Page 31 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T òrr roared in a fever of rage at the news of Lyra’s abduction.

“They’ve what? When? How did such a thing happen?”

A groom rushed over to seize Paden’s reins as the great horse reared at the tightening of Tòrr’s hands.

Edmund had waited, gray-faced, to give him the news of Lyra’s abduction the moment Tòrr and his troop had returned to the castle.

“Why did ye nae set off in pursuit?” Tòrr asked, shaking his head as he dismounted. “Bring me a fresh horse,” he commanded and the stable boy rushed off with Paden to saddle up a new steed.

He signaled to his men. “Find fresh horses if ye can. We ride tae Duart castle at once.”

Edmund raised a hand in caution.

“Wait, Tòrr. Be nae hasty. We are few and there are many at Duart Castle. We cannae summon enough men tae take an invincible castle such as Duart wi’out waiting fer our allies tae sail from Skye and Barra, and fer an answer from Clan MacInnes.”

Tòrr swept angry fingers through his hair. “We cannae wait. God alone would ken Lyra’s fate if we delay.”

“We need our wits about us, nae to go blustering into MacDougall’s territory. He’ll be anticipating our pursuit and be ready.”

Tòrr hauled in a deep breath, and slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself. Edmund spoke the truth. A furious assault on the well-armed and well-guarded Duart would gain them nothing and most likely end in unnecessary wounding and death.

He shook his head, trying to hold back his wildness and the red mist closing in.

MacDougall has perpetrated a crime fer which he must die.

His fingers itched to hold his swords or his dirk, to feel his weapon sinking into MacDougall’s heart and to see the man’s life-blood spraying. He breathed deeply, making an effort to cool his blood lust.

“Aye.” He raised a hand. “I ken ye couldnae leave the castle unmanned. Fergive me, I cannae think straight, me senses are only able tae grasp that she is gone and in the clutches of that monster.”

Edmund placed a heavy hand on Tòrr ’s shoulder. “I have the beginning of a plan.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

The stable boy walked out another fine stallion, saddled and ready. Tòrr shook his head. “A few moments, lad.”

The two men entered the keep and progressed to Tòrr’s study. When they entered Tòrr was surprised to see several items of clothing and fabric lengths on the backs of his chairs.

He looked at Edmund, eyebrow raised. “Yer plan?”

“These are the lengths we took from the gallowglasses who raided us several nights ago. Two of them are languishing still in our dungeon.”

“Ah, I see.” Tòrr saw at once what Edmund had in mind. “’Tis yer idea that we should garb ourselves in these drab garments.”

“Aye, and enter Duart Castle by stealth, nae by brawn.”

Tòrr nodded, giving Edmund a wry grin. “I like yer plan. We ride wi’ only two men and enter the castle by surprise.” He was already divesting himself of his plaid and donning the waiting garments.

He held up the tunic which was torn where a blade had entered. It was caked with blood. He pleated a kilt from the length of fabric and fastened it over his shoulder with the pin.

“The blacksmith will be here in minutes wi’ our hauberks and chainmail shirts. If we ride those horses we captured at ‘S Airde, we’ll have a fair chance of passing ourselves as our enemy.”

“I’ve already asked the head of the stables to prepare us the best of those Highland horses. They may nae have the stature of yer warhorses, but they are fast and sturdy and will carry us through the night tae Duart. If we’re clad as the gallowglasses and riding their horses, I’d venture we’ll nay be questioned.”

“Let us hope ye're right, I ken few words of the gallowglasses’ strange language.”

While they waited for the two of their best and ablest warriors, Matheus and Jacob, to accompany them, the blacksmith entered with their chainmail and they quickly prepared themselves to ride.

As they hastened down the passageway an idea flashed into Tòrr’s head. He raised a hand.

“Ye go ahead. There is something I must dae.”

He peeled off, taking the passage that led to the dungeon, while the others went on to the courtyard.

The prisoners looked up when the jailer opened the door. Both were gaunt, foul-smelling, their hair matted, but they stood when he entered.

“Can ye understand enough of what I say tae answer me truthfully?”

The both grunted their assent.

“Listen carefully. If what ye have tae say holds good, I’ll grant yer return tae Erin’s Island. If nae, a cruel fate awaits ye.”

One spoke for both. “Aye. Our word is given.”

Tòrr scrutinized them carefully, yet their eyes seemed true.

“How can we enter Duart Castle and take the laird by surprise? Where are yer men stationed, and how may we evade them?”

Without hesitation the men haltingly explained the layout of the castle.

“There’s a tunnel. When ye leave the woods and the castle is in front of ye, look tae the side. Ye’ll see what seems an overhanging rock. Push under it and ye’ll find the entrance tae a tunnel beneath the rock. That will take ye into the bowels of the castle. There are stairs. Go up and ye’ll find the laird’s study guarded by two. Enter. He will always have four guards on hand.”

“Thank ye,” Tòrr muttered. “If ye speak truth I am a man of me word and ye will go free.”

With that he dashed off to join the others and within minutes all four were mounted on their ponies and heading south.

They rode hard, yet their ponies were unflagging, obviously used to the pace they kept up. Tòrr closed his mind to what Lyra was enduring, only hoping that her presence had slowed down the gallowglasses somewhat.

A shard of ice went through his heart as he recalled how sharing her sweet presence on Paden’s back had slowed him, when he had returned from Iona. He took a deep breath, refocusing on the plan forming in his mind thanks to the men in his dungeon.

They made good time, stopping only briefly to let the ponies drink before they were on the road again.

The sky was lightening as they came in sight of the castle. It stood proud on a rise facing the sea. Tòrr shivered. Castle Duart was so much mightier than the fortress that was Dùn Ara. This was a huge edifice to power commanding the Sound of Mull and all the country around it. Ruled by a man whose wickedness was already legendary, Tòrr sat high in the saddle, the others looking to him. They all knew what he planned and would follow his command without question.

They walked the horses along the track through the woods leading to the rear of the castle. As they approached the clearing the prisoners spoke of, he halted, signaling them to dismount. They tethered the horses and set off on foot, their claymores in their hands, searching for the overhang the men had described.

It was well-disguised but easy enough to find, as there was a trail of flattened grass leading them straight to it.

He ducked his head and felt around under the overhanging rock. Within a short span of time what seemed like solid rock yielded under the pressure of his hands and swiveled, exposing a narrow opening leading to... blackness.

“Here’s where we leave our claymores, lads. They’re nay use in the confined spaces and heavy enough to slow us.” He took our his short-sword, and wielded it in one hand, his targe in the other. They left their claymores, well-disguised, under a heap of bracken, and continued on brandishing their claybegs.

Without hesitating they entered the tunnel, feeling their way along the slimy walls, trying not to slip in the foul-smelling mud underfoot.

His stomach churned at the thought of Lyra being roughly forced along this dank passage.

Although they didn't speak, the clank of chainmail and their sloshing footsteps would have been sufficient to alert their presence to any guard stationed there. Fortunately, no voice thundered out of the darkness, and they crept on, until they arrived at the door to the first set of stairs, which was dimly lit by a single torch on the wall.

Again, there was no sign of a guard on duty.

Tòrr sniggered to himself. It seemed the denizens of Duart Castle had become complacent, imagining their secret entry to be so well hidden that there could be no incursion.

They are in fer a surprise.

They ventured on up the stairs, treading as softly as they could, swords drawn, expecting at any second a howling horde of gallowglasses to descend on them from above.

But there was nothing.

Finally, they reached the top of the dank staircase and confronted the next doorway. They shouldered their shields and held their claybegs at the ready, unsure of what lay on the other side of the heavy oaken door.

Tòrr gave a soft laugh. “From here on, remember we are meant tae be part of the castle guard. Although we’re armed, we need tae look as if we belong.”

This would require enormous restraint on his part, as his whole being was on alert, the blood running thick and hot in his veins as he drew closer and closer to his quarry.

Every thought was of Lyra, and his impulse as a warrior was to roar his war cry and surge forward, taking all before him, to rescue her or die in the attempt.

He pushed open the door and stepped out without checking both ways to ensure it was safe to do so.

Anyone seeing him would have assumed they were part of a patrol returning to their next assignment within the castle.

With that they all loosened their posture, and strode forward doing their best to look as if they were familiar with the castle.

Fortunately, his prisoners had provided accurate descriptions of what to expect and after only a few steps, they were confronted with the second staircase. This was the one that would take them up to MacDougall’s private quarters.

They were halfway up the stairs when they heard footsteps approaching. Tòrr signaled them to keep going and they forged ahead, passing the other four men on the way, merely nodding as they went.

Continuing higher, they eventually arrived at a passageway leading to several doors on their right-hand side.

They ambled along the corridor, doing their best to look as if they belonged. Once they came in sight of a door guarded by two men, Tòrr realized they had reached their destination.

Behind this door he would find the laird he sought and, if God was with them, he would find Lyra.

They were well prepared as they walked two abreast along the corridor, Tòrr and Edmund in the lead with Matheus and Jacob strolling a few paces behind.

They passed the two guards, ignoring them and being ignored in return. The disguise was working perfectly.

Behind them, their two men slammed into the guards, their claybegs aimed directly at their hearts. The only sound they made as they were pierced with the sharp weapons, was a soft grunt before they sank to the floor.

Tòrr and Edmund hastened back to help ease the dead men silently to the floor.

Now they had to move fast for if anyone should happen along this corridor the alarm would go up once they caught sight of the two guards lying in spreading pools of their own blood.

Catching their breath Tòrr and his men assembled at the door, their swords in their hands. His prisoners had been unsure as to how many men they could expect to find guarding MacDougall, but they swore there could be no more than six as that was the number the laird liked to have beside him.

Tòrr turned the handle and the surged forward.

A shout went up and two men wearing MacDougall plaid rushed over.

“What is this?” the first man demanded. Before he could utter another word, Edmund, who stood nearest him leapt forward and stabbed him in the throat. The second man engaged with Tòrr in a clash of swords, parrying back and forth, while two other men ran to tackle Matheus and Jacob.

Tòrr’s fury granted him extra strength, he felt his blood coursing in his veins like fire, and he used his superior height and strength to quickly outclass the smaller man. His fight had hardly begun before Tòrr pinned him against the wall and sliced through to his heart with his claybeg.

Through all this, Tòrr was dimly aware that one of the men had fled through the door. This left only a single remaining guard to defend the MacDougall, who remained standing in the shadows by the window, a tall, silent figure observing the skirmish with disinterest.

Another man with the appearance and garb of a gallowglass leapt forward, sword drawn, a vicious snarl on his face, only to be intercepted by Edmund. The man fought well. He was nimble on his feet, but his blows were too slow for Edmund, who parried them easily, circling the man, waiting for his moment to strike.

The man who was fighting against Matheus was strong and fast, but he was slow-witted and unable to anticipate the moves the well-trained warrior was making. His slow-wit worked against him at last, as, although he dealt Matheus a heavy blow that cut through the chainmail on his arm, he soon tired, slowing his thrusts. Matheus, swiftly taking advantage, dealt him an upward blow, striking him beneath his ribs, putting an end to him.

Tòrr pivoted as another man came at him, sword raised, and he twisted away as the blow came down, but he was caught by a slicing blow across his side. He grunted, feeling the blood flow. But making the blow had unbalanced his assailant and he turned too slowly. Tòrr finished him with a fierce blow of his own to the man’s neck as he was turning to face him.

Meanwhile, Jacob’s opponent was on his knees pleading for mercy. Jacob looked down at him in utter disgust, kicking the man’s weapon out his reach, and landed him a heavy blow as well, cracking the crown of his head with the hilt of his sword. The man fell sideways, eyes closed and lay there without moving.

There came a scream. Edmund had finally found the right moment to deal the death-blow to his opponent.

A momentary hush fell over the room as the men caught their breath. Only one enemy remained standing, the man who was guarding MacDougall.

He moved to block them from moving any closer to their quarry.

“Wait,” MacDougall’s voice rang out as the door flew opened and two men entered, dragging a struggling Lyra into the room.

Tòrr made to rush to her, but one of the men raised his dirk to her throat while the other man pressed his sharp claybeg to her breast.

Tòrr froze, the blood roaring at his temples at the sound of MacDougall’s laughter.

“Bring the lady tae me,” the Laird MacDougall commanded and Tòrr was helpless to watch as the men dragged her to the place where MacDougall stood.

He fumed at the sight of the purple bruise under her eye and the blood seeping from the ties at her wrists.

But the tide had turned. There were now only three men where there had been six and although Tòrr and Matheus had been wounded, their blood was up and they were both ready to fight alongside Jacob and Edmund.

Once Lyra was close enough, MacDougall seized her arm and the two men stepped away.

That was enough for Jacob and Edmund, who sprang forward, wielding their swords with the mastery of long practice. Within mere moments both their opponents lay bleeding on the floor, grievously wounded.

MacDougall laughed again, a mirthless old man’s cackle.

“Ye, pup.” He sneered. “Ye may be the Mad Laird as they call ye, but yer bride is mine. Ye only wed the lass tae gain control of her lands. Ye’re the same as me.”

Tòrr growled. It was the sound of a wild animal, a bear or a wolf, ready to defend its pack. He lunged toward MacDougall and the remaining guard stepped forward to meet him.

Ignoring the sting of the wound in his side, the red mist of battle spread over Tòrr. He paid no heed to Edmund calling to him, begging him to stand aside and allow him to fight his opponent in his stead.

Tòrr whirled to the side, feinting a blow, the other man took the bait and followed with his sword. Too late, the man sprang back, realizing that Tòrr’s blow was coming from the other side. But before he could lift his sword for a second blow, Tòrr’s claybeg had sliced through the chainmail of his hauberk, piercing straight between his ribs to his heart.

As the man fell, Tòrr confronted MacDougall who had seized Lyra in a fierce grip and was holding a dirk against her neck.

“Another step, and I slit her throat.” MacDougall’s voice was as cold and as hard as steel, momentarily freezing Tòrr where he stood.

He heard Edmund's sharply indrawn breath from somewhere close behind him, and dropped his hand, signaling him not to make a move.

MacDougall took a step forward. “Back away, lad.” His voice was a vicious snarl. “Let me pass.”

In all this, Lyra had not spoken. She stood resolute, chin held high, her eyes glittering with an unholy rage. Meeting Tòrr’s gaze she gave an almost imperceptible nod and he stepped back, giving MacDougall room to move past him, holding Lyra.

But, as they did so, MacDougall’s attention shifted and Lyra, slumped forward, making herself a dead weight, dropping to the floor.

MacDougall reeled back, losing his grip on both her arm and the dirk, which clattered to the floor beside her.

He bent fast to seize it, but before he could grasp it, Lyra had it in her hands. She rolled slightly to the side and as he stooped over her, she brought up the weapon, holding it tight in her two hands, and stabbed it deep into his belly.

In a heartbeat Tòrr was on him. But the killing blow had already been dealt.

MacDougall grunted, doubling over, clutching himself as the blood spurted from his wound, his face contorted in pain. Then it was finished. His eyes closed, his body fell back, his hands giving way, the cruel sneer still twisting his face.

Tòrr slashed the ties on Lyra’s wrists and lifted her, sobbing, from the floor to cradled her in his arms. She was shaking all over. But, then again, so was he.

“We must go.” Edmund’s voice penetrated the fog that was overtaking Tòrr ’s thoughts and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The other guards willnae be far away.”

Even as he spoke the door was flung open and another group of gallowglass crowded into the study, their eyes fixed immediately on the prone figure of MacDougall stretched at Tòrr and Lyra’s feet.

In the brief space that followed, Tòrr stepped forward, still holding Lyra.

“Ye’ve naught tae fight fer now. Yer maister is dead and ye must let us leave here without obstruction.”

The gallowglasses looked around, seemingly dazed at the scene of carnage.

Then, with Matheus, Jacob and Edmund guarding his back, Tòrr walked toward them.

As he reached the first man, he withdrew a purse from his sporran. “And ye’ll nay be collecting yer pay fer all yer hard effort,” he said, almost gleefully.

He untied the purse strings and emptied a series of gold coins into his hand. While his audience was still frozen and uncertain, he tossed the coins into the air so that when they landed they were scattered across the study.

The gallowglasses scrambled about trying to gather the coins, losing all interest in Tòrr and Lyra as he and the others hastened out of the room.

When they finally reached the spot where their ponies were tethered, Lyra insisted they wait long enough for her to rip her kirtle and quickly bind both Tòrr’s wound and Matheus’s arm.

She was calm now, the shaking had retreated and all Tòrr could do was simply gaze at her as she saw to the wounds.

In time, bards would sing about the Lady Lyra MacKinnon, praising her great courage, her bravery and her beauty, but tonight, for Tòrr, breathing the same air as she did was enough.

As they rode slowly back to Dùn Ara, she sat proudly on the saddle in front of him. The woman of his heart and soul.