Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (12 page)

He released a mighty bellow before he reached behind his back and drew his sword. He fought as he was trained—without fear, without rules, and with a savage force that aroused his spirit. Another ruthless bellow tore from his lips as he leapt from rock to rock, carving his sword through limbs and bellies. He maimed and murdered like he was satiating a hunger, for he understood the demands of victory—instill fear, show no mercy.

Garik swung his blade, tearing across a man’s side. The wound gaped open, releasing blood and organs. The man fell to his knees, still glowering up at Garik despite his fatal wound. Garik growled as he shoved the man onto his back with his foot. Then he looked down at him and said, “I am Garik MacKinnon, and you are going to die. Your body will be feasted upon by the beasts of the forest.” Then he raised his blade again in search of another wretch to slay, but the enemy was retreating, fleeing deeper into the woods.

“Nay,” he shouted as he surged forward. He wanted to slay them all, but they were too far ahead. Raising his sword over his head, he hurled it into the trees. He cried out in victory as the blade wedged between enemy shoulder blades. His heart beat savagely as he turned his head to the sky and bellowed the MacKinnon battle cry to the heavens. Then Angus Og and his clan joined in with their own battle cry, and the air thundered with the sound of victory.

“’Tis done then,” Angus Og said. “The last of Edward’s Scottish supporters have been brought to heel.

They made camp at the foot of the mountain. The fervor of battle left Garik. He sagged into a clear spring, letting the water rush over his limbs, whisking away the blood and death that always left his heart cold. He closed his eyes and searched for Nellore’s smiling green eyes amid the fresh images of war that choked his mind and his heart. He was a warrior, a fierce and fearless warrior, but he did not love the fight like so many others. His heart beat to a quieter rhythm and in that moment of peace and recovery he waited for the return of himself, the simple man who wanted nothing more in life than to love the woman of his heart. The release of his bloodlust ushered Nellore back into his soul. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

He longed for her. His heart ached in a way he never knew possible. In his mind, her scent still clung to his skin. She imbued his every breath and thought. As they marched onward, he thought not of the dangers ahead or whether he would survive. He thought only of Nellore. To him it was simple. She was his everything. His world began and ended within the tender warmth of her green eyes. He would continue to fight without fear, because he did so to safeguard her life.

Isle of Mull, Scotland

Winter 1314

“Thank ye, Hamish,” Nellore said.

“Whatever for, lass?” Hamish said as he turned to look at her with his one good eye.

“For letting me join ye today on your watch. ‘Tis a fine day for a ride.”

“Aye, brisk with winter’s chill. Still, the sun shines. ‘Tis a pleasure for an old codger like me to have a spirited lass at my side.”

They rode over the moors, checking on cottars as they passed by. They even stopped to visit Mary and Gordon, who both had only good news to report. After waving goodbye, Nellore and Hamish set out once more, heading farther west to check the watch towers. As they approached the first tower, she pulled her horse to a halt and slid to the ground. She did not have to signal to Hamish. With an agility that belied his age, he dropped to his feet.

“Why is there only one,” she asked as they eyed a lone MacLean warrior scaling the watch tower. “And where is the watch?”

“Mayhap, the watch saw the Maclean approach and has already ridden for aid,” he said.

She squinted her eyes. She could see something in the tall grasses. “Nay,” she cried. “The watch does not ride for aid.” Fury coursed through her. She swung back onto her mount, ignoring Hamish’s questions and protest. She kicked her heels into her horse’s flanks and raced toward the tower, withdrawing her sword as she drew closer. The MacLean warrior atop the high tower had spotted her, but it was too late. He had nowhere to run. Swinging her sword with all her might, she sliced one of the tower’s wooden legs. The sharp edge cut straight through. Then she circled back around and swung again, slicing through another leg. The tower, and the MacLean with it, came tumbling down.

Nellore leapt to the ground and raced past the MacLean who now writhed on the sodden earth, hugging an injured arm close to his body. Nellore paid him no heed. Her heart had been captured by the sight of her fallen clansman.

“Tavish,” she called as she rushed to his side, but with a sharp intake of breath, she stopped short. “Nay, Tavish,” she cried as she fell to her knees at his side. Three arrows protruded from his back. “God keep ye,” she whispered.

“Where do ye think ye’re going, ye murdering bastard?” Hamish growled. The MacLean had tried scurrying away on his stomach, but with only one good arm he had not made it very far. Hamish flipped him over and drove his knee into his chest. Then he pressed his dirk against the enemy’s neck. With satisfaction, Nellore noted the thin trickle of blood dripping down the MacLean’s throat. She stared down into his wide, terrified eyes.

“I see ye trembling. Ye’re wise to be afraid. Hamish would like nothing more than to dispense with your foul life right here, right now. I may be able to persuade him to bring ye to our laird, alive, if ye tell me where the rest of your band is,” she said.

The MacLean swallowed. The action pressed his throat into Hamish’s blade. “Keep breathing and ye just might skewer yourself,” she said as the cut deepened and more blood rushed down his throat. Nellore could see panic setting in.

“Look at me,” she snapped. “Where are the rest of your men?”

“There…there…are none,” he whispered.

‘I don’t believe ye,” she said. “Press harder, Hamish. If ye want your head separated from your neck, then do carry on with your lies.”

A frightened mewl escaped his lips as he whimpered, “I’m telling ye the truth. I…I’m a scout. The MacLean sent me to observe the watch, but your…your man saw me.” The MacLean’s eyes moved in the direction of Tavish’s lifeless body.

“Tavish,” she spat in his face. “His name was Tavish. Say his name,” she growled.

Ta…Tavish. Tavish saw me. He was going to sound the alarm. I didn’t know what to do—”

“So ye shot him in the back,” Nellore spat.

“Ye know what that means, lass?” Hamish said.

She shook her head.

“The MacLean is planning a war. He monitors the watch to find any weak places by which to gauge the hour of attack.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. Then she scowled down at the enemy. “Tie him up. We must take him to Ronan,” she said.

They wrapped poor Tavish’s body in his plaid and carefully slung him over her horse. She kept her arm over his lifeless body to ensure he did not slip. Meanwhile, Hamish tied their prisoner to the MacLean’s horse, which he led behind as they road back to Gribun.

Gasps and outcries of rage announced their arrival in the village. Word spread quickly of Tavish’s death. Soon, his heartbroken family surrounded Nellore. They lifted his body down and carried Tavish away, disappearing down a village path. They would bring him home one last time and prepare his body for burial.

Nellore wiped her tears and joined Hamish as he dragged their prisoner into the keep.

Ronan sat at the dais at the end of the great hall, listening to a dispute between two cottars. He held up his hand to silence the man speaking when Nellore and Hamish entered with their prisoner.

Nellore approached the dais, and without having to be told, the cottars bowed to Ronan and retreated from the hall.

“This man attacked the watch tower nearest the Cillchriosd Standing Stone. He filled poor Tavish’s back full of arrows.” A feeling of loss gripped her heart. For a brief moment, her laird’s face mirrored her own grief, but soon sorrow gave way to fury. Ronan stormed over to the MacLean who Hamish had brought to his knees.

Ronan grabbed the smaller man by the hair and yanked him once again to his feet. “Just like a MacLean to stab a man in the back. Do ye deny it?” Ronan bellowed, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

The MacLean shuddered, trying to pull away from Ronan’s grasp as he cried, “Nay, I…I deny nothing.”

“My laird,” Hamish said, drawing Ronan’s gaze. “He’s a scout sent to monitor our watch.”

Ronan brought the enemy’s trembling face only a breath from his own. “Ye’re planning a war,” he gritted.

“Aye,” the MacLean whispered, his eyes clenched shut against Ronan’s fury.

Nellore followed close behind while Ronan dragged the broken man through the castle gates. “Go home, snake. Go home, and tell your laird that we’ve learned of his plans and will be ready to fight.” Then Ronan threw him down the wide, stone stairs. He landed before an angry mob that had gathered, hungry for justice. The enraged villagers wasted no time in grabbing hold of his arms. The MacLean flailed against the angry fists, calling out to Ronan. His words did not carry over the fury of the crowd, but Nellore gleaned enough to know the MacLean clung to information he believed of interest to the MacKinnon.

“Silence,” Ronan roared. The tension in the air thickened when the villagers reined in their anger. Nellore held her breath as her chieftain turned back to the MacLean. “Speak,” he said.

“My laird does not give these orders,” he said. “The MacLean is ill. My orders came from his second son, Calum.”

A widening of Ronan’s eyes betrayed his interest, but he quickly recovered and stormed down the stairs. The MacLean quailed and hid his face in his hands. “I care not who is in command,” Ronan roared. “Deliver my message. The message of the Clan MacKinnon. Tell the MacLean we are ready.” Then Ronan held out his hands to his people, drawing their gazes. “Allow this man to pass,” he shouted.

“But he is a murderer,” someone yelled.

“Aye, but he carries my message,” Ronan said, his eyes rising to challenge his people.

Without further protest, the villagers did as their laird bid and opened a path for the MacLean, but the enemy was not saved from a display of the peoples’ wrath. A volley of refuse and spittle showered down upon the MacLean as he stumbled from the courtyard, cradling his broken arm against his chest.

“Forgive me, Ronan,” Hamish said when they returned once more to the keep. “But we are in no position to fight a war.”

Ronan’s shoulders sagged. Suddenly, he seemed very old to Nellore. “I ken,” he said quietly. After several moments passed and her chieftain still had yet to speak, Nellore grabbed hold of his hand. “What are we to do?” she said.

“Ye’ve done all ye can, Nellore. This hopefully will buy us some time. The MacLean will not attack knowing we wait for it. But if the bastard is intent on making war, then we’ve no choice but to send word to our men, and pray the Bruce will be able to release at least some of our warriors.”

Ronan stood then and wiped the fatigue from his eyes. “Hamish, ye send a messenger. Nellore, ye will walk with me, for I cannot be idle. I want nothing more than to bring that MacLean coward back so that I can send his head home in a box. A fitting end for a coward who would shoot a man in the back.” He exhaled, offering his arm to Nellore.

“’Twould be folly, my laird, no matter how satisfying,” she said. “We’ve not the arms to defend ourselves. Ye cannot give the MacLean a reason to bring the fight to our door.”

He nodded and his amber eyes shone with admiration. “Ye truly are a remarkable lass. Ye’re right, of course, though I wish it were otherwise.”

She left the hall with her laird at her side. He led her through the gardens. She listened to him speak of earlier days while she considered the tenuousness of their position. A full attack would, indeed, be disastrous, but despite the ill-tidings of the day, within her grew a seed of hope that after two long years Garik might soon sail home.

It felt as though a lifetime had passed since Garik had last held Nellore in his arms. She had remained fixed in his mind. Even in the midst of battle when violent fury tore through him, she had been there—his light shining in the darkness. The taste of her had continued to linger on his lips, overpowering the iron taste of blood, which drowned the air when his knife cut through the muscle and sinew of his enemy. Countless eyes had closed forever beneath the might of his blade, but such is the price of freedom. They had not sought this war. It was not their greed that set the struggle in motion, but he, like the other Mull MacKinnons, would be damned before they’d relinquish their land and hearts without a fight.

And fight they had.

Their swords had gleamed with the blood of their enemy, but so too had tears been spent over fallen brothers. Continuous war had a way of reducing a man to shadow as he moved through a world starved of goodness, surrounded by death. The memory of Nellore alone had kept Garik whole in the face of so much suffering.

Under the leadership of Angus Og and Lord James Douglas, they had seized many of Scotland’s strongholds, which had still been under English authority, and they did so with a fraction of the men and arms. The reasons for their success: the element of surprise and their ferocity. They attacked in the dead of night or under the guise of some elaborate ruse, and one stronghold at a time, England had been overthrown.