Leila’s Legacy

by Madeline Martin

  Marin watched Leila warily.

  “Marin,” Leila said softly. “There is life within you.”

  “What did you say?” Marin blinked and a single tear fell from her eye.

  Leila gently laid her hand on Marin’s lower stomach. “You are with child.”

  A sob broke from Marin and she placed her trembling fingers over Leila’s hand. “Are you certain?” She stammered. “Mayhap you saw it wrong? Surely I am too old…”

  “Nay, Marin.” Leila’s throat went tight with emotion. “You are soon to be a mother.”

  Marin cradled her stomach and openly wept. She was not alone in her tears, for all the sisters, and even Lord Werrick, were wiping at their eyes. Poor Brodie, however, shifted uncomfortably amid this group of crying women and discussions of childbearing.

  He rocked back on his heels. “I can join ye,” he said. “Er—at Liddesdale Castle. I know it well.”

  The solar door opened, and four large men pushed into the room. James, the tallest of them, grinned at Leila. “She is safely returned.”

  James made his way to Anice’s side and paused to ruffle Leila’s hair. “Ye gave us all quite the scare, lass.”

  “I’m only glad Lark wasn’t with you.” Bronson smirked as he mentioned his sister. “Ever since she’s started training with the arrow like Cat, she’s had quite the penchant for mischief.”

  “Where does she get that from?” Ella teased her husband. “I believe it runs in the family.”

  Bronson scoffed and then slid her a grin.

  “The Armstrongs will be punished for what they’ve done to you,” Geordie vowed.

  “We’ve already planned to go after them.” Cat curled an arm around her husband’s and pulled him close. Geordie glanced down at her and immediately the tension drained from his body.

  “Then what else is amiss?” Bran asked, approaching Marin. “Why are ye crying, my love?”

  A shared look passed around the room and flew over the understanding of the husbands.

  “We need to prepare.” Leila made her way toward the door, knowing others would follow suit. “Time may be running out, depending on how eager Lord Armstrong is to exact his punishment.”

  As anticipated, the room cleared, leaving only Marin and Bran in the sunny solar. Leila caught sight of them as she strode away, their hands touching, leaning together for the intimate conversation that would change their lives forever.

  She didn’t need to see to know what would transpire on the other side of that door. She’d seen it already.

  Their heads were close as Marin spoke words Leila could not hear. Bran raised his brows in question and tears fell from Marin’s eyes. He knelt before her, cradling her lower back with his powerful arms. His gaze wandered up, finding hers as she nodded. Then, he lowered his forehead to her stomach and wept.

  Leila wiped a tear from her eye at her sister’s joy. Marin had been too long without a child of her own; her hope too bright to never be fulfilled. Mayhap someday, Leila would have such joy, and a life with Niall.

  Her heart squeezed. First, they had to get to him in time. At least with the pestilence raging through Liddesdale, the clan’s forces were dwindled. That would be to her benefit.

  She made her way to the armory to get a new belt and some daggers, while the rest of her family prepared for battle. She would bring Niall home to Werrick Castle safely with her, or she would die trying.

  For no longer was she afraid of Death, but she was terrified of losing the man she loved.

  Niall would die for the offense of killing Alban.

  He wriggled his foot in his boot where he’d tucked a small dagger into the high edges. Were the leather not so fitted to his ankles, he might have lost it when the reivers attacked him.

  They passed under the portcullis of Liddesdale Castle with Niall trussed up like a pig for market with his wrists bound. His head ached with every step of the horse’s hooves and one of his eyes had swollen nearly shut. The pressure of it was so great that he felt it might pop from its socket if he hung over the beast’s back a moment longer.

  The horse riding alongside his carried the body of Alban. His arms hung limp over the steed’s belly, bouncing lifelessly with each jolting step.

  At least Niall was in better health than Alban, small mercy though it might now be. The horse was pulled to a stop and Niall practically groaned with relief. Every part of his body throbbed.

  Someone demanded Lord Armstrong be summoned at once.

  Niall felt nothing at this. Not fear, not concern, not even rage. How could one waste energy on emotions when every damn part of them was alight with pain? But he should be feeling something, especially when he had sacrificed his life with Leila to be here.

  Leila.

  A twinge, sharper and deeper than anything physical, cut through his agony. Two reivers approached Alban and carefully pulled his corpse from the horse. Rough hands gripped Niall’s gambeson and tugged him backward, sending him crashing to the ground.

  His body slammed onto the cobblestones with a force that made his teeth clack.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lord Armstrong’s voice filled the bailey and echoed off the stonework.

  Every reiver in sight snapped upright. Niall pulled himself up to standing as the men all looked at one another, as though silently weighing who would be the person to deliver the news of Alban’s death.

  Lord Armstrong’s cold gray gaze found Niall. “I see they’ve captured ye.” He tossed an irritated glance at his men. “Ye could have just brought him into the great hall. No need for me to be out in this cold to see a mere prisoner.” A fiercely cutting wind swept through the bailey and he nestled back deeper into his cloak.

  “It isna merely a prisoner…” A tall man with dark red hair said. He rubbed at the back of his neck.

  Lord Armstrong let his gaze slide down Niall with contempt. “I assure ye, he is.”

  The man winced with discomfort. “’Tis yer son, my lord.”

  “What has that idiot done now?” Lord Armstrong muttered irritably.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” the guard said. “But he’s dead.”

  Lord Armstrong straightened, as if he no longer felt the bite of the wind he’d complained of only moments before. “What did ye say?”

  The tall guard lowered his head reverently. “Alban is dead. Slain by the Lion.”

  Lord Armstrong looked to something Niall could not see. The stricken expression on his face suggested that “something” might be Alban. He turned slowly to Niall and stared, unspeaking, for a long moment. His mouth worked wordlessly, and he swallowed before parting his lips once more.

  “Ye killed my son.” His gaze shifted to Alban and then back to Niall. In that single instant, the aging earl looked older than he ever had, his skin withered and lined, his eyes hollowed. It changed in an instant, with his face reddening and lips peeling back from his teeth. “Ye killed my son,” he roared, the tendons at his neck straining.

  Niall widened his stance, bracing himself for whatever may come. “Ye killed my da. Ye made me hold down the woman I loved and drown her.”

  Lord Armstrong fisted his hands and glared with wild wrath. “Guards, arrest this man.” He spoke low and even and it sent a chill trickling down Niall’s spine.

  Niall knelt to the ground, hunkering low and tensing, intending to make it as difficult for the guards as possible. His injured thigh blazed with pain and his head swam, but he pushed the agony away.

  “My da was loyal to ye. I was loyal to ye.” He slipped his fingers into the lip of his boot where the leather covered his ankle. “Was it because the people wanted someone moral? Because it made ye look good to have me in yer counsel?” He pulled the dagger free. “Except I am no’ as malleable as ye thought.”

  Niall drew his arm back and launched the dagger at Lord Armstrong. The blade sailed through the air and sank deep into Lord Armstrong’s chest.

  The earl’s eyes went wide with surprise, not unlike how his s
on’s had. He looked down to the dagger jutting out from his chest.

  Niall sagged back. He would be killed, he knew, but it had been worth it to see Lord Armstrong dead.

  A rumbling sounded in Lord Armstrong’s chest and bellowed out. Not a death cry, or a howl of agony, but a laugh.

  Niall narrowed his eyes at the old man. Had the bastard lost his mind?

  Lord Armstrong opened his cloak to reveal a book clutched to his chest with his right arm. The dagger had gone through the cloak and stuck in the middle of the manuscript.

  “My psalter I’d brought to chapel with me.” The earl lifted the stabbed book. “God isna done with me yet, and I’m no’ done with ye. Guards, take him to the dungeon, while we ready the gallows. Before the sun sets, he will die.” He looked back at Alban, his mirth fading to something akin to sorrow. “And dinna be gentle when ye deliver him into his cell.”

  Several guards rushed forward, catching Niall by the arms and drawing him upright. Lord Armstrong’s fine shoes appeared on the cobblestones in Niall’s line of vision. Niall tensed, expecting the old man to take a hit at his gut. But he did not. Instead, he leaned over and said in a thin, papery voice, “I’ll see ye in hell, Lion.”

  The dagger clattered to the ground at Niall’s feet, so close, yet as unobtainable as it would be if it were on the other side of the castle.

  The guards who took Niall to the dungeon were mostly men who had served under him rather than being men who had fought alongside Alban previously. They were not rough with Niall as directed. They delivered him to his cell with guilty glances before sliding away into the darkness.

  One man, a guard who often served under Niall, lingered behind after the others had left. Connell. He was a good man with a wife who had recently given birth to their first bairn. The younger man stared into the cell with a pained expression pinching his face. “I canna help ye,” Connell said regretfully. “There is a potion I may be able to get, to dull yer senses for the—”

  Niall shook his head. “Nay. Dinna put yerself at risk.”

  “Forgive me, Niall.” Connell scratched at his thick, dark beard. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is one thing.” Niall closed his eyes, succumbing to the vibrant pain blooming in his chest. “When all has transpired and they cease saying my name, I want ye to go to Werrick Castle…” His throat drew tight and he was forced to swallow.

  “Aye?” Connell asked in a soft whisper.

  Niall leaned his head back on the hard stone wall, mindful of the painful throb on his right side. “Tell Lady Leila that I will always love her.”

  25

  Leila and Brodie made their way into the village before Liddesdale Castle, disguised as Armstrong guards in gambesons and helms with heavy cloaks to further mask their identity, as well as protect them against the cold. The streets bustled with considerable activity, especially in light of such dangerous times. Certainly, not a good sign.

  And then, there was the incessant banging. It rang out rhythmically, ominously. Every new alley they walked down. Bang, bang, bang.

  Every cottage they rounded. Bang, bang, bang.

  Leila and Brodie kept their steps confident as they followed the rush of people to the center of the village. Leila’s family remained in the surrounding forest while she scouted with Brodie.

  Their steps were in time; even the puffs of white air exhaling from their cold lips fell into the same steady rhythm. No one seeing them would question if they were anything but guards.

  They turned the corner and drew up short.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  And suddenly, Leila’s worst suspicion about the sounds was confirmed. There, being built in the center of the town, was a gallows.

  “Brodie, is that ye?” a male voice asked.

  Leila’s pulse tripled, but before she could dart away, Brodie put a hand out to stop her.

  “Connell, ye’ll get us all killed, saying my name like that.” Brodie backed behind a cottage with Connell, dragging Leila with him.

  “Are ye here to free the Lion?” Connell asked in a low voice.

  Brodie nodded.

  “He’s to be hanged after noon,” Connell provided. “Most likely as soon as the gallows are done being built.” His lips pressed grimly together. “There are many of us who dinna support his death. If ye mean to attack, ye’ll find our forces divided. He’d have had more men on his side had he no’ killed Alban, then tried to kill Lord Armstrong.”

  Leila bit the inside of her cheek to keep from asking questions about what the guard said. Alban was dead? By Niall’s own hand?

  “Niall tried to kill Lord Armstrong?” Brodie repeated.

  Connell nodded solemnly. “Aye, threw a dagger at him. Would’ve landed right in his heart were it no’ for the psalter the earl was carrying. ’Twas quite a sight to behold.”

  “Brodie, ye were with the lass, aye?” Connell lowered his voice further still. “The woman Niall had to drown. The men riding with Alban said they saw her alive.”

  “Aye.” Brodie kept his tone and his demeanor casual, as though Leila wasn’t at his side.

  Connell’s gaze slipped toward Leila in a contemplative, studying manner. She did her best not to shrink back from him. Would he accuse her of being a witch since she survived having been drowned?

  “Mayhap ye can pass on a message for her,” Connell said. “Tell Lady Leila, the Lion says he will always love her.”

  Brodie nodded. “Thank ye, Connell. I will.”

  “Brodie?” Connell glanced around the corner where the gallows was being erected. “Did ye know Lord Armstrong had Niall’s da killed?”

  Brodie nodded grimly.

  “My da was killed too.” Connell sniffed, his nose red in the dismal gray daylight. “When I was a lad. He’d had a disagreement with Lord Armstrong before it happened. I wonder…”

  Brodie nodded. “I dinna think Niall’s da is the only one of us to fall under Lord Armstrong’s blade.”

  “At noon then, brother.” Connell clasped arms with Brodie and casually strode toward the village center once more.

  Brodie said nothing but turned back to the direction they’d come and together they causally made their way back to the forest. Each step took them further from Liddesdale Castle where Niall was no doubt being held in the dungeon as he awaited his death. And all the while, the sound of hammering followed them, taunting them. Bang, bang, bang.

  Brodie and Leila made their way through the village unnoticed. A rumble of thunder sounded overhead, and a fine sifting of wet snow filtered down on them. By the time they arrived on the outskirts where her family awaited news in the forest, they were all sodden with wet snow.

  Leila shook her head as she approached. “We can’t go now. The castle is too heavily guarded. They intend to kill him at noon.” She swallowed. “We will attack then.”

  Cat came to her and embraced her, something Leila wished she had not done, for it threatened to undo the composure she was working so hard to maintain.

  “When they arrive at the gallows will be the best time to attack,” Cat offered with reassurance.

  Geordie nodded. “Aye, and Cat will be able to snap the rope with her arrow.”

  Brodie took off his helm. “There will be many guards, but some are no’ loyal to Armstrong anymore. Seeing what he’s done to Niall, what he did to Niall’s da…it’s raised many concerns among the men.”

  “It will certainly be a number we can handle.” Ella ran a thumb over the edge of her battle axe. “If we thought we’d need our own soldiers, we’d have brought them.”

  In the interest of preventing a war, they had decided to leave the Werrick Guards at home. Liddesdale might not care for borders, but their father was still an English earl and the West March Warden who oversaw the English side of the border. War was a very real concern. One their father was willing to overlook, but they would not allow.

  “Dinna worry, Leila.” James ruffled her hair. “We’ll get Niall s
afely back to ye.”

  Anice looked up at her husband affectionately and slid her hand into his large one. “It won’t be long; noon is only an hour away.”

  Leila’s blood raced with such energy that she dreaded the hour she’d have to wait. Interminable though it might be, it would help them overall, for it gave them more time to plan.

  There was no sensing the time of day in the blackness of the dungeon. Niall’s joints had long gone stiff with cold, though it did little to tell him the time.

  Worse than the aching of his injuries from battle or the stiffness from cold were the thoughts that circled in his mind over and over and over. Or at least one thought.

  Leila.

  And losing her. Again. He rested his head against the wall behind him, eyes closed as if in slumber, as he sifted through his recollections of her. They started that first day in the village outside Werrick Castle, when she’d nearly killed him with a dagger to the head. He hadn’t been able to stop staring at those long legs in the red leather trews, and the glossy dark hair that spilled over her shoulders like a curtain.

  On and on his memories of her surfaced. Her fearlessness when he arrested her, her strength against Alban, how the hardness of her features had begun to soften around Niall. God, he loved that woman. To the depths of his soul.

  And he had let justice get in the way of the one good thing he had. That was the worst part of his time in the dungeon: not the pain of his injuries or the fear of death looming over him. Nay, it was regret.

  “’Tis time,” a familiar voice said in the dark.

  Niall looked up to find Lord Armstrong’s face in front of his cell. The old man’s face scowled down at him. “Ye killed my son. I trusted ye, and ye killed my son.”

  “I trusted ye, and ye killed my da,” Niall spat back in return. “Ye lied to me about his death for years. Ye made me drown Leila, though ye knew her to be innocent. Ye—”

  “Do it,” Lord Armstrong growled as he stepped back. A guard opened Niall’s door and several more guards entered the cell to haul Niall to his feet. A filthy cloth was shoved into his mouth, one tasting of the rancid fat used in tallow candles. It pressed to his tongue, cutting at the corners of his mouth, and was tied tight behind his head.