Page 19 of Highlander’s Wrath

The groom told her respectfully that his lairdship had specifically told him not to allow anyone to leave the castle; guards had been placed at every exit.

Coira was not too proud to use the servants’ gossip to her best advantage.

“Did his lairdship include me in that dictum, or was it only for his servants and soldiers? I am a person of some influence, you realize, and if my clan believes me slighted by this cavalier treatment, I can promise you the Farquharson clan war will not be the only blood feud his lairdship incurs this day! Come now, hasten to do my bidding. I need to go and collect some of the herbs that grow along the coastline.”

Her uncertain status at the castle was such that the groom and guards believed themselves duty bound to obey her. It did not take long before Coira was sitting atop one of Laird Barclay’s finest destriers and trotting at a brisk pace out of the gateway.

She remembered the fastest way up the monadh from her excursion with his lairdship. The noontime bell had not even rung forth from the castle chapel before Coira found herself overlooking the dene below the rugged mountaintop. But it was empty. Undeterred by this minor setback, Coira continued riding over to the next monadh. She had had the forethought to bring a flask of goat’s milk with her and had secreted a few bannocks in her side pockets as well. She knew the brisk Highland air would make her hungry after a day in the saddle. When she reached the crest of the next moorland-covered mountain, however, Coira promised herself that if she saw no sign of Hamish from there, she would ride back to the castle and trust in his luck and her good fortune to bring him safely home.

The top of the monadh was bare of trees or bushes. The only vantage point was a tall pile of boulders, cracked and weatherworn.

I can always use those stones to help me remount the horse. But I must make the animal’s tether fast before I turn my back. Being left without a mount halfway through a chilly Highland winter day is not something I wish to experience.

After climbing to the top of the rocky outcrop, however, Coira knew her efforts had not been in vain.

Below, she saw a sweeping valley. Under the shadowy mountain’s arms, two battle lines had been drawn. To the north, a line of plaid-clad men had formed the defense; the battle formation bristled with spears and longswords. As she watched, the men clashed their spears against their shields and shouted wordlessly. They had already removed their shirts and coats and stood bare-chested and unflinching in the icy winds. This indicated that blood would be spilled, and the soldiers did not want it staining their homespun garments.

Standing with their backs to her, a troop of soldiers mounted on horses faced the enemy with their backs to her gaze. She recognized Laird Barclay seated astride Lancer immediately. He had the reins in one hand and the other hand clenched in a fist, resting on his thigh. From the tilted angle of his head, Coira knew he was sizing up his opponents with that cold, calculating look in his eyes that she knew so well.

He leaned over and conferred with the captain of the guards mounted beside him. The men had their heads together, occasionally looking over at the force assembled against them. It seemed as if they agreed to armed combat because as Coira watched, the Barclay contingent dismounted en masse and began to remove their clothing on top as well. Soon, the two lines of bare-chested men faced off against each other, the northern line making threatening gestures and loud cries while Laird Barclay’s men faced not more than fifty yards to the south. The air seemed to crackle with aggressive anticipation. When Coira looked at that northern line of spears and unsheathed swords, her heart grew heavy with fear.

Just then, a loud shout sounded from the northern ridge behind the Farquharson soldiers. Coira knew then that his lairdship had sent mounted troops riding like the wind all the way around the moradh, deep into Farquharson territory. As one man, the northern troops swung around. They were greeted with the sight of Barclay soldiers, mounted on huge horses, galloping down the hillside behind them. As if by magic, the swords and spears that had been pointed toward his lairdship’s side of the moradh were all swung around to point at the horses. Mayhem ensued. Some of the Farquharson soldiers flung down their swords and sued for mercy right then and there, but a few battle-hardened men chose to sell their lives at no little cost. Half of them swung north to harry the horsemen; the other half ran howling and raging to where Laird Barclay and his men stood, swords poised, ready for battle.

At first, Coira thought the battle magnificent. She saw Laird Barclay bring his sword down on an enemy soldier’s shield with a shattering blow. The wood split in two; all the man was left holding was the shield strap attached to a few rings of iron. Coira shivered when she thought of the force that must have caused a thick piece of wood like that to shatter as if it were made of spun sugar. His lairdship seemed to hesitate, but this was only to give the man time to throw down his sword and beg for mercy. It did not happen. All the soldier did was redouble his efforts to rain blows down on Laird Barclay’s head. This decision to continue the fight did not seem to worry Hamish in the slightest. He stepped lightly from side to side, narrowly avoiding the sword as it swung past him with frightening proximity. When the man’s strength began to wane after so much excursion, Laird Barclay saw his chance; he stepped inside the circle of the weary soldier’s sword reach and seemed to hug the man to his chest.

It was no hug; it was the embrace of death. Coira was as deceived by Hamish’s actions as the poor Farquharson soldier had been. Even though his lairdship’s sword hung innocently toward the ground, his other hand had withdrawn a dirk from his belt. It was this that Laird Barclay had thrust into the man’s side at the back, using no more effort as though he were slicing an apple in two.

The man’s expression grew shocked for one moment before he sagged against his lairdship’s chest as the strength left his legs. Blood gushed from the neat wound made deep into the man’s right kidney, soaking Hamish’s chest a dark, wet crimson.

But it was the look on Laird Barclay’s face that made Coira bite her lower lip to stop herself from crying out. He looked as though he were enjoying himself; his pupils were so dilated that his eyes had turned an unfathomable, devilish black. His teeth were bared, making him resemble some barbaric beast, hardly human at all. His fury was tangible, but so was his pleasure at the act.

Horrified, Coira clambered off the rock pile and climbed back onto her horse. She wanted to get as far away from Laird Hamish Barclay as she possibly could.