The Pirate Laird's Hostage (The Highland Warlord Series Book 3)

by Tessa Murran

  ‘So you are back,’ Owen said flatly, squinting up at her in the sunshine. His regard was resentful. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Will has gone to Berwick to join King Robert’s army out of some misguided sense of honour. I begged him not to go, and we quarrelled. I don’t know if he will ever come back.’

  ‘So, I am doubly impotent now, in your eyes. The man who stole my betrothed has also stolen my fight. Most likely, he has gone to his doom, for the King will as like stretch his neck as take him into his army.’

  ‘That is beneath you, Owen.’

  ‘Aye ‘tis, but being the honourable fool did not get me anywhere, did it? Tell me, Morna, have you come to pity me or beg forgiveness?

  ‘No pity, Owen, for you seem to have plenty of that to give yourself.’ He turned away at her words. ‘I have come to beg forgiveness for what I did at Fitheach.’

  ‘Why? Have you come to regret giving your heart to that villain?’

  ‘Owen let us not talk of Will. I came to say that I regret wounding you.’

  ‘Humiliating me, Morna, that was what you did, before all the men I gathered to come and fight for you, before Cormac. How could you take my heart and throw it into the dirt for someone so unworthy of you?

  ‘Because I love Will.’

  ‘Love him! The very notion of it. I would have thought you had more sense, Morna.’

  ‘You are right, Owen, I have no sense, and I am selfish too. For years I have thought only of myself. I played with your regard for me. I basked in your admiration without a thought for your feelings. In truth, I believed you to feel a passing infatuation for me, nothing more. It is only since my whole life has been ripped apart that I have come to realise just how awful I was.’

  ‘So if Ramsay had not taken you, what would you have said in answer to my proposal?’ he said, and Morna winced at Ramsay’s name said aloud.

  ‘I would have said no.’

  ‘You do not spare the blade, do you?’

  ‘I need to be truthful, Owen.’

  ‘And we must always worry about what you need, Morna.’ He sighed deeply, and his face twisted in bitterness. ‘Why refuse me when we could have been happy?’

  ‘You should thank me for sparing you the fate of having a wife who does not love you, or did you not care about love?’

  ‘Don’t speak of love. We were perfect for each other, our families, our rank, my allegiance to your brothers. Now, instead of the Sutherlands and the Buchanans being joined, Cormac’s family is allied to the Bains, through you.’

  ‘He had other reasons to wed me, Owen.’

  ‘Aye, and I know what reasons they are. I know in my gut that you were on the brink of giving yourself to me on more than one occasion when we snuck off to the woods in secret. Or did you feign all that ardour, those heated kisses, your hands all over me?’

  Morna’s face grew hot as she looked at his handsome, angry face. ‘No, it was real, and I felt it, and I am not ashamed of it, for we wanted each other, but can you truly say it was love for either of us? Owen, I would have made you a terrible wife.’

  ‘I suppose you would because you do not love me and you have no common sense.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you spurn me, a decent man who would do right by you, for a cutthroat, and then, so Ravenna tells me, you have spurned him because he is trying to be more honourable.’ He smiled to soften his words. ‘Men cannot win with you, can they?’

  ‘I suppose when you say it like that, I am a fool.’

  He looked up at her, his handsome face softening. ‘Aye, a fool I will always be fond of, though it pains me to say it.’

  ‘I never deserved you, Owen, truly.’

  ‘No, you did not, but you don’t deserve my bitterness either. Enough of this, Morna. I will think of it no more. You are his now, and I must live with it. Do you think this Bain fellow will come back for you, to keep his bond with the Buchanans?’

  ‘I do not know for certain what he will do or what I will do. I begged him not to throw his life away fighting for the King, but he went anyway. I told him I would not be at Fitheach when he returned.’

  ‘Then it seems that wedding him has brought you no more happiness than wedding me.’

  ‘Yet I love him, Owen and my heart is his forever. There can be no other.’

  ‘And what if he dies? What if he does not return and you are left without a protector.’

  Morna hugged her arms tightly around her and bit her lip. She would not think of that now.

  ‘If you are with child by that fiend then I will wed you and give it a father. In all honour, how could I do differently, when I made a promise to you that day to care for you and protect you always?’

  ‘That is a ridiculous notion, after what has happened.’

  ‘I should have protected you from Ramsay. I failed you, Morna, and that is why I lost you.’

  ‘How could you know what he would do? Owen, I was never yours to protect. I know that is a harsh thing to say, but you deserve my honesty now.’

  ‘And you deserve mine. Whether he returns or not, that William Bain is not a good man.’

  ‘He is good to me, and we are alike, he and I. We understand each other. My heart calls to his, there is nothing I can do about it.’

  Owen frowned and scuffed the ground at his feet. ‘Ah, you are a strange woman, Morna.’

  ‘Indeed, I am, sometimes I do not even know myself, and I cannot puzzle out my feelings. You’d best forget about me and turn your mind to another, who is not so strange and regards you highly. I think you may return that regard, but you dare not act on it for fear of offending me and my family.’

  Owen’s face reddened.

  ‘Beigis is lovely and without a protector. She has a soft heart, and she cares for you, I see it. You want her, but you feel tied to me, through misplaced honour or affection or out of loyalty to my brothers. Owen, there is such folly in that, for you get but one life and you should fill it with love. Why not get to know her better?

  ‘First, you reject me then you would give me away to another woman. If I choose someone, it will not be at your command.’

  ‘That is fair, and I don’t command, I suggest. You can choose to act on my advice, or you can wait until some other man claims her. She is so lovely it won’t take long for her to be noticed. And remember, until she weds, she is not safe from Ranulph Gowan.’

  ‘How can you be so sure she wants me, Morna, and is not just seeking protection for her children?’

  ‘I know how a woman in love looks at a man, and she was jealous when I spoke your name. Beigis looks at her children with love, and she looks at you the same way, or, if not love, at least infatuation. I would exploit that weakness in her before she comes to her senses.’

  Morna was on dangerous ground teasing him, but, to her relief, he smiled and laughed a little.

  Fat drops of rain plopped down, here and there. ‘We should get you inside, Owen. Here, I will help you.’

  ‘I can manage, Morna. I am not in my dotage yet.’ The rain intensified and turned to a deluge, and soon they were getting soaked.

  Morna kept pace with Will as he hobbled down the hill, far too slowly. As they got through the gates, he stumbled, and she caught hold of him and eased his arm over her shoulder. The fact that he let her assured Morna that she was forgiven.

  When they looked up, it was to see Beigis staring at them, as if frozen. She must have come to feed the chickens for she had a bowl of scraps in her hand which was now filling with rainwater. Her lovely blonde hair was dripping wet, and there was such a look of despair on her face as to surely leave Will in no doubt about her feelings for him.

  ‘Beigis,’ Morna shouted, ‘can you come and help Will. I cannot manage it.’

  When the other woman came up to them, Morna gently let go of Will and let him lean on Beigis and then she hurried away as fast as she could. It felt good to help them find love, but what about her own? Was he safe? Was Will thinking of her as she con
stantly thought of him?

  Chapter Thirty

  Myton-on-Swale - Yorkshire

  September 1319

  It was late afternoon, and the sun glinted off the floodplains below him. Every muscle in his body ached from days of riding, raiding and fighting. Will squinted into the sun and tried not to think of Morna as he rose up in the saddle to ease out the cramp in his legs.

  Sir James Douglas and the Earl of Moray, along with their battle-hardened force of ten thousand men, had cut a path of destruction through the rolling peaks of Northumberland and into Yorkshire. With incredible speed, they had traversed the wind-scoured Pennines and then on to plunder and burn Ripon and Boroughbridge. Now, deep inside English territory, they were heading towards the rich prize of York. Already Will was impressed with their tenacity. They marched quickly, on little sleep and food, driven by the knowledge that every burnt town and village, every attack, every theft of grain stores and plunder of riches, weakened Edward’s resolve to continue besieging Berwick. The more they made England bleed, the more likely its King would bow to pressure from his nobles to lift the siege and take them on.

  They were hidden in a stand of trees atop a gently sloping hill. In front of Will, Cormac’s horse champed on its bit, tossing its head to clear the flies from its eyes. James, Lord Douglas was at his right shoulder, considering his next move, and on his left, sat Lyall.

  Will noticed movement below.

  ‘There,’ he shouted, pointing to trees fringing the green fields below, where men were pouring through the bridge over the River Swale and fanning out onto the open fields. They marched singly and in groups, sloshing through the wet ground. They were not well-armed as far as he could see.

  ‘This is good. No battle formation and not many men at arms as far as I can see, unless they are held in reserve’ said Cormac to his Lord.

  ‘A militia force, or so our scout would have it, raised in haste by William Melton, the Archbishop of York, and I don’t think he is that clever,’ said Lyall. ‘This is all they have and this lot will be disorganised and rushed.’

  ‘We cannot rely on that, Buchanan,’ growled Lord Douglas. ‘There are a lot of them, more than I expected. How many do you think?’

  Lyall stood up in his saddle for a better look. ‘Fifteen to twenty thousand at a guess. They outnumber us by a good deal.’

  ‘Why are they so scattered, so spread out?’ said Will.

  ‘Perhaps the fools thought to take us by surprise, to move quickly, to cut us off and block our path back to Scotland,’ said Lord Douglas. ‘Too bad for them, we are forewarned. They have had to feed through the bridge to get across the river, they cannot stay in formation to do that, so we have them at a disadvantage. I think the time is ripe to attack. Cormac, Lyall, you know what to do.’ He wheeled his horse and rode off along the edge of the huge schiltron at their back, packed tight with Scots in full battle dress, spears clenched and shields locked.

  ‘So it has come to this - a pitched battle?’ said Will.

  ‘Aye, not what we do best,’ sighed Cormac. ‘These raids south were supposed to be a quick in and out, to split their forces, a diversion, nothing more.’

  ‘Well now, it is something else entirely. Why are we not just fleeing north, back across the border to attack the English where we can choose the ground to our advantage?’

  ‘And have them march north unimpeded, Bain, to swell the numbers besieging Berwick. I think not. We have an enemy down there that has to be faced and overcome. We cannot allow them to get around and come behind us. So there is no going back, not for anyone,’ said Cormac giving him a hard look.

  Will felt the wind, sweeping over the low ground from the sea, buffet his back. How he wished he were at sea now, instead of facing this blood bath. ‘My men, Cormac?’

  ‘They stay in the rear-guard with the Earl of Moray to keep the horses in reserve should we need them. You will be with me so that I can test your loyalty.’

  Will ignored the barb. ‘So, Cormac, it is Bannockburn all over again.’

  ‘No, not like Bannockburn. There are no clever plans here and no chance to choose our ground. We hammer them hard and try and drive them into the soft ground along the river. With any luck, we will put the fear of God into them. Are you afraid, Bain?’

  ‘No, just eager to get this over with.’

  ‘Good, and at least this time you are on the right side,’ said Cormac, the blood lust rising in his eyes. ‘Bain, you will be in the vanguard with me, alongside Lyall.’

  Will heard Lord Douglas shout and watched as men set fire to some hay bales nearby. They took light quickly, and soon, thick plumes of smoke started to drift down the field towards the Archbishop’s men. The Scots had given away their position, but the smoke served to obscure their movements, and it mattered not anyway, for, in the confusion of raised English voices and men now running to come together on the open ground of the meadow, the Scots schiltron began to advance down the slight incline in a clatter of spears and shields. The fight was on.

  With a hammering heart, shaking hands and bowels turned to jelly, Will put one foot in front of the other and forced himself to keep pace with the other men around him. The acrid smoke stung the back of his throat, shoulders barged into his own, he was shoved from side to side as the men moved as one. It was suffocating. He had to keep his feet or be trampled, for they were not stopping. Will was about to march headlong into a mass of men bent on killing him, with no control over his destiny and no room for manoeuvre in the tight-packed formation.

  Will sucked in a breath and braced himself for the fight of his life.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Through wreaths of smoke stinging his eyes, Will saw men rushing at him. They had rallied, the English, and were trying to concentrate an attack on the front line. Will stumbled forward over tussocks of grass and muddy potholes, praying he would not turn an ankle. He raised his shield as they hit.

  England met Scotland in a crash of shields and weapons. Suddenly, everything became one unending blur of hacking and yelling and pushing, blood spurting, feet slipping and sliding in the wet grass. Will tried to dig his heels into the ground and counter-act the pressure applied to the front line of men. The edge of a shield caught him in the side of the head in the melee and sparked his temper. His face was wet. How badly was he bleeding? He had no time to find out as he dodged blades sweeping down from above and between the shield wall, again and again. They were gaining ground on the English.

  Will roared in anger and pushed back with all his might as the schiltron took a step forward. He felt the English side give a little, and pressed home his attack, slicing into the face of a man in front of him and getting another in the neck on the backswing of his sword.

  Step by step, they advanced on their foe and, slowly, Will began to feel a softening of the English line. Some of the faces he saw before him, twisted in fear, were wizened with age, or young, with barely enough hair on their faces to be called men. Those faces were an agony of fear and shock.

  The smoke began to clear a little and, up ahead, he could see men breaking from the English line and running. The schiltron began to loosen slightly as the threat before them dissolved.

  Will felt a hand grab hold of him. Cormac’s bloodied face was barely recognisable.

  ‘They are running. Bain, go now. Get behind our line and find a horse and your men. Cut off the English retreat over the bridge.’

  ‘Aye,’ wheezed Will, his throat raw from smoke and shouting.

  Pushing through to the back of the schiltron was hard, but eventually, he made it, and, grimacing through a stitch in his side, ran headlong back up the meadow to grab the first horse he could find.

  He mounted up and, rallying with the other mounted men, his own included, he headed around the east flank of the schiltron at full pelt, and onwards, to Myton Bridge, overtaking English soldiers as they fled south in a panic.

  His force of men reached the bridge in no time, to be confronted by the Englis
h, scattered and running for their lives, all trying to get across the narrow bridge to sanctuary. Will drove his horse into them again and again, cutting down man after man with ease. Many had dropped their weapons in their urge to flee quickly or were too old to get to the bridge in time. Some collapsed with fear and exhaustion, and they seemed without leadership.

  Some few stood and fought bravely, with Scots at their front and Scots advancing behind them. Most were cut down where they stood, or flung themselves into the river in desperation. Those weighed down with any kind of armour sank quickly into the swirling green depths, sucked down by the current. Others struggled longer, and Will watched many flailing helplessly as they were swept downstream. Only a few made it across to stumble off over the fields to relative safety.

  Will’s jaw ached with clenching it, and he wanted to sob his heart out at the butchery all around him. Whatever he had done, whatever he was, this was a nightmare that would stain his soul for years to come.

  As the sun lowered in the crisp autumn sky, the slaughter just went on and on.

  ***

  Will stared at the pink bell-like flowers dotting the banks of the river. How delicate and pretty they were. In a distracted way, he tried to remember what they were called but, for the life of him, he could not. Why could his mind not grasp the memory? Ah, lupins, that was it. His mother had told him once, long ago, when he was but a lad.

  He tore his eyes away and watched the River Swale gliding past, now heavy with corpses of English dead, snagging on dead branches overhanging the water, bumping gently against one another up against the banks. Every now and then, to the noise of screams and groans from the dying out on the field, one would break off and slide into the current, to bob its way downstream and onward, to the sea.

  He must press on with his task of harrying the remaining English militia as they fled back towards York. Darkness was creeping in and soon that task would be an impossible one. In some ways, it would be a blessed relief, as he was sick in his gut with it. Will took out his knife and scrambled down the bank.

  The boy could not have been more than fifteen and clung to the slim branches of a willow leaning over the river. He had no value as a prisoner, a peasant by the looks of him, and obviously, he did not have the strength to swim for it. Any minute now, those fronds would snap, and the boy would be swept away. It would save him a task at least. It would be God who took the boy, and he would not have another death on his conscience.