Maids with Blades 2, page 94
“And if I refuse to pay?” Laird Deirdre asked.
Feiyan bit her lip. Of course the laird would refuse to pay. One person was a reasonable sacrifice to make. The Warriors of Rivenloch hadn’t earned their fearsome reputation by yielding to the demands of rogue clans.
Gaufrid, however, strangled on outrage at having his plans thwarted.
The pig of a Fortanach leaned close to Gaufrid to murmur, “Tell her ye’ll slay the lass. We’ll take their horses. They’re probably worth more than the wench anyway.”
Gaufrid thrust out his jaw. “I’ll kill her,” he promised. “I’ll do it.”
Feiyan choked on panic. Not for herself. Sacrificing herself for the clan was one thing. She’d caused this trouble. She’d pay the price. But once Gaufrid killed her, he wouldn’t stop there. He’d go after her clansmen as well. And then Dougal.
“Run!” she blurted out. “He has dozens of mercenaries, m’laird! Save yourse-”
The guard restraining her gave her a sudden squeeze, cutting off her words.
“That’s right,” Gaufrid repeated. “If ye won’t pay the price, ye’d better run. I’ll kill her, and then my men will chase ye down and kill every last one o’ ye.”
To her relief, Laird Deirdre stood her ground. “I will not be threatened,” she declared. “The Warriors of Rivenloch do not negotiate with outlaws.”
“Fine then,” Gaufrid said, giving the guard a nod.
Feiyan gasped.
The guard’s restraining arm tensed around her waist. Then he bent close to her ear and muttered under his breath, “Be a good lass and die when I slash your throat.”
Then he swept his arm swiftly and violently across her neck, and she felt cold steel slide across her flesh.
Chapter 33
Killing Feiyan was the hardest thing Dougal had ever done.
He hadn’t really killed her, of course. He’d used the flat of the blade, ensuring that not a drop of her blood was spilled. There was no pain. No injury. Just a harmless caress of blunt steel.
But even that innocent gesture felt like drawing a dagger across his own heart.
Fortunately, the lass collapsed against him. Whether it was from his instructions or simply shock, her performance was convincing enough to inspire a chorus of astonished gasps from her clan folk. Indeed, so convincing was she, for a moment Dougal was unable to breathe.
Quickly, before Gaufrid had a chance to discover his hostage was alive and unharmed, Dougal gave a subtle nod to the Laird of Rivenloch.
On his cue, Laird Deirdre let out a cry of rage. “Forward!” she commanded. “Storm the gates!”
“They can’t be serious,” Gaufrid chortled as the Rivenlochs spurred their horses forward.
“Idiots,” Morris sneered.
“Where do they think they’re goin’?” Gaufrid said.
A moment later, as Rivenloch approached the gates, Fergus assured Gaufrid, “No worries, m’laird. They won’t get past the guard.”
“Right,” Morris agreed. “And if they do, they’ll be met by a courtyard full o’—”
“Shite,” Fergus muttered. “Shite!”
Dougal concealed a satisfied smile. Their scheme was working.
“How the devil did they get through the gates?” Morris wondered.
“Someone opened them,” Fergus ground out.
“Who?” Gaufrid growled. “I’ll murder the traitor.”
Feiyan stiffened in Dougal’s arms. He gave her a warning squeeze. It had to be torture for the lass, pretending to be dead, unable to see what was happening. But if Gaufrid saw that she was alive, she’d become a hostage in earnest, and the next guard tasked with slitting her throat would actually do it.
Despite the Laird of Rivenloch’s virtuous speech about not negotiating with outlaws, Dougal knew from speaking with her last night—when he’d finally convinced her of his innocence and they’d come up with this daring plan—that Laird Deirdre would sacrifice all she owned before she’d let harm come to one of her clan. The Warriors of Rivenloch would fight to the death for Feiyan.
“Don’t worry, m’laird,” Morris said with confidence as he sauntered to the inner wall overlooking the courtyard. “An army’s standin’ ready for them in the yard.”
Gaufrid joined him at the wall.
“See, m’laird?” Morris said. “The mercenaries are goin’ to—”
Gaufrid, joining Morris at the wall, spat out a foul curse.
Morris echoed the curse.
Fergus shoved his way between them to see what was happening. A primal growl of frustration rolled up from his throat before he bit out, “Go.”
With a spate of vile oaths, Gaufrid and his minions fled along the wall walk to the far end of the keep.
After they’d gone, Dougal whispered, “Ye can join the livin’ now. ’Tis safe.”
Feiyan opened her eyes in alarm and sprang back to life. “What’s happening? My clan…”
“They’re fine,” he assured her. “Everythin’s goin’ accordin’ to plan. Here.” He reached inside his gambeson and handed her the dagger she’d lost.
She frowned down at it. “How did you…?”
“Adam retrieved it, searchin’ for rats in Gaufrid’s bedchamber.” She furrowed puzzled brows at that. But there was no time to explain. “Come on.”
She flipped the dagger once in her hand, clearly eager to use it. “What do we do now?”
“The battle has begun,” he said, nodding toward the yard below.
Her face fell as she peered down at the chaos in the courtyard. “Twelve of my clan against an army of mercenaries?”
“Not exactly.” He threw back his hood and gave her a wink. “Follow me.”
Fergus couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.
How his perfect plans had gone to shite.
He’d wasted two years of his life kissing Gaufrid’s arse while carefully keeping him under his thumb.
He’d proved his loyalty, incinerating an entire town under a false banner just to rid Gaufrid of his meddlesome brother.
He’d sent Dougal to certain death at the hands of the savage Rivenloch clan. And though the devil had inexplicably dodged that fate, Fergus had at least managed to lock him behind bars.
Fergus had assembled a host of mercenaries unlike any in the Highlands. An army to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who even thought of infiltrating Darragh. Bloodthirsty thugs, miscreants, and outlaws who wouldn’t squirm when it came to ruthless slaughter.
He’d unmasked the pesky wench who’d followed Dougal home and managed to leverage her as a hostage against one of the richest border clans in all of Scotland. And even though Gaufrid had had to spill her blood when Rivenloch refused to ransom her, Fergus would still profit handsomely off their horses and armor, once they were defeated.
They would be defeated. They had to be.
Fergus was admittedly shaken by the fact that someone on the inside had let Rivenloch through the gates. Still, there were only a dozen enemy warriors. Darragh’s forces numbered over a hundred. Defeating the piddling company should be child’s play for his mercenaries.
Why then was he staring down at a bloody tangle of perplexing mayhem in the courtyard?
As he hurried along the perimeter of the wall walk with Gaufrid and Morris, insulated by burly guards at their fore and aft, he squinched his eyes at the pandemonium below.
And suddenly he saw it.
Servants who should have been cowering in corners, hiding inside the hall, hunkering down in the safe havens of the stables and storerooms, were instead pouring out of the keep to join the fray.
At first, he assumed it was some sort of spontaneous uprising. Weary of subservience, the peasants were apparently taking advantage of the attack on the keep to stage an overthrow.
Their efforts were doomed to fail, of course. They would die, as any untrained commoner would, on the blades of hardened soldiers, crushed by the boots of men who lived and breathed warfare.
But looking closer, he saw that was not the situation. And when he perceived the truth, it felt as if claws of ice clenched his heart.
The servants throwing back their hoods to join the fray looked like no peasants he’d seen before. If he’d given them a second glance, entering the great hall this morn, he might have noticed they were not the usual servants.
These men and women wore chain mail beneath their cloaks. They were broad-shouldered and tall in stature. They brandished, not the mallets of blacksmiths or the fire irons of kitchen lads, but the fine steel swords of seasoned warriors.
A half dozen, then a dozen, then more of the armored fighters unsheathed and engaged his mercenaries. Some wore grizzled beards. Some were beardless youths. Some were maids, as fierce and vicious as the men. They roared and charged, lunged and slashed, felling his knights as if they were pawns in a game of draughts.
“What’s happened?” Gaufrid squeaked as they scurried toward the stairs at the remote end of the wall walk.
Fergus, too upset to explain, merely growled at the whimpering laird. “Just go!”
“Where are we goin’?” Morris asked.
“Down the stairs,” Fergus snapped.
Where they would go after that, he didn’t know. It was clear something had gone very wrong. Who the imposters were, he could guess. It had to be Rivenloch’s forces that had infiltrated the ranks of the mac Darragh clan.
But how? And how many were there? Enough to overwhelm Gaufrid’s army? Enough to seize the castle? If Rivenloch had managed to steal inside the keep, was the castle surrounded? Were there more of them lurking in the wood?
As they scrambled down the steps, he could hear Gaufrid’s petulant whining in the stairwell. “I’m not goin’ a step farther until ye tell me what’s happenin’.”
Fergus suddenly felt in full force the months of sycophantic fawning he’d spent on the laird. All the compromising and placating. Enduring Gaufrid’s tantrums. Easing his fears. Massaging his ego. Licking his damned boots.
It had all been for nothing.
And Fergus would suffer the fool no longer.
Elbowing his way down the steps to seize Gaufrid by the scruff of his neck, he slammed him back against the stone wall.
“Hear me well, ye pulin’ churl!” he snarled, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “’Tis o’er. Ye’ve lost your keep. Ye’ve lost your clan. If ye don’t want to lose your life, I suggest ye keep your tongue in your head and obey my orders.”
His threat worked. Gaufrid stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth gaping like a landed trout’s.
Sneering in disgust and releasing the laird like the rotten fish he was, he slipped down the last few steps and peered out carefully.
At the moment, the mercenaries were holding their own. They might have been caught with their braies down. But once they engaged in combat, they were like wild boars. Murderous and merciless.
Still, there was no way to tell how long they’d survive. Rivenloch was rumored to be the most ruthless and rabid border clan in Scotland. If anyone could cut down the mac Darragh army, it was these warmongering Lowlanders.
Even before he finished that thought, a mercenary came staggering across the sward to fall at Fergus’s feet. The man clutched at his bleeding throat, then opened his maw in a silent scream as his eyes went glassy with death.
Fergus glanced past the fallen warrior. A lass with a long blond braid and a bloody sword nodded in icy satisfaction before wheeling to face her next foe.
Fergus shuddered, realizing Rivenloch’s reputation was earned. There was no way mac Darragh would escape unscathed. He needed to concentrate on self-preservation.
“Come on!” he barked over his shoulder.
As Gaufrid sidled past the fallen mercenary, his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. Fergus felt a similar disgust for Gaufrid. The laird might have a taste for power, but he didn’t have the stomach to do what it took to gain it.
Fergus and Morris did. They had always done what was necessary to better their lot. From whipping that upstart mac Giric bastard so many years ago to kissing the arse of this worthless laird to burning the church at Kirkoswald, they had done what needed to be done.
And so they would now. Even if it meant stealing what resources they could, cutting their losses, and surviving to fight another day.
He wouldn’t give up on Castle Darragh. As long as he kept the laird alive, the keep belonged to Gaufrid. With Gaufrid in tow, Fergus and Morris could lie low for a while, bide their time, wait until Rivenloch left or grew careless, and return in triumph to take back what was rightfully theirs.
There was only one complication. They’d neglected to kill the rival laird. If Gaufrid left now, clan loyalty might swivel to Dougal. And that would be calamitous.
“Morris,” Fergus muttered as they edged along the inside of the courtyard wall, well away from the chaos of clashing swords and bloody savagery. “Go now. Kill the prisoner.”
Morris glanced at Gaufrid in concern. After all, the laird might have something to say about Morris murdering his brother in cold blood.
But the laird was too dumbfounded at the sight of a claymore-wielding Rivenloch warrior hacking the sword hand off one of his mercenaries to notice.
“Dougal?” Morris mouthed.
Fergus nodded.
Morris left to do his bidding, dodging his way across the courtyard to slip unseen through the doors of the keep.
Fergus tugged on Gaufrid’s sleeve. They too had to get to safety. The pair of guards accompanying them had keen eyes and naked blades. They would defend the laird with their lives. But that didn’t mean they were infallible.
Moving Gaufrid, however, wasn’t easy. He seemed stupefied by the battle raging before him. He stood frozen in place—his eyes wide, his jaw slack—as his men fell, one by one, under the swords of the invading army.
“Come on, m’laird,” Fergus snarled, wrenching at Gaufrid’s elbow. “There’s no time to waste.”
Privately, Fergus entertained the idea of throwing Gaufrid into the fray to see how long he’d last, defenseless against the towering warriors and vicious vixens who would love to see the Laird of mac Darragh chopped to bits.
They were halfway around the courtyard, heading toward the keep when Morris burst out of the doors. He was red-faced, sweating, and out of breath.
“He’s gone,” he wheezed.
“What do ye mean?”
“He’s not there.”
“Are ye sure?” Fergus bit out the words as calmly as he could when he felt like screaming. “’Tis a large cave. Did ye look in the shadows and—”
“He’s not there.” His next words made Fergus’s irritation congeal into icy fear. “The door was open. He’s gone.”
Chapter 34
When the wee maidservant came rushing down the steps to unlock the gaol door, Gellir was so glad to see her, he actually grabbed her by her orange-topped head and planted a quick kiss on her surprised brow.
After that, he couldn’t get much out of the tongue-tied lass about what had happened. But as they wound their way back up the stairs, he managed to learn that Feiyan was safe and that the army of Rivenloch was fighting the mercenaries in the courtyard.
As soon as he emerged in the ale cellar, of course, he was eager to join the battle.
“If I only had a weapon,” he despaired.
“Och!” Merraid exclaimed. “I forgot. Dougal left this for ye.” She reached behind a barrel and dragged out a sword, handing it to him hilt-first.
Gellir grinned. “He’s thought of everything.” He swished the blade through the air, testing its balance. “I suppose I won’t mind him marrying into my clan after all.”
Merraid blinked. “Dougal? Marryin’?”
“Shhh,” he whispered with a wink. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
She looked mildly stunned, but he didn’t pay much heed. After all, there was a battle to wage, and if hotheaded Hew had come, his cousin would need all the help he could get.
Still, he took her hand before he rushed off.
“You stay out of danger, aye? A wee lass like you could get hurt.”
She nodded, and he pressed a chivalrous kiss on the back of her hand—one that left her speechless. Then he bowed in salute and turned to exit the ale cellar. Loping across the great hall, he gave the sword one last trial swing, and then burst out of the doors into the thick of battle.
The skirmish raged below while his cousin Jenefer and her archers stood on the wall walk, firing arrows down at the enemy.
In the midst of the courtyard, his mother Deirdre fought back-to-back with his sister Hallie as they fended off two mac Darragh mongrels.
Past them, Morgan mac Giric and Colban an Curaidh wielded claymores against a trio of warriors armed with axes.
Near the gates, his uncle Colin spun and slashed with catlike grace at a huge but clumsy mercenary.
Across the field, his father Pagan lunged and skewered a bellowing attacker who’d come at him with a war club.
Then Gellir spied Hew feverishly fighting a man built like an ox. Unbeknownst to his cousin, another giant was lumbering toward him with a mace.
“Nay!” Gellir cried, leaping from the steps and charging across the field to intercept the giant.
He got in several good blows and, between Hew and him, brought the Goliath to ground. After that, the battle continued until Gellir’s brow dripped with sweat and his clothing was spotted with blood. Most of it had come from the enemy, though Gellir’s lack of proper armor meant he earned several cuts and bruises.
When he glimpsed a pair of brutes stealing toward the Rivenloch archers on the wall walk, he raced up the stairs and singlehandedly fought them off. Colin and Morgan eventually joined him, hacking at the attackers. Hallie, arriving with a chilling slashes of her lightning-fast blade, sent one man leaping over the outer wall and another scrambling down the steps.
As the mercenaries scattered, Gellir gazed breathlessly at the courtyard below. Slinking furtively along the far wall was a small party of mac Darraghs.
