Joanna Fulford (15 page)

‘Take this. It’s little enough, but it offers you some protection.’ He did not add that it also offered a choice if things should go amiss.

Isabelle understood him well enough and took the knife without hesitation. His sacrifice today was like to be the greatest any man could ever make. Hers could be no less.

‘I will use this rather than go with Murdo.’

His hand closed over hers and squeezed it. ‘Be of good courage, my lady. All may yet be well.’

‘God be with you,’

‘God be with us all,’ he replied.

Movement among the rocks below revealed the enemy closing in. Isabelle counted a dozen men but knew there were many more. It was just a matter of time before the rest arrived. The situation was hopeless. Oddly that knowledge filled her with resolve and her hand tightened round the hilt of the dagger as she hastened to join Nell. Behind her Ban and his men drew their swords and waited.

The approaching horsemen grew larger by the moment, looming out of the landscape like so many spectres of evil. Now it was possible to make out the details of their horses and their arms, then their faces. Grim, eager for the coming fight, they drew rein at the bottom of the slope. When they saw the three men there they grinned, evidently considering this to be no contest. Then they dismounted. There followed the chilling sound of metal scraping wood and oiled leather as blades were drawn from scabbards. With expressions of keen anticipation the mercenary force advanced.

Ban had chosen his spot well. The ascent was not only steep but the limited access meant that, at most, only two or three men at a time could approach the sheltering fugitives. Nothing loath the first of them began their approach.

‘Well, here they come.’ Jock’s hand tightened round the hilt of his sword.

‘There’s an awful lot of them,’ replied Davy.

‘Aye, and it’s only part of their force. It willna take the others long tae join them.’

‘If Ewan’s bringing those reinforcements, now would be a good time.’

‘That it would, lad, but while we’re waiting let’s kill as many of the bastards as we can, eh?’

The first three mercenaries reached the level shelf below the crag and raced forwards to meet them. The air rang with the clash of metal. Ban lunged for his opponent’s breast, a deadly stroke turned aside just in time. It was returned in kind. Ban parried it and cut again and again, the blade an arc of light so fierce was his attack. His opponent, forced back, stumbled on the uneven ground. Ban’s foot swung up and caught the man hard in the groin. He heard the grunt of pain. Without giving his opponent time to recover he sped him with a thrust to the gut. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Jock and Davy in fierce engagement with their own opponents. He heard a cry but could not investigate for the next man was on him. However, though big, he was no match for Ban with a blade and was brought low with a thrust to the shoulder. No sooner had he fallen than another rushed to take his place. There followed more cries and curses as Jock and Davy accounted for their own. Even as these fell more men rushed forwards but with no more success. Gradually the rocks and sparse turf grew dark and stained with blood. All smiles had vanished from the faces of the mercenaries now and were replaced with grim intent to cut down the defenders and avenge their own.

Ban glanced at the bodies around and then at the advancing tide and he knew it was just a matter of time before they were overpowered. Sweating now, he could feel the strain in his sword arm. Beside him, Jock and Davy fought on. He glimpsed blood on Jock’s neck and chest, but since the man fought unimpeded he assumed it was someone else’s. Davy appeared unhurt, fighting with single-minded concentration and zeal. As his foe fell beneath his sword there came a pause and for a moment no more men came forwards to challenge the waiting three.

Breathing hard they saw a familiar figure approaching.

‘Murdo,’ murmured Ban. He turned briefly to his companions. ‘This one’s mine, lads.’

The oncoming warrior was flanked by a dozen more. Pausing near the top of the slope he scanned the scene swiftly, taking in the pile of corpses and then the three defenders beyond.

‘Surrender yourselves! You’re heavily outnumbered and pinned down. You cannot win. Give up the Lady Isabelle and I’ll spare your lives.’

‘Aye, right,’ muttered Jock.

‘If you want her you’ll have to come and get her,’ replied Ban, ‘but to do it you must come past me.’

The thought of Isabelle in Murdo’s clutches was anathema. Ban tightened his grip on the sword. It wasn’t going to happen; not now, not ever.

‘It’ll be a pleasure.’ Murdo drew his sword. Then, with a curt gesture to his men, he began to advance. Reaching the top of the slope he halted a few yards from Ban.

‘It will afford me much satisfaction to cut your throat,’ he said then. His cold gaze flicked to where Isabelle stood with Nell. ‘Did you really think to take what was mine?’

‘I was never yours, Murdo,’ she retorted, ‘nor ever will be.’

‘You are mistaken, Isabelle, as you will soon discover. When this is done perhaps I’ll take you here in front of your champion, before I run him through.’

Isabelle paled, but Ban’s lips curled in a sardonic smile. ‘Come, braggart, you must catch the bear ere you skin it.’

Murdo half-turned and signalled to his men. Then they advanced. Ban hefted his sword, flanked by Jock and Davy.

‘Get ready,’ he murmured.

Jock eyed the approaching men with a jaundiced expression. ‘We’re ready. If we can just hold them off awhile longer...’

No one replied for even as he spoke they heard the distant thunder of hoofbeats, and saw in the middle distance a rolling cloud of dust that marked the approach of many men. The defenders exchanged glances, their expressions grim.

‘The rest of the mercenary force,’ muttered Jock. ‘This is about to get interesting.’

‘Very interesting and very busy,’ replied Davy.

Murdo glanced at the distant riders and smiled. ‘Get ready to die, you Saxon dog.’

Ban made no reply. He had time only for a fleeting regret that he had failed Isabelle, and then Murdo was upon him. The great blades clashed with bone-jarring force. The warlord was skilled and strong and, as yet, fresh to the fight. With each shuddering blow Ban felt his aching muscles protest, but he could afford no respite. He fought instinctively now, slashing and parrying in return, seeking a weakness in the other man’s play. It needed but one unguarded moment. However, Murdo was fit and agile; each time it seemed as though Ban’s blade must break through his guard the edge was turned. Beginning to tire now, he knew mounting desperation for, with each moment, the sound of advancing horsemen grew louder. He dared not risk a look to see how close they were. His opponent too had heard the sound and his expression of triumph spoke louder than words.

Redoubling his attack he forced Ban to give ground. Unable to see where he was putting his feet the younger man stumbled. Though swift to regain his balance, Ban caught a glancing blow and felt the sword open a gash across his ribs. He drew a sharp breath, gritting his teeth against the pain. Warm blood flowed down his side. Seeing the spreading red stain, Murdo smiled.

‘Next time it’ll be your heart.’

Breathing hard, Ban vouchsafed no reply. He had no breath to waste in idle banter and swung once more into the attack. A bloody slash appeared on Murdo’s arm and he swore. Ban gave him no time to recover. Sheer agility saved Murdo from the blow aimed at his ribs and he countered swiftly. He wasn’t laughing now and his play became a shade more cautious.

Ban could feel his strength ebbing. Blood pounded in his ears. It grew louder and louder and then, with sinking heart, he realised it was the sound of horses’ hooves. The rest of Murdo’s force had arrived.

* * *

From her place among the rocks Isabelle watched the conflict in mounting horror. She could see that Ban was tiring, weakened from his earlier exertions and now loss of blood. Yet somehow he fought on. The defenders had put up a magnificent fight but they could never win. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of the dagger. It seemed they would all die here today.

Suddenly Nell gripped hold of Isabelle’s arm. ‘Dear God!’

Isabelle followed the older woman’s gaze. In the distance she could see the roiling cloud of dust as another group of horsemen approached.

‘The rest of Murdo’s force,’ she murmured. ‘It’s over.’

Unable to tear their eyes away they watched the riders draw nearer. They were many, fifty at least, mounted on swift horses, the sun glinting on spur and harness. The riders were clad in stout leather tunics and all were armed with sword and shield. In the vanguard was borne the banner that proclaimed their proud identity: a great bird of prey in flight with curving talons outstretched.

‘Wait!’ Nell’s hand trembled and a tremulous smile hovered on her lips. ‘Not Murdo’s men. Merciful heavens, it’s Glengarron.’

Hardly daring to hope, Isabelle strained to see. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Look at the banner. Does it not bear the device of a red kite?’

‘On my life I think it does.’ Isabelle clutched her companion’s sleeve. ‘Oh, Nell. Ewan must have succeeded.’

The sound of hooves grew louder. By now the mercenaries lower down the hill had also seen the threat for warning shouts echoed across the slope. Sunlight glinted on steel. Murdo frowned and glanced that way. It was for a split second only but that moment’s inattention was enough and the edge of Ban’s sword caught him in the side. Murdo gasped and disengaged, falling back a pace or two, his free hand clutching the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers. He looked around in cold fury and, assessing the situation at once, he began to retreat, shouting at his men to do likewise.

As he stumbled away down the hill two of his men stepped out from among the rocks to cover his retreat. Seeing the bows in their hands Isabelle cried out. It mingled with Ban’s warning shout. Davy flung himself flat but Jock was too slow. Before their horrified gaze he stood motionless a moment and then his legs buckled and he fell, the feathered shaft buried in his breast. Ban uttered a great shout of rage. Raising his sword he flung the blade with all his might. The archer shrieked and fell. The second man lifted his bow and let fly the shaft. Ban felt a savage, fiery pain deep in his shoulder. His assailant turned and fled down the hill. For another second or two Ban looked on. Then he toppled sideways into darkness.

‘Ban!’ Isabelle ran to him and fell on her knees at his side, her hand seeking his. ‘Ban! Look at me, I beg you.’

No reply was forthcoming. He was quite still, his face pale, the turf around stained with blood. Struggling with a rising sense of dread she sought for some sign of life; a breath, a movement, anything that would show he lived. She discovered none.

‘Dear God, no. Please, no.’

Below them the tide of battle was turning and already many of the mercenary force were dead. The rest were in full retreat. Some had already broken away and were riding hard for the hills, a detachment from Glengarron in hot pursuit. The rest of the arriving force was heading towards the crag. In the lead was a man on a big dapple-grey horse.

The mercenaries who had been on the slope with Murdo were now trapped. Aware of the danger they broke and ran for cover among the rocks. Undeterred the riders dismounted and moved forwards in pursuit. Isabelle watched in stricken silence. What should have been deliverance had become something from nightmare. Ban was dead and Jock too. They had given their lives for her and in that moment she wished with all her heart that it had been she who had died.

Running feet announced another arrival and looking up she saw Ewan. He reached the top of the slope and checked, his horrified gaze taking in the scene of carnage. Then he saw the bodies of his fallen companions and his cheeks grew ashen.

‘Holy Mother.’ His gaze met Davy’s and held it. ‘I’ve come too late.’

Davy, pale too, clasped his shoulder. ‘It’s no your fault.’

Ewan shook his head and looked miserably at Isabelle. ‘I’m sorry, my lady.’

Before she could reply they were joined by another man, a tall, dark-haired warrior carrying a great sword. As her gaze took in the details of that imposing figure she realised who he was.

The Lord of Glengarron paused, his dark gaze resting on her a long moment. ‘Lady Isabelle?’

As she nodded his image splintered through her tears. He glanced at Davy and Ewan now standing grim-faced with Nell, and then looked down at the still form beside Isabelle. Recognition and shock registered in his face and with a muffled oath he hastened forwards.

‘Ban!’ Swiftly sheathing his sword Lord Iain knelt and drew off his gauntlets, his fingers searching Ban’s neck. For a moment his expression was grim. Then he drew in a deep breath. ‘There’s a pulse but it’s weak.’

Isabelle’s heart lurched. ‘Oh, thank God!’

‘We must get him back to Dark Mount as soon as may be.’ He turned to Davy and Ewan. ‘Get some help to carry him and Jock down to the horses.’

As they hurried away to do his bidding, Iain turned back to Isabelle.

‘You are not hurt, my lady?’

‘No, my lord; thanks to you and Lord Ban.’

‘Would that we had arrived sooner,’ he said.

Just then one of the Glengarron captains appeared. ‘Beg pardon, my lord, but the remnant of the mercenary force has fled; some ten or a dozen men in all. Do you want us to go in pursuit?’

‘Aye, and bring me their leader, that or his body.’

‘Murdo was wounded,’ said Isabelle, ‘but not badly enough, I fear.’

Lord Iain turned to the captain. ‘If they are carrying a wounded man it will slow their progress. Search thoroughly. We need to find him.’

The man nodded and hastened away. Isabelle shivered as the implications hit her. Correctly interpreting that expression Lord Iain’s tone grew gentler.

‘Have no fear, my lady. We’ll find him eventually, dead or alive.’

They made their way down the slope to the horses. Isabelle looked in horror at the carnage all around her. The air stank of blood and slaughter. Horror was followed by guilt and remorse. All these men had died because of her. Ban was critically wounded. Reaction set in then and she trembled, feeling sick to the core of her being.