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‘Aye, Rory, it’s come to this. We win here or we die, it’s that simple.’ His voice was ice. ‘They say men fight hardest with their backs against the wall.’
‘So be it. Make your peace with God then and beg his mercy, for they are itching for a fight today.’
‘Then they’ll get one,’ Duncan replied grimly.
Turning to his men he addressed them in a voice of steely determination.
‘We all of us here are dead men unless we fight… and fight hard. There is no hope of reconciliation with the Sinclairs. We have tried on countless occasions to make peace with these bastards but each time they throw our efforts back in our faces. Make no mistake about these men,’ he shouted, pointing to the considerable opposing force gathered further up the river, ‘they mean to kill you all, rape your women and burn your homes. They mean to steal your crops, take your cattle and have your children as their slaves. Your resistance alone is the only hope of safety for yourselves and your families. Only when this river runs red with their blood can we have peace.’ He steered Ares along the line of angry clansmen armed to the teeth with swords, shields and halberds.
‘Hear me now. You will give quarter to no man and show no mercy for you’ll get none from these men. Fight with uncontrollable fury to your last breath and we shall bring the wrath of God down on them. There is no retreat from our line. There is only death or glory. Are you with me Clan Campbell?’
The response was a deafening ‘aye’ and a wave of swords lifted high in the air as his men, some frightened, some resolute, found in his strength and certainty the courage to face the butchery that was clan warfare.
His mind shifted suddenly to a warmer place, soft lips on his and a wanting inside him like no other. He allowed this one sweet moment and then killed the thought, no room for sentiment and softness now. There was only his claymore heavy in his grip, the murmur of his followers building to a battle cry behind him and the deafening beat of sword hilts on shields, answered in kind by their rivals as they too rallied and braced themselves for a dirty fight.
A bright streak of lightning pierced the leaden sky as the Sinclair forces attacked and raced full pelt towards them, the hooves of their advancing horses thunderous as the oncoming storm. Then the two clans came to death grips on the marshy banks of the river.
It was said later that when the fighting was done the survivors of Clan Campbell, bloodied but not broken, were able to cross the river without getting their feet wet, so great were the numbers of Sinclair dead piled up in it.
Ailsa stared out at the sky from her chamber window and shivered, wrapping her cloak tighter. A big storm was coming and with it an overwhelming sense of doom. Life had somehow shifted off balance and she felt adrift, like a boat, which has slipped its moorings and is wandering aimlessly on the huge ocean - pushed this way and that with no control of its direction or destination. Clan MacLeod had been torn apart, Gordon MacLeod having contracted pneumonia a mere month after Morag’s wedding. The end had come quickly with no time to prepare or really say goodbye. As she thought of her father she was gripped anew with intense anguish. Grief was like a fresh wound ripped open to bleed again and again.
Her mother was devastated by the loss of her husband and had fallen into a staring, broken apathy from which nothing seemed to rouse her. For almost a year now she had taken to her bedchamber and refused to emerge or to take part in the running of the household. Ailsa had been forced to grow up quickly and assume her mother’s responsibilities.
Control of the clan had fallen to her brother who, in a time when strength and courage were expected of him, had only weakness and greed to offer. Robert was not even half the man his father had been. His gambling and drinking had continued unabated and despite increasing the taxes on his people to an almost unbearable burden, he had nevertheless steered the MacLeods to the brink of ruin. With debts mounting and the rule of law decaying Robert had thrown in his lot with the Sinclairs and sought to bolster his sagging power by pledging men and arms to them in the quest to gain superiority over their old rivals - the Campbells.
The fight between Alex Sinclair and Duncan Campbell was a wound that had not healed over time. Instead, it had festered and bitter grudges over stolen land and perceived slights had been resurrected. What began as vengeful skirmishes, cattle reiving and woman stealing, had boiled over into something infinitely more deadly. The rivalry between the Sinclairs and the Campbells had now ripped open into a deep pit of hatred. Because of Robert’s weakness, the MacLeods had been sucked into it and it had begun to swallow everything Ailsa held dear.
Now he had gone off to fight with the Sinclairs and a messenger had come with news that there was to be one decisive battle with the Campbells by the river at Kirriemuir. It was said that her brother’s allies had amassed a far superior force and so the battle could be in no doubt as to the outcome. Robert would surely arrive home victorious.
But how long could a peace last? Ailsa had paid enough attention to her father’s political intrigues to know that the Sinclairs were a ruthless, predatory people with neither loyalty nor scruples and that they would relentlessly covet the MacLeod’s fertile land. If they turned on her brother they could take what they wanted and the MacLeod clan could be absorbed into theirs and at their mercy. Robert had put everyone in a dangerous position and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Worse still her brother had hinted that he would look to strengthen his alliance with the Sinclairs by seeking a suitable husband for her amongst their ranks. Ailsa had been able to deflect her father’s choice of suitors due to his love for her. Robert was a different man entirely and his selfishness would make him blind to his sister’s wishes.
She allowed herself the brief indulgence of thinking about Duncan Campbell. Her memory of his kiss was like a precious jewel which she hid away in the dark recesses of her mind, only to bring it out in quiet moments where she held on to it and the tiny piece of comfort it brought in an otherwise grim reality. Was he to die today, that handsome rogue? Ailsa couldn’t bear the thought of him being cut down. Her chest felt tight and tears sprung to her eyes at the thought of something so strong and vital being snuffed out in a moment of violence.
For a minute she let the disloyal thoughts in. His mouth on hers, hungry and insistent, strong hands holding her against a hard body, the smell and taste of him and the longing to feel that way again. The shame of it turned her face to fire. He surely thought her nothing more than a foolish girl, easy to take advantage of with too much whisky in her belly, a salve for his lust and instantly forgotten. She was sure that man had never given her a second thought and now Duncan Campbell was a sworn enemy of her clan so all thoughts of him must be pushed aside for her own sake. She must be true to her birthright and never ever tell anyone what had happened that night on the battlements.
Suddenly the door to the chamber crashed open and she was confronted with a maidservant, white-faced and breathless. ‘Lady we are lost,’ she shouted in panic. ‘The battle is done and we were defeated. The Campbells slaughtered them all.’
Ailsa grabbed her arm to steady her. ‘What of my brother?’
‘There’s no news of him, Lady, only that there was a massacre.’
Ailsa’s legs weakened and she slumped onto the bed. Bile rose in her throat at the shock of it. No one had expected this, they were sure of their victory and now Robert’s talk of glory had turned to ashes. Was he lying bloody and cleaved in a ditch somewhere? Had she brought this doom down upon them with her sinful thoughts?
‘Lady the servants are fleeing and we must go too’.
‘Why?’
‘Duncan Campbell and his men are on their way here to claim Cailleach and everything in it’.
An eerie quiet hung over the castle as Duncan approached. He had no idea what he would find there but a terrible sense of urgency had driven him to ride hard all through the night pushing his exhausted men to their limits to reach it. A frigid dawn mist clung about the walls and Duncan hoped fervently that its occupants were not intending to mount a defence. A long drawn out siege with more bloodshed on both sides was the last thing he wanted. His mission now was to secure the castle on behalf of his uncle and thereby take control of the MacLeod lands, stamping out any further plans for an attack.
As for the Sinclairs, they had been thoroughly routed but their resentments would simmer and bubble to the surface again and for such an eventuality Clan Campbell needed to be prepared. Destroying the alliance between the MacLeods and the Sinclairs was an essential first step.
The portcullis hung open like a gaping mouth. Meeting no resistance as he entered through the gatehouse, Duncan was careful to seek out concealed archers hiding in the arrow loops or lurking in the murder holes further within. The inner courtyard was deserted save for some livestock scurrying around. The forge lay ominously empty and all the horses were gone. Had Robert not left men behind to protect Cailleach and its occupants? A slow dread crept its way up his spine for the castle appeared to have been given up without a fight but given up to whom?
Duncan rushed along the dark corridors and burst into the great hall, sword drawn, and his best men at his back. He was confronted with several frightened old servants scuttling out of sight and Ailsa, standing before her dead father’s chair, a dagger clutched in a trembling hand, head held high in defiance. He felt a surge of pity at her pathetic attempts at defending herself, which he quickly pushed aside. He turned to his second in command.
