Authors: Heartstorm
"Hold
on, Conall. I'll do nothing outrageous yet. I've no wish to get a price on my
head if I can help it."
Conall
sobered immediately. "I'd forgotten that little matter of Glenkennon's
petition to the king."
"Your
concern for your laird is touching," Francis said dryly. "Were it you
about to face your future hanged, then drawn and quartered as a traitor, I'm
sure you'd not be so quick to forget."
"Ah,
lad, the time's not so long past when I faced the same. They have to catch you
first," he added, his ready grin reappearing, "and I've no doubt we
could outfox simple Englishmen. Come now, let's drink a toast to Mistress
Randall. I've developed an overwhelming curiosity to see my fair
kinswoman."
***
The
next two weeks passed pleasantly enough, with Francis and his men resting and
relaxing before beginning to lay plans for a series of autumn raids. The golden
July days slid by like warm honey, and since nothing was heard from Glenkennon,
the thought of danger from that quarter slipped to the back of men's minds. But
on a beautiful summer's afternoon, Francis was reminded all too well that
Glenkennon had not forgotten the MacLeans.
Returning
from a morning's hunt, Francis and ten of his men ambled slowly along a
sun-dappled trail, arguing good-naturedly over an unfinished game of chess.
Above the laughter, a high-pitched shout rang out ahead. "A Maclean..."
The
laughter ended abruptly as all ears strained the silence. Another shout, the
unmistakable noise of clashing steel—sounds of battle—carried faintly on the
summer wind. Francis instinctively slid his sword from its sheath and spurred
Leven ahead through the trees.
Galloping
over a rise, he drew rein abruptly at sight of the desperate scene in the glen
below. Three of his clansmen were backed against a steep hillside, fighting for
their lives with a half-dozen heavily armed horsemen. Even as Francis watched,
one of his men went down, and another wavered unsteadily in the saddle.
Francis
let loose a bloodcurdling clan roar, raising his sword on high as he and his
men surged down the hill. The attacking horsemen turned to flee but weren't
quick enough to reach the dubious protection of a heavy stand of birch at the
edge of the glen.
Hurling
himself into the fray, Francis cut and slashed his way through the thrashing
melee, downing one man and carelessly trampling him beneath Leven's plunging
hooves. The men were English he noted through the red haze of his
fury—undoubtedly Glenkennon's men.
He
ducked a length of gleaming steel meant to sever head from shoulders and swung
Leven so that the stallion crashed into the oncoming Englishman's mount. The
smaller animal scrambled for his footing. Francis made a quick thrust with his
sword, disarming his enemy with a blow that cleaved the shoulder joint. The
man's lips drew back in a grimace of agony while he frantically sought to
control his plunging mount with his good arm.
Francis
offered no quarter. Raising his arm to deliver the final blow, he was stopped
by the sudden report of a pistol fired from close range. Hinging himself along
Leven's neck, he swung about.
Instead
of the English army he expected, the sight of one lone rider met his eyes. At
the edge of the trees, Charles Randall sat his mount, a smoking pistol held
aloft in one hand.
"What
in the name of heaven goes on here, MacLean?"
"You
tell me," Francis snarled. He wheeled Leven out of the press of men and
animals, his sword dripping red with English blood. The white heat of anger
surged through him, and he felt an incredible desire to destroy these men who
profaned his very soil with their presence.
"Hold
them, lads," he ordered his men tersely. "We'll deal with the cowards
later."
"Two
to one, MacLean. Are those the kind of odds you favor?" Charles taunted.
These men didn't have a chance!"
"I've
just come upon three of my men fighting for their lives with seven of your dogs
at their throats, Randall," Francis bit out. "And you're right...
they'd have had little chance if we'd not happened along."
He
gazed at the English soldiers, their badges and colors conspicuously absent.
"It looks as though my men had the misfortune to stumble upon your little
spying expedition." His narrowed gaze shifted back to Randall, and he
jerked his head in the direction of his fallen clansman. "If my man lies
dead, I'll see every last man of you cut to pieces for it, so help me
God!"
"My
men wouldn't attack without reason, MacLean. They'd orders to start no
trouble," Charles snapped, his own fury matching MacLean's black rage.
"I've no idea what started this, but you'll cut no one to pieces if I can
help it. You may have the advantage of us in number, but if you've no wish to
be called a coward to your face, you'll meet me now."
"Done,"
Francis growled, sliding from his mount and tossing the reins to one of his
somberly smiling men. He wiped the blood from his blade and handed his dirk to
another of his men. He felt no compunction at the thought of killing this man.
Charles Randall had led men to spy on Camereigh, and his men had ambushed and
attempted to slay three clansmen who had stumbled innocently on their
activities. For a moment all his hatred of Glenkennon centered on the man
before him, and he felt an overwhelming eagerness to slip his blade into the
lad's black heart.
Charles
faced Francis warily. He had challenged Mac-Lean on impulse, but now he felt an
eagerness to match his sword with that of the man who was fast becoming a
legend throughout the Highlands. His own anger rode him hard, but he controlled
it, knowing he must keep his head if he were to have any hope of surviving this
encounter.
MacLean
moved to the center of the clearing, sword pointing carelessly downward to the
dirt. Charles shifted into position facing him, searching for any hint of
weakness.
MacLean's
hard face gave him little satisfaction. The man was completely in command of
himself now, his dark face betraying nothing of the violent rage that had
gripped him moments before. MacLean would give no quarter— nor would he,
Charles thought grimly, lunging forward in an attempt to catch the Highlander
off guard.
Francis
parried the lunge neatly, following with a quick feint to the right that
brought him close against Charles's blade. Steel grated harshly against steel
as the boy recovered quickly and the fight was on in earnest. The pair circled
each other warily, engaging in several quick exchanges as each attempted to
measure the abilities of the other. The ring of steel echoed hollowly in the
hush, the men moving tirelessly for many long moments on end.
The
sun beat down, flashing blindingly along the gleaming length of blades as the
combatants continued to engage and thrust and test. Sweat beaded Charles's brow
and began to trickle down his forehead into his eyes. His lungs burned with the
effort of taking slow, controlled breaths, and his arm began to tire, the great
sword growing heavier though he lifted it doggedly to parry MacLean's blows.
He
faced the Highlander defiantly, but a tiny fear began forming in the pit of his
stomach. MacLean still matched his blade with an unhurried and negligent skill,
his breathing strong and even. He was not even winded, Charles realized
desperately.
Suddenly
MacLean altered the pace. His dancing blade was everywhere at once, and Charles
found it increasingly difficult to defend himself. He felt the sharp bite of
steel once, then again and again as Francis toyed with him. The hilt of his
sword soon grew slippery with his own blood, and his legs responded sluggishly
to the commands of his brain.
Francis
abruptly ended the game. Lunging forward, he tripped Charles and threw him to
the ground in a maneuver learned from Colen MacKenzie and his wild clansmen in
the North. He held his bloodied sword to Charles's heaving chest, pressing down
until a bright red stain began spreading in widening circles about the point.
The
boy winced as cold steel slid through the cloth of his shirt into living flesh.
His eyes, large as saucers now, lifted from a surprised contemplation of the
great sword to Francis's face. He drew a deep, ragged breath, managing one last
defiant look at his executioner.
Francis
suddenly eased the pressure on his sword. Something in that boyish gaze stayed
his hand. Blue eyes locked with gray while Francis searched for the trick of expression
that had suddenly reminded him of Anne. Sweet Jesus, he couldn't kill Anne's
brother! No matter the provocation, she would never forgive him that!
The
sound of galloping hooves echoed in the strained silence. Francis glanced from
Charles to the approaching horseman. "How do they fare? Have we dead men
to avenge?"
"They
live, though Naill be cut up badly," the clansman reported. "I've a
mind the wound's too high to cause lasting harm, though it'll trouble him sore
for weeks to come."
With
an expert flick of the wrist, Francis sent his blade skittering down the boy's
midline, opening Charles's shirt to the waist and leaving behind an angry red
line. That done, he held the blade point down in the dust and leaned upon the
hilt.
"Get
up," he ordered coldly. "Bind up your wounds and be thankful the fool
who struck my man had no aim. Had he a better arm, you'd be leaving here slung
across your saddles."
Charles
sat up warily, pulling together what was left of his bloody shirt while he
struggled to control his uneven breathing.
Straightening,
Francis gestured with his sword toward the waiting men. "If I catch any
such parties on my land again, I'll accord them the same welcome they gave my
clansmen. I give you warning though, we've much better arms. Not one will we
leave to tell the tale."
"I'm
responsible for these men, and we hold no commission to murder," Charles
said evenly. He stood up, trying to achieve what dignity he could while his
furiously pounding heart began to slow to a more normal pace. "If I find
they deliberately set upon your men unprovoked, I'll punish the guilty."
"Aye,
but do you have anything to say in the matter, lad?" Francis asked
shrewdly, raising one sardonic eyebrow.
A
slow flush crept over Charles's face, and he clenched his fists against his
side in helpless rage. "You've shown you've nothing to fear from my sword,
so you may insult me now as you please, MacLean. I don't give a damn what you
think, but I'll see to this matter and take what measures I see fit."
Francis
silently studied the boy so long that Charles shifted uncomfortably beneath his
stare. "Aye, I believe you will," Francis said. "When will you
leave that scheming crowd you run with, lad? Your father doesn't deserve your
allegiance."
"Your
opinion is of no interest to me," Charles snapped with an assumption of
haughty dignity that brought the ghost of a smile to Francis's face. "If
you've done with your insults now, we'll be on our way."
"Not
so fast." Francis turned to a clansman. "Bruce, collect the weapons
save that of young Randall here. Take a half-dozen men and personally escort
these..." he paused meaningfully, "... gentlemen from our land."
"Aye
sir," the man responded with a delighted grin.
As
the weapons were collected, Charles saw to the binding of his men's injuries.
Several of them were serious wounds though only one man looked as though his
hours might be numbered. The men mounted up as best they could and rode out
under the gleeful MacLean escort.
Charles's
thoughts were bitter as he rode at the head of his battered patrol. His arm
throbbed painfully from one deep slash, but he scarcely noticed that physical
ache while he writhed from the humiliation he had just suffered in front of his
men. What his father would say when he heard the tale he hated even to imagine.
He had failed again.
Still
and all, he and his men had gotten off better than he had expected. According
to the Highlanders' savage code they should by rights have been dead—and he had
come perilously close.
Reliving
that moment beneath MacLean's sword, a fresh sweat broke out on his brow. The
man had planned to kill him. What chance thought had meant the difference
between life and death?
He
recalled every agonizing detail of that humiliating scene. It would take
months, perhaps even years, to live it down. Suddenly he wondered if he hated
MacLean the more for leaving him alive after all.
***
Francis
and his men limped slowly into Camereigh carrying their wounded. Faces were
grim as the story raced through the castle, then spread quickly through the
cottages of neighboring crofters.
Donald
began at once to treat the more seriously wounded, but Conall pulled Francis
aside and whispered "Your man from Ranleigh's arrived. He's big with news,
but the fool will tell me nothing! He just grins and says, 'It's Sir Francis
himself I'm wantin' and I'll speak to none other,'" Conall mimicked.
Francis
glanced at his men. Donald was ordering the cleansing and binding of their
wounds; they were in good hands. He followed Conall out the door, heading down
the corridor to take the turret stairs two at a time. It had been almost a
month since he'd had news from Ranleigh. He had become so eager for word, he
had been half inclined to ride there himself.