Anger bit at her again even as the second man steadied her. “Are ye certain ye be no’ hurt?”
Hurt, aye—to the very soul.“Nay. Let me climb up.”
He moved aside. She gathered the contents of her basket and navigated the narrow walkway. A dangerous place to be, up on the battlements. And as she reached the top walkway, amazement made her freeze.
A black tide of screaming, bloodthirsty men lapped about the skirts of the keep. Torchlight from the walls shone down upon them, illuminating an angry face here, a flap of tartan there, the glint of a sword. The sheer noise and insipient violence of it stole Rhian’s strength. So many men. They turned her beautiful glen into a place of ugliness and horror.
Someone bumped into her again, from the side this time. An arrow arced over the battlement, nearly striking her.
“Mistress, for the love o’ God, get down.”
“Aye. Aye. There are wounded?”
There were, lying against the bottom of the wall, suffering. She crawled to the nearest of them and treated him while the screaming, the clashing, and the strife continued above her. She moved on, trying to avoid getting stepped on even as she dressed wounds.
“Mistress,” said the second man she treated, “ye be bleeding.” Agonized, he stared into her face and motioned to her chin.
“’Tis naught. I took a fall.”
“Ye should no’ be here. ’Tis too dangerous.”
“None o’ us should be here.” They were people all, just people. What call had they to try to kill one another?
After that, she tried to shut away her thoughts and ignore her fear while she worked on. Her anger continued to simmer inside, and flared to life when she heard a call.
“Rory MacLeod! ’Tis Rory MacLeod!”
She stumbled to her feet. In the performance of her duties, she had worked her way down the walkway above the main gate. Here was the battle concentrated.
Here would be the man who led the MacLeods on this bloody campaign.
Rhian went to the wall and looked over, only realizing as she did that she stood beside Moira, who remained on her feet but was smeared with blood. And Alasdair—it had been Alasdair who cried out.
She gazed out, and down.
Far to the east, the sun clawed its way into the sky, and that made it easy to see their attackers.
They had a battering ram. Rhian had no idea how they’d transported it across the loch or if they’d sent men on the longer and far more arduous route around and over the burn. It was an enormous thing, the trunk of a tree shaped to a butt end and now suspended on leather straps. An engine of destruction.
Two score of men manned it. The MacBeith archers targeted them, but it was difficult to aim straight down. And to Rhian’s horror, it appeared the attackers had enough men to take the places of any who fell.
The man at the head of the thing—he was Rory MacLeod.
Rhian gazed at him, this man at the heart of all her grief. A big man, he fought bare-headed and had flying black hair and a wicked, sculpted face. He stood with his sword already drawn as if waiting to burst in upon them once the gate fell.
The gate could not go down.
“The gate canna’ go down!” shouted Moira beside her, stealing the very words from her mind. “No’ at any cost.”
Rhian stared at her sister, startled, and Moira gave her a swift, fierce stare in return. “Ye should no’ be here. Go!”
Rhian could not move to save her life. She plundered Rory MacLeod with her gaze, wondering what would happen if he did break in, bringing blood and death with him.
She would lay aside her basket then, lay aside her healing. Take up a sword.
Someone pushed in beside her, hands fierce on the stone. It was Saerla, tense as a bowstring. She leaned over the stone battlement and, like the rest of them, stared down at Rory MacLeod.
For a moment he gazed back up at them, his face sharp and angular in the torchlight. Saerla said something—the words rolled off her tongue. A curse?
