“Caleb rode to Sinclair land, convinced Oona to poison me, and she had her daughters do it. Her mother was a Matheson, and she claims ties to yer clan. Yer nephew and yer clanswoman tried to murder me. With or without yer knowledge, it was yer clan who wronged me. Again.” Magnus shoved Murdoch away from him. “Ye have a choice. Admit yer clan’s fault or face us in the morning.”
“I will do nay such thing. I didna sanction any of this.” Murdoch grinned before he whistled. Out of the woods poured an army that initially appeared to rival the one that rode and marched to Ach Dà Thearnaidh. Macraes, Donalds, and Mackintoshes raced toward them, swords drawn and swinging at any Mackenzie, Sinclair, Mackay, Sutherland, or Ross they approached. More Mathesons joined the surprise attack.
However, Magnus cut Murdoch’s gloating cut short when he drew his sword and ran the man through. He spun around, not waiting to watch Murdoch land on the ground. He hurtled forward, scooping Saoirse around the waist, and running toward the horses. “Ric! Wiley! Kirk!”
Magnus tossed Saoirse on her horse’s back without a saddle and threw her the reins. He knew she could ride bareback, and even if she couldn’t, there was no time to worry about it. His sword severed the rope hobbling the animal.
“We’re here,” Ric answered as he, Kirk, and Wiley swung onto their horses.
“I love ye, Saoirse.” Magnus slapped the animal’s rump. It leaped forward, and Saoirse had to clutch the reins and the horse’s mane.
“I love ye,” she called back, but she didn’t dare turn to see Magnus lest she fall off.
The three men formed a horseshoe around her, all of them praying they weren’t racing headlong for another enemy. She carried half of her dirks, but the other half was in her saddlebag, and her bow and quiver leaned against her saddle. She could feel the knife handles against her ankles, and the one strapped to her thigh felt heavy as she squeezed her legs to keep her atop of the steed.
“There’s a copse of oak trees about a half a league from here. We ride to that,” Ric instructed. Saoirse continued to cling to the reins and the horse’s mane. She leaned low over the animal’s withers, praying they made it to safety and that when she returned to the field, all of her family would be hale. They rode for fifteen minutes before the trees came into view. They’d slowed to a trot once they were out of sight of the battle. Their horses walked now, so they were unprepared when half a dozen men raced forward.
“What the bluidy hell?” Kirk uttered as the men drew their swords. Saoirse reached down to her left boot and pulled her dirk free. It was the longest blade she owned. The one strapped to her thigh was asgian dubh. It would only do her any good if a man drew close. She didn’t wish for that to happen. The three men closed in, keeping Saoirse in the center. Blessedly, her horse was trained not to move unless she commanded it. It hadn’t the experience of a warhorse, but the sound of blades clashing didn’t faze it.
Her head swiveled in every direction it could as she watched the attackers fight her clansmen. They all wielded claymores, the Highlanders’ preferred double-handed broadswords, but only Ric, Kirk, and Wiley could do it one-handed. They each had a targe strapped to their left arm. It allowed them to fend off one attacker while engaging with another. The battle was over in a matter of minutes, but Saoirse felt time dragged with every ringing blow and groan of pain. Her protectors were victorious, but they each had wounds.
“Why were they here?”
“We saw ye.”
Saoirse and the others watched fifteen more men ride out of the trees. She didn’t recognize the man who spoke, but all of their attackers wore Matheson plaids, and so did this second wave of men.
“We kenned they’d send ye this way when the battle started. So bluidy predictable.” The same man explained as riders fanned out and surrounded Saoirse, Ric, Wiley, and Kirk. It was one thing for three men to fight six. But to fight fifteen while winded and injured was too much.
“What do you want?” Ric asked.
“An Englishmon?” A warrior to Saoirse’s right called out.
“A MacLellan by birth, a Sinclair by choice,” Wiley responded. “Do ye ken who I am?”
“Nay and dinna care,” the first man responded.
“Ye will when Tavish Sinclair learns ye breathed in ma direction.”
“Hiding behind yer da’s plaid? I dinna give a fuck if ye’re the Lord God Almighty. Ma father is Murdoch Matheson, and ye’re trespassing on our land.” The man nudged his horse forward again. “With that hair, ye must be Brighde and Alex’s daughter.”
“If ye ken that, ye ken what ma father will do to ye.”
“Bah,” the man scoffed. “He’s auld. And since I dinna see another woman with yer hair, I dinna fear ye mama slicing ma bollocks off.” His horse took three more steps forward.
Saoirse hurled her knife between Ric and Kirk, and it flew close enough to the leader’s ear for him to hear the whiz. It embedded in a man’s throat who pointed his sword at Wiley and urged his horse forward, his intent clear.
“I am ma mother’s daughter. Dinna think that’s ma only blade. If ye fear ma mama, ye should bluidy well fear me. I’m Saoirse Mackenzie.” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Ye married Magnus?” Another man rode forward. He looked a great deal like Caleb, the prisoner.
“Are ye Caleb’s son?” She answered with her own question.
“Nay. He was ma brother.”
“It’s only ‘was’ if he died during the battle. He’s the cause of this.”
“How?”
