“Don’t go!” Cicely begged him.
“Ladyfaire, ’tis a parley, not a battle to the death,” he told her gently. “ ’Tis better we talk than fight, isn’t it?” Giving her a quick kiss, he left the hall with Fergus.
The two brothers walked down the hill through Glengorm village and onto the shore that edged the water. The Douglas clansmen had come out to stand behind their laird in a show of strength. Across the loch upon the other shore was a small party of men. The loch was not particularly wide and so they were able to shout across it.
“What do you want?” Ian Douglas called across the water. “You are trespassing.”
“Are you the laird?” a stocky man demanded to know.
“I am,” Ian said.
“ ’Twas your band of clansmen who killed three of our kin?”
“Your kin stole from me, and when I reclaimed my livestock they attacked me,” Ian said. “I was within my rights.”
“You owe us a forfeit for those murders,” the stocky man retorted.
“You owe me for the three lambs that were missing from my flock,and undoubtedly slaughtered to fill your fat belly,” Ian told him. “Consider us even.”
“If you will not pay then we shall take our revenge,” the stocky man said, and as the words left his mouth a hail of arrows were shot by the mounted men across the narrow loch at the laird and his people.
Fergus Douglas flung himself in front of his brother, taking the arrow meant for the laird directly into his own heart. As Ian bent to catch his sibling he felt himself pierced sharply. Kneeling, his dead brother cradled in his arms, he howled with anguish. Then, dropping Fergus onto the sandy shore, he stood up, shouting to his clansmen not injured, “To horse!” They ran for mounts, and a village lad, anticipating the laird, had already run up the hill to the house, shouting for horses to be saddled.
Cicely, hearing the commotion, came running from the hall. “What has happened?” she asked of no one in particular as she saw their two stablemen leading horses from the stables down the hill, and clansmen racing up to meet them, clambering onto the animals and racing back down the hill again.
Ian Douglas had wisely kept out of his wife’s line of vision. He had broken off the shafts of the two arrows that had hit him, so if she managed to catch a glimpse of him he would not from a distance appear wounded. Grasping the bridle of his stallion, he pulled himself up onto its back and marshaled his clansmen about him. “Not one of them lives!” he said grimly. “No mercy! We can catch them fastest if we swim our horses across the loch.” Then he led them to the shore and into the water, and urged the beast under him across to the far shore.
The Grahames had already disappeared over the hill. They had not been certain whether it was the laird they had killed or not. But the sound of grief that had pierced the air after their volley satisfied them that they had gained their revenge on the Douglases of Glengorm. They rode swiftly, for they assumed they would be followed, but by the time their pursuers rode around the loch and up the hillsthe Grahames would have managed to obscure the trail by sending two horses here, and another three there, in different directions. The Grahames considered themselves quite good at making an escape.
They were therefore very surprised to discover the Douglases of Glengorm catching up to them, and not an hour had passed. The sound of their war cry—“A Douglas! A Douglas!”—echoed in the clear autumn air. The stocky man leading the Grahames spurred his horse onward, shouting to his companions to scatter, for that would make it more difficult to catch them. But their tactic was countered, for each rider or group of riders breaking off from the main body of Grahames was followed by several Douglases. And each Grahame was caught and killed.
Unhorsed and on his knees, the stocky man looked up at Ian. “How did you come so quickly?” he wanted to know.
“We swam our horses across the loch,” the laird answered him. “Do you not know the motto of the Douglas family? ’TisJamais arrière,” and when the Grahame looked up at Ian, confused, he said, “It means ‘Never behind.’ ” He raised his sword.
“Wait! I can see we did not kill you,” the stocky Grahame said. “Whom did we kill? At least tell me that before I die.”
“You killed my younger brother,” the laird told him even as he plunged his sword into his enemy’s chest and twisted it hard to ensure the man died. Then, yanking his blade from the stocky man’s chest, he wiped it off on the fellow’s shirt.
One of his men walked over to the Grahame and, pulling out his dirk, slit his throat. “Just to be certain, my lord,” he said.
The laird nodded, and then a wave of both nausea and dizziness assailed him. “Help me to my horse,” he said to his clansman. “I am beginning to feel the effects of my wounds.” He swayed, and the clansman, putting an arm about him, got Ian to his horse, and then up onto the stallion’s broad back.
Mounting his own animal, the clansman said to his companions, who had now rejoined them, “Protect the laird! He is wounded.”
With every bit of willpower he had, Ian Douglas managed to remain atop his horse while they returned to Glengorm. Finally, as his mount came to a stop before the house, he was overcome by a wave of weakness, and began to fall. But the clansman who had first come to his aid was there again, half lifting him from his saddle, half walking, half dragging him into the house, where Tam and Artair ran forward to help. One of the serving women saw and ran to fetch Cicely. Another hurried to find old Mab in her kitchens. The two women entered the hall almost simultaneously. Cicely shrieked.
“Get him onto the high board quickly,” Mab instructed the men. She turned to Cicely. “He’s alive, my lady, and I’ll need your help. Go and fetch hot water and clean cloths so I may clean his wounds.” She had her basket of healing stores with her.
Cicely ran from the hall to do the old woman’s bidding. She prayed Mab knew what she was doing, for Cicely had never seen a wounded man. She didn’t know what to do. Neither she nor Jo had been particulary interested in the healing arts when Joan of Navarre had offered to teach them years back. And, of course, their foster mother had later been accused of witchcraft, although she was cleared of all the charges leveled against her. Now, it appeared, it would help her to know what to do with a wounded man. If Mab could teach her she would learn this time.
In the hall Mab saw the two arrows with their broken shafts. One had pierced the laird’s shoulder in the front. The other had lodged in his chest just above his heart. She shook her head. These were both serious wounds, and would have to be packed tightly to stop the bleeding once she removed the arrows. “My lord,” she said to him.
Ian opened his eyes. “Where is my wife?” he asked weakly.
“Gone to fetch water and cloths for me, dearie,” Mab said to him.
“They killed Fergus, but we slew them all, Mab. My brother is avenged,” the laird told her. Then he closed his eyes, for it had been a great effort to tell her what he did.
