The Laird's Daughter

by Temple Hogan

  There would be a siege, and Baen felt certain he knew Dunollie’s weaknesses and where her walls might be best breached. Had he not lived within the great castle these past ten years? He drew his mount to a halt and faced the line of men ready to defend the Campbell stronghold. He thought of Archibald, the old warrior, so amenable as long as he was given an ever-increasingly generous ration of wine each day. He’d been easy to trick and maneuver, so Baen had ruled the castle from behind the old chief’s back.

  Then Rafe had come.

  Baen growled with fury. Well, it was time for things to go back the way they had been. His sword would smite the arrogant Campbell heir, leaving only Baen to lay claim to Dunollie when the old chief died, and Baen intended that would be soon, perhaps this very day. Sir Archibald had betrayed him, and he must pay with his life.

  “Vengeance!” Baen held up a fist and bellowed the word. It echoed in the little valley, past the village and over the castle walls so all those within heard his cry. Some of the MacDougalls heard and answered with their cry.

  “Listen to the fool,” Bryce muttered from his perch on the wall. “Baen thinks he can win against the Campbells because he doesn’t know about the rest of the men Rafe’s got hidden.”

  “Too bad no one warned him,” Innes Dubhgall whispered.

  “I’ve not forgotten Baen’s past cruelties to the MacDougalls, but I’ve a great desire to overcome the Campbells, enough so I’m willing to throw my lot in with an old enemy. We’ll deal with Baen when the castle has been wrested from the Campbells.”

  “Aye, Dunollie in MacDougall hands again,” Innes said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Make your way down there and get word to Baen that he’s ridden into a trap. It’s too late for him to back away now, but they could escape around the castle to the south.”

  “Are you daft, man?” Innes protested. “They’re on horseback. I’d be trampled to death.”

  “Not if you take a mount from the stable. Hie now and do it.”

  “What good would it do us if he runs away?” Innes asked, sending a spume of chewed tobacco onto the parapet. “I hate the Campbells rightly enough, but I have no wish to die this day.”

  “He and his men will not be wiped out if they can regroup and attack again, and they’ll know they have friends within the castle.”

  Innes studied him for a moment. “’Tis treason we’re contemplating here.”

  “Aye, treason against the hated Campbells who have no right to rule us anyhow.” Bryce tightened his grip on his blacksmith hammer. “Are you with me?”

  The clansman was silent for a moment then slowly shook his head. “Aye, I am and so is my brother and my son. When this is over, you’ll be the head of the MacDougall clan. I expect you to reward me for my services.” The two men grasped each other’s forearm then Innes rose and made his way down the stairs.

  The parapet was lined with soldiers, archers and even able-bodied and willing village men armed with scythes and axes. Annie saw that Sir Archibald Campbell had been carried to the stone wall walk where he’d taken up a position near one of the crenels. From there, he could safely watch the battle below. All was bedlam on the walkway as men used chains to position great timbered beams into place to hold the hoarding. Other men followed, lowering the planking into place for a protected corridor from which rocks, boiling oil and burning lime could be dropped down on those who tried to breach the main gate. For further protection, a wooden roof covered with treated leather bindings to guard against flaming arrows was being erected. The men worked feverishly, knowing their efforts would protect the castle and the people within.

  Dodging the grim-faced guards, Annie had taken up residence in a corner near one of the towers and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She studied Bryce where he was stationed near one of the crenels staring morosely down at the scene below. In his great fists, he gripped his blacksmith hammer and a stout forked stick, which would be used to catch the rungs of ladders as the enemy tried to scale the castle walls. His guarded exchange with Innes troubled her. She no longer trusted her clansman. He would cause trouble wherever he could.

  Cautiously, she crept forward and gazed through the opening in the hoarding. Rafe sat upon his horse and watched the bunch of riders lined up along the peaceful meadow. The sun had risen high in the morning sky, its golden light adding a benediction to this day, which must bring death to some men.

  From his perch along the wall, Bryce’s fists tightened in rage, but he forced himself to play the role of a willing defender. He was expected to fight to protect the castle and villagers, but given the chance, he would happily fall upon the Campbell men. He gaze flew to the tall, erect figure of the Campbell commander seated on his fine horse. He would be the first Bryce would strike down. The memory of Rafe’s nude body covering Annie’s inflamed Bryce’s senses. The man had no right to beget Campbell bastards on the laird’s daughter. If Annie had no clan loyalty, then Bryce must have enough for both of them. One day, after the cursed Campbells were driven out, he planned to marry Annie and rule Dunollie, himself. He’d allow none of Rafe Campbell’s bastards to mar his plans. If Annie bore such a bairn from her tryst in the woods, he’d drown it in the loch. He watched the drama play out below, his anger festering like an old sore.

  Chapter Ten

  Annie watched as Baen signaled his men and they swept across the field, not minding that they trampled crops that would be needed to provide winter food, or caring that they scattered cattle that had been left behind. He spurred his mount, drawing blood, and raced toward the village and the castle beyond seemingly blind to all as he led his men forward. His force was large enough to visibly waken some dread, especially when they brandished their claymores and roared the Highland yelp that seemed to demoralize more than one man on the battlefield.

  Annie’s gaze sought out Rafe in the milieu as he motioned to his archers who stood waiting. At once, two red arrows were released into the air, one to the east toward the woods of Oban, and the other to the southern hills. Rafe led the charge toward Baen. Annie’s heart swelled with a mixture of admiration and fear.

  “M’lady Jean, you can’t be up here. ‘Tis too dangerous,” someone called, and Annie turned and saw Jean ascend the steep stairs. Her expression was pinched with worry, but she raised her chin regally.

  “I would view the battle,” she replied firmly and stepped to the crenel where Annie had taken up a position.

  “Then she’ll have to go,” the man said implacably.

  Annie hadn’t guessed they knew she was there. Now the guard approached, his face scowling.

  “She stays,” Jean said, throwing out an arm to block the man from reaching Annie. “Now put your attention on the battle down there, my good man, and leave us poor women to do what we can in such an event, which is to worry about the men we love.”

  “He’ll be fine, m’lady,” he said in a placating tone. “Rafe Campbell is a fierce fighter. Naught will happen to him.” He turned away before Jean could answer, but hearing his words eased the tightness in Annie’s chest.

  Now the two women stood shoulder to shoulder, peering through the crenel at the fearsome scene below. Hundreds of men galloped across the plain, intent on their own purposes. In the distance, from the dark shadows of Oban, Captain Aindreas MacIntyre led his troops forward in a furious race toward Baen’s forces, while from the south, Gare and his men swept over the hills. Baen was effectively caught between the two groups, but had not yet recognized his dilemma.

  Baen’s men had reached the village wall, where Rafe and his forces engaged them, their broad claymores slashing left and right. Annie studied Baen’s ragtag band, warriors of broken clans themselves. Like many she guessed, they nursed a hatred for the cursed Campbells who’d profited mightily from the spoils of war and thereby, symbolized the cause of all their misery. But even festering resentment was not enough to overcome the greater number of the Campbell forces, Annie saw. Bodies fell before the heavy cla
ymores of disciplined fighting men and were trampled beneath the hoofs of warhorses. Annie’s heart couldn’t help but feel sorrow for Baen’s men who were suffering greatly, their numbers dwindling. Finally, it seemed even Baen’s blind arrogance couldn’t hide the fact he’d been outmaneuvered and outnumbered. He guided his mount toward the edge of the fighting field. One of his men signaled him and pointed toward a hooded man astride a broad backed Highland pony.

  “Who can that be?” Jean said.

  Annie stood on tiptoe to get a better look. The man nodded toward the castle, and the hood fell away from his face.

  “Innes!” she said in disgust.

  “Why is he talking to Baen?” Jean asked in puzzlement.

  “I don’t know,” Annie replied, dread washing over her as she thought of the conversation she’d witnessed between Bryce and Innes. She glanced along the parapet at the burly blacksmith and felt a moment of relief at seeing him still at his post. But why was Innes down there in the thick of the battle talking to Baen? Did his loyalties lie with the bullish captain who had brought them all so much grief? What did he hope to achieve? Silently, she watched as the men spurred their horses and rode away together. Seemingly, Baen had given no thought to the men he’d led into such a one-sided battle. Then a horn sounded, and slowly, the remaining attackers left the field in an unruly rout and followed Baen. How many would ride under his banner again, she wondered when he’d abandoned them so cowardly.

  Blood up, Aindreas and Gare signaled their men to follow, which they quickly did. Rafe waved his men to stay and guard the castle. Obviously, he didn’t trust Baen not to double back and try to attack the castle once he’d drawn away the defenders.

  “Aindreas!” Jean said in anguish as she watched him ride in pursuit of Baen and his men, then she fell silent, head lowered in silent acceptance of what the fates would bring her.

  Annie touched her shoulder in unspoken comfort and turned back to the scene below. Rafe sat upon his mount, gazing over the field of abandoned dead bodies, shield lowered, shoulders slumped in defeat although he and his forces had triumphed. Annie knew he was not a man to take satisfaction in the death of another, friend or enemy. He’d not revel in the defeat of dead men.

  Annie thought of the men who’d lost their lives here. Most of them wore unfamiliar ragged tartans, adventurers, men from broken clans, for hire now to the highest bidder, looking for any advancement offered them. Bhaltair stood silent except for an occasional snort to dislodge the flies, which had already flocked to the death field.

  No longer able to watch Rafe in his moment of despair and triumph, Annie slumped down against the parapet wall, curling into a ball as her gaze swept along the walkway. The archers had relaxed their stance, their bows lowered although most of them kept their gaze pinned on the scene below in case the enemy came back. Only one stood ready at a crenel, his bow drawn, an arrow nocked. Even as she watched, he drew his bow taut, the muscles of his broad back and shoulders rippling. At first, her mind didn’t register that Bryce was the bowman and when it did, she felt a quiver of fear then denial as she whirled to gaze out at the battle scene. Had Baen come back? Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Only one enemy was below—Rafe Campbell!

  She screamed and turned toward Bryce, her legs moving woodenly as she ran toward him, but before she reached him, he’d released the arrow. She heard it sing against the wind, a promise of death. She paused at a crenel, her gaze frantically searching for a tall, wide-shouldered figure astride a magnificent black steed. Her heartbeat slowed as she caught sight of him. Bryce had missed, she thought joyfully. Then the arrow found its target, burying itself deep in his side. He jerked and put a hand to the point of entry, then slowly toppled from his horse to the ground.

  “Annie, what is it?” Jean asked, running to put an arm around her, but Annie shook her off.

  “No!” she cried and turned to throw herself at Bryce.

  He’d already dropped the bow and was preparing to make his getaway when she barreled into him, her fists pummeling his face and neck. The commotion drew the attentions of the archers who laughed, at first, to see the tiny goose girl fighting the brute of a blacksmith. Bryce threw her off, his face a dark mask of triumph. He’d used such force that she landed against the stone parapet wall and slid down to the walkway, her breath gone, her mind and heart black with grief and disbelief.

  “What are you doing?” Jean rushed toward them.

  Vaguely, Annie discerned Bryce had stepped over her and was racing toward the stairs, his anvil clutched in his hand and Archibald Campbell in his path. Bryce never paused when he reached the old man seated in his chair. The blacksmith raised his hammer and bashed it against Archibald’s temple. Blood and gray matter spread around him and he slumped in his chair, his rheumy eyes staring vacantly at the sky.

  Bryce fled down the staircase and in the confusion no one called him back or pursued him. One of the guards came forward to peer down at Archibald.

  “He’s killed the Laird. Stop that man.” He sprang down the stairs in pursuit of the blacksmith. Other men followed. There was no one to see what he’d done to Rafe.

  “Annie, what happened? What’s wrong?” Jean demanded.

  “Laird Archibald is dead and Rafe’s been wounded,” she stuttered between efforts to get her breath again. “I must go to him.” With Jean’s help, she struggled to her feet and made for the stairs. She had only one thought, and that was to get to Rafe.

  “Open the gate!” she shouted as she raced across the outer bailey.

  Guards turned to gaze at her in astonishment.

  “Annie, what are you about?” one of them asked. He’d always been a kind soul, waving to her from a distance and remarking on the weather.

  “Clach, open the gate. Your commander’s been wounded.”

  “Aye?” He looked at her dumbfounded. “You’re speaking, lass. I’ve never heard your voice before.”

  “Open the bleeding gate!” she shouted. “Rafe Campbell lies without with an arrow in his side.”

  Clach looked at the other guards, and as one, they ran to open the gate and lower the drawbridge. Annie ran out on the bridge and leaped to the ground on the other side before it had settled in place. Before her lay a field of dead bodies and horses. From this angle, it was difficult to tell where Rafe had fallen, but she was undeterred. She rushed forward, skirting the bodies of men who lay silent in death, their open eyes gazing at a sky that had shown them no mercy this day.

  The flies had thickened over the dead, their buzz loud in the hot, noonday sun. Impatiently, Annie waved them from her face and pressed on. Her chest was tight with fear so she could barely breathe. Behind her, Clach and the other guards followed, their deep voices uttering curses and disbelief in her claim. Frantically she searched, trying to remember exactly what landmarks there’d been from her view on the parapet. But here, on the ground, everything was different, distorted by the horror of fallen bodies. Finally, she spotted Bhaltair standing faithfully, his head lowered protectively over the body of his master. He neighed a warning as Annie slogged closer and knelt beside Rafe’s body. Rearing on his hind legs, the stallion pawed the air and landed dangerously close to Annie.

  “Easy, boy,” she said. “I’ll not hurt him. I love him, too.”

  Quickly, her hands moved over Rafe as she tried to assess how badly he was injured. He lay so quiet, she feared he was dead, and her heart leaped in denial. Leaning forward, she held her cheek near his lips and waited. There! A tiny breath of air. He was alive but weakened by his wound. She touched the arrow, wanting to rip it from his side, but to do so might cause hemorrhaging that would mean certain death. She glanced back at the castle and saw that Clach and his men were approaching.

  “Here,” she called. “He’s here, and he’s still alive.”

  “Auld Clootie take me, the lassie’s aright,” Clach yelled back at the other men. “Hie yourselves here, lads. We’d best get him to the castle so the midwife can look
at him.”

  “Is he alive?” one of the guards asked.

  “He looks a goner to me,” said another.

  “He’s still breathing,” Annie cried so passionately that the men looked at each other uneasily.

  “Aye, the lass would know,” Clach said though he had no reason to give her such credibility. “Come on, lads, let’s get him up.”

  “Be careful,” Annie urged, moving out of the way.

  She hovered nearby as the guards, two on each side, lifted their commander and carried him back toward the castle, then followed behind, a prayer forming on her lips. Jean waited at the open gate and put her arms around Annie.

  “Is he still alive?” she asked.

  Numbly, Annie nodded. “Aye, for now.”

  “He’ll be all right, lass,” her friend said and walked beside Annie, gripping her hand as they made their way into the castle.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” a shrill voice called. Dianne rushed forward, her eyes wide and fearful. “Why are you bringing that man in here?”

  “’Tis Rafe, Dianne. He’s been wounded,” Jean answered and motioned the men toward the stairs.

  They carried Rafe upstairs to his chamber and placed him on the bed. One of the guards was dispatched to summon Alyce.

  “Bring water and cloth,” Jean cried and a maid quickly appeared bearing the items requested.

  Annie took the basin of water and wet a cloth then knelt beside the bed, where she bathed Rafe’s brow and his wound, washing away the grime of battle. His paleness worried her. Alyce hadn’t appeared yet, and Annie feared to delay much longer. The arrow must be removed. Taking a deep breath, she rose and grasped the shaft, praying the arrowhead would not remain as she applied a steady pressure. Rafe jerked and cried out in pain.

  “What is she doing?” Dianne cried. “She’s hurting him. Get her out of here.”

  At that moment, the arrow came free and to Annie’s relief, intact.