Outside, dawn had barely broken, and torches were still burning in the bailey, piercing the fog that had settled overnight, eerily illuminating the scene. A tense hush fell over the bailey, all within the walls anticipating the fight that had come at last.
“Malcolm!”
Ewan was hailing him from near the guardhouse. He strode towards his brother, who was barking orders at the sergeants, sending extra men above to help man the walls as planned.
The pair converged by the gates, where a large group of guards were already stationed, ready to repel any sign of ingress by the enemy. From behind it came the familiar roar and metallic clatter of a multitude of armed men wanting entry and prepared to use violent force to obtain it.
Sinclair’s army.
“So, he’s come then,” he shouted over the din, well aware that the outcome of the battle would dictate the future for him and Catriona. “I’m glad. The uncertainty was killin’ me.”
“Aye, we can dae what we dae best now, Braither, fight. And Duncan’s goin’ nay where now, so we still have the numbers. I’ve deployed his men already according tae our plans.”
Malcolm nodded his approval, having already figured that out. He had told his brother what had passed with his friend and how Duncan had left the study dragging Catriona with him. He would not be able to take her away from him until the battle was resolved, although whether that was a good or bad thing he was not sure. Duncan’s anger no longer mattered now either. Because there was one thing they could agree on—keeping Catriona from falling into Sinclair’s clutches was paramount.
“Where is he?” he asked, looking around the bailey.
Ewan shrugged. “I havenae seen him yet, but mayhap he’s up on the battlements already.”
“How many men daes Sinclair have with him?” he shouted to his brother over the rising din coming from beyond the gates.
“’Tis hard tae say until the fog lifts, but ’tis a large force, several hundred at least, maybe more,” Ewan admitted grimly. “What with the fog and lack of light, the lookouts didnae see them until minutes before they arrived beneath the walls. They must have come through the woods on foot.”
“Damn the bloody fog,” Malcolm cursed, feeling that for all his preparations, Sinclair had somehow outwitted him.
The next moment, his blood froze in his veins as a bone-shaking rhythmic thudding began at the gates, mingling with the enemy’s roaring clamor. The giant gates shuddered with each strike of the battering ram, in time with Malcolm’s heartbeat.
“Christ,” Ewan said quickly, eyeing the gates with concern. “He’s nae wastin’ any time. He wants in.”
“He wants Catriona,” Malcolm growled, cold fury seizing him. “But he’s nae havin’ her. I swear I’ll kill that bastard before this is over.”
Crash went the ram, shaking the mighty gates. Malcolm’s warriors stood ranked before it, blades and targes poised, waiting.
“Where is she?” Ewan asked, watching the gates shuddering with each mighty blow from outside.
“The secret passage,” Malcolm told him, looking around again for Duncan but not seeing him.
“Good, she should be safe there.” He met Malcolm’s eyes and slapped his shoulder. “Well, Braither, we’ve done all we can tae prepare. All the men are in position. Now it comes down tae the fightin’.”
A grim, almost feral look crossed Malcolm’s features as the familiar bloodlust rose within him like boiling gall, filling every part of him.
“Aye, I’ve been waitin’ too long tae kill this bastard,” he ground out.
The ram pounded the gates with another sickening crunch, then another and another. The gate bar rattled in its sockets, and the gates themselves shed a rain of splinters as the oaken planks began to feel the strain.
A squire ran up to the brothers, handing them their helmets and targes. Malcolm thanked him as he pulled on the helmet, slung the targe over his shoulder, and unsheathed his claymore. Ewan did the same.
“Hold the gates. I’m goin’ up top tae have a look,” Malcolm told him. Ewan nodded, while Malcolm turned and ran across to a flight of stone steps leading to the battlements, reaching the top in a few leaping strides.
He ran to the edge of battlements, where a mixture of Gordon and Grant archers were unleashing volley after volley of arrows onto the enemy below. In return, enemy arrows fell upon them like rain, taking some of the defenders out of action. Others were engaged in repelling the enemy soldiers who were swarming up ladders, stabbing at their faces and chests with lethal halberds, shoving the ladders away from the walls, sending men screaming to their deaths.
“Good work, lads, keep it up!” he shouted before looking out over the attacking horde. Sinclair’s troops moved in a body at the foot of the walls, resembling swarming bees as they continued their relentless attempts to break into the keep.
He did not show his dismay when he saw for himself that Ewan was right. The true size of the attacking force was impossible to estimate because a large part of it was obscured by the fog. But the noise level, the fleets of arrows flying upwards from within the impenetrable white curtain, and the seemingly ceaseless forward flow of men to replace those killed or injured directly below the walls suggested it was very large.
He felt bad for not having had time to alert the villagers of Fochabers to come inside the walls, and he dared not dwell on the havoc Sinclair’s men might be inflicting upon his people. He could only hope they had had warning enough to run for the woods and hide.
Sinclair wants her bad, all right, but he’ll havetae get past me first.
