“Do na look at me with such holy righteousness in yer eyes. Tha’ wee tap is no more than what Norwyck’s whore deserves,” Lachann seethed. “Did ye no remember yer responsibility to yer clan, wench?”
Mairi kept her silence, though she got up on her knees, and then to her feet. Memories of Lachann’s unpredictable brutality returned to her now, after years of relative peace and calm in Caitir’s house. Her heart ached once again for her mother, who’d had to live with Lachann’s vile temper for years. ’Twas no wonder she was so jumpy and nervous.
Mairi scooted away from her male kin, with the hope that she could evade another blow. Hazily, she heard her mother’s quiet weeping, and her father’s stern rebuke.
“Ye’ll be off to MacEwen’s castle after the marriage and Braemar will be well rid of ye,” Lachann growled as he returned to the door. “And I’ve decided ye’ll take yer mother with ye.”
Mairi showed no emotion at this statement, but felt relieved, as well as alarmed, to know that Teàrlag would accompany her to MacEwen’s stronghold. She did not know what lay in store for her, though ’twas bound to be unpleasant. She wished her mother would not be compelled to bear witness to her suffering.
After Lachann stormed out, Dùghlas continued his questioning, but Mairi had no more to say. She made up the answers she believed would placate her brother as she stood gazing out the filmy window. Far below, clan Armstrong made preparations for a grand wedding feast upon the morrow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A light haze hovered over the hills that morn—not the dense fog that Bart had hoped would cover their movements, but maybe ’twould be.
Before dawn, he sent companies of knights in all directions to surround Braemar Hill. Archers would be at the forefront of each group, and swordsmen on horseback would follow. With the knights so widely spread, it wasn’t possible to give one signal for attack, so Bart’s men would lead. When they arrived at Braemar Keep, he would begin the attack, the sounds of battle signaling the rest of Norwyck’s men to join them.
’Twas not a perfect plan, but it was as close to a simultaneous attack as he could make it, and would offer Norwyck’s best chance for victory. Besides teaching Armstrong a badly needed lesson, Bart would not allow MacEwen to wed Mairi and take her away.
She was his, and no other man would touch her.
Bartholomew paced through the damp grass at the base of the hill, keeping himself well within the cover of the trees. He cracked his knuckles and took an occasional sip of ale as he waited for the opportune moment to climb the hill and take on Armstrong and MacEwen. He kept watch on Braemar’s heights, even though the haze limited his vision. He kept his ears tuned to any nuance of sound that indicated Armstrong’s knights were on the move.
An unearthly brightness finally began to spread from the east. The time was nearly ripe, but still Bart waited. There was no room for error, not with Mairi’s life at stake. He wanted all his companies in place before making his move, but when the sound of pipers’ music filtered down the hill, Bart mounted Pegasus and began his charge up the slope.
Mairi had never liked the sound of pipes, so the mournful music was more than appropriate for her march toward the village church, where she would wed Carmag MacEwen. Teàrlag remained behind when Mairi was summoned by one of the servants, so she made her way down the rotted steps of the keep, past the foul table of the great hall, and outside into the misty morn toward her dismal fate.
She had not been able to find a way out of the solar. Father Murray had not been allowed to return to her, and there’d been no one else about. Just Mairi and her mother, and a stout bar across an equally strong door.
Mairi found herself shaking. Mayhap ’twas due to the chill of the morn, but the cold seemed to go through her, clear to her marrow. She tried not to think of Carmag waiting for her at the bottom of the church steps, but trembled all the more when she remembered the sensation of his greasy mouth upon hers. Yesterday’s assault was naught compared to what would follow this ceremony.
Dùghlas took her arm at the foot of the steps. His grasp was not the least bit brotherly, but more like that of a guard with his prisoner. A large number of Armstrong men stood about, drinking ale and sampling food from tables that had been set up near the church. Mairi’s vision was limited because of the mist, but it seemed that a fair number of these men were idle. They wore their swords at their sides, but did not appear ready for battle.
She wondered if these were the same men who often went raiding the lands of their peaceful neighbor to the south. Mairi hoped Dùghlas believed her tale of Bartholomew’s reluctance to come to battle. ’Twould make her father and brother overconfident, mayhap careless, giving Bart the advantage when he finally answered Lachann’s call to war.
She dared not hope that Carmag would be here among Armstrong’s men when Bartholomew came to fight. The notion of soon becoming a widow was more than appealing.
Dùghlas tugged her arm roughly and pulled her through the cobbled lane as the pipes wailed. Mairi winced at the discordant sound. Villagers milled about quietly, distrustfully, and the few children that Mairi saw were not running and scampering playfully as children should. Instead, they hung on to their mother’s skirts and watched as warily as the adults.
The impression that all was not well at Braemar intensified, and Mairi wished there were some way to use this information to stop her marriage to the MacEwen. Unfortunately, she could think of naught. Dùghlas would lead her to the church like a docile lamb to the slaughter, while all the Armstrongs watched.
And for all her trouble, Mairi did not even know if her efforts to rescue Eleanor Holton had succeeded. There was a good possibility that she would never know if the child had made it safely back to Norwyck Castle.
When the poor church came into view, Mairi looked up to see Father Murray standing at the top of the steps, at the door. He did not see her, but was looking down in disgust at some disturbance on the ground to his right. His eyes flashed angrily and his color was high.
“Do ye come to the house of the Lord in a drunken stupor, Laird MacEwen,” the priest roared, “to make the sacred vows that will bind ye to this woman fer life?”
Dùghlas laughed as Carmag MacEwen staggered ’round the steps to greet his bride. His filthy gray tunic was ripped at the sleeve, and his chausses and braes hung carelessly, indecently, about him.
Mairi glanced away with revulsion. Father Murray stormed down the steps and pulled Carmag away, chastising him as they went.
’Twas a reprieve, albeit a short one.
Mairi considered asking her brother to try to get Lachann to reconsider the marriage, but quickly realized that would be fruitless. She was no more than any nameless wench to Dùghlas, and there was no favor she could offer in return for his intercession. Besides, ’twas more than likely Lachann would not listen. He’d made up his mind long ago to bind clan Armstrong to MacEwen, and there’d be no changing it now.
As if conjured from her thoughts, Lachann Armstrong approached out of the mist. Mairi flinched in spite of herself, and Lachann appeared to enjoy his effect upon his daughter. Clearing his throat noisily, he spat on the ground near his feet. “Where’s the MacEwen?” he asked.
“Off with the priest, making himself presentable,” Dùghlas said.
Lachann spat again. He looked at Mairi, letting his eyes rove over her before speaking. “So, yer craven Sassenach lover willna be savin’ ye from this weddin….”
How was Bartholomew to save her? She knew as well as her father all the difficulties Braemar posed to the Norwyck knights, and she was aware that Bartholomew’s best strategy—his only strategy—was to lie in wait for Lachann to bring his men to Norwyck. That tactic certainly would not help her now.
“Nay, Father,” she said, deciding to perpetuate the lie that Bartholomew was afraid to meet the Armstrong face-to-face. “Lord Norwyck does not care to fight. He is building a wall to protect his holding from you.”
Lachann’s respo
nding laugh was low and quiet, almost feral, and Mairi shuddered with the thought that his blood ran in her veins. Yet the satisfied expression in his eyes gave her hope that his confidence would bring about his defeat, and spare Bartholomew’s life.
Bart judged it time. The sun was up and his knights would be in place around Braemar’s perimeter. The mournful sound of the pipes drifted down the hill from the village, and Bart knew that the sound of his knights would travel upon the mist as well, yet there was a dearth of Armstrong men on patrol. The timing would never be better.
Warning his men that Armstrong might have set a trap, he gave the signal to ride. Quickly, the men under his command moved into position. With discipline and agility, they rode swiftly toward Braemar, weapons at the ready, Bartholomew at the lead.
When they were halfway to the keep, they still had not met with any resistance. While he could not believe his good fortune, Bart pressed on, leading the first wave of the attack, and waiting for the opportune moment to signal all the other companies to battle.
A volley of Armstrong arrows suddenly thwarted their advance, but Bart closed his visor and charged on, anxious to find Mairi and get her to safety. There was confusion on the ground, and Bart knew with certainty that they’d taken Braemar by surprise. His plan had worked.
He continued to ride toward the keep, where he believed he would find Mairi, when a horseman attacked with sword in hand. He was without armor, so ’twas no difficult feat to dispatch him and move forward through the increasing number of armed men.
Another Armstrong swordsman came at Bart, and a fierce man-to-man contest was fought as Bart’s opponent attempted to kill or maim him, or just unseat him.
“Behind you, my lord!”
Bart moved instantly, and the lance that was meant for his back impaled the assailant in front of him, killing him at once. With no respite, Bart battled his way up the hill. The mist still impeded his vision of the ground, but he was clearly able to see the upper floors of the keep at the precipice of the hill. If Mairi was at Braemar, that was the most likely place for Lachann to hold her.
As he made his way, with Norwyck men battling all ’round him, he dismounted and continued up the loosely cobbled path. A woman’s shriek, nearly indiscernible in the cacophony of the battle, stopped him in his tracks. ’Twas Mairi.
Bart did not know how he could be so certain, but he felt her cry as much as heard it, just as he’d felt her hand touch his when she’d been in her tower and he’d been on the ground.
He turned toward the sound and found himself facing the village church. He knew he’d find her there, mayhap in the midst of saying her vows.
Fighting with two hands on his broadsword as he made his way, he finally reached the church steps, where Dùghlas Armstrong stood his ground, fighting a Norwyck swordsman to prevent him from climbing the stairs. “Yer too late, ye Sassenach bastard!” Dùghlas bellowed, even as he battled the Norwyck knight. “She’s already wed!”
Bart found he cared less about killing Dùghlas than finding Mairi. After all these months of planning and training for his attack upon Braemar, and his revenge upon the Armstrongs, all he could think of was how quickly he could get to Mairi and carry her safely away from here, back to Norwyck Castle.
He vaulted over the side of the steps, climbing two at a time, leaving Dùghlas to his fate.
“Nay!” he heard a masculine voice shout vehemently. “There’ll be no wedding in the midst of battle!”
Bart moved inside the doorway then, and saw her.
She was pale and obviously frightened. An ugly welt marred her chin, and a bloody gash split her lip. Yet she stood her ground, even though Lachann had a tight hold upon a handful of her hair, and MacEwen was pulling at her waist.
Bart was proud of her fortitude, even through his outrage at Carmag MacEwen’s pawing, and the visible signs of abuse on Mairi’s face. He would get her away from here.
Or die trying.
“Laird Armstrong!” the priest roared. “Ye shame the house of the Lo—”
“I’d skewer ye now, Murray,” Lachann said ominously, pointing his sword at the priest, “but I need ye t’ perform the ceremony. And perform it ye will! Now!”
Armstrong put his sword to the cleric’s throat, and the man fell silent.
MacEwen did not seem to be armed, but Bart could not be sure of it. He saw no sword, but a true warrior would be able to use anything at hand as a weapon, and Carmag was that. The priest was not happy with the situation here, but Bartholomew could not assume the man would help him if it came to a battle and bloodshed inside the nave of the church.
Whatever happened, Bart knew it would have to be quick, because his presence would soon be known. He picked up a short wooden bench and flung it to the far side of the hollow chamber, startling the priest and the two men. They let go of Mairi for an instant, just long enough for her to dart away.
Bart drew his sword and met a very surprised Lachann Armstrong. It seemed the old man could not believe his eyes.
“Norwyck!”
“Aye,” he said. “I’ve come for Mairi.”
“And yer revenge, I’ll wager.” Lachann thrust his blade at him, but Bart easily dodged the blow.
“Nay, I want only your daughter,” Bart said, parrying with Armstrong. He heard a crash behind him, and saw that Mairi had lifted a small wooden chair and shattered it over MacEwen’s head, to prevent him from helping Lachann. “Stay back, Mairi,” he called, anxious once again for her safety.
He positioned himself to deal with Carmag as well as Armstrong, especially after seeing Carmag pull a sharp little dirk from his belt. Bart chided himself for thinking the man would be unarmed. The priest moved about the nave, circling Bart and his opponent, somehow keeping Carmag from interfering, while he exhorted them all to take their battle elsewhere.
“Mairi,” Bart called, ignoring the tall priest, “hide yourself until this is—”
Armstrong jabbed just as Carmag managed to thrust his dirk into the vulnerable part of Bart’s body—under his left arm.
Enraged, Bart responded with a roar and a jab of his own, striking a fatal blow to Lachann Armstrong, spearing him through the chest. Oblivious to the blood running down his side, he pulled his blade from Laird Armstrong and turned to face MacEwen.
“Leave now, MacEwen,” he said dangerously, through gritted teeth. “Take your men and go back to your lands and your castle, and I will spare your life.”
“Ha!” Carmag barked. He crouched, ready to spring on Bartholomew. “Yer the one bloodied, Norwyck!”
“But you are the one who faces death, MacEwen.”
Laird MacEwen’s tiny eyes darted around nervously, evaluating his circumstances, while Bart stood at the ready, waiting for the Scot’s answer. Or his move.
It came swiftly. MacEwen lunged and Mairi screamed. Bart deflected the knife with his sword and immediately thrust his blade through the laird’s heart. The man fell heavily as Mairi rushed from the shadows and into Bart’s waiting arms.
“Are you all right, love?” he asked her.
“Bartholomew, you are wounded!” Mairi cried.
“Aye,” Bart said, though he felt naught but a slight burning sensation. He dropped his sword, and with his uninjured hand, smoothed Mairi’s hair away from her face.
“I should see to your wound,” she said tremulously. Tears ran from her eyes, and she pressed her cheek to his chest as he wrapped his arms ’round her.
“Nay, just let me hold you for a moment.”
The priest cleared his throat. “’Tis over,” he said. “Yer father’s inept lairdship is finished. Mayhap when Dùghlas is laird—”
“Dùghlas Armstrong will be laird of naught, priest,” Bart interjected. He loosened his hold upon Mairi and led her from the place where her father lay slain. “Else he’d have stormed your church as I did battle with his sire.”
The cleric’s formidable brows came together, and he gave a quick nod. “I’ll go outside and spread
word of Laird Armstrong’s death. Mayhap a few lives will be spared.”
“Aye,” Bart replied, without taking his eyes from Mairi’s. He could not imagine ever mistrusting her. Mairi Armstrong, who’d proven her love and her loyalty so many times over…Only he’d been too thick-headed to know it, to see it.
The priest left them alone and Mairi finally spoke again. “Eleanor…did she return safely?”
“Only because of you, Mairi,” he said gently. Though her ordeal was over, the bruise on her chin and her torn lip infuriated him. He vowed that she would never suffer another injury or hardship again.
“These last hours away from you have been the longest of my life, Mairi Armstrong,” he whispered, caressing her cheek. “Don’t ever leave me again.”
“But, my lord,” she said breathlessly, “I…my sire is Lachann Arm—”
“And well I know it, sweetheart,” he said, pulling her back into his arms. “But your husband will be Bartholomew Holton.”
He heard her breath catch, and tipped his head to rain gentle kisses on her chin, her ear, her mouth.
“Be my lady, Mairi,” he entreated, “be my wife. I love you with my heart and my soul. My life will never be complete without you.”
Mairi had never thought to hear such heartfelt words from Bartholomew, and emotion clogged her throat. When she was finally able to speak, she cried, “Oh, Bartholomew…’twould be my very great honor to become your wife. I never thought…I never guessed you’d come for me.”
“Never doubt that I will always come for you, Mairi Armstrong.”
“Oh, Bartholomew, I love you so.”
The church door swung open and a handsome young man of Dùghlas’s age approached cautiously, though he moved with authority and dignity. He was unarmed, and he looked familiar.
“Mairi Armstrong?” he asked quietly.
“Aye. And you are…Cousin Aonghas?”
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