Until the Knight Comes (33 page)

The little man grimaced and started forward, but Mariota hurried after him. “Wait,” she cried, blocking his path. “What fox does he mean?”

Finlay flushed and glanced up at the roiling clouds. “Och, the heavens only know,” he said, speaking quickly. “And you’d ne’er believe me if I told you.”

“Told her what?” Ewan joined them, glowered at the little man. “Since we’ve naught else to do in this Devil’s cauldron, we might as well keep following the wee beastie.” He clamped a meaty hand on Finlay’s shoulder. “Now—which direction shall we ride?”

“To the east.” Wee Finlay stiffened, stuck out his chin. “Through yon trees,” he added, pointing to a stand of birches. “I saw the fox slinking through the bracken there not an hour past.”

“The side-glen to the widow’s cottage is beyond that birchwood.” Ewan pulled on his beard and frowned. “One of the narrowest passes in these hills lies that way, too. A devil-damned gorge if e’er there was one. I wouldn’t want—”

He jerked around at a great hallooing, the clatter and ruckus of a fast-approaching party of horsemen. He dropped his hand to his sword hilt, but released it as the riders burst into view.

His own scouting party and judging by their lathered horses and the excitement on their faces, they bore good tidings.

Ewan the Witty gave a triumphant bark of laughter and waited until the first rider drew rein before him. “The bastard knight comes,” the man blurted, flashing a grin. “A small party—not even so many as we’d expected.”

“What you do not say!” Ewan hooted another laugh, took a silvered wine flask from his belt and offered it to the scout. “Where are they headed?”

The man took a long drink, handed the flask to another rider. “Toward the widow’s cottage,” he supplied, sounding breathless. “The narrow gorge we passed on the way to his keep—the one they call the Devil’s Glen.”

There was a moment of silence, then Ewan nodded. “So that is to be the way of it—a slaughtering of lambs.”

“There is more.” The first rider twisted in his saddle, glancing back to where a few more men were yet cantering into the clearing. “We—”

“Just a few men, you say?” Ewan cut him off, apparently unaware of the other men just drawing up. “How many compared to our own?”

“Not even a third.”

“Then the latest Keeper of Cuidrach’s brief reign will come to an abrupt end but a stone’s throw from his own moldering walls.” Ewan threw a leer at Mariota, snapped his hand into a tightly balled fist. “The fool should have waited, sent to his vaunted uncle for more men.”

In that moment, he finally looked at the new arrivals, the stragglers making up the rear of the little scouting party. “By Glory!” he cried, his brows shooting upward.

“I tried to tell you,” the first rider said, but Ewan the Witty wasn’t looking at him.

Or listening.

Like one bespelled, he’d locked his gaze on the stragglers, took a few steps toward them, his brow crinkling as if he doubted what he saw.

But then he grinned.

Wee Finlay’s face went ashen.

And Mariota’s heart plummeted, her last flicker of hope extinguished.

Chapter Seventeen

T
he Devil’s Glen.

The name took new significance so soon as Kenneth reined in at the edge of the wood. His heart thumping, he peered through the mist toward the deep ravine that all in Kintail knew to be hell-spawned. Or, at the very least, ruled by the fey. Mayhap even held under the spell of an enchanted slumber.

A place where anything could happen . . . and did.

He shuddered, tightening his grip on the reins, wariness making his body so tense he would have sworn he’d been cast into stone.

Almost believing it, he swallowed and sent a prayer to the saints. The Devil’s Glen had been known to do worse to men.

Empty and inhospitable, dark and shadowy even in summer with the sun only breaching its steep-sided walls at fullest noon, the treacherous defile daunted the best of men, had proved itself as fierce and merciless as the most formidable Highland warrior, when wronged. And as unforgiving as the horned Dark One of its name, when not respected.

Only fools tread there.

Or men ridden by desperation.

The need to retrieve what was their own.

Kenneth frowned, smoothed a hand over his mouth and chin. The gorge truly was as menacing as legend declared. Threads of white-foaming cataracts plunged down its stony, gorse-covered flanks and a rapid, raging torrent claimed most of its narrow, rocky floor.

But it wasn’t empty.

Not this chill, gray afternoon. More than the usual drifting mist-wraiths filled the Devil’s Glen and the defile’s black silence had given way to the hollow drumming of horses’ hooves on stone and gravel, the creak of leather, the clank of mail and weaponry, the sound of men’s voices.

Many men’s voices, and uncaring if they were heard.

Sir Lachlan nudged his steed closer to Kenneth’s. “She is there,” he said, lifting an arm to point through the mist. “She’s mounted, but caught up in the very middle of the dastards. Do you see her?”

Kenneth shook his head. “I see naught but mist and men. More than I can count.” So many, their number took his breath. “Guidsakes, they would lure us to our death.”

Lachlan did not dispute him. He rolled his shoulders, gave Kenneth a taut smile. “If need be—so be it.”

But Kenneth scarce heard him.

He was leaning forward, straining to see through the mist—and to recall every tale about battle tactics and warfare that his uncle had e’er shared with him.

God willing, he’d remember enough—and put it to proper use!

He tightened his hands on the reins, thinking hard, even as his heart relived every precious moment he’d shared with his lady.

Woo her gently
is what he’d planned to be doing this ill-starred day, not sitting on the edge of hell, praying the saints he’d see her again.

He frowned, the irony of it stinging like an adder bite.

But see her again he would. And more. There wasn’t a force under the heavens that would stop him. Least of all a swaggering braggart named Ewan the Witty and his fool pack of caterans.

And not in his Kintail.

“Lachlan—where did you see her? How deeply into the gorge?”

“In the middle,” Sir Lachlan repeated, “but I’ve lost sight of her.”

Kenneth turned in the saddle, gave his friend a hard look. “I ken that gorge—it has no room to maneuver. ’Tis true yon caterans are greater in number, but we might best them yet if Jamie reached Duncan so swiftly as he vowed, and joins us with equal haste.”

But so far, nothing but chill wind stirred the woods around them. And, much as he resisted admitting, Jamie and the hoped for reinforcements should’ve arrived some while ago. Kenneth frowned, rubbed the back of his neck.

“If naught happens soon, we’ll use a tactic my uncle learned from the late Good King Robert Bruce’s warring days,” he decided, scanning the mist-cloaked gorge again. “We’ll form a tight arrow formation with ourselves at the apex and cut right through the bastards, snatching up my lady as we pass, then pounding on straight out of the ravine. Our momentum and the surprise of such a move should give us the advantage . . .”

He trailed off and glanced at the seasoned garrison captain, knowing a flood of relief when Sir Lachlan nodded approval.

“’Tis a well-used stratagem, but one that might work,” that one agreed, his gaze on the gorge. “It’s also our only option unless Jamie returns anon and we challenge them face on. We—”

“Heigh-ho, my lord! There is your lady!” One of Kenneth’s men kneed his garron up beside them, gesticulated wildly. “In the middle of the gorge, just as Sir Lachlan said.”

Kenneth swung back around and stared into the Devil’s Glen, his heart slamming against his ribs when he spotted her, horsed and well guarded, a strapping, auburn-haired Highlander holding her mount’s reins.

“The blessed saints!” Kenneth’s eyes flew wide, his breath catching. “That’s Jamie! They’ve got the lad—have him tied to Mariota’s horse!”

“Och, it canna be.” Sir Lachlan leaned forward, stared. “Ne’er in a thousand . . . God keep and preserve us, it
is
Jamie.”

“And that means there’ll be no men riding in from Eilean Creag,” someone said from behind them. “No reinforcements will be coming,” the man added unnecessarily, his voice flat. Grim.

Kenneth drew back his shoulders, inhaling deeply. “Then, by God, we shall help ourselves—and succeed.” He looked round at his men and dared them to suggest otherwise. “We can do naught else.”

“Lady, there is naught I wouldn’t have done to reach Duncan.”

Jamie turned guilt-ridden eyes on Mariota, jerked at the rope binding his hands, tying him to her mount’s saddle. “I swear it on my mother’s soul. Ne’er did I mean for this to happen. They took my sword,” he said, his voice thick with broken pride. “And the new battle-ax Kenneth gave me. Even the dagger I keep in my boot! They—”

“They were more than a score of men to your one.”

Mariota tilted her head. “You dare not forget that, Jamie. And from the looks of some of them when they returned with you, anyone can see you gave them a fierce fight. Kenneth will be proud of you.”

She paused, mustering a smile. “For certes, I am.”

Jamie pressed his lips together, pangs of conscience clearly bothering him. He looked away, swallowed audibly. “You speak as if we’ll see Kenneth again.”

Alive.

He left the word unspoken but it hovered between them, an unspeakable threat Mariota refused to acknowledge. Anything else would bring her to her knees, leave her bleeding on the edge of a bleak void she had no desire to traverse.

“We will see him again,” she owned. “Both of us. That, I vow!”

Jamie blinked and flushed, slid a glance at the granite-faced men surrounding them, the countless drawn swords and iron-headed maces, the naked steel gleaming dully in the gray, watery light. “I would that I had your faith, my lady.”

“You have courage—more than many battle-hardened men twice your age.” She started to say more, but Jamie wasn’t listening.

“Saints of mercy!” He stared past her, neither his outburst nor the stunned look on his face needing translation.

“Kenneth!” Mariota’s heart stilled. “Praise be!” she cried, a strange mix of relief, joy, and fear sweeping her as she caught sight of the man who was her very heart, breath, and soul.

Heat flashed through her, liquid and golden. She began to melt, the sweet, molten warmth she’d ne’er again hoped to feel spreading through her, making her heart pound and her breath catch, even as dread closed her throat, making it impossible for her to cry out again, to do more than stare.

And pray.

Heedless of her fears, her Keeper and his men surged forward, into the Devil’s Glen. Then, seeing her, his face lit as if illuminated by all the heavens’ stars and he thrust his sword into the air, let out a triumphant war-like
whoop,
his men’s shouts no less enthusiastic.

“Cuidrach N’ Righ!”
they yelled in unison, the MacKenzie battle cry ripping through the gorge.
“Save the king!”

Chaos erupted all around them.

A confusion of sound, all clashing swords and shouting, the thunderous pounding of fast-approaching horses, the clatter and din loud in Mariota’s ears. Nearer by, men who’d been milling about ran for mounts and those not yet brandishing naked blades, drew their steel, swung around to face the threat barreling through the ravine’s entrance.

“Dear saints!” she gasped, watching in horror as Ewan the Witty grinned, raised his two-handed war brand and raced to join the men lowering spears to halt Kenneth’s momentum.

Others burst from behind the whin bushes and outcropping rocks flanking the ravine, maces held high and swords swinging. They stormed forward, quickly forming a crescent-shaped front, the yelling, steel-weaving lot of them undaunted by Kenneth’s furious charge.

But still he pounded on, murderous rage on his face and shouting his slogan, his sword now lowered before him like a jousting lance, its gleaming tip already dripping red—as were more than a few swords of the men riding with him.

Yet they dug in their spurs, kicking their beasts to ever greater speed as they thundered onward, even as some fell, disappearing beneath racing, flailing hooves, the slashing, smiting blades of Ewan and his men.

Blackguards they plowed down in swathes, but for each one cut down or trampled, five more rose to replace him.

Shouts, jeers, and the clash of steel filled the Devil’s Glen, the cacophony deafening, the stench of fresh, spilled blood and panicked, sweat-lathered horses already thick in the air.

“O-o-oh, here is folly!” Mariota’s stomach clenched, her heart seizing. The warmth that had spooled through her moments ago, slid from her like a cloak turned to ice.

She whirled to Jamie, unable to watch. “He’s run mad—they’ll all be skewered!”

“And us with them!” the young knight cried, his eyes round. “God save us, lady—I am no yet ready to die! Not by my own ax!”