He and his men stopped for the night at a tavern in the nearby town of Dingwall. He asked the tavern keeper what he’d heard about the attack.
“One of the Munros fled the battle and made it here to our church seeking sanctuary,” the man said. “Big Duncan of the Axe was chasing him, but he made it inside the church.”
That was one survivor. Rory drank down his ale, intent on heading to the church to speak with him.
“When Big Duncan caught him by the arm inside the church door, the Munro warrior shouted,Sanctuary saves me! Sanctuary saves me!”the tavern keeper continued his tale. “But Big Duncan pulled him back out the door.You’re not in the church now,he said, and killed him with one stroke of his axe.”
Rory rubbed his forehead. This just got worse and worse. “Did ye hear if any of the Munros escaped?”
“If they did, they didn’t pass through here.”
Rory prayed the Munro chieftain had survived. He disliked the arrogant young man, but wished him no harm. And as bad as the situation already was, killing their chieftain would lead to all-out war with the Munros.
***
“Where’s my grandfather?” Kenneth looked up at Sybil with Rory’s green eyes, but she had no answer.
“We’ll wait a little longer.” She strained to see the trail into the village through the branches of the trees. Malcolm had insisted they wait in the thick foliage along the river where they would not be seen by a chance traveler.
Perhaps the Grant chieftain was away when the message arrived. She imagined it lying on his table unopened, awaiting his return.
Malcolm pulled her aside. “We’ve waited long enough. They’re not coming.”
“Then we’ll have to take Kenneth to them,” she said. “We’re halfway to Urquhart Castle already.”
“We shouldn’t have come,” Malcolm said. “It’ll be dark soon, and I’ll not take my laird’s wife and son any farther without his approval.”
“But—”
Malcolm held up his hand for quiet and drew his sword.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He tilted his head to the side, listening intently. “Someone is coming. A large party of riders.”
Relief swept over her. The Grants had come at last. She could hear the horses now herself and stepped out onto the trail to greet them.
“Wait until we see who it is!” Malcolm hissed.
His warning came too late. Twenty mounted warriors rounded the hillside and entered the narrow valley some distance ahead. As soon as they saw her, they whipped their horses and charged toward her. In that instant she knew that these men had come expecting to find her here. And they were not the Grants.
Someone had betrayed them.
“Get off the goddamned trail,” Malcolm called to her. “Those are Hector’s men!”
There was no point in running. They had seen her and would chase her down before she could reach her horse. But they had not yet seen her companions. She could still save them.
“Take Kenneth and your wife away!” she called to them while keeping her gaze fixed on the warriors galloping toward them. “Go!”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Malcolm signal to his wife, who was crouched in the brush with her hand over Kenneth’s mouth. She prayed the three of them would escape.
Hector’s men were almost upon her. The man in the lead wore a black helmet obscuring his face and rode his steed straight at her. She stood her ground. If he meant to trample her to death, she would not give him the satisfaction of cowering or shrieking in fright.
Suddenly, Malcolm was in front of her brandishing his sword. The horse’s whinny filled her ears like a scream as it reared up, hooves shooting past her face in a blur. Time seemed to momentarily halt as the hooves of the great beast hovered above her head, then they came crashing down, barely missing her and Malcolm.
“Show your face, ye filthy bastard!” Malcolm shouted. “I know it’s you, Hector!”
The rider took off his black helmet. He would have been a striking man with his rugged features and jet-black hair with streaks of gray, but for his eyes, which held a malevolence that turned Sybil’s blood to ice.
