by Jarecki, Amy
Afforded a heartbeat to assess the battle, what Sean had seen through his side vision was confirmed. The Lord of Lorn clutched at his gut, blood streaming through his fingers.
“Sound the alarm!” Sean bellowed while he watched his men as they were cut down by an army that appeared from nowhere.
“Bring the priest. I will be wed before I draw my last breath,” Lorn wheezed.
Sean raced for the doors as a blow came from his right. Slamming the pommel of his dirk into his attacker’s skull, he continued on. The priest opened the door with Lorn’s bride. Her face contorted with fear as she looked past the holy man’s shoulder.
“I’ve killed the tyrant lord and now MacDougall will be mine!” From behind, MacCoul’s rasping voice attacked Sean’s every nerve.
His worst fears confirmed—the bastard had warned him with Fraser’s gruesome delivery.
“Recite the vows now. My son will be my heir!” Lorn shouted.
Sean spun to face the scourge who had plagued his every waking hour. The bastard who cared only for ruination, for destruction.
The priest’s Latin chants rang above the maelstrom, but Sean couldn’t stop. For an instant, Sean caught sight of MacCoul’s beady eyes glaring at him beneath the eye slits in the hideous helm. The bastard raised his sword and advanced on the bleeding and wounded lord.
Clenching his teeth, Sean launched himself at MacCoul, slamming his feet into his chest, knocking him from completing a blow intended to sever Lorn’s head. The blackguard skittered backward, but Sean didn’t hesitate. Rage propelling him forward, he advanced with relentless hacks of his blade.
Alan defended each blow, weakening with every strike. Sean would show no quarter this time. The menace would pay with his life. Alan fell to his backside. Sean pounced, pulling his blade up for the killing thrust.
A crack blasted in his ears, reverberating in his helm. The world shattered. Sean’s eyes rolled back as bitter bile burned his throat. His failing arms worked to continue with his strike, but his knees buckled before his blade connected with MacCoul’s neck.
As he hit ground, everything grew peaceful, quiet and black.
***
Alan MacCoul laughed out loud when Sean MacDougall dropped to the earth. Most of the guests stood around them, cowering with looks of horror on their faces. The pummeling of horse hooves shook the ground.
Alan’s gaze darted to the miserable Lord of Lorn, surrounded by guardsmen, taking his vows. One plan thwarted. At least the maggot won’t see out the night. I’ll deal with his sniveling offspring later.
“Riders,” Brus yelled, his voice echoing from beneath his great helm.
Trevor sprinted up, leading the horses. “Make haste.”
Alan grasped MacDougall under the arms. “Help me heft him.”
Brus kicked the Dunollie chieftain. “Do you think he’s dead?”
Alan strained with Sean’s weight. “I’ll take no chances.” He picked up MacDougall’s sword and secured it in his belt.
Together the three men draped MacDougall’s body over a horse. “Quickly. They’ll be upon us before we can blink.”
Alan and his band of renegades mounted and raced for Dunstaffnage’s barbican.
Behind them, Angus urged his men faster.
Alan clutched MacDougall’s reins tightly in his fist. The miserable bastard had best not be dead. He hasn’t suffered enough.
He buried his spurs deep into his horse’s barrel demanding more speed. Glancing over his shoulder, his gut clenched. Angus and the MacDougall army were gaining. Alan squinted against the wind whistling through his eye slits. The iron teeth of the portcullis loomed ahead, but if it didn’t close quickly, they’d have another battle on their hands. He could make it. “Lower the gate,” he bellowed. “Now!”
While he surged forward, he pulled the trailing horse alongside him. MacDougall’s body bounced and listed sideways. The cogs of the portcullis groaned and creaked to life as the teeth of the deadly gate inched downward. Alan dug in his heels and plastered his body against his mount’s neck. An iron spike scraped the back plate of his armor with a screech.
Once they cleared, the guardsmen let the gate drop with a resounding boom. Alan looked back. Angus and the MacDougall guards reined their horses to a halt. Alan motioned to an archer on the battlements.
The guard pointed his bow high and let his arrow soar. Alan grinned. Then his laugh thundered in his helm. His plan had been executed flawlessly—except for Lorn. But Alan would solve that minor detail at a later date. At least Dugald Stewart was a sniveling maggot who deserved to be a bastard.
All in all, he had won. While the miserable wedding party processed, his men had slipped in and taken Dunstaffnage Castle from under MacDougall’s nose. Soon all would know the truth and Alan would become the rightful Chieftain of Dunollie. And once Dugald has been dispatched, the king will grant me the Lordship of Lorn.
Alan’s men dismounted in Dunstaffnage’s inner bailey and removed their helms. Shoving them in the air, the cry of victory echoed between the old castle walls.
Alan’s throat tightened, though he forced a frown. He dismounted. “We’re not finished yet. Is the blacksmith ready?”
“Aye, m’lord,” said Trevor, bowing deeply.
“Brus, you’re in charge of the siege until my return. Trevor, bring two strong men and come with me. MacDougall weighs more than a pregnant heifer.”
A burly warrior stepped forward. “I’ll carry him, m’lord.”
Alan smirked and assessed the man’s form. “I like a man with ambition. Follow me.”
Heading toward the last phase of his coup, Alan led a small group of men as they slipped out a long forgotten sea gate and into a waiting birlinn.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sean’s head throbbed as if his skull had been bludgeoned on the inside. He tried to open his eyes, but the slightest movement tortured him with relentless pounding. Everything hurt. Points of his flesh ached like he was resting on a bed of iron rivets. He shivered against the cold. The air smelled of dirt and rotting seaweed. Water dripped in the distance.
Am I in a dungeon?
The thought made his head throb so badly, his stomach churned. Sean swallowed, another movement that made him wish for death. If the banging inside his head grew any worse, it would kill him for certain.
Though the air was dank, his lips were chapped, his mouth dry. How long have I been unconscious?
A light flashed and a vision of a battle passed through Sean’s mind. The last he remembered, he’d been in a cutthroat fight to save Lorn. The earl was stabbed, but called for the priest.
A drop of water splashed on Sean’s nose. Sniffing, he tried to move his hand, but his arm hit cold iron. His eyes flashed open. Iron bars blocked his view. He again tried to move his arm—turn his head, but he couldn’t move. Even his legs were encased in irons. Nervous sweat oozed across his skin. My God, wake me from this nightmare.
A contemptible laugh echoed off the walls and increased the pounding in Sean’s head. His skin crawled. Only one man had such a distasteful, grating rasp to his voice. Alan MacCoul.
“I wondered if you would give me the satisfaction of waking.”
Sean’s jaw tightened as he focused his glare on the dark figure sitting across from him.
“It would have been rather disappointing if you had died before I had my say.”
“You’ll hang for this,” Sean growled through clenched teeth, his vision blurring with every throb of his skull.
Alan smirked. “I think not.”
“You’ve murdered the Lord of Lorn.”
“Aye.” Alan looked at his fingernails. “But not before he managed to make that miserable lout his heir.”
“Dugald was his firstborn.”
Alan sniffed. “Och aye, how valiant of John Stewart to recognize his bastard son before he drew his last breath.”
Sean clenched his fist—at least the irons provided enough room for one simple motion. So, Alan
had been successful with his attempt to kill the earl? Evidently the slimy maggot had more than one score to settle. Sean forced down his urge to heave and shifted his eyes to scan his surroundings. This was not a dungeon, it was a bloody cave. “Where are we?”
“On my father’s miserable island. The place where he wanted me to settle and raise a flock of sheep. Kerrera.”
“Your father?” He kens who his father is? Sean’s mind engaged. “But Kerrera is Dunollie land.”
“Aye, and unofficially given to me by our father. The louse couldn’t even bother to make a grant of land legal.”
Sean closed his eyes and tried to shake his head, only to be met with cold iron rivets stabbing his temples. “Did you say our?”
“You miserable wretch.” Alan prodded Sean in the ribs with a stick. “Our father never recognized me as the firstborn son. For years I stood by and watched him mollycoddle you, give you the best of everything whilst I was doled out the scraps. The bastard was even too embarrassed to recognize my birthright on his deathbed.”
“I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t. You were always too wrapped up in your own spoilt self to give a damn about anything or anyone. I stood by and watched you learn to ride the finest horses whilst I was given a nag. You had the finest clothes, the finest weapons, and I received a bent sword thrown out by one of Father’s guards.” Alan held up the Chieftain of Dunollie’s sword. “But this one I shall keep for myself.”
Sean swallowed. He had a brother? But Alan had gone too far, blood kin or nay. He attempted to move his arms, but was held back by riveted irons digging into his flesh. “Why did you not tell me?”
An ugly chuckle resounded between the cave walls bringing back Sean’s headache full force. “Me? Tell you we’re kin? Oh no. You need to pay for all your years of tyranny—all of Father’s favors—every last farthing in the Dunollie coffers.” Alan poked him again. Sean’s ribs throbbed. How long had MacCoul been jabbing him with that stick? “When you cut off my funds, you tore away the last shred of my…ah…affection.”
Sean closed his eyes and grimaced. Angus and Murdach knew. But something was still amiss. Alan had attacked him before Sean uncovered the missing coin. “You are the lowest of whoresons. I cannot believe Angus and Murdach conspired with you.”
The bastard had the gall to laugh again. “You’re jesting. Those miserable sops wouldn’t assuage their loyalty to Dunollie for all the coin in Scotland.”
So they were protecting Father. “How did you slip past the Dunollie guard?”
Alan smirked. “Your pitiful guard.” He threw his head back and howled. “I’ve a loyal man or two within your ranks.”
“Gawen.”
“Aye,” he chuckled. “Wearing great helms and your colors, not even Angus knew the difference.” Alan raised his damned stick, but hesitated. “I’d have been able to take Dunstaffnage much more easily if Angus wasn’t such a loyal prick.”
In a burst of rage, Sean rattled the irons with all his strength. “You traitor!” he roared. “You’ve taken Dunstaffnage?” If only he could grab that stick and shove it down the bastard’s throat. What more was this monster accountable for? I’ll hang every single backstabber in my ranks.
“Aye and next I’ll take Dunollie.” Alan leaned over, his nose so close, the man’s foul breath seeped across Sean’s face. “Once word of the lands denied me reaches his royal highness, he’ll have no recourse but to name me Chieftain of Dunollie and Lord of Lorn.”
Coughing against the stench, Sean glared. “You’ve gone completely mad.” King James will never grant lands to a bastard—especially one who used force to seize the king’s property.
Alan probed with the stick—harder this time. “Angry as hell, but not mad, brother.”
Sean closed his eyes and swallowed his urge to bellow. MacCoul had not only proven he was a raving lunatic, he was capable of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Sean’s back sunk into cold iron rivets. Though unable to move his head, he knew the trickles sliding down his skin were blood. “So ’tis the death of a lowlife for me, then?” Sean kept his voice steady, but inside he wanted to bellow, wring the cur’s neck and tell him exactly what he thought of his miserable coup.
“’Tis what you deserve.” The cold stare in MacCoul’s black eyes made Sean shudder.
If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was being cosseted—a mummy wrapped in iron. Again he shuddered. A blend of sweat and blood oozed from his temple to his mouth. He had to get out. He clenched every muscle in his body and stared. He hated to utter kind words to a madman, but it was Sean’s last hope. “Release me now and together we will rule Dunollie lands.” He forced a smile. “Think on it. Together we’ll be more powerful than our ancestors. We’ll take back the Lordship of the Isles and rule the Highlands.”
Alan smirked. “I’ve an army of two hundred, and every day more fighting men frustrated with our weakling king come to me begging for a place in my guard.”
Christ, things grew worse with Alan’s every word. Sean clenched his teeth against the throbbing pain and strained with all his might to break the irons. God in heaven, he needed to ring Alan’s bloody neck. “You’ll never get away with this,” he seethed.
When Alan stood, Sean focused on the sword in Alan’s belt—the same one he was given at their father’s funeral. “Well, little brother.” The bastard whacked the stick over the top of Sean’s head, splintering it on the irons. “You won’t be around to witness my success. Everyone saw me spirit your body into Dunstaffnage Castle. Little did they know I uncovered an ancient sea gate on the firth side.”
Stars clouding his vision, his heart could have exploded. The bastard intended to leave him for a rat’s feast? Sean strained his arms against the welded irons encasing them. He fought and jerked his entire body, but the welds held firm.
Alan stood back and crossed his arms. “Fight all you like. The smithy made your cage impenetrable. You will die here.” He set a cup of water beyond Sean’s reach. “Be it from thirst or starvation, I do not much care, as long as your death is a painful one.”
Ice pulsed through Sean’s veins. Death gibbeted by irons was the most torturous demise imaginable. Buzzards would peck out his eyes before he succumbed, rats would feast upon his flesh. “You wouldn’t,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Alan threw the broken stick against the cave wall and strode away, the rumble of his laugh crawling up Sean’s skin.
He drew in gasps of breath while he turned his head side to side, inhibited by strips of iron. God on the cross, even Alan wouldn’t stoop so low. “Give me a knight’s death! Please brother, if you have a soul, you will not leave me to face the vilest coward’s death!”
Sean strained with all his might but the irons budged not an inch. Sweat streamed into his eyes and across his flesh. His lips trembled with every sharp inhale. He fought again, this time, the rivets stabbing him with unyielding bites.
“You cannot leave me here!”
***
Gyllis responded so well to Meg’s warm compresses that two days ago she’d started walking without assistance. She’d taken to forcing herself to climb the tower steps to the wall-walk and pacing around the battlements. The ascent was strenuous, but every day the effort grew a wee bit easier. From the top of Kilchurn’s walls, Gyllis could see for miles, spotting riders by land or boats approaching down the long and narrow Loch Awe.
She’d hoped Sean would have paid a visit at least one more time before the Lord of Lorn’s wedding, but she understood how a chieftain must attend his responsibilities. She clapped her hands together and held her fingers to her lips with a smile. He’d be so impressed with her progress. She had a horrible limp, but one day she would grow so strong no one would ever know she’d suffered paralysis.
Amid one of her daily walks, Gyllis strode along the back of the castle wall-walk, which had a glorious view of Loch Awe. When the ram’s horn sounded, she snapped her head toward the lead guard positioned o
n the wall across the courtyard, but she couldn’t see beyond the stone battlements. Running her hand over the merlon notches, she hastened her pace. By the time she reached the front of the castle, she gasped to catch her breath.
Patting her chest with her hand, she peered down the long path that led from the west to the castle. Sean! Horses cantered with haste, flying the Dunollie pennant. Gyllis couldn’t make out the riders, but there was no need. Sean had come at last.
She raced for the stairwell. Her toe caught on a raised edge of stone. Flinging her arms out, Gyllis grabbed the craggy stone to stop her momentum. Her fingers latched onto the battlement ledge while her body flailed midair. Clenching her teeth, she prepared herself for the jarring impact.
An arm wrapped around her waist as thick chainmail cut into her back. “’Tis probably best not to try to run yet, lassie,” a gruff voice said.
Firm hands gripped her shoulders and Gyllis glanced up. Sir Mevan smiled upon her with his careworn face. “My thanks.”
He knit his thick eyebrows together. “Where are your crutches?”
“I’ve no longer a need for them.”
He eyed her like a concerned father. “Then you must take care. It hasn’t been all that long since I carried you to your chamber stricken with the first symptoms of paralysis.”
She bowed her head and curtsied. “Thank you for reminding me. I shall exercise more care in the future.” Her heart fluttered so fast, she hated to think of slowing her pace before she reached the bottom of the tower stairs. If only she could speed her recovery even more.
Mevan waved her away and Gyllis limped to the stairwell, using the wall for balance. When finally she arrived in the great hall, Duncan was escorting Angus and a few other Dunollie guardsmen into his solar. She knit her brows and stared at the keep’s double doors. Surely Sean would be among them. Discounting her idea to go to the courtyard and look for Sean’s horse, she hastened to the solar door.
