by Carmen Caine
Sean knew better than to abandon all security. Aye, most of their work had been done, but to send the guard back to Dunollie would be folly. “You must be jesting. How am I to insure your safety?”
“You’re the best man with a blade I know.” Lorn appeared too relaxed—perhaps indulged in a tad too much whisky before donning his armor. “I do not want a cohort of men surrounding the chapel—it will look more like we’re attending a hanging than a wedding.”
Sean didn’t like it. Bloody hell, the man first asked him to provide security and then told him to send his men away. Ballocks to that.
Sean excused himself and found Angus in the great hall. “Lorn wants the guard hidden.”
“Pardon?” The man-at-arms nearly spat out his teeth with the force of his P.
“You heard me. He said to send our men home, but we didn’t scour the forest to walk away and let our enemies move into place.” Sean lowered his voice. “I’ve not informed him about Fraser.”
Angus held up his hands. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Tell the men to pull back—stay out of sight, all except a few. I want two guards at the chapel doors and escorts for Lorn and his bride along the path from the castle.”
Angus scratched his head. “Sounds like a lot of work for nothing. Where do you want me?”
“Lead the men in the forest. Remain mounted. If you hear the ram’s horn, you’ll ken what to do.”
“Aye, I bloody well ken what to do—ring Lorn’s neck. ’Tis a dangerous game he plays.”
“I do not like it either, but he’s our lord and master.”
“Aye and soon his daft son, Dugald, will be lording over us.”
Sean clamped his gauntleted hand on Angus’s shoulder. “Dugald Stewart is Lorn’s flesh and blood. ’Tis past time he was given his due.”
Angus’s expression grew dark. “He’s a bastard, just like…” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Och, bugger it.”
Sean puzzled while he watched his henchman march out the doors. Though a fine warrior, Angus allowed himself to grow emotional about things that shouldn’t concern him. So Lorn wanted to legitimize his only son? As far as Sean was concerned, the Stewart lord should have done it sooner.
After Sean rejoined the wedding party, they started for the castle with a small, but respectable assembly of knights. “Where is Dugald, m’lord?” Sean asked.
“He’s already at the chapel with his mother.” Lorn’s eyes sparked with pride. “I thought it would be best if he stood up for her.”
“Good thinking.” Sean gestured toward the door. “Shall we proceed?”
Once they exited the barbican bridge, the hair on Sean’s nape stood on end. His gaze shifted across the scene. He’d been a warrior too long to ignore the familiar warning. As they neared the chapel, sweat burned his underarms, a prickling sensation skittering across his skin. Sean grasped the hilt of his sword.
The townspeople lined the path, shaded by birch and oak trees. An anxious hum filled the air, akin to a beehive. All were eager to see the Lord of Lorn in his regalia. They placed flowers and flung rose petals before him, shouting congratulations and good tidings.
But still, that damned prickling needled at Sean’s neck.
Everything slowed. He looked right, then left. His steady breathing rushed in his ears. The sound of Lorn’s voice registered, but Sean couldn’t make out the words. Due to the clamminess of his skin, for a moment he thought he might have contracted an illness.
When the chapel door came into view, Sean stared at the guards posted outside it. They wore MacDougall colors with hauberks beneath and great helms atop their heads. He squinted—true, a number of his men possessed bucket-shaped helms, but Angus would have instructed them to remove them for this wedding duty. Such helms were worn on the battlefield alone.
“Did you hear me?” Lorn asked.
“Pardon, m’lord.” Sean blinked and shook his head. “I was assessing my men.”
“Me as well.” He pointed at the guards. “I daresay you are frightening my guests with this display of mettle.”
Sean ground his back molars. “Apologies. I’ll have them remove their helms after you’ve moved inside.”
“Aye? I’m sure that will make a fine impression once everyone is out of sight.” Lorn’s sarcasm was palpable.
“At least you will be wed knowing you are safe. I did not take your request lightly.” A bead of sweat drained into Sean’s eye.
Two paces before they reached the door, the guard nearest Sean shifted his battleax across his body—a defensive pose. Sean squinted at the eyes flickering under the concealing helm—eyes filled with hate. His gut clamped into a solid ball as he drew his sword. The guard advanced. Stepping in front of Lorn, Sean shielded the earl with his body and deflected a downward blow. Those eyes still glared at him with evil intent.
Sean’s attacker moved with lightning speed. With a swing of his sword, he met the battleax midair, slicing it in two. From his sleeves, the guard pulled two knives and advanced with the screech of a madman. Swinging his blade in an arc, Sean defended the attack, protecting Lorn’s right flank. He prayed to God, someone had the earl’s left. Around them, grunts of the fight escalated. Iron clanged to the rear and to his sides. Unable to avert his gaze, Sean defended the attack as knives slashed at his face.
Beside him, Lorn dropped, a hideous scream ripping through the air. Bellowing like a warrior, Sean swung his blade in an arc, cutting through the neck sinews of his attacker. The helm flew from the young man’s head. Gawen. A traitor after all.
Afforded a heartbeat to assess the battle, what Sean had seen through his side vision was confirmed. The Lord of Lorn clutched at his gut, blood streaming through his fingers.
“Sound the alarm!” Sean bellowed while he watched his men as they were cut down by an army that appeared from nowhere.
“Bring the priest. I will be wed before I draw my last breath,” Lorn wheezed.
Sean raced for the doors as a blow came from his right. Slamming the pommel of his dirk into his attacker’s skull, he continued on. The priest opened the door with Lorn’s bride. Her face contorted with fear as she looked past the holy man’s shoulder.
“I’ve killed the tyrant lord and now MacDougall will be mine!” From behind, MacCoul’s rasping voice attacked Sean’s every nerve.
His worst fears confirmed—the bastard had warned him with Fraser’s gruesome delivery.
“Recite the vows now. My son will be my heir!” Lorn shouted.
Sean spun to face the scourge who had plagued his every waking hour. The bastard who cared only for ruination, for destruction.
The priest’s Latin chants rang above the maelstrom, but Sean couldn’t stop. For an instant, Sean caught sight of MacCoul’s beady eyes glaring at him beneath the eye slits in the hideous helm. The bastard raised his sword and advanced on the bleeding and wounded lord.
Clenching his teeth, Sean launched himself at MacCoul, slamming his feet into his chest, knocking him from completing a blow intended to sever Lorn’s head. The blackguard skittered backward, but Sean didn’t hesitate. Rage propelling him forward, he advanced with relentless hacks of his blade.
Alan defended each blow, weakening with every strike. Sean would show no quarter this time. The menace would pay with his life. Alan fell to his backside. Sean pounced, pulling his blade up for the killing thrust.
A crack blasted in his ears, reverberating in his helm. The world shattered. Sean’s eyes rolled back as bitter bile burned his throat. His failing arms worked to continue with his strike, but his knees buckled before his blade connected with MacCoul’s neck.
As he hit ground, everything grew peaceful, quiet and black.
***
Alan MacCoul laughed out loud when Sean MacDougall dropped to the earth. Most of the guests stood around them, cowering with looks of horror on their faces. The pummeling of horse hooves shook the ground.
Alan’s gaze darted to the miserable Lord of
Lorn, surrounded by guardsmen, taking his vows. One plan thwarted. At least the maggot won’t see out the night. I’ll deal with his sniveling offspring later.
“Riders,” Brus yelled, his voice echoing from beneath his great helm.
Trevor sprinted up, leading the horses. “Make haste.”
Alan grasped MacDougall under the arms. “Help me heft him.”
Brus kicked the Dunollie chieftain. “Do you think he’s dead?”
Alan strained with Sean’s weight. “I’ll take no chances.” He picked up MacDougall’s sword and secured it in his belt.
Together the three men draped MacDougall’s body over a horse. “Quickly. They’ll be upon us before we can blink.”
Alan and his band of renegades mounted and raced for Dunstaffnage’s barbican.
Behind them, Angus urged his men faster.
Alan clutched MacDougall’s reins tightly in his fist. The miserable bastard had best not be dead. He hasn’t suffered enough.
He buried his spurs deep into his horse’s barrel demanding more speed. Glancing over his shoulder, his gut clenched. Angus and the MacDougall army were gaining. Alan squinted against the wind whistling through his eye slits. The iron teeth of the portcullis loomed ahead, but if it didn’t close quickly, they’d have another battle on their hands. He could make it. “Lower the gate,” he bellowed. “Now!”
While he surged forward, he pulled the trailing horse alongside him. MacDougall’s body bounced and listed sideways. The cogs of the portcullis groaned and creaked to life as the teeth of the deadly gate inched downward. Alan dug in his heels and plastered his body against his mount’s neck. An iron spike scraped the back plate of his armor with a screech.
Once they cleared, the guardsmen let the gate drop with a resounding boom. Alan looked back. Angus and the MacDougall guards reined their horses to a halt. Alan motioned to an archer on the battlements.
The guard pointed his bow high and let his arrow soar. Alan grinned. Then his laugh thundered in his helm. His plan had been executed flawlessly—except for Lorn. But Alan would solve that minor detail at a later date. At least Dugald Stewart was a sniveling maggot who deserved to be a bastard.
All in all, he had won. While the miserable wedding party processed, his men had slipped in and taken Dunstaffnage Castle from under MacDougall’s nose. Soon all would know the truth and Alan would become the rightful Chieftain of Dunollie. And once Dugald has been dispatched, the king will grant me the Lordship of Lorn.
Alan’s men dismounted in Dunstaffnage’s inner bailey and removed their helms. Shoving them in the air, the cry of victory echoed between the old castle walls.
Alan’s throat tightened, though he forced a frown. He dismounted. “We’re not finished yet. Is the blacksmith ready?”
“Aye, m’lord,” said Trevor, bowing deeply.
“Brus, you’re in charge of the siege until my return. Trevor, bring two strong men and come with me. MacDougall weighs more than a pregnant heifer.”
A burly warrior stepped forward. “I’ll carry him, m’lord.”
Alan smirked and assessed the man’s form. “I like a man with ambition. Follow me.”
Heading toward the last phase of his coup, Alan led a small group of men as they slipped out a long forgotten sea gate and into a waiting birlinn.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sean’s head throbbed as if his skull had been bludgeoned on the inside. He tried to open his eyes, but the slightest movement tortured him with relentless pounding. Everything hurt. Points of his flesh ached like he was resting on a bed of iron rivets. He shivered against the cold. The air smelled of dirt and rotting seaweed. Water dripped in the distance.
Am I in a dungeon?
The thought made his head throb so badly, his stomach churned. Sean swallowed, another movement that made him wish for death. If the banging inside his head grew any worse, it would kill him for certain.
Though the air was dank, his lips were chapped, his mouth dry. How long have I been unconscious?
A light flashed and a vision of a battle passed through Sean’s mind. The last he remembered, he’d been in a cutthroat fight to save Lorn. The earl was stabbed, but called for the priest.
A drop of water splashed on Sean’s nose. Sniffing, he tried to move his hand, but his arm hit cold iron. His eyes flashed open. Iron bars blocked his view. He again tried to move his arm—turn his head, but he couldn’t move. Even his legs were encased in irons. Nervous sweat oozed across his skin. My God, wake me from this nightmare.
A contemptible laugh echoed off the walls and increased the pounding in Sean’s head. His skin crawled. Only one man had such a distasteful, grating rasp to his voice. Alan MacCoul.
“I wondered if you would give me the satisfaction of waking.”
Sean’s jaw tightened as he focused his glare on the dark figure sitting across from him.
“It would have been rather disappointing if you had died before I had my say.”
“You’ll hang for this,” Sean growled through clenched teeth, his vision blurring with every throb of his skull.
Alan smirked. “I think not.”
“You’ve murdered the Lord of Lorn.”
“Aye.” Alan looked at his fingernails. “But not before he managed to make that miserable lout his heir.”
“Dugald was his firstborn.”
Alan sniffed. “Och aye, how valiant of John Stewart to recognize his bastard son before he drew his last breath.”
Sean clenched his fist—at least the irons provided enough room for one simple motion. So, Alan had been successful with his attempt to kill the earl? Evidently the slimy maggot had more than one score to settle. Sean forced down his urge to heave and shifted his eyes to scan his surroundings. This was not a dungeon, it was a bloody cave. “Where are we?”
“On my father’s miserable island. The place where he wanted me to settle and raise a flock of sheep. Kerrera.”
“Your father?” He kens who his father is? Sean’s mind engaged. “But Kerrera is Dunollie land.”
“Aye, and unofficially given to me by our father. The louse couldn’t even bother to make a grant of land legal.”
Sean closed his eyes and tried to shake his head, only to be met with cold iron rivets stabbing his temples. “Did you say our?”
“You miserable wretch.” Alan prodded Sean in the ribs with a stick. “Our father never recognized me as the firstborn son. For years I stood by and watched him mollycoddle you, give you the best of everything whilst I was doled out the scraps. The bastard was even too embarrassed to recognize my birthright on his deathbed.”
“I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t. You were always too wrapped up in your own spoilt self to give a damn about anything or anyone. I stood by and watched you learn to ride the finest horses whilst I was given a nag. You had the finest clothes, the finest weapons, and I received a bent sword thrown out by one of Father’s guards.” Alan held up the Chieftain of Dunollie’s sword. “But this one I shall keep for myself.”
Sean swallowed. He had a brother? But Alan had gone too far, blood kin or nay. He attempted to move his arms, but was held back by riveted irons digging into his flesh. “Why did you not tell me?”
An ugly chuckle resounded between the cave walls bringing back Sean’s headache full force. “Me? Tell you we’re kin? Oh no. You need to pay for all your years of tyranny—all of Father’s favors—every last farthing in the Dunollie coffers.” Alan poked him again. Sean’s ribs throbbed. How long had MacCoul been jabbing him with that stick? “When you cut off my funds, you tore away the last shred of my…ah…affection.”
Sean closed his eyes and grimaced. Angus and Murdach knew. But something was still amiss. Alan had attacked him before Sean uncovered the missing coin. “You are the lowest of whoresons. I cannot believe Angus and Murdach conspired with you.”
The bastard had the gall to laugh again. “You’re jesting. Those miserable sops wouldn’t assuage their loyalty to Dun
ollie for all the coin in Scotland.”
So they were protecting Father. “How did you slip past the Dunollie guard?”
Alan smirked. “Your pitiful guard.” He threw his head back and howled. “I’ve a loyal man or two within your ranks.”
“Gawen.”
“Aye,” he chuckled. “Wearing great helms and your colors, not even Angus knew the difference.” Alan raised his damned stick, but hesitated. “I’d have been able to take Dunstaffnage much more easily if Angus wasn’t such a loyal prick.”
In a burst of rage, Sean rattled the irons with all his strength. “You traitor!” he roared. “You’ve taken Dunstaffnage?” If only he could grab that stick and shove it down the bastard’s throat. What more was this monster accountable for? I’ll hang every single backstabber in my ranks.
“Aye and next I’ll take Dunollie.” Alan leaned over, his nose so close, the man’s foul breath seeped across Sean’s face. “Once word of the lands denied me reaches his royal highness, he’ll have no recourse but to name me Chieftain of Dunollie and Lord of Lorn.”
Coughing against the stench, Sean glared. “You’ve gone completely mad.” King James will never grant lands to a bastard—especially one who used force to seize the king’s property.
Alan probed with the stick—harder this time. “Angry as hell, but not mad, brother.”
Sean closed his eyes and swallowed his urge to bellow. MacCoul had not only proven he was a raving lunatic, he was capable of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Sean’s back sunk into cold iron rivets. Though unable to move his head, he knew the trickles sliding down his skin were blood. “So ’tis the death of a lowlife for me, then?” Sean kept his voice steady, but inside he wanted to bellow, wring the cur’s neck and tell him exactly what he thought of his miserable coup.
“’Tis what you deserve.” The cold stare in MacCoul’s black eyes made Sean shudder.
If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was being cosseted—a mummy wrapped in iron. Again he shuddered. A blend of sweat and blood oozed from his temple to his mouth. He had to get out. He clenched every muscle in his body and stared. He hated to utter kind words to a madman, but it was Sean’s last hope. “Release me now and together we will rule Dunollie lands.” He forced a smile. “Think on it. Together we’ll be more powerful than our ancestors. We’ll take back the Lordship of the Isles and rule the Highlands.”
