Caelen's Wife, Book Three

by Suzan Tisdale

  She woke to the sounds of low murmurs coming from the table. ’Twas Caelen and Collin going over last minute plans. The sounds of men donning battle gear, sharpening blades, and the smell of campfires wafted into the tent.

  When she sat up, her brother and husband looked up from their map and smiled at her. “Good morn to ye,” they said almost in unison.

  Brodie entered as she was returning their greeting.

  “Be ye ready?” he asked as he walked to the table.

  “Aye,” Collin said. “Be our men ready?”

  Brodie gave a nod of affirmation. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

  Collin left the table to don his mail and armor while Caelen came to speak to Fiona.

  “Fiona,” he said as he fell in beside her. “I want ye at the back of the lines.”

  “Aye,” she said as she searched for her boots. She had slept in her tunic and trews, so dressing this morn would be fast and quite simple.

  Caelen worked his jaw back and forth as he watched her closely. “I need yer word, Fiona, that ye’ll stay at the back of the lines.”

  Finding her boots at the end of the pallet, she began to pull them on. “I said I would.”

  Caelen took her hand and held it to his lips. “I need yer word.”

  She saw the worry and concern in his eyes and knew ’twasn’t because he did not trust her or her ability to defend herself. ’Twas the simple fact that he loved her and wanted her safe. “I give ye me word, Caelen. I shall stay at the back of the line.”

  He looked somewhat relieved as he gave her knuckles a soft kiss. “Thank ye, but I need ye to ken how important it be to have ye there. No’ just to keep ye out of harm’s way, fer I fear ye won’t be.”

  Puzzled, she scrunched her brow and asked for clarification.

  “Though it be extremely unlikely, there be always the chance that they could break through our lines. If that happens, ye need to defend the people on the wagons. They’ve no’ much fightin’ experience. ’Twill be up to ye to protect them.”

  She wasn’t sure if this was his way of making her feel as though she were contributing in some small way or not, but she wasn’t about to start an argument by asking. Instead, she placed a sweet kiss on his lips.

  She had prayed for good weather. Her prayers went unanswered.

  The ground was covered in a light fog, while the skies were as gray as the day before, leaving the ground a sloppy mess.

  Caelen and Collin led their men toward the battlefield. Fiona took up a position at the top of a small hill. The wagons were behind her, the people watching in silent anticipation.

  In the clearing below, an invisible line had been formed. Some five hundred Farquar, MacKinnon and McRamey men stood to defend their keep.

  Some five hundred McDunnah and McPherson men stood a few hundred yards away, fully prepared to take that keep. Their archers stood at the front of the line, the warriors behind them.

  Anticipation sizzled through the air. ’Twas all Fiona could do to keep her morning meal down. She was about to witness for the first time in her life, what war truly looked like. She was not naive enough to believe it would be anything like the stories told by visiting bards or men from other clans.

  It seemed days passed by before anyone moved. The stillness was only broken by the chortle of horses and the gentle flap of the banners and flags.

  By the time the McDunnah man dropped the first flag, to signify the beginning of the battle, Fiona thought she’d go mad with the waiting.

  Then it happened.

  The first flag dropped.

  A roar, unlike anything she’d ever heard before, broke through the early morning quiet. The voices from hundreds of men — shouting, roaring, giving battle cries — rang out. No one moved, save for the shaking of fists and swords. The air seemed to vibrate all around her and she would have sworn she could feel that sound clear to her marrow. ’Twas something she’d never forget.

  When the shouting stopped, an eerie silence filled the air. Her heart pounded in her chest, like a thousand drums, her palms grew damp, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

  “Archers!” a loud booming voice called out.

  The archers took three steps forward and in perfect unison, they all knelt on one knee.

  “Archers, nock!”

  Each archer took an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, again, in perfect unison, like a dance they’d danced a thousand times before. Fiona held her breath as she continued to watch with nervous anticipation.

  “Archers, aim!” the disembodied voice called out.

  They aimed.

  At least ten heartbeats passed before the next call went out.

  “Loose!”

  When they loosed their arrows, the sound reminded Fiona of a bird flapping its wings. Thump, thump, thump, thump!

  The arrows sailed through the air in a wide arc before they began their descent back to earth. The Farquar men raised their targes in anticipation of the arrows.

  Thud, thud, thud. The arrows landed, hitting against targes. Some were able to fly through small openings while others landed behind the targes, piercing flesh and bone.

  After that, the Farquar commander lowered his own flag and the melee began.

  They charged across the field toward the McDunnah and McPherson forces. Calls went out as they ran forward. Collin raised his arm and ordered his men to hold. Then at the last possible moment, the archers retreated, the warriors stepped forward and targes were at the ready.

  From where Fiona sat, it seemed a thousand lifetimes went by before Collin finally gave the order for their men to fight.

  The sound was deafening.

  Metal against metal, shouts, orders, swords slicing through the air, landing on targes or against leather or mail, or worse yet, flesh and bone.

  Fiona watched in horror as it all played out before her.

  Men fell all around them.

  Collin and Caelen fought back to back, fending off one man after another.

  Caelen had years of experience to call upon, Collin had none.

  There was no time to think about what was happening, only to respond one hit for another. Caelen’s sole focus was to slay the enemy, to get through their lines and into the Farquar keep.

  Caelen had just run through a Farquar man, when a MacKinnon came charging toward him with a mace. The man was as determined to crush Caelen’s skull as Caelen was to keep it from happening.

  With his sword in both hands, his feet planted apart, Caelen waited, looking for the right opportunity to run the man through. The MacKinnon came at him, the mace whirling so fast that it whistled through the air.

  As Caelen shifted his weight in order to duck when the time was right, his left foot slipped in the mud and he went down. He tried rolling away but his momentum was stopped by the body of a fallen warrior.

  As he lay on his back, the MacKinnon, with the twirling mace, had the look of a man quite satisfied in knowing he was about to kill. Caelen’s only recourse would be to use his sword to block the mace and pray the thing didn’t shatter.

  One step closer, the MacKinnon swung the mace once more, but before he could launch it at Caelen’s skull, he was stopped. Caelen saw the very tip of a sword as it tore through flesh and organs alike, poking through the man’s torso. Blood splattered everywhere as the man went down on his knees.

  Collin.

  Collin had just saved Caelen’s life.

  “Yer welcome,” Collin said with a proud grin, before spinning on his heels to fend off another MacKinnon.

  The battle raged on. In Fiona’s mind, it lasted beyond the bounds of reason. With all the mud and blood it became difficult for her to tell who was who.

  Part of her truly wanted to kick her mount into a full run and go charging down the hill to help her brethren. The other part of her, the intelligent part, warned her to stay put.

  She was so engrossed in the battle below, that she paid no attention to anything happening around her. Until
she heard the sickening thump of an arrow piercing skin. Her horse startled and reared as she looked at the man beside her. An arrow had pierced the back of his neck and poked through. His hands went to this throat and he had the most startled look on his face. Blood spat through and around the arrow with each beat of his heart.

  Fiona withdrew her sword, as did the other five McDunnah men who had been left with her. Frantically, they looked for the source of the attack. The people with the wagons took cover under them as more arrows sailed through the air.

  “There!” one of her guards shouted as he pointed to the west. Just below the hill, were at least twenty-five men on horseback and they were coming straight for them.

  Fiona had never been good at fighting while on horseback, no matter how many times she had trained for it. ’Twas six of them against twenty-five. It would do no good for her to try to fight from the back of a horse when she knew she could do better on foot.

  Tossing one leg over her saddle, she slid to her feet. Once on the ground, she grabbed her targe before slapping her horse’s hindquarter to send it out of the line of battle.

  “Run, Fiona!” Caelen’s man yelled at her.

  No’ bloody likely.

  The Farquar men were upon them in a matter of moments. One of them came straight for Fiona, his sword drawn and at the ready.

  Fiona planted her feet and held her broadsword with both hands. As the attacker approached, he raised his sword high in the air with the intent of slicing Fiona as he went by. She would have none of it.

  She waited until she saw the forward motion of his sword before ducking low. As the man tore by, she stood and in one swift motion, sliced across the back of his calf. The man cursed and screamed, causing his horse to rear up and dump him on the ground.

  Fiona gave him no time to gain his bearings. She was on him in an instant, her feet on either side of him as she sent her sword straight into his heart.

  There was no time to dally as two more Farquar men were heading toward her. To her left and right, the McDunnah men were busy with their own battles so she could not look to them for help.

  The two Farquar men, on horseback, aimed straight for her. From the way they were riding, she knew they meant to either trample her or pin her between their horses. If she moved too quickly, they’d be able to right themselves and chase her down. If she moved too slowly, she’d be killed.

  Praying she’d measured correctly, she waited until it was too late for them to move and she leapt out of the way. The fall to the ground was harder than she had anticipated and her sword went flying out of her hands.

  She lay near the wagons, on her back, momentarily stunned as the breath had been knocked out of her lungs. The Farquar men spun around and headed back toward her. She tried to scramble to her feet and reach her sword at the same time.

  “Here!” someone from under the wagons yelled as he slid a sword across the ground. Fiona rolled to her stomach, grabbed the sword and raced to the wagon. This sword was heavier than what she was accustomed too, but she wasn’t about to complain.

  The Farquar men slid from their horses and headed toward her, swords drawn and at the ready.

  They were both taller than she. Heavier, stronger, and more likely than not, years more experience. What they did not possess, however, was the sheer will and determination to live.

  The first man came at her, his sword high above his head. He swung the blade down and Fiona met it with her own. ’Twas a jarring blow, but she refused to stop. She met him blow for blow as she tried to keep an eye on his partner.

  Left, left, right. He had a pattern to his swings. Left, left, right. She was growing tired, physically and mentally. He swung left again. This time, she spun around on his second left swing, and sent her sword right between his ribs.

  He fell to the ground.

  His partner came after her.

  His thrusts were far less patterned, more frenzied. Fiona blocked one swing after another, each time stepping farther and farther away from the wagons and the rest of the men.

  Sweat began to run into her eyes. Blood rushed in her ears, her heart pounding against her breastbone. With each parry, she grunted and used every ounce of her might to fend him off. Soon, her palms were damp with sweat and she could feel her grip beginning to loosen and slip. If she kept this up much longer, she’d end up dead.

  He was still coming after her, swinging and thrusting and smiling as if he knew the outcome already and was merely enjoying the fight.

  Her grip was slipping again, so she grabbed her sword with both hands to meet his next blow. As he lunged toward her, he slipped on the wet grass and fell to his knees. There was no way she’d wait for him to gain his purchase again. She swung her sword out in a wide arc, and sliced his throat.

  14

  Fiona sat on a pallet in the war tent. She had divested herself of her helm, leather and mail, but she was still covered in blood. Blood from men she had killed.

  After slicing the throat of the Farquar man, one of Caelen’s men raced toward her and pulled her out of the melee. Without saying a word, he brought her to the tent, sat her on the pallet and called for a healer.

  She didn’t need a healer.

  She needed a bath. A long, hot bath. And fresh air. Air that didn’t smell of blood and sweat and death.

  ’Twas not at all what she had expected. Growing up, she and her brothers had romanticized battle. Made it far more spectacular and exciting than it actually was. She didn’t feel victorious. Didn’t feel as though she’d saved the day or her clan or the world as she had fantasized as a child.

  Instead, she felt sick. Sick that she had killed three men today. Men who were only doing what their chief had ordered.

  In the more than two years she had spent as chief of Clan McPherson, she had never been forced to send men into battle. Aye, they had prepared for a day just like this one. Had trained until their bones ached, until they knew how to parry, defend and thrust. Trained until they were near sick of training.

  But nothing had prepared her for this.

  She sent the healer away to help those who truly needed it. She had no sense of time passing as she sat and replayed those terrifying moments over and over again in her mind.

  How much time passed? She couldn’t hazard a guess. Had she fallen asleep sitting up? She didn’t know. All she knew was that someone was washing the blood from her face and hands.

  When her eyes finally focused, she saw her husband kneeling before her. He had a basin of warm water on the ground next to him. Fiona glanced into the basin. The water ran red.

  “I killed three men today,” she told him as he wiped a damp cloth across the backs of her hands.

  “I did no’ count how many I killed,” he said. There was no humor in his voice.

  She was numb, all over numb. ‘Twasn’t guilt she felt, for she knew it was kill or be killed. Nay, she couldn’t quite name what she was feeling. Shock? Horror? Disgust? All of the above?

  “How do ye fare?” she asked him when she finally noticed he was covered in mud, grime, blood, and God only knew what else.

  “I be fine,” he said as he continued to wash her hands. Did she detect anger in his voice?

  “Yer angry,” she told him.

  He finally looked into her eyes. “Aye, I am. Furious actually.”

  “Why?”

  He pinned her in place with a fierce glare. “Why? Why did ye no’ retreat when they attacked?” he asked.

  She thought he’d lost his mind. “Ye told me to defend the rear!”

  He let loose with a frustrated breath. “But ye were told to run!”

  She could make no sense of their conversation. “Ye told me to defend the rear. So I defended the rear. Had I no’ done so, many more people would have died. I did what ye told me to do.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “When they told me what happened, I nearly passed out from worry.”

  Fiona raised a brow. “Odd. I came close to peein’ me trews onc
e or twice.”

  He could not resist a chuckle. “Yer mad.”

  “Aye, we’ve established that already,” she told him.

  A long moment of silence passed between them. “How did yer battle go? Did we win? Did we sieze the keep?”

  Caelen looked tired, even through his muddy face. “Nay, Fiona. We have called a cease to the fightin’ fer today and shall resume on the morrow.”

  Fiona sensed there was more he was unwilling to share. “Caelen, how bad is it?”

  He placed the cloth in the bowl, stood, and took it to the opening in the tent and tossed the contents out. He remained near the opening, the empty bowl dangling in one hand, his other resting on his hip. Something weighed heavily on his heart. The day had not gone as well as they had expected or hoped.

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Too many,” he told her.

  She had no words of comfort for him. If she had, she would have used them on herself. Her heart filled with sorrow for those they had lost this day, for the wounded and for her husband.

  “I be sorry, Caelen,” she told him. There was nothing else left to say.

  The encampment had fallen eerily quiet, save for the moaning of the wounded. The cease in battle was called so that they might clear the dead and wounded from the battlefield. Caelen had gone in search of Collin.

  Fiona stepped outside her tent and watched as one litter after another was hauled up from the field. The odor of death permeated the air. Blood mingled with mud and sweat and death. ’Twas unlike anything she had ever witnessed before.

  Her stomach roiled and she could no longer hold back. She stepped behind a tent and retched.