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She looked wildly about for Ronan and saw him in the midst of the fray. He had found a sword and was cutting his way toward the chapel door. Malcolm and Haddon Darnley stood just beside the frame, daggers clutched in shaking hands, Alyson between them. Jemmy stood before his wife, his nephew and his fosterling, shielding them with his body as he fought two men at once.

Jemmy's foot slipped in a patch of blood; he nearly went down, but recovered himself at the last moment, driving upward with his dagger as he straightened. One man fell, but the other redoubled his attack. Jemmy was forced from his position, leaving Alyson and the two boys in the open and his own back undefended.

As Sir Calder moved with lightning speed to take Jemmy from behind, Deirdre's cry of warning was lost in the confusion. She watched in helpless horror as Sir Calder's sword rose, began its swift descent—and was halted inches from Jemmy's shoulder with a clash of steel on steel.

Calder's face contorted into a mask of fury as he glared down at this new opponent. Alistair retreated a step, his back just touching Jemmy's, and chanced a quick glance over one shoulder, meeting his kinsman's startled gaze. As Jemmy turned back, Deirdre saw the fierce grin flash across his features.

Deirdre let out a sobbing breath of mingled terror and relief. Not a traitor, she thought dizzily. He's not and never has been. How could I have doubted?

Calder towered over Alistair, his face flushed and lips drawn back into a snarl. Alistair looked up at him with eyes like chips of ice. His first feint was a sideways slash that Calder caught easily on his blade, twisting his weapon to knock the sword from Alistair's hands. Alistair disengaged before the movement was complete and came at him from the other side, all done in one single, graceful movement that took Calder by surprise. The dark-bearded knight blocked the blow, but only barely, and edge of Alistair's sword caught him on the upper arm.

Calder leaped back, both feet planted squarely on the floor, and attacked with a rain of heavy blows. Alistair fended him off, though Deirdre could not make out how he did it, for his blade hardly seemed to move. Yet as the encounter wore on, he began to tire. Even Deirdre could see that much.

Alistair was leaning openly against Jemmy now. He blinked and shook his head, as though blinded by the sweat streaming down his face. Calder began to smile; he increased the force of his blows, and Alistair seemed just a bit slower; his blade was sagging and after one terrible slash that he barely managed to deflect, he staggered and went down upon one knee.

This was obviously the chance Calder had been waiting for. He bent down, sword raised—and Alistair, with a cry that tore through the sounds of combat, leapt up to meet him with a two-handed sweep of his blade.

Deirdre turned away, retching, as the black-bearded head flew from the brawny shoulders in a fountain of bright blood. When she looked again, Calder had fallen to the stone floor. Alistair was nowhere to be seen.

At that moment the door burst open behind her and a crowd of men rushed in; not knights, Deirdre saw, but stable lads, farmers, and drovers by their dress, and the weapons they wielded were the tools of their trade: scythes and cleavers and pitchforks.

"A Kirallen!" they screamed, streaming into the passageway, cutting a path that Deirdre followed. She ran unheeding through the fray, and at last reached the farthest end of the passage. Jemmy had flung open the chapel door and was guarding it as Alyson was helped inside. She looked dazed and sick and stumbled between Malcolm and Haddon, each of them holding her by one arm.

"Lady Maxwell," Jemmy shouted. "Get inside."

Deirdre ignored him, her attention fixed on the bodies littering the floor. Her glance passed over one of the red-haired twins—Donal or Conal, she didn't know which—continued past a dozen other men, most of them in Maxwell's plaid, and fixed at last on a spill of bright gold against the flagstones.

A hand jerked her roughly by the arm. "Inside," Jemmy snapped, nodding toward the chapel door.

"No!" Deirdre shook him off and dropped to her knees, pushing at the headless body of Sir Calder. At last she succeeded in rolling him over and looked down into Alistair's face.

"Help him," she cried, turning to look at Jemmy. But Jemmy was already gone. She seized Alistair by the arm and began to drag him toward the chapel door. When at last she reached it, she found that it was shut fast, bolted from within.

"Open!" she cried, pounding her fists against the wood. "Alyson—Malcolm, open the door!"

There was no answer. She sank down against the door and drew Alistair's head into her lap, bending over him to shield him with her body as the fighting swept around them.

Someone stumbled over them with a curse, and a booted foot struck Deirdre's cheek hard enough to flood her eyes with tears. The door jerked open and she felt strong hands beneath her arms, tugging her backward. She tightened her grip on Alistair and they were dragged together back into the chapel. The moment they were inside, the door slammed shut again.

The sound of battle was muffled now, as though it came from far away. Deirdre could hear Malcom breathing in harsh gasps as the boy knelt beside her.

"Lady Maxwell," he said. "Are ye hurt?"

She shook her head and smoothed the matted hair away from Alistair's brow, staring down at his still face. Beneath the spatters of blood, his skin was white as marble, the lashes lying dark and thick against his cheeks. He looked very peaceful, she thought, very young.

"Is he...?" Malcolm gulped and swallowed hard. He reached out a shaking hand and laid it against Alistair's neck, just below the ear. "God be thanked."

Deirdre raised her head and looked at him, uncomprehending.

"He lives, lady," Malcolm said. "Here—feel—"

She pressed her fingers to Alistair's neck, found the pulse beating quick and light beneath his skin.

Slowly, very slowly, the sounds of battle faded. All that was left were the groans of the wounded and the weeping of the women. Deirdre sat, Alistair's head cradled in her lap, Malcolm moving restlessly between her and Alyson, who was kneeling with two priests on the far side of the chapel. As Deirdre caught their words, she realized they were administering the last rites.

"The chapel guard," Malcolm said in answer to Deirdre's question. "Some of them might live. The others—" His eyes filled and he looked away.

Deirdre bent her head and closed her eyes.