The knights were evenly dispersed along the front line and the archers were staggered in the back row. Roan was down the line to William’s left, thinking that this terrain was far different from fighting in Wales. He wondered with apprehension if d’Vant had received and answered his missive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Dunbar McKenna was strutting like a peacock around the bailey of his keep, scrutinizing the soldiers that were preparing for battle, men sworn to him. After the first bitter defeat, he wondered if he would ever see this sight again. The chiefs had been reluctant to listen to him a second time, but this awesome sight before him was proof that he was an important, brilliant man.
He strolled across the bridge under the silver moon, assessing the soldiers that were making the final preparations on their equipment. Scot soldiers were certainly the sturdiest, Dunbar thought, noting every man’s thick legs as they disappeared under his plaid. The English soldiers fought with so much clothing and mail on it was a wonder they could even move.
It was after midnight, but it was as bright as day. Dunbar wondered what he was going to do with Jordan Scott, as he paced among the men. The clan chiefs were not happy he had captured her; that was obvious. But to hell with them; they worried like old women. What mattered now was what to do with her. Trying her as a traitor seemed out of the question because he doubted the clan chiefs would allow it. He knew they regretted the first attack on Langton and Northwood, but that was their misfortune. He didn’t regret it in the least.
His plans were coming apart one by one, but somehow he had been able to turn one failed plan into another scheme and thereby keep his dreams alive. Hell, half the time even he didn’t know what he wanted. But he was sure of one thing; he wanted to control the border and he wondered how that pretty little whore in his keep could help him.
Dunbar was standing to the rear of the assembling troops, his at hands on his hips as he gazed at the sea of soldiers against the backdrop of his keep. He felt like Caesar reviewing his troops, a tremendous sense of power filling him. Aye, his men would destroy Northwood now. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for.
He turned around, his eyes falling over the surrounding forest but his eyes not focusing. His mind was at Northwood, burning her walls down. Mayhap he should burn the Countess at the stake and send her charred body to King Henry, a warning for the English king to never again attempt a treaty with the Scots. Aye, he had intended to kill her at the first, but now he was unsure what to do. She was tremendously beautiful, like her mother, and it almost seemed a waste to kill her.
A glint in the darkness of the trees caught his eye. Not particularly concerned, but curious, he peered closed to watch a knight in full battle armor emerge from the silhouetted trees. His eyes saw it but his mind did not quite register what it was seeing until he saw another knight, and another. And then he saw soldiers. Hundreds and hundreds of Sassenach soldiers.
Dunbar snapped out of his trance and into full-blown panic. “Sassenach!”
The area outside his keep became a huge, boiling mass of screaming Scot soldiers, turning with shock to face their enemy.
Dunbar began to run for his life, lumbering toward the drawbridge which at this very moment was preparing to be raised. He had to make it inside before the bridge went up, sealing him to his fate at the hands of the English. He could taste his bitter fear on his tongue like stale ale as his heart thumped and his lungs rasped, pushing his bulk forward. If he were left outside the keep, he was as good as dead.
William and the knights had heard the call go up within the Scot ranks and it was their own battle cry. Swords held high, the English troops charged into the Scot army with the force of a highland storm, cutting and killing and assaulting anything in their path.
The night was suddenly filled with the sounds of death.
William saw the bridge going up. He turned in the general direction of his men. “They must not get the bridge up. Position the archers.”
It was only by pure luck that the drawbridge of McKenna Keep was rigged with rope, not chain. The archers lit up their flame arrows, directed by Deinwald, and took aim on the web-like ropes that were straining to raise the old heavy drawbridge. William divided his attention between the raising bridge and fighting the Scots, waiting with bated breath as his archers leveled their crossbows.
Dunbar was having great trouble breathing, but he dared not slow his pace as he continued to run toward the raising bridge. He could hear the clash going on behind him and he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He had been a soldier a good deal of his life, but he was caught off guard and without a weapon. He had to make it inside the ten foot-thick walls of his keep before he was cut down like a lamb to slaughter. And he had to get to Jordan Scott; she was the key to solving this dilemma. He had no doubt the army had come for her, but what he could not understand was how quickly they had come. Did they somehow have fairy wings to fly with?
Deinwald screamed the command and the archers let the flame arrows fly, soaring high above the heads of the clashing troops and landing with great accuracy on the drawbridge and surrounding rigging. It was inevitable with that many arrows that at least a few would find their mark, and soon the drawbridge began to flame in several different places. It was old and would burn like dry grass.
William gave a smile of satisfaction. The bridge and the ropes would burn in no time, leaving the keep wide open for their assault. God, what luck. Now, he had to push his way forward, ready to breach the castle and retrieve his wife. She was alive, somewhere, within the dingy structure. He could not allow himself to think otherwise.
He and the other knights began to push forward through the surging mass, swinging broadswords with more determination than they had ever felt. It was understood that, of course, William would fetch Jordan, but somehow they were all grimly resolved to help him without even being asked.
As the destriers pushed forward and men fell beneath them, the drawbridge went up in flames and was burning furiously. All those inside the bailey were separated from the troops outside, adding to their surprise and confusion. Half the soldiers inside the keep had yet to figure out what had happened.
Dunbar saw the drawbridge burning, knowing his chance was gone. Unarmed and fear nipping at him, he knew he must seek refuge until such a time as he felt it safe to join the battle. Foam collecting on his lips and his breath coming in rapid pants, he dashed off in the only direction he suspected held safety for him. He headed to the north.
William was tentatively pleased at the battle so far. With the bridge quickly being reduced to cinder, ’twould make it easier to cross the moat, providing it was not deep, and violate the bailey. But just in case the moat proved to be a problem, William ordered Ranulf to begin cutting trees to produce makeshift ladders the soldiers could crawl across if it was too deep. It would be impossible for the knights to cross on the destriers.
And that would put them on foot in 130 pounds of battle armor. Not exactly a delightful thought.
*
The door to Jordan and Caladora’s prison flew open and slammed back against the wall. Instantly awake, the women startled violently to see Malcolm rushing toward them.
Jordan was seized with fear. She knew he had changed his mind and had come to rape or kill her. When he grabbed her arm, she fought against him fiercely.
“Stop it, Jordan!” he ordered her. “Quit fighting me.”
“Let me go!” she shrieked.
“Listen to me!” He yanked at her arm, hard, and she slowed her struggle. Her eyes were wide with fear as she stared back at him, leaning back against Caladora for support.
He took a deep breath. “We are under attack,” he said quickly. “I have got to get ye out of here, both of ye.”
“What are ye saying?” Jordan was confused and frightened.
“The English are attacking our walls at this moment,” he hissed impatiently. “Dunbar will be coming for ye and ye must hide. Caladora, ye come, too
.”
Still disoriented, Jordan allowed him to pull her off the bed and she, in turn, grabbed Caladora to pull her along.
“English?” she repeated, dazed. “William has come.”
“Aye, yer husband sent his troops for ye,” Malcolm nodded. “We expected them, but not so damn soon. Dunbar will be coming for ye to use ye as a bargaining chip or God knows what else. Come on now.
He moved quickly to the open door and, glancing down the corridor nervously to make sure it was clear, pulled the women along with him.
The hallway was dank and dimly lit. Jordan and Caladora followed obediently, wondering where he was taking them. He was the man who had betrayed their kin, yet they had no choice but to trust him, as Dunbar would surely vent his rage on them if they stayed in their room.
Against her better judgment, Jordan had to trust him and hoped fervently that he was not leading them to slaughter.
The corridor dead-ended and Jordan began to open her mouth when Malcolm suddenly drove his shoulder into the wall and with a slight crack, an invisible panel opened up about an inch. Dust and debris scattered as he gave the panel another couple of pushes to make it wide enough for the ladies to past through.
“Go on, go in,” he ordered.
Jordan, clutching Caladora’s hand, obeyed silently and stepped forward into pitch black.
Malcolm followed and shoved the panel back into place. Taking the lead, he groped the wall of the passage for there was no light whatsoever. The floor slanted downward dramatically and Jordan nearly fell twice. Eventually the floor leveled out and they walked like blind souls for several minutes before they felt the ground slant upward again. Digging in their heels to get some traction, Malcolm half pulled Jordan and Caladora up the grade until it evened out.
“Now, stay here,” he told them. “I shall be back.”
It was still black as tar and they could not see their hands before their faces.
“Where are ye going?” Jordan demanded with a bit of panic.
“To find a torch,” he told her as if she were a five-year-old. “Just dunna move and ye’ll be fine. I shall be right back.”
Clinging to one another, Jordan and Caladora didn’t waver so much as an inch until Malcolm’s footsteps signaled his return. Jordan caught a couple of sparks in the darkness as he struck the flint and then, suddenly, there was the faint light of a torch.
As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Jordan could see that they were in a room of solid stone and mortar. There were various sacks and bits of other debris strewn about, but for the most part it looked as if it hadn’t been used in years.
“What is this place, Malcolm?” she demanded softly.
He was adjusting the torch. “Abner and I used to play here when we were lads, pretending it to be our hide-out,” he said. “ ’Tis a forgotten room in the wall of McKenna Keep.”
“We’re in the wall?” Jordan repeated, awed.
“Aye,” Malcolm nodded. “The both of ye should be safe in here.”
“But there is no way out, other than the way we came.” Caladora insisted suddenly. “How do we get out of here?”
Malcolm pointed to a small square hole in the wall that, upon closer inspection, looked to be an endless tunnel. “That leads outside the wall to a secret exit in the gully,” he told them. “But the exit is blocked from the outside. I am going to go and unblock it now.”
Before either woman could reply, he was already moving pass them. Jordan reached out and grabbed his arm before he could leave them entirely.
“Why, Malcolm?” she demanded softly. “Why are ye doing this?”
He glared at her, but it was a façade. “Just be grateful I am not leaving ye to the soldiers.”
She nodded her head. “I am. But I want to know why ye’re doing this for me. For us.”
His mouth went into a flat line. How could he explain it to her? He’d spent all of his time and energy hating his family up until this moment. His urgency to save Caladora and Jordan was greater than he had ever known. There was virtually nothing he could do for Matthew, Cord, or Ian in the dungeons. But he could help his two helpless female cousins.
“I dunna know,” he said truthfully, his hard veneer peeling away. “Mayhap I…I have realized what I have done to my mother’s family. Ye’ve never done me any harm, either one of ye.” He shrugged in frustration. “I just dunna know. Dunna ask me anymore than that.”
He was gone, leaving them with the torch and a good deal of confusion.
*
The drawbridge was charcoal. Anything else that had been wood and had the misfortune to be close enough to the flaming bridge was now aflame as well, and that included shelters atop the wall that were now going up in smoke.
Pleased that the wall was beginning to burn, William was also concerned that the fire would spread to the castle before he could get Jordan out. Urged on by a new sense of gravity, he managed to fight his way through the Scot lines and reach the moat. Paris and Jason were close behind him.
“What now?” Paris demanded over the noise of battle.
William looked at the smoking, gaping hole where the drawbridge had once been and then looked at the moat. With a cock of his eyebrow, he spurred his horse forward.
“ ’Tis only one way to find out how deep this pit is.” he shouted.
His destrier made it up to his belly before he could not or would not go any further. William, covered up to his knees with slimy muck, finally edged the animal out of the water.
“Damn!” he spat. “Where are those ladders? ’Tis the only way we will make it across.”
The ladders were not far off. Ranulf had fifty men working on chopping down saplings and lashing them together with rope. The first one was nearly finished when Jason came racing back into the brush bearing William’s demands. With a wave of his arm, Ranulf beckoned twenty men to carry the ladder to the moat.
’Twas not an easy task, for they had to carry the first ladder through several hundred feet of fighting, dying men before they had a clear enough field to carry it the rest of the way unassaulted. Paris directed the laying of the ladder, making sure it was secure on both ends before allowing the first soldier to mount it.
“I will go in first,” William announced.
Paris cocked his brow. “Not without me.”
Both men bailed from their destriers, moving toward the ladders while William yelled out orders for Kieran to take the field command. Under the cover of the archers firing into the open bailey to keep the enemy at bay, William and Paris led their men across the makeshift bridge.
Even with the archer cover, Scot soldiers awaited them. William had to balance himself and cut down two of them before he was able to jump from the ladder onto the ground. He felt as if he were fighting off the entire country of Scotland as Paris and eventually the other soldiers were able to cross the ladder and support his efforts.
“I am going for the castle!” William shouted to Paris, who nodded briefly before slicing a Scot soldier in two.
“I shall follow!” he yelled back.
“Nay!” William ordered. “You hold the bailey. And I do not want prisoners. Kill them all.”
Paris gave him a mildly surprised glance before nodding to the unusual command. If William wanted everyone dead, then so be it. But he was damn hesitant to let William go at the castle alone.
“William!” he began over the shouting.
“Nay, Paris!” William shot back. “You must stay here.”
Angered but obedient, Paris nodded again and returned to his battle.
William was fighting his way toward the structure when a familiar figure caught his eye. Even in the moonlight, he recognized Malcolm Scott rushing from the castle toward the fight, unaware that William was stalking his movements. He thought it strange the man had no weapon, nor any battle armor, but no matter. William was so intent on killing that he didn’t give a second thought to the fact he was to strike down an unarmed man.
William
’s chest tightened with hatred and glee, the man was walking right into his own death. He would do now what he should have done a year ago, and do it with great relish. This kind of treason deserved nothing less.
Malcolm never saw it coming. William’s sword cut through the night air at him, slicing into his soft belly slickly. Malcolm cried out, clutching at his mortal wound even as William twisted his sword before withdrawing it, a move to ensure that Malcolm’s death would be as painful as possible.
William stood over Malcolm as the man lay upon the dirt of the bailey, his life’s blood spilling out onto the cold ground. Malcolm’s eyes bulged with shock and his veins were popping on his neck as the throes of death swept over him. But even as his vision was fading, he recognized The Wolf.
“Jo…Jordan….” Malcolm managed to sputter.
William dropped to his knees beside the man, grabbing his tunic. “What about Jordan? What have you done to her, you bastard?”
Malcolm coughed up blood and innards, the pain unbelievable. “In the gully to the north,” he breathed. “Between two bushes…there is a boulder…find her….”
The man was dead but William shook him hard enough to snap his neck. “Goddamn you!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Goddamn you, you bastard!”
He thought Malcolm had just described his wife’s grave. He threw Malcolm to the ground, pounding him with his fists as blood splattered all over his armor. He was blind with his grief, aching with hysteria that was claiming him. Behind him, he heard swords clash a few times and them a cry of pain.
“William!” Paris had fought off a soldier about to attack William from behind. “William, what is it?”
William grabbed Malcolm’s hair and slammed the dead man’s head into the earth a couple of times before Paris grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Damnation, William, what’s wrong?” he bellowed.
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 119
