by Cathy MacRae
“We have hindered them, and opened the postern gate for the MacLean soldiers once they arrive. Alex and Kade are about to create a good amount of smoke and flush some others out of the hall. Come with me. It will be safer sending ye and the others out the side gate than to remain in here where the fire could be a hazard.”
She had them linger a moment whilst she dabbed soot on their pale faces and bid them cover well with their dark cloaks. With the four women following her like the drag of a lizard’s tail, Arbela led them to the postern gate as soundlessly as if they did not exist.
“Excellent job,” she complimented them. “Hasten around the castle to the west. A MacLean patrol awaits on the bluff just beyond. Stick to the shadows until ye find them, and do not scream. By my count, ’tis unlikely any MacGillonays patrol the area beyond the castle. Ye will be safe once ye are in the forest.”
“Thanks to God for ye, My lady. Ye are certainly a blessing from above,” Cook said as she pulled Arbela into a quick embrace.
The three other women each gave Arbela quick hugs before disappearing into the night. Arbela breathed a quick prayer for their safety and fled back to the kitchen where Alex and Kade awaited.
Dumping several linen squares into the sink, she poured water over them then squeezed out the excess moisture. Alex and Kade dragged the iron pot filled with faggots to the entrance to the hall. Firing a brand from the coals inside the oven, Arbela followed them and plunged the lit end into the pile of gorse which caught instantly.
Laying the damp linen carefully around the burning branches, she anchored them with larger pieces of wood. The damp cloth smoldered, reluctant to burn. Taking a dry cloth from her belt, Arbela waved the smoke away, watching it drift into the hall. It took a few minutes for anyone to notice.
“Fire!” The words rang a mere instant before muffled beneath the scrape of benches across the stone floor as men scrambled, knocking things about in their haste to avoid the newest disaster.
They trampled a man on the floor, likely oblivious to the new injuries, judging from the bandage wrapped around his head. The large rock Alex had set atop one of the privy doors had apparently found a target. Others limped heavily in the wake of the more sure-footed, obvious victims of the snares they’d strung across the passage to the privies. Arbela heaved a breath of satisfaction.
“Wait!” MacGillonay bellowed his anger. “Something is afoot here.”
“Aye!” a soldier agreed as he hobbled past. “A Saracen witch has bespelled this castle. Save yer soul and flee!”
“Argh!” MacGillonay shouted, spilling his frustration into rising fury as his men shoved past him and smoke billowed into the room.
“The castle is not bespelled, ye fools!” He cast his angry gaze around the room, palm to the hilt of his sword as he searched for the source of the uproar.
Arbela stepped into the room as the smoke died down. It rolled about her feet, its fingers drifting upward to steal her breath. She draped a thin strip of damp linen over her nose, hiding the lower half of her face. MacGillonay halted, eyes wide with surprise before they narrowed with rage.
“Ye!” He coughed as he advanced. He drew his sword, a mighty breath expanding his chest as he prepared for battle. He coughed again, rattling into his fist as he struggled for air. “I will see ye dead before I allow ye to escape again.”
Arbela flexed her hands and balanced forward on the balls of her feet.
“As I invited ye earlier,” she said. “Ye may try.”
Chapter 25
Alex and Kade appeared ghostlike on the edge of the room, watching, protecting, keeping the few remaining soldiers from racing to their laird’s aid. MacGillonay swung his sword in an arc, flexing his shoulder and wrist muscles.
Arbela studied his movements, her stance loose, her focus now entirely on the laird, trusting her brother and Kade to hold the others at bay. He circled to her right, a slow stalk, pushing, forcing her to move. Arbela accepted the advance, stepping easily to her left to keep him at a distance. With his greater weight and strength, if he managed to close on her, things would end quickly. And very badly.
With a flash of steel, he lunged at her, sword thrust forward in a classic strike. Arbela dodged the blade, taking a step back.
“Where is yer weapon, Saracen?” MacGillonay taunted. “Ye cannae use yer mouth to defend yerself against a blade. Must I teach ye fighting as well as yer manners?”
Arbela judged her target. The way he shifted his weight easily from one foot to the other. The way his body swayed slightly, anticipating an attack. Slipping a throwing blade from her sleeve sheath, she balanced it lightly in her hand. In a flash of movement, it was gone from her fingers, and she whirled out of his following line of attack, coming to rest several feet away.
MacGillonay’s face blanched then bloomed blood-red, a snarl on his lips. Her blade missed the juncture of his neck, the handle protruding from the thick muscle above his collarbone. A painful hit, but the blade did not penetrate deep enough to do serious damage.
With a shout of anger, MacGillonay tore the blade away, flinging it aside to clatter across the stone floor. He burst forward in a flurry of attacks, using his greater bulk and strength as a battering ram. Arbela was no longer where he expected her to be, and his charge carried him past her. She countered with another dagger. Targeting his lower back, it struck the upper edge of his wide leather belt, defeating her aim at his kidneys, but the sharp blade slashed deep across his flesh.
“The wee witch has teeth?” He faced her, his grin mocking as he shifted his sword to his left hand and slipped a dagger from the sheath at his boot. “Ye may throw a blade, but ye cannae win a fight against a man.”
Arbela drew her sword, the long sigh of its travel from the sheath an echo of her reluctance to engage MacGillonay at close quarters. The smoke worked in her favor, for MacGillonay coughed again, disrupting his focus on her for a brief moment. She had inflicted two wounds, which, while not fatal, caused blood loss, which would soon fatigue her enemy. How long before the cuts made a difference? She had no doubt she could outlast him, but she had to remain out of his reach until the edge of his brute strength faded.
“I do not see a man before me,” she replied, circling him, her sword creating slow patterns in the air before her. “Ye are an arrogant son of Satan who thinks nothing of taking what he wants, heedless of others.”
“Ye are too soft,” MacGillonay replied, countering her moves, twin blades flashing in the torchlight. “Ye are naught but a woman, and a woman doesnae understand these things.”
Arbela tested his defenses with a light attack. His sword clanged on hers as he deflected the blade. Arbela danced lightly away, forcing him in a circle, then pressed forward again. He stepped back, then again, the backs of his knees striking an overturned bench. He staggered. His snarl of rage ripped through the air, all pretense of play gone. He charged her, but again Arbela anticipated his move, and his blades flashed by her, making a crisp whistle in the air.
A swell of shouts disrupted her concentration, and she angled a feint to MacGillonay to turn him once again. She risked a fleeting glance past MacGillonay’s shoulder, finding Alex and Kade engaged against several soldiers. More men entered the hall, swelling their ranks. Arbela swore beneath her breath. This was not how their plan should work.
She parried another attack, noting MacGillonay’s timing had slowed. Another quick glance at the fight in the hall grabbed her attention fully. She gaped, astonished to see Caelen, swinging his blade like a scythe, scattering the men about him as he entered the room. Other men followed, quickly routing the MacGillonay rabble. It was once again Arbela and the MacGillonay laird as Caelen stood several feet away, weaving on unsteady legs, gaze fixed on Arbela.
“Pay no attention to that lout ye married,” MacGillonay coaxed through his sneer. “After I finish with ye, he will hand the castle back over to me.”
“Brave talk for a man already condemned,” Arbela replied. “I will not best ye
with brute force, but that is the only path ye know, whilst I have other options to choose from.”
MacGillonay clicked his tongue. “Ye must have had a different tutor than I,” he said, sheathing his dagger in a smooth sleight of hand. “In my world, a good fight is a short fight. Brutal and clear who the winner is.” He charged Arbela, sword aloft in a high guard. Within the first step, the sword came crashing down, its only goal to cleave Arbela in two. She countered, bringing her shorter, lighter sword up and to the side, channeling the energy of MacGillonay’s attack away.
Struggling to recover from the fierce blow, she returned the attack in a series of lightning-fast strikes. Her shorter reach allowed no fatal blows, but she made contact with MacGillonay’s bulk each time, parting his flesh in bloody stripes. Panting heavily, MacGillonay came to a halt, his sword now barely held in a low guard. He squinted and blinked his eyes, his face flushed, sweat rolling down both sides of his face.
Arbela, fatigued from parrying the force of his attacks, found her second wind as she noted MacGillonay stagger, blood dripping steadily from his numerous cuts. She pulled the thin piece of damp linen from her face, a surge of triumph in her veins.
MacGillonay lurched to one side but righted himself, planting his feet wide as he adjusted the grip on his sword. Drawing his sword hilt level with his ear, MacGillonay braced, sword tip aimed at Arbela’s throat.
She bobbed on the balls of her feet, swaying lightly, ready for his attack. He exploded in a flurry of movement and Arbela arced her sword to the right. Changing his angle of attack, MacGillonay swept beneath her guard, knocking the sword from her hand as the tip of his blade raced along the inside length of her forearm.
Fire burst from the wound in her arm and blood spilled freely from the gash. Lightheaded from the sudden, fierce pain, Arbela slumped, grasping blindly for support. The flat of MacGillonay’s sword struck the side of her head, sending her tumbling through the air. Dry reeds drove their broken ends into her cheek as she sprawled across the floor. Instinctively, she rolled to her feet, shaking her head to clear her blurred vision. A dark stain before her grew larger and she snatched a throwing dart from her belt and slung it at the menacing form.
A grunt told her she’d hit her target. Her vision partially cleared and she watched MacGillonay drop to one knee. His glassy-eyed stare bored into hers. His mouth opened and closed, but he did not speak.
Eyes on MacGillonay, Arbela sliced a strip of silk from her tunic and tied a hasty tourniquet about her arm below her elbow, pulling the knot tight with her teeth. Her breath came in short bursts as she swayed drunkenly as blood continued to drip with ominous speed from her fingertips.
A large form loomed behind MacGillonay and wrenched the man’s beard upward. Blood spashed onto the floor.
Voices roared indistinctly in Arbela’s ears. She tried to fight the hands that grabbed her, but her body would not respond. She felt herself falling, deeper. Darker. Silent.
* * *
The air in the cool room was heavy with moisture from the recent rain, water pooling along the window sill. Caelen rested his palm in the puddle, slick on the stone. Bleary-eyed, he stared at his hand, his mind scarcely registering the sensation.
Slender fingers settled on his arm and he angled his head to peer at the slight woman at his side.
“Ye need rest,” Zora admonished him softly. “I will watch over her.”
“Ye should close the shutters,” Caelen murmured, his mouth parched. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or drunk. “She doesnae like the cold.”
“The fresh air will help keep the fever at bay,” Zora soothed. “A stifling room breeds disease.” Tugging gently at his arm, Zora led him to the doorway.
“Go. Eat. Play with your son. He misses her, also.”
Caelen dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to look at the woman who resembled Arbela. His heart twisted, knowing she was right, but leaving Arbela’s side seemed like desertion—something she would never do.
The door opened as he lifted a hand to the latch and Rory ducked his head into the room. Caelen did not miss the subtle shake of Zora’s head in answer to Rory’s unspoken question.
“Bram wanted to know if he could come up,” Rory said, glancing from Zora to Caelen as if uncertain who to ask.
“He may come sit with her after his meal,” Zora replied. “But I believe the laird needs a bit of fresh air and the rain has stopped. Mayhap he could take Bram outside?”
“Dinnae coddle me, woman!” Caelen growled. He pushed past Rory and stalked down the passageway, his captain on his heels.
“It has only been three days,” Rory offered. “And dinnae fash at Zora. Ye have been under her care as well.”
“I know how long it’s been,” Caelen replied, bleakness coloring his voice, ignoring Rory’s reference to wounds which were no longer of consequence. “MacGillonay’s blade opened the vein in her arm from wrist to elbow. Another few minutes and she would have lost too much blood to survive. As it is, we only wait for a fever to take her.”
“Something her aunt isnae going to let happen,” Rory assured him.
Caelen whirled. “Ye think her a better healer simply because she keeps the windows open and brews drinks I’ve never heard of?”
Rory rocked back on his heels. “Nae. I believe she is a good healer because she takes care to use only freshly boiled bandages and washes her hands, something that strikes me as sensible, though I’ve not seen it before.” He tilted his head. “And a nasty brew usually helps, in my experience.”
“Och,” Caelen snorted as he resumed his journey to the hall. But his row with Rory had restored some of the balance he’d lost since Arbela had collapsed on the floor of the hall in a rapidly widening pool of blood. He strode into the hall, startled as several men rose to their feet, benches scraping against the floor. As if pulled by strings, others also rose, staring at him expectantly.
Caelen shook his head and everyone reluctantly returned to their seats. Alex and Donal remained standing. Bram’s eyes stared at him fearfully. Caelen managed a slight smile as he lowered himself to his chair, patting Bram’s hand reassuringly.
“There is no change,” he said.
“She’s still asleep?” Bram asked.
“Aye. ’Twill take time for her to heal. I believe she likes hearing yer stories, though.”
Bram’s smile wavered with uncertainty. “She doesnae speak to me.”
Caelen pulled Bram into his lap. “She will, Bram. She will.” Though he was beginning to believe it wasn’t true.
* * *
“Do ye think she hears me?” Bram asked as he sat at Arbela’s bedside.
Caelen stared thoughtfully at his wife. “I believe she does,” he replied. “I believe she is simply too tired to wake. A healing body takes time and effort. She needs to know ye are here.”
Bram sighed then leaned forward, his hand on the mattress. “I ate my veg-ables,” he told Arbela’s silent form. “Aunt Zora says the eggsplant willnae be ready for a while, so I help water them. They’re getting bigger. Like me.”
He peered at Caelen. Caelen nodded solemnly and retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, out of the way, but positioned where he could see the bed. His heart ached for the woman who’d risked her life to save his son and home. And him. Alex had given him the details the first night they’d held vigil at her side.
She fought like a lioness defending her young—bold, heedless yet using her strengths, knowing her weaknesses. Even if Caelen hadn’t broken away and slit MacGillonay’s throat, the man would have died from the wounds she’d inflicted. Death of a thousand cuts, Alex had called it. Perhaps there were not a thousand cuts on the man, but they were well placed and MacGillonay already had one foot in his grave when Caelen struck him down.
He recalled her words the first time he’d mocked her use of strength against a man. She’d agreed honestly.
I cannot compete with ye on such a physical level. I have other skills�
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His lips twisted in a half-smile. Kade had reported two MacGillonay captives with broken skulls from heavy objects braced on the top of doors, a few with broken bones from sliding in the thick cooking oil she’d spread on the stone floors—which had taken hours to clean—and numerous more with those damned barbed wires in their feet. Caltrops Alex had called them. A few MacGillonays exhibited mysterious illnesses which had more or less resolved, which had caused Zora to arch a brow, but she’d declined to explain her thoughts on the matter.
Bram’s voice pulled him reluctantly from his musings.
“Da says ye can hear me, so I made up a new story. It’s called Bela and the Dragon.” He shifted his weight on the mattress and Caelen noted Bram had moved from his chair to the bed and seated himself comfortably against a stack of pillows.
“There was once a really f’rocious dragon called Gillonay. He lived in a loch that dinnae have a name ’cause the water was so bad, no one wanted to live there. He had two dragon sons as mean as he was, and he wanted to kick them out of the house, but they dinnae have anywhere to go, so he decided to steal the MacKern’s land.”
Bram patted Arbela’s hand. “The MacKern was a fierce warrior with a brave son named Bram. He was only a lad, and when the mean dragon Gillonay charged down out of the skies, the MacKern told his beautiful princess wife, Bela, to save their son. Bram dinnae want to leave, but she insisted, and he went along to help protect her.
“They met and fought with other dragons and f’rocious beasts along the way to her da’s castle. Bela was verra strong and brave—just like Bram. After Bram was safe, she went back to help the MacKerns fight off the evilest dragon.”
Bram paused for a moment and Caelen wondered what would come next, his interest piqued.
“The dragon was old, but he was big—long as five horses and tall as a tree. His breath stank like he ate dead things, and his big teeth had bits of his rotten supper stuck between them.”
