Joanna Fulford (22 page)

He took a last look at the woman on the ground before him. ‘Farewell, my lady. It is good to know that your last thoughts will be of me.’ Then he turned the horse’s head and spurred away. In less than a minute he and his men were lost to view.

Isabelle heard the echo of the departing hooves and then how the silence washed back after. The clearing was still. Even the birds were quiet now, as if they knew death was in their midst. Once she made to rise but the pain knifed through her body and she fell back with a gasp, her face pale as bleached linen while grass and shrub and sky lurched crazily through her line of vision. She closed her eyes again until the sensation of sickness faded a little. She was going to die here in this glade. Now that it was imminent she was not afraid of dying, only of never seeing Ban again, never feeling his arms around her or his kiss on her lips. He would never know how much she loved him. She ought to have told him when she could. Once she had thought he might die and leave her. Now, ironically, it was she who would leave him. She didn’t want to but the pain was great, a burning ache in her side. Murdo had intended her to die a lingering death. It was why he had not fired the second arrow. She had not known till now how deadly hatred could be. Yet love was stronger. Somehow she must see Ban again. Pushing herself on to one elbow she tried to rise once more. Icy sweat beaded her brow as pain stabbed afresh and she cried out from the agony of it. The patch of blood on her gown grew wider. Gasping, throat parched, she sank back into the grass while sky spun and then receded, drawing away to a mere pinpoint of light before darkness closed around her.

Chapter Eighteen

B
an held his horse to a steady canter. His business in the village had been concluded to everybody’s satisfaction. He just wished his own affairs might so end but there was still the matter of Castlemora to be resolved. In order to live free of threat he had to defeat Murdo. The man was like a thorn in the flesh. It festered there and would continue to do so until it was removed.

A movement on the track ahead caught his eye and then he glimpsed mounted figures making off into the trees. He did not recognise any of them and no one from Glengarron would have behaved thus on hearing their approach. It smacked of covert action, of furtiveness. He frowned, reining Firecrest to a halt. Beside him Ewan and Davy followed suit, along with the remainder of his escort.

‘Who was that?’ Ban demanded.

‘I dinna ken, my lord,’ replied Davy. ‘I didna recognise them.’

‘Nor I,’ said Ewan. ‘The trees were too dense just there.’

‘Keep your eyes open and your wits about you.’

Keeping to a gentle pace they proceeded further along the path. The feeling that something was amiss grew stronger in Ban with every step. It was the stillness that was wrong, the eerie uneasy silence that preceded an ambush or followed a battle. Automatically he loosened his blade in the scabbard. His companions followed suit.

At first they did not see the body lying in the dappled shade further along the path for their eyes were looking higher, up the slope and into the trees. It was Ewan who spotted it first and alerted the rest.

‘My lord, over there!’

Something in the tone sent a chill through Ban’s heart. Urging the horse forwards he saw what Ewan had seen. In moments the latter had reached the spot and dismounted. He knelt beside the body a moment then looked back at the others, his face grim.

‘It’s Nell, my lord. She’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Ban swung down off his horse and hastened to join him, but one glance at the shaft and the woman’s staring eyes told him the sorry truth.

‘What was Nell doing out here alone?’ Ewan frowned. ‘She always attends on Lady Isabelle. This makes no sense.’

‘Unless she
was
with Lady Isabelle,’ replied Davy.

As soon as the words were spoken the two younger men exchanged troubled looks. A terrible suspicion began to form in Ban’s mind and he paled.

Ewan swallowed hard. ‘There may be some other explanation, my lord.’

Ban shook his head. ‘Spread out. Search the whole area. If my wife is here we must find her.’

He did not voice the terrible fear of exactly what they might find. His men hastened to obey and immediately formed a line to begin combing the wood. It did not take them long to discover the tracks of horses’ hooves. Ban’s fist tightened round the reins. The prints indicated half-a-dozen mounts at least by his reckoning. The trail headed away up the slope. Then he saw another arrow buried in a tree trunk and his blood ran cold.

Davy drew up alongside. ‘Do you think it was Murdo, my lord?’

‘I’m quite sure of it. That arrow is as good as a signature.’ He looked swiftly around. Suddenly the quiet wood seemed infinitely more sinister. ‘Follow the trail, but keep your wits about you. It could be a trap.’

He urged the chestnut on up the slope, following the tracks in the soft loam. The discovery of two more identical arrows only served to intensify his unease.

Beside him Davy looked at Ewan. ‘What were they shooting at?’

‘Or whom?’ replied the other.

Ban’s jaw tightened, his mind refusing to acknowledge the answer. They reached the top of the slope and then paused on the edge of a clearing.

‘The prints turn back into the trees again, my lord,’ said Davy. ‘All the same, they’ve left a trail a child of five could follow; almost as if they meant it to be found.’

‘That’s just what they meant,’ replied Ban.

‘But why, my lord? They must have known it would be madness to venture on to Glengarron lands.’

‘Murdo knew exactly what he was doing.’

‘An act of provocation then.’

‘No, an act of revenge.’ As he spoke he became more certain what form that revenge would take, and for the first time in five years he felt horribly afraid.

* * *

It was another five minutes before they found Isabelle. Ban flung himself from his horse and fell on his knees beside her, seeing in frantic disbelief the arrow lodged in her side. Her face was ashen. No movement testified that she lived. With a cry he raised her shoulders from the ground and cradled her close, icy dread locked round his heart. Around them his men stood grim-faced, silent witnesses to the horror. Forcing himself to ascertain the truth Ban’s fingers moved to her neck, seeking a pulse. For several hideous seconds he couldn’t find one; then, very faint beneath his touch, he located it. Fear and rage swelled in his heart as he lifted his wife in his arms.

‘Davy, bring my horse. We need to get her home. Ewan, take Callum and go and collect Nell’s body.’

* * *

The journey back to Dark Mount was not long but to Ban it seemed to take for ever. As they rode into the courtyard he heard curious voices raised in question and then exclamations of shock and horror as the extent of the outrage became clear. After that was a tense and angry silence. The crowd parted to let Ban through. Carefully he bore his wife indoors and took her to the chamber they shared together, laying her gently on the bed. Her pallor terrified him. When he touched her hand it was cold.

‘Ban? What is it? What has happened?’

He recognised Ashlynn’s voice. ‘He has killed her,’ he replied.

There followed a sharp intake of breath as Ashlynn took in the extent of the injury. Then she rapped out a series of instructions to the hovering servants before turning back to her brother.

‘Who has done this thing?’

‘Murdo, who else?’

She shivered to see the expression in his eyes. Then he rose to his feet.

‘Tend her, Ashlynn. I’m going after him.’

‘Be careful, Ban. It’s what he wants.’

‘He’ll get his wish. The murdering bastard has spent his last day on this earth.’

He took a last parting look at his wife and then strode to the door. He had no sooner reached the courtyard than he heard his brother-in-law’s voice ordering men to arm and ready themselves, and saw the subsequent flurry of activity as they hastened to obey. Iain remained standing by Nell’s body, now shrouded in a cloak. When he saw Ban he reached out a hand to clasp his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Brother. I delayed in my pursuit of Murdo, thinking there would be time enough. I was wrong and I ask your pardon.’

Ban’s face was grim. ‘Let us find the coward now for he or I or both die this day.’

‘We will have his head on a spear, I swear it.’

‘Let it be so.’

In short order they were mounted and, accompanied by a contingent thirty strong, set out to follow Murdo’s trail. After retracing their way to the scene of the crime it took little time to tell the direction the fugitives must have taken. Ban would have sent his horse after in hot pursuit but Ewan stayed him.

‘My lord, he will likely return to Castlemora, will he not?’

‘Aye. What of it?’

‘There is a quicker way than his; an old drovers’ trail across the moors. If we take it, we can cut him off.’

Iain nodded. ‘Ewan’s right.’

‘Very well.’ Ban met and held the dark gaze a moment. ‘Lead on.’

Ewan turned his horse and set off a tangent along a path skirting the hillside. Spurring the horses on they reached the top of the slope and, when the ground levelled out, they gave the animals their heads. The horses settled into their stride, a mile-eating gallop that stayed for nothing. Ban’s one thought now was to have Murdo within reach of his sword point. He could still see Isabelle’s pale face turned up to his, feel the icy touch of her flesh. The shaft had been buried deep in her side. When it was withdrawn she would bleed, draining her strength further. Even if that were stanched the chances were that the barb had pierced some vital organ and she would bleed inwardly, her life leaching away by moments and with it the life of their child. He had lost them and the knowledge cut him to the heart. In that moment he understood what Isabelle meant to him; that he loved her more than life itself, and if she was gone then he cared not if he died too this day, but not before he slew Murdo.

Cold rage filled his breast and he rode like one possessed, guiding the horse with a sure instinctive touch, his body moving to the rhythm of the easy loping gallop. Beside him Iain rode too, his face a chilling mask that carried in it a sentence of death. Behind them their men rode as one body with one avowed intent, the desire for vengeance burning in their eyes. Glengarron had suffered a deadly insult this day and it could only be expunged in blood.

* * *

Some miles later they paused briefly to let the horses breathe.

‘Murdo will assume by this that he is away and clear,’ said Iain. ‘He will hardly suspect we’ve stolen a march on him.’

Ban’s expression was grim. ‘It’ll be his last surprise.’

They spurred forwards again until, at the top of the next hill, Iain raised a hand and they reined in once more.

‘Down there,’ he said, pointing to the valley below.

Ban narrowed his eyes against the light and then his heart leapt in savage satisfaction as he saw the line of dust and half-a-dozen horsemen riding fast along the narrow trail.

‘There they are.’

‘Aye, we’ll head over the top and cut them off in the trees further along.’

They sped along the track, plunging down the far side of the slope and into the wood below, ranging themselves along the trail they knew their quarry must ride. There they pulled their blowing horses to a halt and waited. They had not long to do so, for soon the breeze carried the sound of drumming hooves towards them. Ban loosened his sword in its sheath, his face grim. He heard Iain speak to his men.

‘There will be no quarter. We take no prisoners this day.’

Grim smiles answered him, along with the soft scrape of steel against leather.

A blur of movement through the trees announced the riders’ presence. The waiting men lifted their swords.

‘Hold,’ murmured Iain. ‘Let them get closer.’

The foremost horseman was but fifty yards off when the ambushers emerged from their cover and threw a cordon across the way. Amid cursing and warning shouts the riders drew their horses to a plunging halt, their hands going immediately to their weapons. Those in the rear turned sharply, only to see the path cut off behind. Seeing the vastly superior numbers one or two threw down their weapons. The gesture did not save them and they were cut down without mercy. Their fate steeled the rest who turned to face the assault, fighting desperately for their lives.

Ban spurred Firecrest straight at Murdo’s mount, his horse’s shoulder striking the other at an oblique angle. Thrown off balance the bay stumbled. Murdo rolled and came up fast, sword drawn. As he recognised his enemy he bared his teeth in a feral smile.

‘I hoped you’d come after me though in truth I didn’t think it would be so soon.’

‘You have your wish.’

‘Indeed I do, and now I shall kill you.’

‘I am not so easy to kill.’ Ban dismounted and advanced, sword in hand, his blue eyes like chips of ice as they swept over the other man. ‘Unlike defenceless women.’

‘I thought that would get your attention.’

‘You murdering scum.’

‘Did you really think I’d let you keep Isabelle?’

‘I had no need to keep her. She chose me.’

‘Much good it has done her. She will not live long enough to regret her choice.’

Ban’s jaw tightened. ‘No more will you. Prepare to die, you cowardly bastard.’

‘It will afford me the greatest pleasure to carve you into little slivers.’

‘This time you face those better able to defend themselves.’

‘Say you so?’

Murdo circled slowly, looking for his opening. Then without warning he darted into the attack. Ban parried the thrust aimed at his shoulder and replied with a swinging cut. Murdo blocked it and then launched into a fierce assault. Nothing loath Ban went to meet it. He lost awareness of everything else around him, the world reduced to two blades and the man he hated most in the world.

He did not see Murdo’s accomplices slain, or how the men of Glengarron gathered a little way off, standing in approving silence to watch this last battle. His whole focus was driven by the desire to avenge; his long apprenticeship with Black Iain evident in every move that he made. His sword arm rose and fell tirelessly, his enemy hard pressed to block the deadly blows that rained down upon him. However, a man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous foe, as Ban well knew. Murdo was alone and surrounded with no possibility of escape now. He would sell his life dear. Ban could feel the weight of that dark and mocking gaze. Its owner was enjoying the rage he saw reflected in his opponent’s eyes, knowing only exultation in the understanding of why it was there, that his plan had worked and Isabelle was dead. All that remained was to take his final revenge on the man whose coming to Castlemora had been nothing but a source of trouble.

Murdo met his eye and grinned, and for several moments it was Ban who was forced back step by step as the master-at-arms launched a savage assault of his own. However, it was born out of increasing desperation: unbeknown to the observers, he had begun to feel the blooming ache in his side where Ban’s blade had struck before. The wound had been infected for a while and was yet imperfectly healed.

Ban showed no sign that his own shoulder wound pained him at all. His rage sustained him. He lay on with a will and, seeing a chance, thrust past Murdo’s guard to leave a bloody gash across his arm. Another slashing blow straight after it cut across his ribs. Warm blood flowed, the tell-tale darkening patch growing on his tunic. Both men were breathing harder now, their ragged breaths sounding loud in the silence beneath the trees. Still Ban came on, his sword like an extension of his arm, a deadly whirling arc of light showering sparks as it met the edge of the defending blade. And it was defending now, he could tell. Murdo was beginning to tire, his assault less controlled though no less savage for that. It was time to end it.