In the Shadow of the Wall (45 page)

He closed and barred the low door, sealing them inside. The three of them climbed the stone steps to the living quarters. The light was poor inside, the wooden floor of the upper level blocking most of the daylight coming through the small circular gap, which normally let the smoke from the hearth escape. There was no fire now, no warmth, just gloom and shadows. In here, Lutrin knew, even the watchmen in the very top of the circular tower could not see or hear them. He led Colm to his throne-like chair, another of Lutrin’s innovations, where he sat him down, helping him to unstrap his sword belt. Lutrin placed the sword and dagger on a nearby table. Colm sat there, staring into space, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. “The Romans are my friends,” he said in a flat monotone. “They brought me gifts.”

“The Romans have my son!” Mairead retorted. She knelt in front of Colm, grasping his hands and trying to break through the barrier his mind had built to protect him from the collapse of his dreams. He barely noticed she was there. “We have to do something!” she said urgently.

“Indeed we do, my lady,” Lutrin agreed. He carefully drew Colm’s dagger from its leather scabbard, testing the tip of the blade against his finger, drawing a pinprick of blood. Still with his back to the others he went on, “But I’m afraid the lord Colm has had more than one nasty surprise in the past couple of days. Perhaps you could pour him some wine. That might help.” He half turned to watch her. She climbed to her feet and moved away from Colm. The head man of Broch Tava was sitting in his chair, hands gripping the carved wooden arms, head down as he gazed blankly at the floor. Committed to his plan, Lutrin span on his heel, driving the dagger into Colm’s chest as hard as he could, aiming for the heart, feeling the blade grind against the ribs. Colm gave a single gasp of pain, jerked upright, eyes staring, then slowly slumped forwards. Lutrin stepped back, letting the body fall to the floor while Mairead turned, staring at him in horror, one hand held to her open mouth. She backed away from him. “What have you done?” Her voice was hoarse but he saw again how strong she was, a true warrior woman of the Boresti. No screaming or fainting from her, he was pleased to see.

“I have done what you wanted,” he told her calmly. “Now you are free of him.” He gave her a smile. “Do not deny that you wanted him dead.”

She shook her head but no words came. He was certain that she had dreamed of this, of being free from Colm and he, Lutrin, had made her dreams come true. He knew she would love him for it.

Instead, she looked at him, aghast, and whispered, “Not like this. Never like this.” Her eyes blazed accusation even in the shadowy gloom of the unlit broch. “You have murdered your lord.”

Lutrin spread his arms out from his sides, palms towards her. “Nonsense! Lord Colm killed himself with his own dagger. He was overwhelmed by grief at being humiliated by Nechtan, then finding his village destroyed by people he thought were his friends. When he learned that his son had been taken captive, it was too much for him.”

Mairead looked at Colm’s corpse lying crumpled in a grotesque heap on the wooden floor, a small pool of blood seeping from under his chest. Her eyes narrowed as she turned her gaze on Lutrin. “You want to be the new head man, is that it?”

“Naturally.”

“That will not happen. There are men who are loyal to Colm. They will oppose you.”

“No, they will not. Cruithne is already dead and the others you speak of, Cailean, perhaps? Or Gordan? Murchadh? They will be dead very soon, if not already. And a few others besides.” He lifted his hand, pointing at her. “And when you show that you are happy to be my wife, the others will accept me, for you are a descendant of Beathag, mother of kings.”

She stood there, proud and erect and he thought she was very beautiful with her long dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but he thought that the look she gave him almost resembled one of hatred. “You think I will marry you?” she asked scornfully. “I would rather die.”

His patience snapped. He drew his own dagger. “That can be arranged, my lady. But I think you will change your mind when you hear how I have saved you from Colm’s plans for you.”

She spat at him. “I will hear none of your lies!” She turned to run for the door, charging down the stairs more quickly than he would have guessed she could move. With a yell of outrage, he set off in pursuit. He took the wide, shallow steps at a run, almost slipping a couple of times but she had a good head start. She reached the door first, threw aside the bar and yanked it open, letting in a stream of late afternoon sunlight which dazzled him with its sudden glare. He lunged for her but she was gone, out into the light. He hit the door hard with his shoulder. Cursing, he pulled the door back furiously and ran outside, barely two paces behind her now. His eyes were struggling to see in the bright daylight but he saw her shadow. He grabbed for her, catching her arm and pulling her back. She staggered, almost falling as she whirled in a circle around him. Then he had her properly. He clamped his left arm round her chest as his right hand held the dagger to her throat. “Do you still want to die, my lady?” he whispered venomously in her ear. “What do you have to say now?”

She stiffened. He heard her whisper, “Brude.”

Brude and Fothair knew something had happened as soon as they saw the fields were deserted. They approached the stockade cautiously but, as they grew nearer, they heard the sounds of screaming. Brude pursed his lips. “Something is very wrong,” he said.

“We should leave,” suggested Fothair, though he knew they would not.

Brude spurred his mount towards the gates. They were wide open and though there were a few warriors at the entrance, they were all looking inside the stockade, not out. They turned when they heard the horses approach and Brude could see the alarm on their faces. “What’s going on?” he demanded as he reined in his horse.

The men looked confused and anxious. “Some men have been killed. Murdered.” Confusion radiated from the young man who spoke.

“Where is everyone?” Brude asked.

“Some Romanhips came. They burned the village,” another sentry said. “Most folk are down the hill.”

At that moment, a villager, middle-aged and with his hair flying in disorder as he ran, charged round the corner of a house, hotly pursued by two warriors who quickly caught him. They cut him down before their eyes. Brude stared at the killers. He recognised Irb, one of the men who had been on the trip to Dun Nechtan. Irb saw him at the same time. His jaw fell open in surprise, then he turned and ran towards the broch, still holding his sword with its bloody blade. His companion ran after him.

Brude leapt from his horse. “Give me your spear,” he snapped to the warrior at the gate, taking the weapon from the young man’s hand. He strode after the running men. Behind him, Fothair grabbed a spear from another warrior and followed, offering up silent prayers to Belatucadros and Camulos to protect him from what was about to happen. Whatever was going on, it was going to be bloody work, he was sure.

More people were cautiously coming out of the houses, peering nervously round the sides of the buildings and edging closer to the open space in front of the broch. Irb and his companion were running towards the low wooden door when it suddenly burst open. Mairead staggered out, trying to run but blinded by the bright sunlight. Then Lutrin was after her, grabbing at her. Brude saw her spin round, saw Lutrin hold her close and saw, too, the knife at her throat. He stopped dead in his tracks as her eyes, blinking in the sunlight, saw him. Her lips moved and though he could not hear what she said, he knew she was speaking his name.

Lutrin saw him too. He stiffened, the knife blade pressing close to Mairead’s neck. Slowly, Brude walked forwards, keeping the spear low. There was an audience now, he knew, as people gathered at the edges of the green. Some warriors were pushing their way through to take up a position beside Irb. He counted ten of them and thought they had the look of men who knew they had done a terrible thing.

“Is it done?” Lutrin demanded, his voice loud and clear.

Irb replied, “As you ordered.” But his eyes kept flickering towards Brude. He and his men kept their distance from Lutrin, obviously waiting to see what was going to happen next, not willing to declare their allegiance so fully as to oppose Brude.

Brude knew Fothair was with him, a pace or two behind, but he also knew that they could not hope to defeat ten armed warriors. He had to rely on more than his fighting skill to save Mairead. Slowly, he edged to his left, circling towards the broch. In response, Lutrin turned, stepping backwards, dragging Mairead with him. The tip of his blade never left her throat. Brude stopped when he was satisfied that he was closer to the door of the broch than Lutrin was. He did not dare let the man get inside with Mairead. If that happened, nobody would be able to reach them. Lutrin backed away, towards the roundhouses where the warriors lived. The small crowd of onlookers rreated a few paces from him while Irb and his men also shuffled back, keeping their distance from both men, their nervous eyes constantly moving from one to the other.

Brude decided he had to keep the warriors out of this. He looked directly at Irb. “You have seen and heard what I can do,” he said. “What I learned from the Romans. Now the druid, Veleda, has taught me many more things. It would be best for you and your men if you never found out what those things are.” He saw Irb lick his lips, nod nervously and take another pace backwards. Brude stared at him, trying to ensure that the man’s imagination would feed his fears of magic and keep him out of the fight. Because a fight seemed inevitable. Satisfied he had done all he could to keep Irb out of it, he turned back to Lutrin and Mairead. “Let her go, Lutrin.”

“She is mine!” Lutrin told him. “Not yours.”

“She is Colm’s wife,” Brude reminded him, keeping his voice calm.

“Colm is dead,” Lutrin snarled. “He killed himself, while wallowing in grief. Isn’t that so, my love?” He jerked Mairead though the dagger stayed near her exposed neck.

“
You
killed him,” she exclaimed accusingly, her voice tinged with fear but clear for all to hear.

“You lie! He killed himself and you will be my wife now.”

Mairead looked at Brude, her eyes pleading with him but he could not take a chance with Lutrin’s knife so close to her throat. He could see the mad desperation in Lutrin’s eyes. He said, “If Colm is dead, then Mairead is free to choose her own husband.”

“You want her for yourself,” Lutrin snarled at him. “I have seen how you look at her. But you cannot have her. Put down your spear or I will make sure that nobody has her.” He raised the knife a fraction, indicating his intention if Brude did not obey.

Brude crouched, laying his spear on the grass. He slowly backed away from it. He stood looking helplessly at Mairead. He did not know what to do and he feared she would try something foolish, for he saw the look in her eyes. He gave a tiny shake of his head, trying to warn her. He was too far away to reach Lutrin before the man could harm her.

Lutrin waved his knife hand towards Irb. “He is unarmed now. Kill him!”

Irb hesitated. He looked at Brude, glanced back at Lutrin and then at Brude again. Deciding that Lutrin had the upper hand, he gripped his sword and took a step forwards, growling at his men to follow him.

“Do you have a plan?” Fothair whispered from behind Brude.

“Not a good one.”

“I thought not. I’ll take the five on the right if you take the five on the left.”

“Maybe you should run now,” Brude told him.

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” Fothair answered. He stood beside Brude, spear clenched in his hands, watching Irb and his men slowly cross the green towards them.

Brude suddenly jumped into a fighting stance. The movement made Irb and his warriors stop their advance to watch him, wondering what he was about to do. All eyes were on him as he began to move his arms and neck, exercising his muscles. Then he laughed aloud, and said, “Come on, then, if you really want to die. I warned you.”

“You’re mad!” hissed Fothair.

“Keep them looking at us,” Brude whispered through clenched teeth. He began to weave his arms and legs in a bizarre, half dance. Irb and his warriors watched him, fascinated and bemused. He should have been terrified, fleeing for his life, yet he was waiting for them, daring them to attack him. Uncertainty and fear of magic held them still.