Page 17 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

Ch apter Sixteen

Bastard of Strickland

David Strickland watched two rats fighting over a small, foul hunk of food that had somehow escaped the maids. Normally, his impeccably clean hall remained just that—but rats managed a foray now and again. He should whistle for his dogs and enjoy the hunt, but right now the battle of the rats provided entertainment. They were ferocious creatures, to be sure.

The two rats snarled and snapped. At first, it appeared to be mostly blustering, but one rat grew bold, threatening to impose himself between the other and the food. It was then that David realized the first rat was a male and the second a female with suckling kits.

The female turned violently on the male. Never underestimate a wench with babes at breast. She attacked with a ruthlessness that would have made a wolf envious. The male rat shrieked as the female’s teeth sank into its foreleg in a telling strike. This was not a warning nip, but an attack with injury.

David laughed as the female rat seized her hard won prize. “Zeus, Athena!” he called for his favorite hounds. The two dogs leaped from their place near the kitchen. David merely pointed toward the rats. The dogs spotted the movement of the female trying to escape with her prize and the male trying to retreat with a damaged foreleg.

He chuckled as the dogs made short work of the vermin. Unfortunately, the female’s kits would wait a very long time for another meal...would probably die waiting. But such was the way of life.

David turned, his entertainment forgotten. He thought only of his morose existence. He hated being known as the bastard of Strickland. Although the term twisted his gut and soured his heart, he did have one comfort.

Historically, William had been known as the Bastard before he became known as William the Conqueror.

He resolved that was exactly what they would call him after this was over—the conqueror. Although David wouldn’t have the glory of conquering a kingdom, he would bring Inglewood to heel and destroy the Scottish swine known as the MacTavish.

“But how?” he muttered, brooding over a cup of wine in the great hall. He couldn’t find the whelp, and no matter the abuse the people suffered, they refused to give him up, like some glorified Robin o’ the Hood. David scoffed over the injustice of it all. Granted, he may have been a bastard, but how could the people want to put a Scottish half-breed in the Wardenship At least David had the honor of being of English blood.

David tortured his brain, trying to come up with ideas. The thought of marrying de Courcy’s widow had been a wonderful one. But he never imagined she could be such a stubborn bitch. He had been certain that a few well-placed threats would have cowed her instantly. Yet her defiance only made him want her more. The thought of the beautiful hellcat screaming in his bed as he broke her was enough to send fire through his loins and harden his shaft on the spot.

He had toyed with the idea of abducting her and taking what he wanted. That would surely pull the Scottish demon out of hiding. But his forces still keenly felt the losses suffered at Brackenburgh. The battle had cost him, and because of the continued raids, David did not have the resources to recoup men and supplies.

The damnable raids.

That was the crux of the matter. The raids kept David off balance and financially unstable. He never knew where MacTavish would strike next. David had tried to divine a pattern, but the MacTavish remained infuriatingly unpredictable. He knew he had to change the rules of the game and do it quickly.

David took a long drink. How did one hunt what couldn’t be found, what couldn’t be tracked, what might as well not even exist? He scowled. Not by stalking, but by making it come to him. Abducting the bitch would accomplish that, but he did not have the manpower.

So what else did MacTavish want?

He wanted the Wardenship, along with David and his father dead. David sat up sharply. Was that it? Would that be enough to draw MacTavish out of hiding and into a trap?

David chuckled softly. Setting himself and his father as bait would be risky indeed. But it would cause MacTavish to finally become predictable—and once David was sure of the Scotsman’s motives, David could predict quite a bit. He rose from the table and went to find his father.

A few minutes later, David watched his father stroke his beard thoughtfully as he considered his idea .

“Risky,” his father agreed. “But I like it. Making the Scottish demon come to us is a good idea. But we need to take it all the way. With proper planning, we can finish this.”

“How so, Father?”

“You will spring your trap on MacTavish. No doubt once he is captured some of his men will go to Brackenburgh in an effort to reinforce and protect that little whore of his. I will be waiting with the rest of the men. They will have to open the gates, and when they do, I will take control of Brackenburgh.”

“Are you sure, Father? Our last attempt did not go so well.”

“That is because we failed to account for reinforcements. I vow the MacTavish conjured them out of thin air.”

“Aye.”

“Son, you must be prepared. MacTavish will bring all of his forces against you. My taking Brackenburgh will be simple compared to what you will face.”

“I know, Father, but don’t worry, we will have the advantage of surprise.”

“This is all pointless if you die.” He thought for a long moment. “David, I’m going to do all I can to see this succeeds, because if it fails, we are finished.”

“What are you planning, Father?”

“One last gambit to ensure we have the men we need to defeat MacTavish once and for all.”

****

A fortnight after passionate rendezvous, Branan gazed at Catriona’s letter and rubbed his jaw. All of the people coming to Brackenburgh to trade made it an excellent resource for rumor and gossip.

Now rumor had it Strickland and his bastard had grown desperate. They threw the last of their finances into men and weapons and enlisted the aid of a Jewish moneylender. Although Strickland had tried to keep the situation quiet, they had been forced to contact some of de Courcy’s competitors, and Branan had learned Strickland and his bastard would be near Brackenburgh arranging the deal with the moneylender. They were going into huge debt over this, and the moneylender would not be satisfied with the pact until it was signed in Strickland blood.

At first, both Branan and Catriona were uncertain about the validity of the rumor, but decided it was one that bore watching. Then even more rumors surfaced about its untruth. Strickland had plenty of money and there was no way he would stoop to begging aid from a Jew. He had simply chosen not to put Branan in his place because he wasn’t worth the trouble.

Branan knew otherwise.

His raids had nearly crippled Strickland financially. Strickland’s inability to put a stop to them embarrassed him publicly. Strickland would not live well with Branan’s continued claim to the Wardenship. These were only the first items on a very long list.

In her letter, Catriona wondered, and Branan agreed, if Strickland’s efforts to put these wild rumors to rest meant they had more validity than appearances dictated.

“There’s one way to find out,” Branan muttered and called for Gavin and Duguald.

****

Why do people always do underhanded deeds in the middle of the night? Branan wondered and silently fumed. He was cold, tired, and hungry—and getting a serious cramp in his right calf muscle from staying hidden for so long.

He peered through the thick undergrowth at a small hovel hours away from Thistlewood. A tiny glow from a lamp inside reflected golden in the filthy windows. Three men waited in the hovel. Branan was not sure, but it appeared to be the moneylender and two guards.

Forty of Branan’s men also hid in various locations around the quiet hovel. All of them waited for only one thing: Strickland’s arrival.

And he was certainly taking his blasted time.

Branan worried something had spooked Strickland. He wondered about the rumor—what if it was wrong? Yet the fact the moneylender was here was a good sign.

Quiet sounds echoed down the trail. Branan scowled, peering through the undergrowth. Slowly, cautiously, six horses approached. The riders were heavily cloaked, but obviously well-armed. In the middle rode two men, the first glancing furtively from under his cowl. The second, a larger man, rode stooped in the saddle, his head down.

Branan’s mouth went dry and his hand tightened on his claymore.

The men dismounted, leaving only one to watch the horses, then approached the door. The man who had been glancing from under his cowl knocked. The door opened and the light fell on his face.

David Strickland.

Branan’s heart soared. No doubt the stooped man behind him was his father.

David and his father entered with two men, leaving one outside the door plus the one holding the horses. Branan waited until he heard voices in the hovel. Then he made a soft whistle through his teeth, like a tiny cricket chirping. Shadows moved in the woods around him, ghostly and without substance.

The man guarding the horses dropped silently, his throat slit, and the same fate quickly followed for the man at the door. Branan heard another soft cricket sound and stalked from his hiding place.

Branan’s men covered the windows while Branan, with Duguald, Gavin, and the Scotsmen, gathered at the door.

Inside, he heard the voices rise in heated discussion.

Branan nodded at Duguald.

With a roar, Duguald broke the door down and lunged through, Branan and Gavin following. Duguald killed one of the guards before the man’s sword cleared his scabbard. Gavin fell on the second and Branan’s gaze locked on the stooped man only a pace away. Strickland.

The man who murdered his parents.

Branan lifted his claymore.

The stooped man straightened, throwing back his cloak. Dimly, Branan’s mind registered that old man Strickland had suddenly turned into an unfamiliar giant knight, one who pointed a crossbow at him.

In less than a heartbeat, Branan’s mind also told him to stop, but it was too late for his body to listen. In the midst of his swing, the bolt launched from the bow and slammed into Branan’s right shoulder, staggering him back a pace. Pain blasted through him and his hand went numb. His claymore hit the floor with a dull thud.

Stunned, Branan focused on David, who was grinning maniacally. Then Branan saw the man he had thought was the Jewish moneylender. He wore armor and also lifted a crossbow. The bolt sailed past Branan, narrowly missing his head, and struck a man behind him.

He heard shouts and battle cries outside…and the sound of men dying.

A bloody trap!

Another man charged him and Branan simply reacted. Fury at his own stupidity surged through him. Branan drew his dagger with his left hand and roared. His vision tinted red, his fists flew with devastating effect. He felt no pain, he knew only burning rage. They would kill him this night, but he vowed he would take David with him, even if he had to do it with his bare hands.

****

Catriona was sitting at the table to eat when Edmund burst through the door. “My lady,” he cried, the alarm in his voice uncharacteristically ill-contained. “Your brother and Jamie approach.”

Terror shot through her. She had been expecting some sort of word on Branan’s foray against Strickland, but now knew something was terribly wrong.

She bolted to her feet and ran after Edmund.

“We were just closing the gates for the night,” Edmund said. He paused only to take her arm while descending the narrow flight of stairs to the bailey. “We heard a hail. Your brother is leading the mount with Jamie slumped over the back.”

“Oh God,” she whispered, reaching the last stair and sprinting for the gates .

She saw Gavin and his state nearly made her scream. Blood soaked his left arm, his hair, and the left side of his face. He led the horse, but had flung his right arm over its neck to support him. Both he and the horse limped badly. Jamie, as Edmund had said, was slumped over the back, his plaid dark with blood. It took a moment for her to realize he was tied to the saddle.

Four more men followed, all badly wounded, barely able to keep their feet.

“Branan?” she whispered. “Where is he?”

But her question went unanswered as a low rumbling sound caught her attention.

Greystoke tore his focus away from the wounded and stared into the darkness. Suddenly, his face lost all color. “Close the gates!” he roared and grabbed Catriona’s arm. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he hauled Catriona back toward the keep.

“Close the gates!” he bellowed again.

“Greystoke,” she gasped, trying to wrench free from him. “What’s wrong with you?”

The rumble grew louder. The gates slowly swung closed, but a rider burst through, trampling two wounded men. He carried a javelin and galloped straight to the windlass that controlled the gates and portcullis. The rider jammed the javelin into the machinery, causing it to grind to a halt.

“Get those gates closed!” Greystoke barked. “Form a shield wall, get pikes on the line. Prepare for cavalry!”

More horses galloped through the gates, followed by men-at-arms. They slew everyone within reach. Another horse charged in, but slid to a stop and reared. Strickland sat on its back, his dark eyes glittering with hatred. Catriona’s blood ran cold. He was supposed to be at the meeting with the moneylender. A trap, she belatedly realized. Branan had fallen into a trap and was probably dead. That’s why Gavin had returned in such a state.

Greystoke hauled her into the keep and shoved her toward the stairs. “Lock yourself in the solar,” he said and threw the bar on the door. “The escape route is worthless since Strickland knows about it.”

“Branan,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “He’s probably dead.”

“We don’t know that,” Greystoke snapped. “But it matters not, I swore an oath to him that I would defend you with my life and I will uphold that oath. Now go!”

A sharp thud sounded against the door and Greystoke readied his sword.

Catriona fled up the stairs, her heart screaming Branan’s name in agony.