“Have a care,” de la Hogue sneered, lifting his blade. “Each time you’ve harped on honor in the past, you’ve paid a high price.”
“So I have,” Marmaduke returned, controlling his anger as expertly as he wielded steel. “Yet I shall greet the morrow’s dawn, a pleasure you shall not enjoy.”
The observation made, Marmaduke advanced on the earl. He circled him with measured steps, as aware of the snow-and-soot-slicked cobbles beneath his feet as he was of de la Hogue’s every move.
“Fiend!” Sir Hugh yelled, then lunged and stabbed, swinging furiously, his every hacking thrust falling short or blocked until he began shouting more slurs with each clumsy, slashing swipe.
An eerie silence fell over the watching throng, the baited hush emphasizing the roaring crackle of burning timber.
And always, Marmaduke advanced, pushing his foe ever farther toward the burning gatehouse.
“Agggh!” Sir Hugh shrieked when a shower of sparks and falling, burning debris rained down on him. Cursing, he dragged his free arm over his eyes and raised his sword for a wild, downward slash.
A blind strike, the fury of which would’ve lopped off the arm of a less-skilled sworder, but Marmaduke avoided the blow with ease and dealt one of his own.
A broad sideways swipe, lightning quick, and slicing across the exposed area beneath Sir Hugh’s arm, the earl’s shrill cry and the shooting spray of bright red blood giving unmistakable voice to the depth of the cut.
“You bastard!” he screeched, grabbing beneath his arm, his sword clattering to the cobbles. His face purple with rage, he flung himself at Marmaduke, his feet slipping on the slick cobbles.
Arms wheeling, he almost righted himself just as a large section of the gatehouse door behind them burst into an inferno of leaping flames, then crashed down in a great plume of sparks, directly on top of him.
“’Fore God!” One of Marmaduke’s men cried, running toward him, the others quick on his heels.
The earl’s death screams ringing in the air, Marmaduke stood frozen as his men beat their hands on his head and shoulders, knocking off the burning bits of wood and sparks before they could catch flame.
“Saints a-mercy!” James dashed sparks from Marmaduke’s eyebrows with the pads of his thumbs.
And when at last they all stepped back from him, he did thank the saints.
Once more they’d stood by him.
As did a small, black-garbed woman he’d glimpsed fleetingly when fighting with the earl. She’d stood in shadow, near the blackened shell of a byre. He’d only caught a glimpse of her, the bright sparks flying off her red plaid shoelaces, and her nod, letting him know he’d ride away unscathed.
At least, that’s how he’d interpreted old Dev’s appearance.
If indeed, he’d seen her.
Men see much in the heat of battle, so he supposed he’d never know for sure.
He did roll his shoulders, knew he’d be forever grateful.
“It’s over,” he said to his men.
“The gods were with us.” Gowan, the most old-ways-following of the Highlanders reached to pluck a charred bit of wood from Marmaduke’s hair. “Thanks be.”
“Every one of them, aye,” Marmaduke agreed, his gaze flicking to the now-deserted byre ruin. “The good saints above, and others.”
“Aye, we’re done here,” Sir Alec strode up to them, thrust his bloodied sword into the ash-and-soot-grimed ground. “The vermin are gone.”
“True enough.” His breath still burning his lungs, Marmaduke looked to where de la Hogue lay buried beneath the burning rubble. Only his feet could be seen. Already smoking, they poked out from a mound of splintered and smoldering wood.
“A fitting end for the dastard.” Gowan scratched his bearded chin. “A foretaste of where he’s at now.”
“And the others?” One of the Keith garrison men nodded to de la Hogue’s men, still huddled in a tight knot some distance away. “What do we do with them?”
Marmaduke followed the man’s gaze, then heaved a great sigh. Glancing heavenward, he remembered his own zeal and pride when he, too, at their young age had made the mistake of following the wrong man.
And so…
