The Laird's Bastard Daughter (The Highland Warlord Series Book 1)

by Tessa Murran

  Ravenna scanned the edge of the trees along the banks. There was no one there. Fear gripped her, and she took a few steps back towards Beharra. But what if Morna was lying hurt somewhere out here? She could not leave until she was sure. Where was everyone? Surely Donald would have fetched them by now?

  There was no sound of people approaching from the direction of Beharra.

  This was wrong. This was a trap.

  Her heart was hammering as she headed back along the path to the castle. She wanted to break into a run, but she was too breathless to do so and dreaded hearing the pounding of feet coming after her.

  Her heart almost stopped when he stepped out of the bushes, blocking her path.

  ‘I’m so glad you came, Ravenna.’

  ‘Alisdair,’ she gasped.

  ‘Surprised to see me, are you? Did you know your husband sent his thugs to kill me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are lying, Ravenna, though it’s so hard to tell with you, for you do it so well?’

  ‘Let me pass, Alisdair.’

  ‘I was forewarned, so I managed to escape their ambush,’ he continued.

  ‘You should not be here. Men will come any moment from Beharra.’

  He shook his head slowly, with a smug look on his face.

  ‘Donald?’ she said, fear choking her throat.

  ‘Aye, a quick lad, eager to spy for coin and the promise of a better life. Like you, he has no loyalty and will bite the hand that feeds him. He’s my little rat, and I set him to creeping about Beharra with his eyes and ears open.’

  ‘But he’s just a child.’

  Alisdair shrugged. ‘He’s useful, for now, and no one pays any heed to a child hanging around, so no one sees the threat.’

  She had to buy time, find a way to get clear of this man. He took a step towards her, violence slithering in his eyes. Every instinct in Ravenna screamed at her to flee for her life, but she’d never outrun him. If he got hold of her…

  He took another step.

  ‘I quite like Morna, a bonnie little thing, soft, eager to please. I was quite looking forward to having Cormac’s sister warm my bed, teaching her the value of obedience. Not like you, for you will never learn it, you whore,’ he hissed at her.

  Ravenna took a step back from him.

  ‘No point in running, for I will catch you. Ravenna, you do know I mean to kill you.’

  ‘Why would you do that? My father promised me that if I passed on information to you, I could earn my freedom, and I have done what you asked. You have Cormac’s secrets, where he has been going, where his allegiance lies.’

  ‘Aye, but it is thin stuff Ravenna. Nothing I could not have taken from servant’s gossip or my other eyes and ears in Beharra. Donald has told me the truth. More often than not, it has been lies, hasn’t it? You say he is going here, on this road, while in fact, he is going there, on another. You have stalled and deceived Ravenna, and a man has to wonder why. Your father wonders why?’

  Ravenna gasped. So, all along Alisdair had another spy in her husband’s house, watching her, reporting back to him. So he would know about her being found out, about almost being lynched and, if he knew that, then…

  ‘I hear you not only submit to lying in Cormac’s bed but that you seek it out, that you have softened toward him. It must be because he spared your life, even after he found out you were lying to him. Does the fool do it for love, or because you trot at his heels like a tame bitch?’ Alisdair shook his head. ‘You know lass, it’s a bit late in life to find loyalty, misplaced though it is.’ He slowly drew a knife from its scabbard. ‘Sadly, I fear it will be the death of you.’

  ‘The King will find out about this, Alisdair, and then he will end you, and my father, too, for his scheming.’

  ‘Robert the Bruce is no king. Edward, King of England, is almost upon Stirling with a vast army. The Scots army will be crushed, there is no hope for them. Robert may survive the battle by running away with his tail between his legs, as he always does, but wherever he goes to ground this time, Edward will sniff him out and give him a traitor’s death. Once the English relieve the garrison at Stirling, they will crush any resistance, and their King will put Scotland to the sword. Those who are loyal now, and choose the right side, will prosper.’

  ‘Battles are uncertain things, Alisdair. You should not underestimate the Bruce. If we win, Cormac will know what you have done here, and he will spend the rest of his life hunting you down.’

  ‘Yes, if he survives.’ His smirk told her everything. ‘Baodan will make sure he falls on the field, Ravenna. It will look like a glorious death in battle.’

  ‘So, you would do murder then?’

  ‘Aye, ‘tis an easy thing to murder someone you hate.’

  ‘You can’t do it, Alisdair, and even with Cormac dead, King Robert could still prevail.’

  ‘Not when his flank crumbles, and the English get their opportunity. You see, the trouble with Robert, or so your father tells me, is that he thinks too much. He has plans, carefully laid plans. He relies on cunning, not strength, which is why he has scrapped his way to where he is today. Take away his clever plans, his element of surprise, and you expose his soft belly like a sheep hung up for gutting.’

  ‘But you can’t foresee the outcome of a battle.’

  ‘Robert will fight if he thinks he can win. If he joins in battle, Baodan will collapse the flank and take the Gowan men over to the English side. That won’t do much for Scots’ morale. Either way, Robert the pretender, will have a grisly end.’

  ‘How can you do such a thing to your own people?

  ‘Don’t be naive Ravenna. In return for giving the Bruce to the English, your father will get lands in England, titles, wealth. He will be untouchable, and the Buchanans will be ground to dust. He means to put every male to the sword, every woman will be branded, and anyone who gives sanctuary to a Buchanan will be slaughtered. Though you, my dear, need not worry about that.’

  Alisdair took a few steps closer. Ravenna cast about for something to fend him off, a branch or a stone, but there was none to hand. He kept coming closer, and she kept retreating, further away from Beharra and safety.

  ‘The name of Clan Buchanan will be wiped from history,’ sneered Alisdair.

  ‘You are wrong. Our army will win, I know it in my heart.’

  ‘That’s not likely, is it? Did your husband fill your head with such dreams? Cormac is a fool who follows his heart or his cock. Either way, he trusts where he should not, he gives loyalty where he should not.’ Alisdair twisted the knife around in his hand. ‘Enough talking,’ he said.

  Was it to end like this, butchered on the banks of the river with the sun shining down? Would it hurt terribly? Fear took her and then she thought of her child, dying in her womb, hers to protect.

  ‘I hope you rot in hell, Alisdair.’

  ‘You first, Ravenna.’

  Alisdair was quick. Though she turned and ran for her life towards the trees, he managed to grab hold of the edge of her tunic. He raised his arm to strike with the knife as Ravenna twisted sideways. It put him off balance, but still, he had hold of her, and his weight crashed into her, just as the knife descended, slashing into thin air instead of her back. She raked her nails down Alisdair’s face. He cried out and she tore free.

  If she could just get into some cover, twist this way and that, perhaps he would not catch her? In her haste to get away, she stumbled over a log and went flying. She had no time to get to her feet before he was coming at her again, pure rage in his eyes.

  Ravenna scrambled back through the undergrowth on her bottom. There were bushes and brambles all around her, cutting her hands, but she barely felt it. She heard a scraping noise behind her.

  ‘Leave her be, or I’ll take your head,’ someone shouted.

  Ravenna glanced over, and there was Ramsay, knife in hand, head down like a bull about to charge. Suddenly he burst into a run. Ravenna scrambled backwards as he hit Alisdair off his feet and they
fell to the ground in the bushes. They rolled around, grunting. There were no words, for this was mortal combat, with each man intent on killing the other.

  Ravenna rolled onto all fours and tried to rise. The shock of Alisdair’s attack had turned her legs to jelly, so she had to push hard to get herself upright. The two men were still locked together, arms out and braced, each man trying to block the knife thrusts of the other.

  Nearby, Ravenna spotted a stout branch and grabbed hold of it, just as the two men rolled free of each other.

  Ramsay struck forwards at Alisdair but stumbled, and his blow went sideways. Alisdair took his chance and plunged his knife upwards, hard into Ramsay’s side. He held on to his victim’s shoulder to make the final killer blow, and so he did not see Ravenna raise the branch and bring it crashing down on the top of his head.

  He yelled and staggered back, and Ramsay fell to his knees, clutching his side.

  Rage took Ravenna. She beat Alisdair again and again, as he tried to rise. She beat him until he stopped trying to rise at all, until his head was a bloody mess of bone and blood, and his body stopped twitching. Then she bent over and vomited. All her life she had thought herself capable of killing someone but now she had, Ravenna was appalled.

  ‘Get a grip woman, and come and help me,’ growled Ramsay, teeth clenched in pain.

  She staggered over to him, with her head swimming, and took hold of Ramsay’s arm about her neck. Though he was not big, he was solid, and it was hard to haul him to his feet. He leant on her heavily as she walked him back towards the castle.

  ‘The bastard’s done for me,’ he gasped. ‘A belly wound is a slow death.’

  Where he gripped the wound, blood seeped through his fingers, dripping along the path as they went.

  ‘Not always, Ramsay. We will clean and stitch it, and then we will see.’

  ‘I saw you run from the bridge, so I followed you and listened because I didn’t trust you. If I had been right, I would have killed you without a second thought, no matter what my Laird told me.’

  ‘Don’t speak, save your strength.’

  Ravenna staggered a few more paces, but he was too much for her to carry. ‘Ramsay, I have to leave you and bring back help, you are too heavy for me.’ She lay him down as gently as she could. His face was bone-white and stiff with pain, and beads of sweat covered his forehead. ‘I am sorry that it has come to this.’

  ‘No matter. I am dying.’

  ‘No.’

  He grabbed hold of her hand tight. ‘You know what you must do, and it can only be you, for we can trust no one. You have to warn Cormac.’

  ***

  Once they got Ramsay back to the castle, Ravenna had a long night. They put him on the table, before the fire, sliding and writhing in a pool of his own blood. Ravenna had to shout at Morna to keep the candle still, so she could see. The knife had gone deep but had missed his vitals, slicing into his side, just below the ribs. The wound was in his muscle, deep, but she tried her best to clean it and stitch it tight. Time would tell whether it would fester and seep poison into the man’s blood, taking his life.

  Morna’s questioning she had to deflect, while she tried to save Ramsay’s life. The girl was surprisingly steadfast in the face of the gore and had insisted on helping, holding Ramsay’s hand and comforting him when the pain became unbearable. It seemed there was a deal more fortitude in Morna than anyone realised.

  When Ramsay fell into a fitful sleep, Ravenna took Morna aside and told her everything. She watched shock and joy struggle across the girl’s face at the news of Alisdair’s death.

  ‘You don’t need to feel guilty at being glad he is dead,’ said Ravenna. ‘You should smile about it, for he was vermin, and he intended only harm and suffering for you.’

  ‘And yet, he told me that he loved me to distraction.’

  ‘Love does not show itself through fine words and flattery, but in actions, Morna. One day you will find a good, strong man who truly loves you.’

  ‘I don’t want a husband. I don’t think wedlock brings much joy for women.’

  Ravenna left it like that, as Morna wasn’t exactly wrong.

  Cormac had left some stout men behind to guard the castle, and Ravenna went around all of them, warning them to be on their guard. With an English army at their door, she doubted her father would divide his forces by attacking Beharra, but it was never wise to turn your back on Baodan Gowan.

  Ramsay drifted in and out of consciousness and, as dawn broke, Ravenna went outside to take some air. Ramsay’s blood had dried to a crust all down her tunic. She looked down at it in dismay as a numb feeling descended on her. Suddenly she remembered something and rushed across the yard.

  The smithy was already up and about, preparing his day’s work.

  ‘Your boy, Donald, where is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Gone off somewhere, the lazy little snot. He’ll feel the back of my hand when he comes back.’

  ‘He’s not coming back,’ replied Ravenna.

  The smithy frowned.

  ‘I need you to get a horse ready for me,’ she said. ‘I ride out within the hour.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Torwood – South East of Stirling Castle

  Cormac watched Lyall heave his mail over his padded jacket and pull on his hood to cushion his helm against his skull.

  His brother was scarce in his twenties, with a life barely lived, and he was far too young to be facing the fury that lay in wait on the other side of the Bannockburn.

  Cormac had been around fighting men and warriors since he was but a lad. Fearghas, buoyed up by Wallace’s victory at Stirling Bridge, and anticipating a decisive win for the Scots, had decided his son was old enough to witness a battle. So Cormac, a boy of thirteen, had been holding up the standard with shaking hands at the back of the Scots’ line when the English had ridden right over it at Falkirk. He had seen the sweep of the sword that had hacked his father’s hand from his arm, and he had plunged headlong into that nightmare, dragging Fearghas onto a horse and riding them both clear.

  That moment was the beginning of his reputation for bravery and ferocity, but it came at a high price. His life had been lived, from that point, on a knife-edge of fighting and constant vigilance, as his people looked to him to keep them safe from English retribution and Gowan violence.

  Lyall, he had shielded from being dragged into it too young, but now it was too late. Once he had seen Darrow cut down by the Gowan’s that stormy day at Glencoe Pass, there was no going back for Lyall. He had become part of the Buchanan’s struggle for survival, forced to fight and kill, and since the siege at Roxburgh, what he had seen and done, had hardened him.

  Cormac went up to Lyall and pulled his sword out of its scabbard, inspecting its edge with the pad of his thumb, and then he replaced it and tightened his brother’s belt a notch. ‘You don’t want it dragging along the ground and getting in your way,’ he said.

  ‘Stop it, Cormac.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fussing over me, like an old woman. I know what you are doing. Stand or fall, live or die, I have to do this for myself. I am my own man and not yours to protect. If I have to lay down my life today, for my family and for Scotland, then I do so without regret.’

  ‘This isn’t a siege, like Roxburgh, the enemy will be moving, there will be no time to think and plan once this starts. You don’t know what you are facing.’

  ‘I’ll find out soon enough, you can’t change that and, whatever it is, I will face it head on, with courage, and fight to my last breath, I swear. That is what our father would have done. That is what I will do.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re big at least. That’s good, it’s more intimidating.’

  Lyall pulled his tunic on over his mail, blue like Cormac’s, Buchanan blue.

  Cormac felt a lump in his throat and swallowed his anxiety. ‘Watch your back and remember, blades can sweep low, your legs are vulnerable as much as any of the rest of you. Remember that your sw
ord can cut through flesh, but not armour or mail, so go for the weak points, the visor, armpits, elbows, up high,’ he said, placing his fist on Lyall’s body to illustrate his point, ‘and the backs of the legs, thighs and groin. You are not used to fighting knights, especially well-trained ones such as we will face, so be clever, save your strength and your sword for where it can do the most damage.’

  Lyall nodded, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

  ‘Whatever happens, stay on your horse. If they unseat you, it is hard to get up and fight with the weight of the mail. But if it does happen, and you end up on the ground, fighting at close quarters, stick your knife in wherever you can. There will be no time for swordplay and chivalry then.’

  ‘I know how to fight, Cormac,’ said Lyall, rolling his eyes.

  Cormac ignored him. ‘I will watch your back, but when this thing starts Lyall…’ He shook his head. ‘It will be loud, chaotic, men will be screaming and shitting themselves. Ignore the noise and the blood and just keep hacking at them. Focus on the next man coming at you, and do not hesitate to kill him, for he will kill you and, Lyall, the English will keep coming, fast and hard.

  ‘I fought well at Roxburgh.’

  ‘This is different. These men on the heavy horse, they are battle-hardened, well-trained, out for glory. They will not break formation, they mean to ride right over us, crush us. They will come at us fast, at full pelt, closely-packed and hit with a force you cannot imagine.’

  ‘Scotland is not their home, they do not love it as we do and so they will not fight with heart like we do.’

  ‘Lyall, they want to live as much as we do, so do not underestimate your enemy.’

  A horn sounded across the field, like a death rattle, as a servant came running in.

  ‘Lord they are massing for battle, the English, crossing the Bannockburn, as far as the eye can see there’s heavy horse and spearmen, archers and such. There are so many of them.’