18
The captain of Sutherland’s guard was obviously a good tactician who commanded the loyalty of his men. When all of Clyde’s troops were busy fighting with their enemy counterparts, he had sneaked half of his best horsemen into the woods, to circle around in front of Clyde’s men. Now they appeared in front of them as if from nowhere, streaming through Clyde’s men and giving fresh heart to the baron’s troops.
Clyde’s men were so outnumbered that he could see no option other than to order a retreat before any more lives were lost. He took his hunting horn out of his saddlebag and blew a mighty blast on it, then he spurred his horse on and galloped back towards Rosnablane. He knew that a horse with a double burden on its back could never go as fast as one with a single rider, but he had to try.
Cora was terrified; she had never been in the middle of a battle before, and although Clyde kept the enemy soldiers at bay with the skill of his sword arm, she could see that it was only a matter of time before they were overrun. She had no weapon of her own to wield and was nothing but a burden, but she could still pray. Tears streamed from her eyes. She had no wish to die yet; she still had so much to do; the most important of which was to bear Clyde’s children, as many as he could give her.
They were coming to the village of Kenmuir, which was halfway between her own land and Clyde’s, and Cora hoped that the villagers there would hide them until the worst was over. She had no hope of them joining the battle, since she would have been very surprised if anyone in the village possessed a broadsword, longbow, or a crossbow, or had the skill to use them even if they had.
Clyde had managed to slip away from the main phalanx of riders and was hiding behind a small wooden barn that was just big enough to conceal them from any but the closest of Sutherland’s men. He turned in the saddle and smiled at her. “God, Cora, it is so good to see you!” he whispered, putting up a hand to caress her cheek. “But now you must stay here.”
Cora shook her head firmly. “No,” she said obstinately. “I will not leave you.”
Clyde gave an exasperated sigh. “Cora, you are slowing me down,” he pointed out. “And I can only fight half as well with you seated behind me because I have to worry about your safety too.”
Cora thought about the whistling sword blades that had come close to wounding or killing her again and again, the smell of blood, and the screams of wounded men and horses. She felt the sickening swaying of the saddle again when she had almost toppled off Clyde’s horse onto the muddy ground. She would surely have been trampled to death if that had happened, her corpse left to be cut to pieces before the end of the battle. Clyde was right, and she was being selfish. She nodded and allowed Clyde to help her dismount.
“I will put the villagers in danger if I stay here,” she said anxiously.
“The villagers will be just fine, milady,” said a man’s voice behind them, and Cora turned to see a tall, thin man of middle years standing behind her, smiling. “We dinnae have broadswords an’ longbows, but we have sickles, hoes, scythes, an’ pitchforks, an’ we will use them a’ in yer defense.”
Cora’s eyes were wide with surprise as she saw the little crowd gathering behind the tall man. “Brian Murray at your service, milady,” he went on, bowing. “I heard the baron was after ye, an’ that yer castle had been taken by Hamish Dunn an’ his band o’ thugs. We will stand up for ye for the sake of yer father, milady. He was a good friend tae this village an’ never let us go hungry durin’ the bad harvests. Ye are his daughter, so we will follow ye.” Then he looked at Clyde, a question in his eyes. “The baron was no friend o’ ours. He has trampled across our land for years, an’ we welcome a chance tae capture or kill the bloody skellum!” His voice was throbbing with rage.
“This is my betrothed, Laird Clyde Munro,” Cora told them, but her eyes darted to the road that ran past the village, where the drumming of dozens of horses’ hooves could be heard, becoming louder by the second. At once, the villagers, both men and women, grabbed their makeshift weapons and ran into the path of the riders. Clyde followed suit on his mighty warhorse, accompanied by his seven remaining guards.
Those bearing the dark blue Sutherland crest were completely outnumbered by the crudely armed but fiercely loyal country folk who hated the baron with a passion. Many of the riders were dragged from their horses and thrown into a barn with the pigs, and others were stabbed with pitchforks and clubbed over the head with heavy wooden spades.
Those who tried to escape were dragged back in short order by the sturdy village folk, all of whom were fit and hardened by long days of work in the fields. Baron Sutherland’s guards were tied up with coarse twine that chafed the tender skin of their wrists, and they lay in the stinking pigsty cursing and squabbling amongst themselves. Clyde looked at them for a long time and saw that a few were quite seriously hurt.
“Is there a Wise Woman in the village?” he asked, glancing around them.
“Aye,” Brian Murray replied, frowning. “Moira McCutcheon lives a quarter o’ mile doon the road. Can I ask why, M’Laird?” He looked puzzled.
“Because these men need a healer,” Clyde replied. “Some of them are quite badly hurt.”
“But they are our enemies, M’Laird!” Brian protested.
Suddenly, Cora rounded on the man. Her beautiful face wore a fierce scowl, and her voice was throbbing with anger. “Have you ever heard the parable of the good Samaritan, Brian?” she asked grimly, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. “Yes, they are our enemies, and yes, I do hate them, but they are only doing what they are being paid to do, and many of them have families to support. We will treat villagers first, though.”
Brian looked at the ground and nodded. “Ye are right, M’Laird,” he said, ashamed. “I will get Willie McIntosh tae run an’ get her. He is young an’ fast.”
“No.” Clyde held up his hand. “I will have one of my men fetch her. It will be quicker on a horse.”
“But M’Laird!” Brian protested. “She is an old biddy! She cannae ride a horse!”
“Then she will have to learn.” Clyde’s voice was grim. “Now, where is the baron?”
“I dinnae think he was wi’ them,” one of his guards replied, frowning. “I didnae see him anywhere.”
“I will ask.” Clyde went into the barn, grimacing at the stench that assaulted him. “Captain of the Guard!” he called. “Show yourself!”
A short, sturdy redheaded man stood up and faced Clyde defiantly. “I am the captain,” he said gruffly. “Gordon Prentice.” He was bleeding from a long cut on his thigh, and he grimaced in pain as he spoke.
“Where is your master?” Clyde asked. “Is he with you?”
Prentice spat into the straw. “He was, but he fell off in the first minute,” he replied bitterly. “I think he unhorsed himself, mind. I saw him slappin’ his stallion on the rump tae make it gallop away, then he went slinkin’ intae the forest. Coward!” he spat again. “M’Laird, as soon as this is a’ done, I pledge my services tae Lady Henderson.”
Cora smiled. “Thank you, captain,” she said, then her expression became grim. “But it is not over yet.”
