by Lynsay Sands
It did not take long for Jankyn to find the doorway Scymynd had used. Cathal had a strong feeling that the man had undoubtedly been spying on him for a long time. If he survived this confrontation, he was going to hunt out every door like this and make sure it was secured from his side. He was sure they had been built for escape, not spying and treachery. Just as he, Duncan, and Jankyn prepared to enter the narrow passage behind the door, Raibeart hurried into the room. Cathal silently nodded his gratitude for the man’s support and entered the passage. As he made his way down the narrow steps, he prayed Bridget was safe, that she was only being used as bait. It calmed him only a little for he knew he could not trust Scymynd’s word. He vowed he would make the man pay for every bruise Bridget had suffered and, this time, there would be no truce, no tolerance, and no mercy.
Bridget bit back a cry of pain when Scymynd tossed her onto a flat rock jutting out from the smooth stone wall of a large cavern. She sat up and looked around. It was probably a great hall of some sort for there were tables and benches pushed to the side. She suspected every Pureblood of Cambrun was gathered there and they were all staring at her.
Slowly, Bridget looked from face to beautiful face. A few held the same look of contempt and dislike she had seen on Edmee’s face and Scymynd’s. Some had little expression at all. Too few looked uneasy, revealing their reluctance to go along with this latest act of betrayal against their laird. The opinions and loyalties of this crowd were not easily read and Bridget sighed. There might be some allies amongst this crowd, but it would take more than a look to guess who they were. She did not have the time for anything else, however.
“Do ye think he will come for her?” asked a man as he held a bowl of water for Scymynd to wash his hands in.
The implication that he needed to wash after touching her, made Bridget so angry that a little of her fear was burned away.
“Aye,” replied Scymynd. “He will be here soon. The silly wench had sent for him just before I took her. Considering how our great laird has been chasing after her skirts since before they were married, I believe he would answer any summons from her with a pathetic speed.”
She felt her fists clench as she fought the urge to strike the man. Bridget knew that would give her only a very small moment of satisfaction. After that, she would be very lucky if Scymynd allowed her to live. She was not so sure he intended to do so anyway.
“Edmee would have liked to see this,” Scymynd said, sounding almost tender. “She had hungered for his humiliation and the Outsider’s destruction since the first moment the little bitch stumbled into Cambrun. It is still difficult to believe that halfling had the strength to kill her, but he will pay for her murder.”
That, Bridget decided, could not go unchallenged. “Cathal didnae murder Edmee. She attacked us and tried to kill both of us. He but defended himself. If ye wish to betray your laird, or to take his place, at least have the courage to do so with the truth.”
Scymynd raised his arm and Bridget braced for the blow, but it never came. An older woman moved between him and her as if she had not realized she was interfering with anything. She gave Bridget a kind smile as she handed her a goblet of cider. Bridget gave her a smile of gratitude, for the drink and the interference, for she sensed that the woman had known exactly what she was doing.
“Agnes,” growled Scymynd, “the wench isnae some honored guest.”
“She isnae a criminal, either,” replied Agnes as she moved away. “She is a weelborn lass, sister to a laird, and deserves the courtesy.”
Scymynd glared at Bridget. “An Outsider laird. Little better than a peasant.”
Bridget sipped her cider wondering why Scymynd taunted her so, seemed to actually want to make her act or speak out in a way that demanded retribution. She had the chilling feeling that he was trying to make her give him an excuse for killing her. This, she decided, was a trap for Cathal, and for her, although she suspected many of the Purebloods gathered there might not be fully aware of that. Scymynd intended to end this confrontation with her and Cathal dead and Scymynd himself sitting in the laird’s chair.
The man could not be so vain or so stupid as to think it would all be so easy. Bridget doubted that all of the Purebloods would wish to be part of that. There was also Jankyn and Raibeart to contend with, plus a half dozen halflings who would not tolerate the murder of one of their own. She doubted that all of the MacMartins would be so complaisant, either. The man was going to plunge Cambrun into a war and, considering who would be fighting in it, it would be a long, brutal, and very bloody one.
“What are ye thinking, Outsider? That ye are soon to be gallantly rescued?”
The condescension in his voice made her clench her teeth, but she replied sweetly, “Nay. I was but wondering why ye are so eager to destroy the verra place ye claim to want to save.” Bridget sensed someone slip up behind her, but felt no threat, so did not turn around.
“What nonsense are ye spouting?”
“Tisnae nonsense. I think ye have no intention of allowing me and Cathal leave here alive. Do ye think ye can then sit your arse in the laird’s chair and have all welcome ye? Not everyone is displeased with the laird they have. Halfling or nay, he is still the son of the laird who came before. And then there are my kinsmen to consider. They are plentiful and willnae allow my death to go unpunished. Ah, and Cathal’s cousin Connall may have an objection or two. Nay, I think for all your talk of wanting what is best for Cambrun, for the Purebloods, the only one ye want the best for is yourself.”
She sipped her cider, refusing to quail before his glare. There was a soft noise behind her and she realized there were now two people at her back. Cathal obviously had a few allies amongst the Purebloods, or, at the very least, there were some who felt Scymynd needed some sort of control. A quick, sly glance around the chamber revealed a few frowns directed at Scymynd. It seemed she might have caused a few people to start thinking. It was not much, but it would do for a start.
“Halflings and Outsiders. I dinnae need to fear them.” Scymynd looked behind her. “And a few traitors to their blood.”
“But, e’en though Cathal is a halfling, isnae he of your blood?”
“His father fouled the blood of his son when he bred with that Outsider. Now the son thinks to befoul what little MacNachton blood he carries e’en more as he tries to pass it along to a son. Tis enough, more than enough. If Cathal had his way we would all be consorting with Outsiders. He may as weel ask us all to wallow in the mire with the swine.”
Bridget hissed, tired of his constant insults. Her action startled him and she gained a small measure of satisfaction from that. “So proud ye are, so certain of your utter superiority. Och, aye, ye are prettier than anyone ought to be allowed to be, ye live to some great age, ye are strong and fast and heal as if by magic, but ye can still be killed. Ye told Cathal that he shouldnae push ye too hard or ye will push back hard, mayhap harder. Weel, for all ye spit on those who arenae so wondrously pure as ye, the same rule follows.”
“Let them push. They will die.”
“Aye, nay doubt, mayhap e’en in great numbers. But, they have one great strength ye dinnae have. If one of them dies, there is another, and another, and another. They can breed, sir. They can rebuild their armies. There are also far more of them than there are of ye and there always will be. Go ahead and push, sir, and kill and feast until ye are as fat as a piglet, but in the end it will be a hollow victory and it cannae last. In the end, we poor, weak, pathetic Outsiders will win if only because ye cannae replace your losses and we can.”
He took a step toward her and Bridget braced herself. She felt the people at her back do the same. Whatever he intended to do never happened, however. In the tense silence of the hall came the soft sound of someone approaching.
“I believe my gallant rescue is about to begin,” drawled Bridget, sounding far more confident than she felt as she prayed that Cathal had a very clever plan to get them out of this mess. Or a very large army.
<
br /> Twelve
“Release my wife, Scymynd.”
Bridget felt both relieved and terrified when Cathal appeared out of the shadows. A moment later Jankyn was at her side, nodding to the others gathered behind her even as he nudged her to a point slightly behind him. She peered around him to see two men step forward to flank Cathal and she gasped.
“What is Duncan doing here?” she asked, knowing what her brother might soon see and wondering why Cathal allowed him to come along.
“He insisted upon coming,” replied Jankyn, never taking his gaze from Scymynd. “Did he hurt ye?”
“Nay, I am fine. Weel, except for the fact that he is using me to get to Cathal.”
“Ah, lass, he would have found another way. Scymynd has hungered for this battle e’er since the day Cathal was born and ended all chance that Scymynd had of becoming our laird.”
“Nay, I think not,” Scymynd replied to Cathal. “She might still have her uses.”
Cathal stepped closer. “Ye said ye would release her if I came to ye. Here I am and here I will stay until this is finally finished. Bridget cannae be of any further use to ye. Let her go.”
“No matter what happens between us, it willnae end here, will it? Nay, ye fool. Ye have destroyed us with your plots to weaken our blood, to befoul our nest with the child of an Outsider. Twas hard enough to watch ye, a halfling, sit your arse in the laird’s chair, but your get bred upon this woman willnae e’en be half, will they?”
“Ye speak of insults to your vanity that havenae e’en been made yet.”
“Dinnae lie to me. Ye do it poorly. That bitch carries your whelp! I heard her and that cow Mora talking about it.”
Bridget blushed beneath all the gazes that were suddenly fixed upon her. This was not the way she wanted Cathal to find out he was soon to be a father. The poor man looked shocked and somewhat terrified. It was a horrible time for him to know that far more than his wife, his position as laird, and even his life was at stake. As a laird, a warrior, those were risks he was born and bred to accept. Now, added to that tally was the one thing he wanted most of all—a child. She could not help but think that Scymynd knew that, had blurted out the truth in the hopes of weakening Cathal’s resolve.
“Is it true, sweetling?” Cathal said even though he could tell by the look upon her face that it was.
“Aye,” Bridget replied. “I was planning on telling ye. Tis why I planned a fine, and verra private, meal in our chambers today.”
“Ah, aye, I noticed the preparations. How far along?”
“Two months, mayhap a wee bit less.”
“But, we have only been wed about that long.”
Bridget shrugged. “I told ye I was fertile,” she mumbled.
“So, ye see?” Scymynd looked around at the Purebloods gathered in the cavern. “If this isnae stopped here and now, we will find ourselves ruled by a puling Outsider brat. That child, his heir, will be more one of them than one of us. Ye must see how wrong that is, what a foul abomination it is. It simply cannae be allowed. It must be ended here.”
“Scymynd, ye had best nay be suggesting what I think ye are!”
Cathal looked toward the tall, elegant, white-haired Agnes, one of the oldest of the Purebloods. She looked outraged. A quick glance around at the others told him that the tide might be turning against Scymynd. He was strongly suggesting the breaking of an ancient rule, the one that forbid a MacNachton from harming a woman with child, or a child. Scymynd did not seem aware of the fact that he was treading down a path that could quickly lead him to a place where he would stand alone or nearly so.
“What do ye ken about it, old woman?” snapped Scymynd. “Ye fawn upon the Outsiders, tending their hurts and illnesses. Tis because of this bitch that Edmee is dead.”
“Edmee is dead because she tried to kill the laird’s wife,” said Agnes. “Nay more, nay less. Dinnae try to use her foolishness to stir up anger and hatred. And dinnae ye dare ask us, any of us, to stain our hands with the blood of a bairn, born or unborn.” There was a soft rumble of agreement from many of the Purebloods. “Twill be the first birth of one of our own, pure or nay, and aside from the laird, in two score years.”
“And ye see that as reason enough to let this filth into our line?”
“His insults are growing verra tiring, Cathal,” murmured Duncan. “I do hope ye are planning to shut him up soon.”
Scymynd glared at Duncan. “Another Outsider. Do ye mean to surround yourself with such weaklings?” he demanded of Cathal.
A low growl escaped Duncan and it echoed around the cavern. Cathal quickly placed a hand on the man’s arm to steady him, but nearly grinned at the way all the Purebloods looked at him. After a quick look himself, Cathal could understand the surprise, confusion, and curiosity upon their faces. When Bridget was angry or cornered, she looked like a hissing cat. Duncan looked far more impressive, like one of those great lions he had read about.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Bridget, looking at her brother. “Duncan is starting to lose his temper.”
“I believe I noticed that, lass,” said Jankyn, laughter rippling in his voice.
“Enjoy your wee giggle. If he gets any angrier, it willnae be pretty.”
“Does he rip out his enemies’ throats and then lick himself clean afterward?”
“Oh, hush.”
“Tis time we ended this, Scymynd,” said Cathal. “I challenge ye. If I dinnae survive, then let it be kenned that I select Jankyn as the protector of my wife and bairn. If aught happens to them, then I select Jankyn as my heir and Raibeart as his first.”
Cathal almost smiled at the look that crossed Scymynd’s face. The man recognized the importance of those choices. Both men were Purebloods. By choosing them he had stolen most of the power from Scymynd’s claim that they were being taken over by those that too many Purebloods considered inferiors. The fact that so many called out their agreement only dug the knife deeper into all of Scymynd’s plans.
Bridget leaned around Jankyn even as he turned slightly to speak to one of the men behind them. For a brief moment, she had no shield and she knew the very moment Scymynd saw that. He moved swiftly. His dagger was sailing toward her before she had even accepted the fact that he had drawn it. Suddenly she found herself at the bottom of a pile of bodies. One of the ones who had so swiftly thrown themselves in front and on top of her grunted and she realized Scymynd’s dagger had found a target.
“Bridget!” called Cathal and Duncan at the same time.
“I am fine,” she called back as she struggled to get out from under all her protection and too many hands reached out to help her.
Once free she looked to see who had taken the dagger and gasped when she saw that it was Jankyn. Bridget moved quickly to his side, only faintly aware that she had several shadows encircling her, following her every move. To her relief, the dagger had entered high on his back. Taking a deep breath, she yanked it out. As Jankyn cursed she watched in fascination as the wound slowly but surely healed itself.
“That is truly wondrous,” she murmured.
“I am surprised it is healing so weel,” muttered Jankyn, “after ye nearly killed me whilst yanking the knife out.”
“One more word and I will put it back in.” She heard several of her protectors laugh.
“Kill him, Cathal, or I will.”
Bridget recognized that snarl and tried to see where Duncan was. “Duncan sounds verra angry now.”
“And looks it,” said Jankyn. “Ye Callans may nay change any more but ye certainly come as close as anyone I have e’er seen.”
“I cannae see. Does his hair look weel, fatter or higher?”
“As if his fur is standing on end?”
Jankyn was obviously going to torment her about her heritage every chance he got. “Aye, something like that.”
“Aye, but Cathal is sending him over here. Stay behind me, lass. I dinnae think ye will want to see this fight.”
After exchanging a brief touch
of hands with Duncan, Bridget tried to wriggle herself into a position amongst her ring of protectors. She did not want to see the battle to come, but she needed a chance to be able to peek at it once in a while. Finally, placed between and behind two Purebloods, she found that she could see just enough between their broad shoulders.
Cathal moved to the center of the cavern which served as a great hall for the Purebloods. There was utter silence in the cavern. With that one rash act, Scymynd had not only lost all chance of being laird, but of being the leader of the Purebloods. Even the very few men who seemed inclined to stand by him, would prove no trouble for they were being held in place by several of their brethren. Cathal doubted it had been Scymynd’s plan, but the battle would now be between just the two of them. He might not have the full support of the Purebloods, but Scymynd now had little or none.
“This has been a long time coming, halfling,” growled Scymynd.
“Only because ye pressed for it, Scymynd,” replied Cathal.
“If naught else I must make ye pay for killing Edmee.”
“Edmee’s vanity and temper killed Edmee. I was just the selected weapon. No one tries to hurt my wife without paying dearly.”
“She was worth ten of of that Outsider bitch. When I am done with ye, I will see her gutted and that foul thing she carries tossed upon the midden heap where it belongs.”
It was not easy, but Cathal closed his ears to the filth coming from Scymynd’s mouth. He knew what the man was trying to do and he could not let himself be stirred to a blind anger. That would make him act foolishly and that would get him killed. He intended to survive this battle. He had a wife to woo, a mating to perform, and a child to meet. Never had he felt such a deep need to survive.
Scymynd’s attack came swift and hard. Cathal used every trick he had ever learned to hold his own, to compensate for the fact that he did not heal quite as fast. Even so, he was soon suffering from several small wounds. His only compensation was that Scymynd was suffering from more, his blood loss already severe enough to slow his ability to heal. Cathal shut his mind to his own weariness as the fight wore on, to his own pain and blood loss, and concentrated only on giving Scymynd as many injuries as possible, keeping the man’s teeth away from his throat, and his dagger out of his heart.
