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“This is the camp,” William said, suddenly appearing behind them and causing both men to jump, startled. “Can I leave now?”
Chrisdean glanced at him and considered it for a moment, but then he shook his head. “I canna ken if ye’ll go help them if I let ye go,” he said. “We’ll tie ye here until all this is over.”
The look William gave him was one of utter disbelief. “Why would I go help them if they’ll kill me for bringing you here anyway?” he asked. “What if you don’t win this battle? What if all your men die, and you die, and then I die because you left me tied up here?”
“Ach, lad, we’re na losin’ the battle,” Chrisdean said, and he was just as confident about it as he sounded. With a wave of his hand, he called two of his men who dragged William away, much to the boy’s annoyance, and then Chrisdean went back to observing.
“I canna see Nimue,” Brock said, confirming what Chrisdean had seen, as well—or rather, hadn’t seen. “Do ye think that she’s na here?”
“She must be,” Chrisdean said. “Look . . . look, her faither is right there. She must be in one of the tents.”
“Och aye.” With a nod of his head, Brock pulled his sword slowly out of its sheath. “Are ye ready, then?”
“Aye.”
That was all it took for Chrisdean’s men to pull out their own swords and storm the camp, catching the Englishmen by surprise. Within moments, there was chaos, Scottish and English men running around, the clash of swords filling the air along with the men’s shouts. The only light came from the fire and from the stars above, but the flames were so big and bright that it was more than enough for Chrisdean to see where he was going.
The first tent that he checked was empty, but he didn’t have to check another one. He saw Wentworth coming out from the one that stood at the other side of the camp, dragging Nimue along by the arm before throwing her aside, ordering her to sit with her father. He watched as her father wrapped his arms around her, keeping her close.
Keeping her safe. Chrisdean didn’t want her near the battle.
Before Chrisdean could get to Wentworth, one of the English soldiers attacked him with a cry, swinging his sword wildly as he tried to kill him. Chrisdean had hoped that he would only have to fight Wentworth, not wanting to waste any of his energy on his men, but everyone else seemed to be occupied in their own fight, and Chrisdean had little choice other than to respond in kind, parrying every blow that the man dealt.
The air smelled of firewood and blood, the first bodies already hitting the ground. Chrisdean couldn’t look around to see if the losses were from his side or the side of the English; he could only hope for the best. He could hear Brock’s familiar war cry behind him, reassuring him that he was still alive and well, still fighting, and that allowed him the focus that he needed to fight his own opponent.
What the man seemed to lack in skill and experience, he made up for with enthusiasm and bloodlust. He seemed to want to kill Chrisdean, not because it was his duty but because he enjoyed it, and Chrisdean had never encountered such a man before, English or Scottish.
With every clash of their swords, Chrisdean pushed the other man further and further away from him, which only made it harder for him to deal the finishing blow. The two of them danced around each other, both of them avoiding each other’s sword more often than parrying now. At the man’s next blow, Chrisdean hopped to the side and then back before answering with a swing of his own sword, sending the other man a few steps further.
Chrisdean was getting frustrated. His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, eyes narrowing and cheeks aflame with the heat of the fire and the battle. He could feel the beads of sweat as they rolled down his temples and neck, drenching his shirt uncomfortably. The wound on his side was beginning to hurt once more, the effort that he was putting into fighting the Englishman upsetting the tender flesh. Every stretch did its part to reopen the wound just a little more, the slow yet steady trickle of blood mixing with his sweat.
He didn’t know how much longer he could fight this man and still have energy to fight Wentworth. Besides, when he looked for him, he found him fighting one of his men, and his hope of getting to him first was crushed.
He couldn’t hope for Wentworth to survive the altercation, as that would mean the death of his own soldier.
With a growl, Chrisdean attacked the Englishman once more, eager to put an end to their fight. He swung his sword high, knowing that the man would either parry or dodge his attack, and he was ready for both. When the man moved away from him once more, he quickly stepped closer to him, pushing his sword through the man’s abdomen with a cry.
When he pulled the sword out of his body, the man fell onto the ground without another word, a pool of blood quickly forming under him.
Then, Chrisdean headed straight for Wentworth, only to find that he had survived the fight and that his own man was dead next to him. The sight filled Chrisdean with fury, face reddening even more, hands shaking with the rage that coursed through his veins.
He swore to get revenge.
“Laird MacIntosh!” Wentworth shouted, his voice laced with a strange glee that didn’t fit the situation. Had they not been in the middle of a battle, Chrisdean would have thought that the man was happy to see him. “I didn’t think that you’d find this place . . . at least not so easily.”
“Ye’re in me territory, Wentworth,” Chrisdean pointed out, to hide the way he had found the camp. “Did ye think that I wouldna look for ye? Did ye think I wouldna ken that ye took me wife?”
“My wife,” Wentworth said. “Your marriage to Nimue was nothing but a sham. My marriage is legal, recognized by the King. She’s my wife now.”
“I dinna think so,” Chrisdean said. “I dinna care what ye or the King says. Nimue is me wife in God’s eyes, and so it shall always be after I kill ye.”
“You have a lot of confidence, Laird MacIntosh,” the Earl said. “I wonder if Nimue is as sweet as she looks. She certainly tastes sweet.”
A roar brewed in Chrisdean’s throat, angry and animalistic. He charged at Wentworth, but the man parried his attack, their swords clashing a few times before he pulled back. He seemed eager to talk, perhaps to gloat or to mock him, but all Chrisdean wanted was to kill him and be done with it.
“Ye bastard,” Chrisdean said, voice low and dangerous. “Did ye dare touch her? I’ll tear ye limb to limb, and I’ll leave yer body here to rot, do ye hear me? Ye’ll never ken peace.”
Wentworth laughed, and Chrisdean hated the sound, happy and bright as it was. It was as though Wentworth was trying his best to unnerve him, he thought, to make him think that he was too deranged for him to fight him and win.
