Page 23 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I t was dusk by the time Tòrr and Edmund had seen to the tethering of their horses some distance away before guiding the men up the northern slope of ‘ S Airde Beinn.

A visit to the two men languishing in his dungeon after leaving Lyra in the solar had been productive. It took only a little persuasion before they revealed the exact location where the enemy was to be found, and what numbers to expect.

It was a perfect spot. The route here was rough, approachable only by well-worn deer tracks and sure-footed Highland ponies, its inaccessibility ensuring their invisibility. Tòrr guessed that, in daylight there would be a clear view of the fortress of Dùn Ara from the highest point on the ridge.

With narrowed eyes, he peered northward into the gathering darkness, rewarded by a scattering of twinkling lights which he guessed to be the castle. His belly lurched as he pictured Lyra in front of the fire in her bedchamber, readying herself for bed.

From their final vantage point tucked in the lee of the hill, they had a clear view of the gallowglass encampment on the edge of the tiny loch below. A few shelters had been put together from fallen branches and bracken, and the men’s horses were tethered not far from where they sat.

Tòrr counted around twenty-five men gathered around several fires in the rough camp. If he was right, this meant he and his men were outnumbered two-to-one. Yet he was not alarmed by the numbers. They had the element of surprise in their favor and his men were tough soldiers, ready and able to match and overcome any foe.

There was much bawdy laughter and cheering emanating from the fireside as the night wore on, and from the looks of it, a considerable amount of ale was being consumed.

He could only hope that when the ruffians finally put their heads down to sleep, they would not readily stir from their slumber when Tòrr and his men swooped on them from the darkness.

They waited as the night wore on and one-by-one their quarry took to their sleeping places. Three men were left on guard, their shadowy figures visible as they patrolled among the trees.

“Let’s hope the defeat of his mercenaries dampens MacDougall’s ardor fer the Lady Lyra,” Edmund whispered.

Tòrr grunted. “Methinks MacDougall willnae be so readily deterred. Although he may regret the money he’s paid his gallowglasses.”

“ If he’s paid them. He’s a notorious tightwad, among his many sins.”

Tòrr gave a soft laugh. “All we can hope is that this defeat will buy us enough time fer the banns tae be published.” He hesitated, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Or, if she daesnae wish tae wed, sufficient time fer me tae safely escort the Lady Lyra tae her home on the mainland.”

“D’ye ken what her answer will be?”

Tòrr shook his head. “Nay.” He was still holding onto hope “But at least she didnae decide outright.”

After that exchange, they lapsed into silence, while their men lay ranged around them, their focus on the encampment below.

The moon was up before every last one of the gallowglasses had finally quietened. One or two who had been sleeping arose and stumbled into the trees to relieve themselves but soon returned to sleep.

At last, when he was certain no one was stirring, Tòrr gave the signal and each of his men, clad in their hauberk and chainmail vest, holding his claymore at the ready with his killing dirk at his waist, raised his stout targe and crept silently down the hill.

Once they arrived at level ground they surged forward, eager to do battle after lying so long in wait. Across the sward, the clash of steel rang out as the three surprised guards stood their ground to do battle with the incoming warriors.

Although the three men fought bravely, they were no match for the press of Tòrr ’s warriors and before many blows were dealt, they lay dead in spreading pools of their own blood.

However, they had bought sufficient time for the remainder of the mercenaries to waken.

Tòrr watched as some of the gallowglasses rushed forth, ready to join battle. They were mostly burly, heavy-set men, wielding their axes and depending on brute force rather than skill.

He was reminded of his own encounter with the men outside the Priory. His warriors were nimble, well-trained and, although some glancing blows were dealt by the mercenaries, they were superior fighters.

A huge man lunged at him, ready to bring down his axe, but he slipped aside as the blow was dealt and before the man had time to recover, Tòrr’s dirk dodged his enemy’s clumsily held shield and found its deadly mark in the space between his ribs, leading directly to his heart.

Beside him, the battle raged. He joined one of his men who was fighting against two men, and quickly evened the score. Once his opponent was dispatched he turned his attention elsewhere.

Some unfortunates among the mercenaries, still suffering from a surfeit of last night’s ale, stumbled to their feet, dazed, scarcely able to hold their claymores aloft. They were cut down immediately, slaughtered before they were even fully aware they were under attack.

Those who remained of MacDougall’s men were putting up a better fight than Tòrr had anticipated, yet it seemed, as the battle raged on, that his men were prevailing.

Then, to his horror, he saw one of his men fall, a gaping wound pouring blood from his shoulder. But before the enemy could deal the killing blow, Tòrr was there, standing over his guard, his shield parrying the axe, his claymore swift as lightning, slicing the man. Still the giant came on, weakened by the injury to his arm, but with the advantage that he stood inches above Tòrr.

While Tòrr was able to parry every blow from the axe, the man used his shield well, and it was only his injured arm that slowed him. Finally, the moment came when Tòrr broke under his defenses bringing his claymore down with a mighty blow, ending the fight.

Yet still another man came roaring at him from behind. He whirled, catching the man’s hands with his claymore even as the fellow brought down his axe. He reeled back, missing Tòrr completely, both hands hanging by mere threads, spouting blood. He screamed and Tòrr ended his life before he had time to close his mouth on the scream.

They fought on, Tòrr joining with an outnumbered man, helping to even the score again and again, until it was clear the tide had turned in their favor. Few gallowglasses remained standing, and even those dripped blood from many wounds.

One man made a dash through the trees to the place where their horses had been tethered. Tòrr caught the man as he took his pony’s mane in his hand and went to leap onto his back.

Tòrr pulled him to the ground and showed no mercy. These men would have killed him just as surely as he dealt the killing blow.

He darted back into the fray, but the fight was done. The complete defeat of MacDougall’s men had been achieved. The gallowglasses lay on the grass beside the loch, crows already making a foray onto one of the sprawled figures. Tòrr ’s men moved among the fallen, collecting the dead men’s weapons and shields

Several of his men wore cuts, some of which were deep, some not of any great significance. Edmund was already tending the lad who had fallen and Tòrr had saved. Tòrr recognized him as Angus MacGregor, one of the young knights in training, bloodied in battle for the first time.

The bleeding to the gash on his shoulder was staunched and bound by strips of linen ripped from a shirt and the lad was helped to his feet.

He was pale as rain, but he smiled when he saw Tòrr.

“I thank the Laird Tòrr fer saving me life. If nae fer ye I’d have had me skull smashed and me brains scattered.”

Tòrr grinned. “Can ye ride, lad? Fer I wish us tae leave this place as soon as we can. Our job is done.”

When, the boy nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain, Tòrr signaled to three of his men, who came running to his side.

Tòrr pointed in the direction he’d just come from where a narrow track led to the place the gallowglasses had tethered their ponies.

“I leave ye tae deal the horses. We’ll take them wi’ us and this young lad can ride wi’ ye. Keep a close watch on him and bring him and the ponies safe back to Dùn Ara.”

He turned to Angus with a grin. “Ye’re saved from climbing the slopes wi’ the rest of us. We’ll see ye safely returned tae the castle.

Dawn was breaking, slicing the dark sky with hints of pink and gold as they set off. Edmund had gathered their men and, as the young lad was helped down the track, they began to wend their way up the slopes of ‘S Airde Beinn.

By the time they had reached the summit and the men were slowly making their way down to their horses, Tòrr stood with Edmund, scanning the surrounding country.

The fortress of Dùn Ara was surprisingly close, hardly more than a few miles distant, yet the track that would take them there was slow and tortuous.

The view of the road approaching the castle and the surrounding sea was, as Tòrr had surmised, clear to anyone standing where he was. From here the gallowglasses had held a vantage point that enabled them to see every coming and going at Dùn Ara, whether by sea or from land.

No doubt, they would have observed the arrival of the members of the Clan Council, and their departure.

Mayhap a messenger had already been dispatched to carry that information to MacDougall. If so, Laird Alexander would have guessed that the Council had been summoned to consider his demand for the Lady Lyra to be turned over to him and he would be waiting to hear what had transpired.

Tòrr smiled grimly at the thought. Let the craven coward wait in the safety of his castle, while his hired men gave their lives for him. There’d be no word coming to him about the Council meeting, no messenger riding back to inform him that Lady Lyra was his for the taking.

Mayhap there would, instead, be a message for Laird Alexander that the lass he coveted was already wed to another.

His pulse quickened. Would Lyra have made her decision by now?

They took their time making their way back to the castle. The men were tired, lacking a night’s sleep on top of the battle they had fought, yet Tòrr was reluctant to rest. There’d be time enough for them all to sleep once they were under the castle’s roof once again.

The track widened briefly and Edmund rode alongside, his horse daintily finding her footfall in the rutted track.

“How long d’ye imagine it will take MacDougall tae regroup and make another assault?”

Tòrr had been thinking on this. “If naught else, we’ve succeeded in buying time. If he recruits more gallowglasses, they’ll most likely come from across the sea in Erin’s Isle again.”

Edmund nodded. “So that will take him time. Will he nae use men from his own clan?”

“I dinnae ken the evil workings of his mind, but I’d hazard a guess that his pride will make him reluctant to display his intended bride’s reluctance to his clan. Secretly sending men tae capture her is what I believe he would prefer.”

Edmund snorted. “Aye. I believe ye’re correct. His vanity would nae allow it tae be kent. After all he has a reputation as a great seducer. It would hurt him sorely tae allow the world tae ken he is forced to kidnap a bride who is nae only unwilling but hates the very thought of him.”

The track narrowed and Edmund drew in behind Tòrr with no further opportunity for discussion.

As they neared Dùn Ara, Tòrr’s thoughts strayed more frequently to Lyra. His heart leaped at the thought of seeing her bonny face again, even as he dreaded what she may have to tell him.

He was aware that that night’s battle had been waged on her behalf. That men had died for her safety. And, if MacDougall persisted in his pursuit of her, it was likely more men would meet the same deathly fate.

Would MacDougall back away, now that he’d lost his men?

A fist in his chest closed over his heart at the thought. What he knew of Laird Alexander told him there would never be a way in which he would relinquish his quest to take Lyra. He was a powerful man, holding sway over the west and, as far as Tòrr was aware, no one had stood up to face him the way he was doing.

He feared for all his men and for all who served him at the castle and in the fields. Yet, his decision held firm. Lyra was his, and no one, MacDougall included, would take her against her will.

He nodded to Edmund as they approached the gate. “There are wounded men among us, I shall call upon Healer Eilidh tae attend tae them, if ye take on the matter of seeing tae the arms we’ve cadged from our enemy.

As they clattered across the courtyard a cheer went up from their men, greatly relieved to be treading their own home ground once again. They were joined by their brothers who had arrived earlier with the gallowglasses’ ponies, the remaining guards and the stable hands who rushed forward to tend to the horses.

Claray emerged from the keep with a welcoming smile, ready with ewers of refreshing ale for the men.

Within moments Eilidh exited her cottage, where the young Angus, the most badly wounded lad, had been brought immediately upon arrival, to checking the other wounded.

To his amazement and delight, he saw that Lyra had accompanied Eilidh and, under the healer’s instruction, was already cleaning wounds, with clean linen cloths.

He made his way through the throng and greeted her with a bow.

“Thank ye fer yer kind attention tae me men’s wounds.”

She looked up and offered him a brief smile before turning to attend to one of the men who sported an ugly graze down the side of his face. A near miss, not deep.

Once the man’s wound had been cleaned, she covered it with salve from a small jar she carried in the pocket of her apron.

By then Eilidh had performed a triage and, while the more badly wounded were helped down to the infirmary in the bailey, she asked Lyra to deal with the remaining few who required only minor attention.

The infirmary was sparse, with only two pallets for the sick or wounded to lie on, but it was scrupulously clean and scrubbed, with a fire already blazing in the grate. A large vase of wildflowers on a shelf provided a fresh, comforting, fragrance but did little to cover the metallic smell of blood from the injured men. The groans and indrawn breaths of the injured rent the air.

Tòrr checked upon the young MacGregor lad, who lay on one of the pallets and then did what he could to a man on the other, while timber chairs by the fire were provided for two more.

Lyra arrived as soon as they had finished with the lightly wounded and together she and Eilidh soothed the lad. The blood had already been cleaned from his shoulder but she administered a tisane to deaden his pain, while Eilidh prepared a length of catgut for stitching.

Tòrr was impressed to see the two lasses working together as a quiet, reassuring team, that soon had young Angus stitched and sleeping under a warm woolen rug.

Then the other men were attended to. Eilidh stitched while Lyra cleansed and soothed, until all had beentended and were, finally, resting.

It was only than that Lyra turned her full attention to Tòrr.

He quailed a little under her penetrating gaze, disheveled as he was after the night’s battle. Yet, instead of the disapproval he half-expected, for a fleeting instant he saw a light glittering in her green eyes that told him that... mayhap... she was pleased to see him.

Then her hand shot to her mouth and she gasped. Loudly.

“Laird Tòrr, ye are wounded.”