-crazed vengeance of a berserker.
He heard the murmurs of “Phantom Guard” rolling through the enemy soldiers, saw the fear in their eyes beneath their helms, and eventually he also saw their backsides as they turned and ran. “Tail” was a slur often directed at the English—and it was well earned.
The English, realizing their prey had already been lost (Edward Bruce had escaped), had decided that taking the slighted castle wasn’t worth dying.
From the moment Campbell realized MacGregor was still alive, Magnus’s only thought was getting him to safety. Riding was out of the question. MacGregor needed to be kept as still as possible. Somehow a small boat had been procured, and with MacSorley at the helm they’d raced back to their own ship, and then on to Dunstaffnage.
Edward Bruce was safe, but at what cost?
Gordon, and now MacGregor? Magnus would be damned if he’d lose another friend this day. It seemed inconceivable that the team could survive intact through two and a half years of war, major battles where hundreds had lost their lives, and even exile, only to lose two of the greatest warriors in Christendom—hell, in Barbariandom as well—in a skirmish.
Every warrior knew that death was part of war. To their Norse forebearers it was the ultimate glory, a philosophy that had lived on in the successive generations. But in his years fighting alongside the other members of the Guard, seeing what they could do, and then hearing the stories of their feats, which had taken on almost mythical proportions, Magnus had started to believe their own legend. Gordon’s death was a brutal reminder that they weren’t invincible.
As soon as they arrived at Dunstaffnage, Campbell sent some men to fetch the healer from a nearby village. But Magnus knew what they needed was a skilled surgeon—something they’d be hard pressed to find even in a major burgh like Berwick, where the guilds would be found. Most surgeons were barbers—as crude at cutting off a limb as they were at trimming a beard. Their training was one of exigency, by trial and error.
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