Daughter of the king

by Ashley York

  “Uncle Niall?”

  Though she’d whispered the words, Niall turned around, his shoulders up by his ears as if she’d shouted in her loudest voice. She immediately regretted the decision to say anything, but he was already moving closer to her.

  “We do not want to be discovered before we’ve even found the cattle, lass.” The smell of ale was strong on his breath. “Are ye certain we need to be talking at this precise moment?”

  Brighit nibbled at her thumb and shrugged. Niall tousled her hair as if she were still five, then bopped her nose, ready to turn about.

  “I am certain.” Brighit spat out the words. “When we traveled these lands yesterday, we were heavily guarded. ’Twas as if there was much to be protected from here.”

  Niall’s eyes creased with his smile. “Wonderful. All the more fun for us.”

  And then he was back in his place, leading their little group. Well, she’d told him all she knew and it hadn’t worried him. No sense in allowing it to worry her.

  Walls of cold, hard rock towered over them on both sides. They rode single file between the massive formations. With the moon well hidden by thick clouds, they could barely see the rider in front of them.

  “Damn dark in here, Niall.” Lachlann’s statement was met with a quiet hush.

  Brighit shivered, trying to ignore the nagging sense that someone was walking over her grave. This was a wonderful adventure—her last—and she was determined to enjoy it. An owl sounded in the distance as if in warning. Swallowing became difficult despite her constant reassurances to herself.

  A horse whinnied in the distance. Too far ahead to be one of their own. Shivers tingled down her back and she took a shuddering breath.

  A single war cry pierced the darkness.

  “We’ve been discovered, lads.” Niall’s call held that distinct pitch of surprise mixed with panic. “Toward the river.”

  They galloped the rest of the way through the trail, immediately breaking left when they finally cleared the narrow pass.

  The sound of many thundering hooves carried through the darkness. The mounted men came out of nowhere. The sight of those dark figures waving their war swords and shields was accompanied by that same eerie cry. Brighit would admit, at least to herself, this was less an adventure and more a scary experience.

  They’d barely escaped the ambush. A second slower and they’d have been cut off. Trapped. Likely killed. That fact was not lost on Brighit. These men had been waiting for them, prepared to attack them as soon as they crossed onto the land of Clan MacCochlain.

  “Hasten, lads. To the water!” Niall’s voice rang out above the din of startled horses and the chaotic calls of the men in hot pursuit.

  Why were they being chased? They hadn’t done anything wrong yet. And they were being chased by eight, big, mean-looking men. Brighit only ventured one glance at the pursuers before dropping low to her horse, urging it to top speeds.

  “Quick now, lads.” So accustomed was she to Niall’s low, deliberate way of speaking, the sudden alarm in his voice was causing havoc in her innards. She was certain his repeated call of “lads” was intentional. A reminder they needed to protect her. Regret washed over her. They shouldn’t have to worry about her presence when there was immediate danger.

  Niall, her brothers, and the other lads quickly surrounded her, but in so doing, they essentially blocked her in on all sides. Their attempt at protection ensnared her, giving her no opportunity to break into a gallop. Mayhap on her own, she could get away.

  The raid had fallen apart before it had even begun. And now she was being led away like a defenseless female—protected! This wasn’t what she’d wanted. Not at all.

  Valiant was the fastest horse she’d ever seen, and agile too—Brighit easily wove between the spindly trees, pitching sharply from one side to the other to avoid the jagged branches as they ventured into the darkened forest. Despite her unfamiliarity with this place, she’d practiced her riding skills in so many different forests over the years she was able to keep to a fast pace. She’d always won friendly riding competitions, something that gave her confidence now.

  They were heading due west and away from MacNaughton lands. Good plan, keeping their pursuers from knowing to whom they were pledged. Best if they remained an unknown group of men unless they were engaged, which didn’t seem to be her uncle’s plan.

  They cleared the trees, crossing an open meadow, and Lachlann was suddenly beside her.

  “To Dead Man’s Pass.” His whispered words were followed by a hard slap to her horse’s rump at the same time the men parted. Valiant jerked forward, directly to the opening, and Brighit was nearly dislodged.

  Niall’s quiet command from behind was unmistakable. “Make haste.”

  And so she did. The others were turning back and spreading out, preparing for a confrontation. A shift in tactics? They were readying for attack, and here she was riding off by herself. The sound of the other horses quickly faded, but the unmistakable sound of steel on steel carried to her. A twinge of disappointment settled in her chest. She would have liked to test her skills in such a battle.

  The realization that there had been no attempt to even include her was hard to swallow. She’d bested each of these lads one on one, so why wouldn’t they want her to stay with them? To help with defense even?

  Darragh’s comment about her lack of real fighting experience had stuck with her, diminishing her pride in her own accomplishments. It was true her fighting had only been against the lads of her clan. She didn’t want him to be right and this would be the perfect chance to prove herself. So she reached beneath her heavy, wool brait and fisted her trusty dagger, blade side out. She wasn’t fool enough to ride back. If they were bent on protecting her and sending her off, her return could be a deadly distraction, but at least she would be ready if anyone came upon her.

  The clouds parted to reveal a steep hill directly in front of her. Brighit smiled.

  “Come now, fair Valiant, show them what ye can do.” With a slight squeeze of her mount’s sides, the horse sprinted ahead, covering the space to the top of the hill with little effort.

  She glanced behind to gauge if the fighting continued behind her, only to discover there was one warrior still after her. Dogging her. Intent on her capture. His dark figure, tall in his saddle, turned toward her as he cut across the hill at a lower level. Given the path he’d chosen, he would easily intercept her at the base. A sudden thrill brought a smile to her lips. She may indeed have a chance at engagement yet.

  Holding the reins in a one-handed death grip, Brighit focused on the forest ahead. She would do her best to escape as her uncle had intended. If she could make the trees, she would have a chance. If not, she would turn and engage this devil’s spawn who thought to chase her. But despite her increased speed, the sound of his laboring horse was growing louder. When she heard the rider’s heavy breathing, she experienced a sudden pang of fear.

  Brighit hunched closer to the horse’s neck to urge the courser to greater speed, shifting her weight forward. “Do yer best to run like the wind, Valiant.”

  And if ‘tis not enough, may God show me favor in my first honest battle.

  “Ye’ve picked the wrong clan this time.” The man’s low, menacing tone quickened her heart.

  Word play is an attempt to break the opponent’s concentration.

  She shut out all around her, aside from her horse’s gallop and the trees ahead blurring with the intensity of her gaze.

  “Ye’re mine.” He sounded closer, but that couldn’t be.

  She spared a glance behind her and frowned. There was no one. How could he—

  Oomph.

  A solid wall smacked into her chest, knocking her right off her horse and onto the ground. As she lay flat on her back, the unbearable sensation of not being able to breathe gripped her. Her chest burned. Desperate, she was struck by the fact that she might die right here for lack of air.

  The sight of him coming at her, a nasty
looking sword in his grasp, forced her into action. Rolling away from him, she jumped up on her feet and crouched low in a flash, her own weapon in hand.

  He stopped an arm’s length from her, tipped his head and asked, “D'ye seriously want to do this?”

  His words, delivered in a low voice, sent a sharp pang of fear straight into her gut. Admittedly, he was huge. His arms alone could crush her, and his fierce expression confirmed he had no qualms about doing that very thing. If he got close, he could easily overpower her, and she had no doubt that was his ultimate goal. He was giving her an out as if she had no chance against him. She’d have even less of a chance if he knew she was a female.

  She gritted her teeth but raised her own blade, shortened to accommodate her smaller size, to ready position. Her terse nod was met with a you-asked-for-it look, and his blade was pressed against hers so quickly she barely had time to step forward and brace her arm against it.

  The man smiled, and she could have kicked herself. He saw the fear in her eyes.

  “A lad yer size should know better than to engage a seasoned warrior.” He pressed his arm more firmly against hers with little effort, and she struggled to hold her ground. “Ye need to be put in yer place.”

  With barely any effort, he shoved her away from him and lowered the point of his blade directly at her. “Show me what ye’re made of, pup.”

  The distance was a gift and she knew it. He was giving her more of a chance than she deserved. Light on her feet, her speed was her most powerful weapon. She’d experienced it over and over again. The lads she’d trained with had grown stronger over the years, but they’d also become slower. Surely this man’s momentum did not match his strength.

  Shifting from foot to foot, she didn’t dare to say anything in her defense. The big man merely watched her maneuvers, his eyes narrowing. When she jabbed at him, he turned his body aside to easily miss the blade. The only problem with this miodóg intended for her shorter height was its shorter reach.

  “Ye’ll have to try harder than that.”

  She bent her arm, raising the hilt of her blade as high as her shoulder, and slashed at him, catching his brait. It was her unexpected step forward that caught him off guard. He jumped back, obviously surprised by the tactic. Confidence welled in her chest.

  He had thought so little of her abilities that he hadn’t even shoved the heavy material from his shoulders to give himself full maneuverability. He did so now, and she used the opportunity to repeat the same tactic going the other way, once again catching him unprepared. The thin line of blood where her blade had sliced through the sleeve at his forearm was a minor wound, but it emboldened her.

  With a fast shifting of her slight weight from side to side, she pressed her advantage. The dagger tight in her grasp, she pulled her elbow back to ready herself for the shove into his belly when he was within reach. He appeared too dumbfounded to withdraw. She’d drawn first blood, but this would be the first time she’d actually impaled anyone. When the moment was upon her, she hesitated, giving him the time required to shift away from her lunge. He dropped the heavy material back into place before she could pull back. Instead of making contact with his body, her arm became tangled in his mantle. She was unable to clear her weapon.

  With a growl and a shove, he easily toppled her backward. The pursuer dropped on top of her, straddling her with his heavy weight. His massive legs easily pinned her arms to her sides, the weapon still clasped in her fist. She moved her shoulders back and forth in an attempt to work herself free.

  She was helpless, and that fact sparked a hot rage deep within her.

  “Ye little shite.” He growled through tight lips barely discernible against the heavy growth of beard. Dark, wide eyes filled with anger peered down at her. When he backhanded her, she gasped.

  The sting at her cheek spread into a burning sensation across the side of her face, and her mouth flooded with blood. Struggling to move her arms and free her hand, she was lurched forward when he grabbed her by the front of her tunic.

  Nose to nose, he said, “Give me the name of yer leader. He’ll not get away this time.”

  Just as suddenly, he released her and was squeezing his knees into her again, backhanding her for the second time. The wave of pain exploded across the other side of her head.

  “Ye’ll talk, or I’ll kill ye straight away.”

  With the taste of her own blood mixing with the rotten stench of his breath, her stomach threatened to heave. Her fingers wiggled on the hilt of her dagger.

  “What swine enlists the aid of a smooth-faced lad? Who sent ye?”

  Blood trickled down her throat and she was forced to swallow it. Clamping her jaw tight, her attempt at a fierce scowl merely caused him to laugh.

  “Ye think ye can withstand my fists?”

  He shoved her shoulders flat, his legs clamped to her sides, and set about proving her wrong. The first punch was to her side and the pain was more intense than anything she’d experienced. She squeezed the hilt so tight, it pierced her flesh.

  “A name is what I want and a name I’ll get.”

  When he punched her in the stomach, her gut gripped tight and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

  “How much d’ye think ye can bear?”

  Despite the pain, she kept alert. Escape was imperative. He flattened himself against her with his massive hands gripping her sides, pressing into her ribs, his stinky breath again in her face. She was suffocating beneath his weight and panic set in.

  “A name is all I want.” Spittle accompanied his word and dripped down her chin.

  She shuddered in a tight breath that barely reached her lungs, but he immediately stopped his assault, tipping his head and studying her with intently. Her bindings! He could feel her bound chest. When she tried to hold her breath, the pain was too intense. A painful high-pitched moan escaped.

  He scowled in displeasure and scooted low enough that he could yank at the V of her tunic.

  “This better not be true.” He worked at the leather belt, tugging the material, and shifted his knee lower. His hold of her slackened. Brighit slipped her small weapon up between his knee and her body. As she bent her elbow out, moving it as far as his relaxing hold would allow, he freed the material of her tunic to reveal the tight binding at her breast.

  “And what have we here?” His tone changed, as did his expression, and a flash of excitement lightened his eyes. “Allow me the pleasure of releasing yer bondage, little one.”

  Her blade cleared her hip. When he reached for the knife at his waist, his exposed side offered her the perfect target.

  She buried her dagger into his tight flesh with all the strength she could gather. It made a sickening sound.

  He stilled as if frozen in ice before he turned his face toward her, a look of incredulity in his eyes. Filled with wrath and an unquenchable desire to survive, she pressed the blade deeper still, stopping only when the hilt snagged at his rib. Hot, sticky blood covered her fist, but she held fast, clamping her jaw, his eyes locked onto hers.

  It took an eternity for the man to die. Brighit dared not move. She dared not breathe.

  At long last, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on her, forcing her hand to release its death grip on the weapon or snap at the wrist.

  Relief swept over her, but it was short lived when realized she was trapped beneath his dead weight. Whimpers of frustration filled the air as she bent her knees up in a desperate attempt to dislodge him. Brighit heaved her body up, her hips pushing against him. He was as heavy as a horse. Shoving against his lower body, she finally managed to roll him off.

  Her mouth gaping open and her eyes focused heavenward at the stars twinkling overhead, she took one, two, three deep breaths of fresh air. Sighing loudly, she closed her eyes at the pleasant sensation of freely filling her lungs. She blew out a breath before standing. Pulling her tunic back into place, she adjusted the belt, refusing to think about the tremors in her bloody hand.


  Her attacker lay flat on his face, his body not moving. Bending closer, she thought to check if he was truly dead, but a movement in the distance caught her eye. A lone rider sat mounted on a huge beast at the top of the hill. Stray puffs of breath from the horse’s muzzle were the only sign that the rider was indeed real and not summoned by her imagination. She didn’t recognize him.

  She straightened her clothing. Her breath ragged, she glanced back at her victim. He could easily have killed her. Or worse.

  The horse snorted as the mounted rider began to move closer, covering the distance between them with plodding steps. She began shaking uncontrollably. For the smallest moment she considered calling out to him, reasoning with him, mayhap even asking for his help, but she tossed the idea away just as quickly. There would no help from him even though she had no doubt that he’d witnessed the entire event.

  With a low whistle, Brighit called to her horse. Valiant came from wherever she’d been grazing, oblivious to the plight of her rider. The man stopped a few feet away, his face masked in shadows. He was dressed in the traditional léine, the long brait wrapped around him to ward off the cold and held at his shoulder by a large, shiny brooch. She waited for him to speak, to try and stop her, to ask if she was going to bury the man she’d killed. He said nothing.

  So she mounted, put her heels to the horse and sped off. Though she expected the sounds of pursuit, there were none. No horse’s whinny. No leather creaking. No foot falls. Today she’d killed a man and she would have to live with that fact for the rest of her life. She followed the path back to the MacNaughton land, away from the violent scene. Back toward her boring life. Refusing to glance over her shoulder the entire ride, she wondered if she’d ever feel at peace again.

  Chapter 6

  As planned, the masses gathered to witness the vows given and received by Darragh and Brighit at the door to the small chapel. The crowd was silent, whether from tension over the proceedings or overindulgence from the night before, Darragh wasn’t sure. He had spent the whole night tossing and turning, and yet Brighit seemed even less awake. Though he had long recognized she had no great love for him, he hadn’t expected her to break into cavernous yawns barely hidden by her veil. It did not help that her domineering father looked ready to snatch her away at any moment.