The Saint (10 page)

Ah hell
. The mist that had shrouded their attack had also shrouded another: The sea assault they feared had arrived. Three—nay, four—English galleys were approaching the sea-gate, raining a stream of arrows down on any man who tried to venture out of the castle gate. In a few minutes English soldiers would be pouring off those galleys, able to block any attempt by Edward Bruce to escape. There was the added danger of the fleeing English soldiers realizing what was happening and turning around. Fear would no longer obscure their smaller numbers.

“Chief!” Gordon shouted. “Over there.”

MacLeod had seen the same thing they had. “Go,” he said to Magnus and Gordon, understanding the unspoken request. “Take Ranger and Arrow with you.”

They didn’t hesitate. The four men shot across the causeway, heading for the castle, situated on the far side of the islet.

The boats had already started to pull into the jetty under the partially dismantled sea-gate. Ironically, Edward Bruce’s slighting of the castle a few months ago left him in the position of being unable to defend his position.

But as the sea-gate was located on the far side of the castle, the English arrows were now out of range of the causeway, giving them a small chance of escape. MacRuairi
and MacSorley had realized the same thing. Magnus could see them ahead, ordering Edward’s army to run.

The burned-out shell of the castle loomed in front of them. Most of the wooden outer buildings had been burned to the ground, including large sections of the wooden palisade that surrounded the bailey. Only part of the stone tower remained.

The English started to pour into the bailey from the sea-gate, stalling the efforts of MacRuairi and MacSorley to get Edward’s men out.

“The tower,” Gordon said. “The wall will block them.”

Magnus took one look and understood. If Gordon placed his powder under one of the partially destroyed walls, it would crumble right into the path of the English. Even if it didn’t block them entirely, it would give MacSorley and MacRuairi added time to clear all of the men from the island trap.

Magnus nodded, and quickly told Campbell and MacGregor what they intended to do while Gordon removed an ember from one of the braziers and used it to light a torch.

“The vaults!” Gordon shouted above the din of battle, as they fought their way past a few of the invading Englishmen.

They raced into the cool, damp stairwell. Without its roof, the stone had been left open to the elements, and the stairs were damp and slippery with moss as they made their way into the vaults.

Magnus didn’t need to ask what Gordon intended. It was nothing they hadn’t done many times before. They’d worked for so long together, they communicated without speaking.

Gordon headed for the far wall that was directly under the precariously perched tower wall. “It may take more than one,” he said, removing a few small sacks from a leather bag he wore slung across his shoulder. He handed four of them to Magnus. “We don’t have much time, so fire
them all at once. At the arch,” he said, pointing Magnus to the side nearer the stairwell. He used the torch to light two small candles he’d removed from his bag for such occasions. “I’ll tell you when.”

Gordon went to the far side of the wall, packing his bags along the arch near the top of the wall. Magnus did the same on his.

“Ready?” Gordon asked.

Magnus nodded.

Gordon wedged his candle between the bags and started to run. “Now!” he yelled.

Magnus secured his candle and did the same.

There should have been plenty of time to make it up the stairs and out of the tower before the first explosion. But something went wrong. Magnus was a few feet from the door—Gordon a few feet behind him—when the first shattering boom exploded beneath them, the concussion of sound and earth knocking him to the ground. The ground was still moving as the second one sounded.

He covered his ears and tried to get to his feet. The explosions were too loud. Too powerful. What the hell had happened?

He couldn’t hear a damned thing, but somehow he knew Gordon was saying something. He turned around, seeing him shout—“Run!”—but it was too late. The walls were coming down, and they were trapped.

He tried to fight his way to the entry, attempting to dodge the falling stone that crashed all around him. One big stone hit him in the shoulder, sending a crushing blast of pain through his entire left side. He staggered. His ears were still ringing, but he could hear Gordon shout behind him and knew he’d been struck, too. He turned around to try to help him, but at that moment the tower collapsed around them.

Magnus put up his arm, trying to shield himself from the
rain of stone pelting him mercilessly, driving him to the ground.

He was certain he was dead. But somehow, when it stopped, the tower was gone, and he was still alive.

He extracted himself from the pile of rubble and looked around for Gordon, blinking against the acrid smell of the black powder and the heavy cloud of dust and ash swirling all around him.

Through the ringing in his ears he heard a moan. Gordon! He crawled through the pile of rocks toward the sound. At first he couldn’t see him. Then he looked down and felt his stomach heave.

His friend was sprawled out on the ground in a sickly position, buried under a pile of enormous stones, the largest of which—part of one of the massive pillars of the vault—had fallen across his chest, pinning him and crushing his lungs.

Magnus swore, trying to pull the rocks off. But he knew it was useless. It would take three or four men of Robbie Boyd’s strength to lift that pillar—and he had only one good arm. His left arm had been crushed badly, at the shoulder and forearm. He tried to cry out for help, but the others had to be too far away.

But he wouldn’t give up.

“Stop,” Gordon wheezed. “It’s no use. You have to go.”

Magnus didn’t listen. He gritted his teeth against the pain and redoubled his effort with both hands.

“Stubborn …” Gordon’s voice dropped off. “Go. They’re coming. You can’t let them capture you.”

Suddenly, Magnus was aware of the voices behind him, coming from the sea-gate. He staggered to the collapsed wall and looked over, seeing the English climbing up. They’d been slowed, but not blocked. In a minute or two they’d be filling the bailey.

He swore and returned to his friend. “Try to press up, while I pull.”

Gordon shook his head. “I can’t move.” He held Magnus’s eyes. “I’m not going to make it.”

The sickly liquid sound of his voice punctuated his words. Blood was filling his lungs.

“Nay,” Magnus said furiously. “Don’t say that.”

“You know what you need to do. I can’t do it myself. My hands are pinned.”

Oh God, no
. He shook his head. “Don’t ask that of me.”

Gordon ignored him. “Helen,” he breathed. “Promise me you’ll watch over her.”

“Damn it, Templar,” Magnus growled, his eyes stinging.

“Promise me.”

Magnus couldn’t find the words, but he nodded.

Their eyes held. “You can’t leave them to find me,” Gordon said. “I’m not sure how long this will take. I won’t take the chance that anyone can identify me. You know what’s at stake. The Guard. My family. They will be at risk.”

Helen would be at risk. Gordon didn’t need to say it. There was little the English wouldn’t do to discover the names of the Highland Guard. It was why they were so careful. Why they used war names to cover their identities. MacRuairi had been uncovered, and he had such a bounty on his head that all of England and half of Scotland were hunting for him.

Magnus didn’t have a choice. He did what he had to do.

Helen did not let the difficulty of what she had to do dampen her spirits for long. She was confident she was doing the right thing in ending her marriage before it had begun to William, and that it would all work out for the best in the end. It was getting to the end, however, that would be hard.

But she wouldn’t let her brothers change her mind—not this time. Which meant she had to do her best to avoid them until William returned.

It wasn’t easy. The day after the men left, an unusually heavy winter storm descended over Lorn, burying the castle and surrounding countryside in nearly a foot of snow and delaying the departure of most of the wedding guests. The icy blast of winter also left the men—including her brothers—unable to train and confined to the Great Hall.

Thus, Helen spent most of her time with the women and children in the small second-floor solar occupied by Lady Anna and her husband, Arthur Campbell, who’d been appointed keeper of the castle.

After four days of nothing to do but sew (which Helen dreaded even in the best of circumstances) and listen to Christina MacLeod do her best to instill excitement in Pliny (the library at Dunstaffnage was limited to a few
scholarly works), while trying to keep the six-month-old Beatrix MacLeod away from the brazier (she’d just learned to crawl) and quiet the four-month-old Duncan MacSorley (who seemed to cry at the barest provocation), they were all going a little crazed.

Ellie most of all. The new mother looked close to tears as she bounced the screeching infant in her arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she groaned, clearly overwhelmed. “He won’t stop. His father does nothing but grin like the devil, but all he does is cry.”

“My daughter did the same thing,” Bella said. “I think she screamed for two months straight when she was his age.”

Helen didn’t miss the note of sadness in her voice. Bella’s daughter was in England, living in exile with her father’s family. She didn’t know the exact circumstances, but it was clear Bella missed her terribly.

“The yarrow and mint seems to help a bit,” Ellie said with a look of gratitude to Helen. “But how I wish Erik were here! He seems to be the only one who can make Duncan quiet.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Bella said firmly.

The women had been trying to hide it from her, but Helen could sense their worry. She felt it, too. For Magnus—and for William, of course. It was the curse of women, being forced to stay behind to wait and worry as the men went off into battle. The reality of her fate unsettled her.

“Why don’t you give him to me for a while,” Christina offered, holding out her hands for the baby. “The snow seems to have stopped for a—”

Bella jumping to her feet and racing out of the room, her face a sickly gray, interrupted her.

Helen stood. “Perhaps I should see if she needs anything. That’s the second time this week she’s not felt well after breaking her fast.”

Christina, Ellie, and Anna exchanged smiles. “She’s
fine,” Christina said. “I suspect she’ll be feeling much better in a few months.”

“A few months?” Helen asked.

Ellie shook her head, gazing lovingly at her son, who’d miraculously fallen asleep in Christina’s arms. “I felt ill the entire time. Perhaps I should have guessed he’d be trouble. But he’s a cute little devil. You are fortunate, Anna, that you have escaped the malady.”

Anna unconsciously rubbed her stomach. “On the contrary, all I seem to want to do is eat. I dream about my next meals.”

Finally, Helen understood. “She’s expecting a child?”

Christina nodded.

Helen flushed, realizing Bella must have anticipated her impending marriage to Lachlan MacRuairi by at least a few weeks.

“Go,” Christina said to Ellie. “Get a bit of fresh air. I’ll watch him for a while.”

Ellie bit her lip uncertainly. Helen’s heart went out to her. Christina was right. They all needed to get out of this castle. Helen, too. All the talk of marriage and babies made her feel anxious. The walls seemed to be moving closer. But with all the snow …

Suddenly, a broad smile spread over Helen’s face. She had the perfect way to take advantage of the wintry weather and put a smile back on Ellie’s face.

“I have a better idea,” she said. “But you’re going to need to bundle up.”

Ellie had looked skeptical at first, and Helen had the feeling that she’d suggested something silly again.

“Ride down the hill on
what
?” Ellie had said. But an hour later she was sliding down the small hill behind the castle, screeching with laughter.

The daughter of the most powerful earl in Ireland and sister to Scotland’s imprisoned queen came to a magnificent stop, flying off the targe and landing in a deep puff of
powdery white. When she finally managed to extricate herself from the bank of snow they’d built to cushion their landings, she was covered in white. She dusted the snow from her gown, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and shook the rest from her hair.

“Did you see that?” she asked excitedly. “I was going so fast I felt like I was flying. You were right—rubbing the wax on the leather was a great idea.” Her eyes twinkled. “Although I doubt Arthur will be happy when he sees what we have done to the targes hanging in the Great Hall.”

Helen bit her lip. Oh no, she’d done it again. “I didn’t think—”

Ellie laughed. “I was teasing. He won’t mind. And if he does, it was worth it.” She pulled the shield out of the snow. “Ready to go again? The only bad part is climbing back up the hill in all this snow. These boots are slippery.”