Chapter Eighteen
Rubbing his hands together in a vain attempt to warm them, Iain searched the ground for some sign that a man had recently passed through the area. Phelan had seen signs and the youth's skill in such matters was not to be questioned. Iain felt sure it was MacLennon and there was an eagerness with him to confront the man. He wanted the final confrontation over even though it could mean that he would never know if Islaen survived childbirth or see the child she gave him. His eagerness to face his foe came from a weariness that reached to his soul. Iain was simply tired of living half a life, of always waiting for the man to strike.
As he dismounted to check something a little more closely, he admitted that this was another reason he spent so much time at Muircraig. He wanted to draw MacLennon away from Islaen. Caraidland was well guarded, but MacLennon had already showed how little that mattered. The man's main target was still him. By being at Muircraig while Islaen was in Caraidland, he divided the man's targets and felt sure that MacLennon would come to him first.
"Ye willnae find me there, MacLagan,” mocked a voice that chilled Iain's blood.
A little surprised that the man was showing himself, Iain slowly turned to face his enemy. He felt sure that MacLennon knew about his men that searched for signs nearby. Iain wondered if constant failure was finally driving the man to act carelessly. If so, it could prove a boon. ‘That is, if I escape this meeting,’ he thought wryly as he swiftly drew his sword.
"Ye grow verra tiresome, MacLennon."
"I will see that ye are soon beyond caring. Today ye die, MacLagan."
"So ye continue to boast but ye ne'er accomplish your aim.” He saw fury flare in the man's eyes and knew he was right, that MacLennon grew frustrated by his continued failure. “Come, try again why dinnae ye? Or, do ye grow weary of failing?"
With a bellow of rage Iain was certain would reach the ears of his men, MacLennon attacked. Iain was staggered by the force of the man's strike. It was hard to believe the smaller, slender man was stronger. Iain could only presume that the man's madness gave him such strength. Having enraged him had simply added to that strength. With a thrill of alarm Iain also recognized that the cold had slowed him, stiffening him and robbing him of some of his agility. It could prove to be a fatal handicap.
The sound of approaching horsemen drove MacLennon to make one final, furious assault upon Iain before fleeing. Iain was stunned by the ferocity of the attack. He neatly blocked a sword strike but felt a sharp pain in his side. In dismay he saw that MacLennon held a now bloodied dagger in his other hand. The giggle that escaped MacLennon as Iain staggered, clutching his side, made Iain feel slightly ill. He readied himself as well as he could to face another attack but MacLennon was gone. He caught a faint glimpse of the man disappearing into the wood just as Phelan, Murdo and Robert arrived.
"After him. He went that way,” Iain rasped even as he sat down heavily, suddenly overcome by dizziness.
Robert dismounted and hurried to his side as Phelan and Murdo raced after MacLennon. “Wheesht, Iain, he came close to skewering ye weel this time,” Robert muttered as he hurried to staunch the flow of blood. “'Tis nay fatal though."
"I didnae see him draw his knife. Must be growing slow in my declining years,” he jested weakly.
"What troubles me is that we didnae see him,” Robert grumbled after smiling briefly. “We should have seen him, Iain."
"We ne'er see him, do we. I begin to think we deal with a specter. He leaves but a faint trail yet, e'en when we find it, we ne'er find him.” Iain suddenly collapsed against Robert, no longer able to fight off unconciousness.
"God's beard, did MacLennon win then?” Phelan asked in horror when he and Murdo returned.
"Nay, he has but swooned. Ye lost the mon,” replied Robert.
"Aye. Curse him."
"I think we best take Iain to Caraidland."
"Aye, there will be better care for him there."
Islaen frowned, her attention diverted from some frolicking puppies she played with in the stables. Wallace stood looking out at the bailey and she waited for him to tell her what was causing the mild disturbance out there. When he glanced her way rather worriedly, she felt her heart lurch with fear and rose. He hesitantly moved as if to stop her and her alarm grew.
Slipping around him she looked out and swayed as she saw Iain being lifted off of a litter. “Nay,” she whispered then cried, “Iain,” as she started to run towards her husband only to be caught by Robert before she reached Iain's side.
"He isnae dead, lass. Just cut a wee bit.” He held her close when she slumped against him. “Calm yourself and then I will take ye to him."
"MacLennon?” she asked as she fought to calm herself as he had commanded.
"Aye but we lost him."
"God's tears, not again."
"Aye, again. Better now?"
"Better. T'was just seeing him carried in like that."
"Weel, I think t'was a lot of things that sent him into a swoon. Come, we will go and see him now.” He took her hand and started towards the keep. “It wouldnae have done him much good to see ye so pale and upset. He would most like feel he had caused some harm to ye and the bairn by giving ye a bad turn. This will end his work on Muircraig ‘til spring, I think."
Later, as she sat by his bed and waited for Iain to wake Islaen decided Robert was probably right. So long as infection or fever did not set in the wound was not fatal. It was deep, however, requiring a couple of stitches, so it would be a while before he could move much without the threat of breaking open his wound. By the time he was healed enough to do any real work, Islaen felt sure that winter would have begun in earnest. There would be no working at Muircraig then nor any time until the spring.
