Clearing his throat, he intervened. “My good men,” he said, purposely using the wordmen, “your bellows will give warning to any lying about these hills in wait for us.”
“Lord save us!” Sir John exploded, jerking free of James’ grasp. He whirled on Marmaduke. “First you’d see us skulk about with oxhides on our backs, now we are to be set upon as well?”
“Perhaps I am of a mind to hear that from you,” Marmaduke challenged him, swirling his own oxhide demonstrably about his shoulders. “Are de la Hogue’s men about? Or was the ambush only planned for yon grazing ground?”
He indicated the nearest end of the loch its night-bound waters visible at the base of the steep hillside. “Perhaps down there, the place where the track narrows so much it’s scarce possible to ride two abreast?”
“Youaremad.” Sir John’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword. “A baseborn son of-”
“And you are a dead man if my suspicions prove true.” Marmaduke seized him by the neck of his hauberk, hefting him off the ground before he could draw the blade.
“Be glad I have enough honor to wait until I am certain,” he added, releasing him.
Panting, Sir John rubbed his throat. He glowered at Marmaduke. “That shall cost you-”
A rustling in the gorse bushes cut him off.
Thrashing noises, and the shriek of drawn steel as each man whipped out his sword. Each man save Sir John. Red-faced with anger, he stood glaring at the gorse and hawthorn thicket whence the ruckus came.
A disruption greeted with amazement and tension-cutting smiles when its source lumbered from the shadows.
A bullock, and as fine a one as they come.
“Odin’s balls!” Gowan lowered his blade and grinned at the great beast. “He is fat enough to feed every soul at Dunlaidir and in the village, too.”
But then the wind carried other sounds to their ears. More rustlings, only this time accompanied by an ominous chorus: the jangle of bits and bridles, the chinking of armor, and the muted clopping of iron-shod hooves on damp ground.
“To horse!” Flinging down the oxhide, Marmaduke vaulted into his saddle. “Swords!” he yelled, his own already aloft, its well-hewn blade gleaming in the darkness.
“Cuidich’ N’ Righ!” his men roared the MacKenzie battle cry, their bold shouts rising above the ever-louder rumble of drumming hooves.“Save the king!”
At their cries, and the whinnying of the nervous, sidling horses, the bullock plunged wild-eyed into the underbrush. In the same instant, a host of mounted knights burst out of the trees and all chaos erupted.
Sword-swinging riders thundered forward, circling Marmaduke and his men, their blades flashing silver against the pale gray of the mist.
With a calm control the hot-blooded Highlanders lacked, Marmaduke pushed up in his stirrups, his sword raised high above his head and waited as the knights charged forward in a swift, furious attack.
The instant the first assailant came within striking range, he brought down his blade in a deadly arc, smiting his opponent with such shearing ferocity he near sliced the wretch in two.
“Strongbow! To your left!” one of his men warned, and he swung round to deflect a vicious swipe from the side.
Undaunted, this new challenger hauled out for another slashing strike. Their swords met with a loud, jarringclank, the bone-rattling force of the clash shooting up Marmaduke’s arm.
He blocked the next jabbing thrust with the flat of his own steel, sending the other to the ground with sheer brute strength.
Sir Alec appeared at his side, his great Highland brand already dripping red. “There are more,” he shouted over the din of clashing steel. “A sea of the bastards streaming out of the woods.”
Blinking to clear the stinging sweat from his good eye, Marmaduke shot a quick glance toward the edge of the clearing.
Alec was right.
A veritable tide of steel-girt horsemen swarmed onto the hillside now. They barreled forward to hem Marmaduke and his men into the middle of the hellish pandemonium by the sheer press of their greater number.
“In mercy’s name,” Marmaduke breathed, and hoped the saints looked on.
“Ho, lad – my ax!” Sir Gowan’s cry rang out somewhere to his left, the urgency in the Highlander’s voice chilling Marmaduke’s blood.
He jerked round to see Gowan toss his battle-ax to James. His sword gone, James Keith grappled with a helmeted knight, valiantly attempting to fend off the man’s slashing attack with his shield.
