Highlander's Honor (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  “Guid.”

  As they ate their evening meal around the fire, Ranulf used a stick to draw a crude map in the dirt. “Dunbury Castle ‘o Clan MacCreedy be closest,” he said, munching bread. “We ride there tomorrow, convince auld Osric MacCreedy tae nae ride sooth.”

  Drawing a line straight north, he said, “Then we gae tae Clan MacDonald ‘ere.”

  “Should you not send a message to King Robert?” Catrin asked, sitting next to him.

  “Aye, I wi’ when we get tae Dunbury Castle.”

  “Is he a reasonable man?” Sir Alban inquired, his eyes narrowed in the firelight. “Will he listen to you?”

  “He has afore.”

  “If he refuses, King Edward will have no choice but to advance his forces.”

  “Robert dinnae wish fer a war any more than Edward,” Ranulf said. “If we can give him cause tae refuse battle withoot him losin’ face, he wi’.”

  Sitting on his stallion the next morning at daybreak, Ranulf watched as Saul and his men, bound with their hands behind them and linked together with ropes around their necks, walked in a line behind a man at arms on horseback. Seven others rode to either side and behind them, taking the prisoners back across the border for justice. He caught Saul’s look of absolute hate and malice before he reined around to lead his clansmen northwest toward Dunbury Castle.

  With Sir Alban ever at her back and the remaining men at arms flanking them, Catrin trotted her horse to ride at his side. She bore a bow in her left hand and a quiver of arrows hung from her pommel and eyed him quizzically.

  “How long before we reach Dunbury?” she asked. “Will we be there by tonight? We need to hurry, as I fear time is getting away from us.”

  “Wi’ luck, aye. I be hopin’ Osric wi’ hae news of King Robert’s whereaboots.”

  As they discovered at Castle Linfield, they found the MacCreedy clans also assembling for war as they rode into Osric’s bailey, the clan laird himself organizing wagons of weapons and food supplies. Farriers shod horses, their apprentices sharpening swords. Fletchers made arrows, stacking them in barrels that were added to wagons.

  Seeing Ranulf and Catrin, Laird Osric left his vassals amid the hurrying men and horses and crossed the cobbled space to greet them. His eyes widened at the sight of Sir Alban and the English men at arms, but welcomed them cordially enough.

  As Ranulf clasped arms with him, he said, “Might we gae inside tae talk, Osric? We hae news that cannae wait.”

  “’O coorse. Come, I hae wine and ale tae offer ye. And ye be jist in time fer supper, lad. As afore, I wi’ offer ye me hospitality.”

  Ranulf, his hand holding Catrin’s, followed the clan laird into the great hall. Seating themselves as the big table, Osric gestured for servants to bring them food and drink, then jerked his chin toward Sir Alban.

  “We be oan the brink ‘o war wi’ England, Ranulf,” he said, his tone cautious. “At the risk of offendin’ a guest, ye come tae me wi’ a Sassenach knight?”

  Before Ranulf could speak, Catrin rushed in. “My father is dead, laird. He and Ranulf made peace before he died, and it was the Earl of Hargrove who murdered my brother. Sir Alban here is with me, as we came here to try to stop this war from happening.”

  Osric’s grey and red brows rose. “Ah, indeed. Gae oan.”

  “We rode tae ye tae ask ye nae ride sooth wi’ yer clansmen,” Ranulf added. “Catrin be right. There nae be reason fer war noo me feud wi’ the Duke be ended.”

  “That may be true,” Osric said. “But we got word ‘o Edward ‘o England be marchin’ north. We cannae stand by while he invades uir lands.”

  “I sent a message to him,” Catrin said, “explaining everything and begging him not to seek war. My father’s ally, the Duke of Breedmont, also sent a letter by the same messenger. If we can convince both kings to stop, we can avert bloodshed.”

  “Dae ye ken where King Robert be?” Ranulf asked him.

  “Aye,” Osric nodded. “He be marchin’ sooth with thirty thousand men, fifty leagues northwest ‘o here by me last message. He did order me tae ride sooth and join wi’ him near the village ‘o Kemreddy.”

  Ranulf glanced at Catrin. “We must ride hard, lass, and meet Robert afore he reaches the border.”

  “I am with you.”

  “We accept yer hospitality fer the night, Osric,” he said. “Then we ride come dawn.”

  The MacCreedy clan laird nodded and spoke, but Ranulf did not hear what he said. He felt his face drain of blood as he listened to the wailing sobs that came from everywhere yet nowhere. The undulating keening of a tearing loss, and a grief so profound tears filled his eyes, unbidden.

  “The caoineag be weepin’,” he whispered, his throat dry. “Death in the clan.”

  Chapter 35

  Flat on his belly, hidden by a thorn bush, Gilbert, the Earl of Hargrove, watched as Ranulf Thorburn and Lady Catrin rode into the north, the mixed band of Scottish clansmen and English men at arms accompanying them. He also observed the short train of the prisoners walking amid the escort of soldiers moving at a slow pace toward the south.

  “So, Saul still lives,” he commented to Sir Jarrett, who lay on the hilltop beside him. “It is almost a shame to let the man be drawn and quartered.”

  “He is an outlaw, My Lord,” Sir Jarrett replied. “A thief, a murderer, and should face justice.”

  “Of course, he should,” Gilbert replied, studying the line of men below. “But I can still use him before that happens.”

  “Surely you do not mean that, My Lord. He is scum. What use have we for his sort?”

  Gilbert chuckled. “He is that, I suppose. But he is also a wicked bastard, and as mean as a starved bear. Given his need for vengeance is as hot as my own, he will help us kill Thorburn and give my lady wife what she deserves.”

  Sir Jarrett glanced at him. “You do not mean to return home with her?’

  “Of course not,” Gilbert snorted. “She is too much of a threat to me now. I will kill her, but not before taking my pleasure of her delectable body. I told her she would be punished, and so she shall be.”

  “My Lord,” Sir Jarrett said, his tone worried. “She is gently born. Since when do we rape our own high born ladies?”

  “Since she defied me and ran away with that animal, Thorburn,” Gilbert replied, his upper lip curled as he stared down at the men below. “After I have my way with her, I will give her to all of you. I am certain Saul will enjoy his revenge on her after what she did to him.”

  He turned to Sir Jarrett when the knight remained silent, observing the man’s apparent reluctance. “What? Do not tell me you would refuse a piece of that bitch.”

  “I have sworn my knightly oath to protect the fairer gender, My Lord. I do not rape women.”

  Gilbert shrugged. “Then Saul and his men will rip her to shreds after I have her. I care not if you do not wish to share. Come on, we need to lay our plans.”

  Retreating back down the hill to where Gilbert had left his dozen men at arms, he started issuing his orders. “We are going to attack Kesterton’s men and free the prisoners, they ride just over that hill, heading south. You four, ride ahead and block their escape from the south. Jarrett, you take five men to ride around the hill and charge their rear. The rest of you, with me.”

  Mounting his flashy piebald, Gilbert nodded with satisfaction as his men obeyed him instantly, though Sir Jarrett’s behavior continued to puzzle him. He had never known the knight to be squeamish before, thought him to be as emotionally cold blooded as he himself was. “Just as long as your qualms do not interfere with my plans,” he muttered, spurring his horse up the hill.

  The Kesterton men at arms had not gone very far, due to the slow pace of their prisoners. Drawing his sword, Gilbert charged down the hill, his three men galloping on his heels. Shocked by the suddenness of the attack, the men at arms froze for a moment before their leader yelled for them to form up.

  As Saul and his companions huddled in a small gro
up, watching, Gilbert struck the line of Kesterton men, slashing with both hands on the hilt of his sword. His three attacked alongside him, meeting the blades of the defenders head on. Gilbert, hacking at two swordsmen at the same time, kneed his horse into one of the others, forcing it into the third and blocking his ability to fight.

  Now with one opponent, he slashed at the man’s blade, knocking it aside long enough to slice his vulnerable throat in a wicked back handed cut. The man, gurgling, dropped his blade and tumbled head first from his saddle. His horse bolted in a series of bucks and kicks and vanished from Gilbert’s sight. Now free to focus all his attention on his second opponent, Gilbert cut him down with a series of fast strokes the other man could not compete with. He, too, died with Gilbert’s big sword in his chest.

  Leaning back to kick the body from his blade, Gilbert glanced up. Sir Jarrett’s men and the others from the south struck the flanks of the Kesterton men. Gilbert struck another with a heavy two handed blow, striking the man on the shoulder where his mail met his neck. Blood fountained high as the soldier slumped over his pommel. Slowly, he slid down his horse’s shoulder to land with a thump on the ground.

  Overwhelmed, the desperate men at arms fought for their lives, yet one by one they fell from their saddles missing arms, bleeding from rent chain mail, one struck in the head from a savage blow from a spiked mace. From what Gilbert rapidly glimpsed, his steel helmet had been crushed into the man’s skull.

  Sweating lightly, Gilbert curbed his excited mount with a savage jerk on his reins, then dismounted to clean his blade on the cloak of the man with the crushed skull. As Sir Jarrett and the others did the same and collected the weapons and any valuables from the dead, Gilbert sheathed his sword and walked over to Saul.

  The outlaw leader watched him approach with a malicious smile on his lips. “Quite the short marriage, Gilbert,” he said, his tone sneering. “I watched your lovely, blushing bride ride away with Thorburn a short while ago.”

  Gilbert shrugged, pulling his dagger from its sheath. “As did I, Saul.”

  The smile and the sneer vanished from Saul’s face as Gilbert absently tossed the knife up and down in his hand. “What are you planning?” he asked, licking his lips. “Are you going to cut me free or not?”

  “I am just wondering what you would look like with two missing eyes,” Gilbert mused, staring at the other man.

  “Would not be a pretty sight.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Then cut me free. I will help you track down your little lady and Thorburn.”

  Gilbert pursed his lips. “What makes you think I need your help?”

  “That is why you killed my escort, is it not?” Saul smiled, all his brown teeth bared. “For me to help you get your revenge?”

  “I have no plans to pay you, if you do assist me in my endeavors,” Gilbert said. “You can get your payment from my dear wife’s hide.”

  Grinning widely, Saul lifted his bound wrists. “Free me and let us ride.”

  Gilbert walked toward him, glancing over his shoulder. “Catch the loose horses.”

  Sawing through the tough rope with his dagger, Gilbert freed Saul from his bonds, then tossed the blade into the ground, where it stuck there, quivering. “Hurry up,” he snapped. “Thorburn is getting further away with every passing minute.”

  Returning to his horse and his men, he found the dead stripped of everything of value. “Give Saul’s men mail shirts and weapons. How many horses were caught?”

  “Seven, My Lord,” replied Sir Jarrett.

  “Good. We will keep the extra and bring it along.”

  Mounting his horse, he kicked the beast into a gallop and raced up the nearest hill to rein in, gazing north. Naturally, too many rolling hills of the moors interfered with what he had hoped to see. But he thought he saw a thin tendril of dust beyond them.

  Glancing down, he saw the brigands arming themselves with the dead soldiers’ swords, daggers, chain mail and helmets. Saul mounted a red roan, and, cursing, galloped up the hill to join him. Gilbert eyed him blandly, seeing him girt with a heavy two-handed sword, and accepted his dagger back.

  “It will prove interesting to watch you in a fight with that thing,” Gilbert said, glancing pointedly at Saul’s left hand and its missing fingers.

  Saul glared. “I will fight if need be, Hargrove. I will hold up my end.”

  “You had better. I will not save your precious arse again.”

  “You will not have to.”

  Cantering his horse up the hill, Sir Jarrett ignored Saul completely and saluted Gilbert. “Ready to ride, My Lord.”

  “About bloody time. Let us go.”

  Even as his and Saul’s men kicked their mounts up the hill, Gilbert, Saul at his side as though he were an equal, spurred his horse down the far side and struck a gallop, riding in the same direction he had seen the dust column.

  ***

  “Shit,” Gilbert said, reining his horse in at the top of yet another hill. He stared north, gazing at the great castle that even at this late hour in the afternoon teemed with men and horses. “They went in there. Whose castle is it, does anyone know?”

  “My Lord,” Sir Jarrett said at his left hand. “I believe that is Osric MacCreedy’s, lord of Clan MacCreedy.”

  “It would also appear he has brought in all his clan,” Saul commented. “Preparing for war with England.”

  “No doubt,” Gilbert said dryly. He glanced around for a suitable camping spot where he could watch the castle without being seen. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a large thatch of short stubby trees and bramble. It lay on fairly level ground with a good view of the goings on at the MacCreedy castle. “No fires, we are having a cold camp tonight.”

  Leading the way back down the hill, Gilbert trotted his horse across the moors to the thicket and discounted. Tying his horse, he left the piebald for one of his men to care for and pulled his saddlebags down. Taking them to a spot where he could watch the castle, he sat down on the ground.

  When Saul joined him, he forced himself to not order the man back, away from him, to go sit with the others. The bloody ass thinks he is my equal in all respects. Satisfying himself with a scowl in Saul’s direction, he dug a pouch of dried meat from his bags and began to eat. Saul ate nothing, only sipped water from a leather bottle without speaking. Gilbert felt grateful for that much.

  Torches flared in the distance as the sun vanished into the west. It appeared the preparations for war continued even after darkness fell. He watched for a long while, wondering if Ranulf, Catrin and the others stayed there the night, or had continued on their journey through the dark, even as Gilbert sat, nibbling on dried apples.

  Sir Jarrett brought him his blankets with a salute. “I have set the watch, My Lord.”

  “Good.” Rising, Gilbert took them back toward where his men had rolled up into theirs to sleep. Picking a soft looking spot in the dirt, he curled up on his side to get some sleep.

  Dawn saw him sitting cross legged on the ground, munching stale bread and hard cheese, gazing at the activity at the castle. An hour later, as his men and Saul’s finished saddling their horses, Gilbert rose to his feet, staring. Was it? Sure enough, a band of riders galloped across the drawbridge to circle the castle and ride north. There was no mistaking Catrin’s gown or her flowing red-brown hair.

  “We ride,” he ordered, heading toward his piebald. “Now.”

  The men scrambled into their saddles as he mounted in a swift, fluid motion, and turned his mount’s head roughly northeast. With a line of low hills to conceal him from any watching eyes in the castle, Gilbert led his band past them before turning straight north.

  This time, he had little trouble following the dust cloud that Thorburn’s people left behind. Stopping only when the cloud vanished or for water, he pushed his horses as hard as Thorburn pushed his. As the afternoon waned into early evening, the dust disappeared, indicating Thorburn’s band had stopped for the night.

 
; Once again, he ordered no fires lit and dined on the cold, dried fare he rapidly grew bored with. When the night temperature dropped, he envied the distance fires on the horizon. When Saul complained of being cold, Gilbert told him to shut up or he would have his throat cut. Saul fell silent with a mulish expression and bared brown teeth.

  The next day dawned cold and bleak, a thick annoying drizzle falling over the land that made Gilbert curse in frustration. “How am I to see where they go?”

  “We will have to track them,” Sir Jarrett replied, unperturbed. “Although, I cannot help but wonder when we will attack them, My Lord. For all we know they are traveling to the Orkneys.”

  “Thorburn is a clever fighter,” Gilbert replied. “I want the terrain in my favor. As he does not appear to be headed for his castle at Dorford, I will follow for the time being.”