The Clan MacDougall Series (44 page)

As he drew back his hand to hit her, Aishlinn heard an odd sound, like a muffled thump. Andrew’s expression changed in the blink of an eye. He now looked perplexed, as if he were studying some strange and foreign object. A moment later, his grasp on her loosened and he slowly fell to his knees.

F
or a moment it felt as though time had slowed to a crawl. Andrew had collapsed to his knees before landing face down on the ground. Dazed and more than slightly confused, Aishlinn watched as he toppled over. A dirk had somehow become firmly imbedded in the middle of Andrew’s back. Her breath caught in her throat and she could not move, nor could she take her eyes off the dead man who lay at her feet.

It was the earl’s raspy and angry voice that brought her back to the here and now of it. “Who in the hell are you?” The earl shouted as much as his diseased lungs would allow.

Aishlinn looked up and saw Duncan as he stood in the entrance of the tent. His jaws were clenched and his face held a fierce look of anger. Relief washed over her at the sight of him. “Duncan!” she cried, unable to say anything else as she rushed to his open arms. He held her tightly, relieved to see that she was alive but still very angry at the situation she had put herself in. He sent a prayer of thanks up to the Heavens when he felt her collapse into his arms.

A loud commotion began outside the tent as Duncan let loose of Aishlinn and walked to the bed. “Who the hell are ye?” Duncan demanded.

“I’m the Earl of Penrith you insolent fool!” His body shook as he was overcome by a coughing fit.

Duncan looked down at the man in utter incredulity. This was the monster that had killed his family? This was the bastard who had tried not once, but twice to rape his wife? His mind could not wrap around it. This could not be the same man he had envisioned running his blade through for the last ten and seven years.

“Ye? Ye be the Earl of Penrith?” he asked unable to believe the man before him had been the source of countless nightmares and untold anguish.

“Aye, he is Duncan,” Aishlinn said from the tent opening. “Quickly, please take me away from here Duncan,” she pleaded with him as her body began to shiver.

Duncan could not take his eyes from the man who lay before him. “Ye killed my family,” Duncan whispered. “Many years ago, ye slaughtered an entire village. Ye killed innocent people. Ye killed my entire family.” Rage began to creep in.

He could not believe this was the man who had destroyed so many lives. Nay. What lay before him was no man, but a sick, demented monster who derived great pleasure in seeing others suffer at his hands. Duncan shook his head. He could not believe he was this close to him.

Duncan battled with his conscience. No matter how desperately he wanted to simply run his broadsword through the man’s heart, he could not kill an unarmed man. In the battles that he had played out in his mind over the years, never had he imagined that he would find the whoreson sick and unarmed.

Duncan would leave the man to suffer with his disease. It appeared that death was not too far off into the future for the earl. He’d let the man suffer in agony and waste away into nothing.

Duncan turned away from the earl and bent down to retrieve his dirk from Andrew’s back. He wiped the dead man’s blood on the earl’s blankets.

“Ye’ll burn in hell soon enough,” Duncan told him. The earl remained silent as he watched Duncan closely.

Duncan went to Aishlinn then and held her for a moment. “Dunna leave me side!” he told her. “Follow me and stay right next to me!”

Aishlinn nodded her head and took hold of his arm. This had not turned out as she had intended. She was supposed to have saved her clan, but instead, it turned out they were saving her.

As she turned back to take one final look at the earl, she saw a dagger in the decrepit man’s hands. She shouted a warning to Duncan who had begun to step from the tent. “Dagger!”

The earl’s knife barely missed Duncan’s head as it bounced off the walls of the tent and landed on the floor. Duncan spun quickly around and flung his dirk across the room. It landed dead center of the earl’s chest as it made a revolting sound when it tore through flesh, muscle and bone.

Aishlinn gasped as she saw the blood begin to ooze and drench his nightshirt. An odd expression had come over the earl’s face. It wasn’t the sweet release of death but something rather wicked and repulsive.

Duncan shook his head and retrieved his dirk from the dead man’s chest. When he returned to Aishlinn’s side he noticed then that she was standing in just her shift and for a brief moment, he wondered if he had not arrived in time to save her from these sick bastards. “Did they hurt ye?” he asked.

Aishlinn shook her head vigorously. “Nay!”

Duncan quickly removed his tunic, and placed it over Aishlinn’s body. He donned his broadsword again and kissed her on her forehead, relieved to find her alive and for the most part unharmed.

“Stay beside me at all times. We’ve men fightin’ out there and I dunna want ye getting’ in the way. Do ye understand?” he said. For once, he hoped she would listen.

“Aye. I do,” she answered as she grabbed his arm and clung to him with both hands. She wasn’t about to let go of him. Not now, not ever.

Complete mayhem was taking place in the clearing outside the earl’s tent. Dozens of dead English soldiers lay sprawled across the ground. More stood fighting the countless clansmen who had come to rescue her. She could hear the clash of metal as sword met sword. The sound of skulls cracking and dirks driving deep into bodies made her sick, but she felt terribly relieved that they were there. She prayed that God would protect her clansmen.

Duncan lifted his shield from the ground where he had left it before entering the tent and crouched low. Aishlinn followed suit. They had to climb over dead bodies as they headed towards the line of trees to their right. Duncan had horses and men waiting for her there.

As she crouched behind her husband, the sounds of battle thundered on. As they started for the line of trees an arrow shot through the air and landed in Duncan’s left shoulder. Aishlinn screamed as he fell to the ground face first. He rolled over to his side, reached up and pulled her down then threw his body on top of hers, shielding her from the barrage of arrows. Aishlinn heard several distinct whooshes followed by thumps as arrows pierced the ground around them.

“’Tis my fault! I knew this would happen!” she cried. “’Tis all my fault!”

“Haud yer wheesht, lass!” Duncan scolded. “I’m not hurt that badly! Lay still and pretend yer dead,” he told her. She might not have to pretend if the onslaught of flying arrows did not cease.

They lay on the ground, unmoving for several long moments before the flying arrows finally stopped. Duncan winced from the pain of the arrow sticking from his shoulder and his face began to pale. It was not long after before she felt him go limp as he lay on top of her. Aishlinn shook with terror and great waves of guilt began to build in her heart. Had she never left, this would not have happened! She had meant to save her people, not throw them into a battle.

She heard Duncan’s voice as he lay on top of her and it sounded weak. “Yer cold,” he said. “Try not to shake so, lass. When we get home, we’ll warm ourselves by the fire, I promise.” He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. “I love ye, Aishlinn,” he whispered in her ear.

He was dying; she knew it. He was dying just as he promised he would. Dying for her, fighting for her honor, for her life. She whispered to him how sorry she was that she had gotten them all into this mess. She choked on tears as she repeatedly apologized and professed her love for him.

Duncan did not respond. He lay on top of her, limp and lifeless and she had no one to blame but herself. An anger, unlike anything she had ever experienced before began to consume her. It built in the pit of her stomach and grew quickly, spreading to every part of her body like a fire that had grown out of control. She wanted to slay every last English soldier who might remain standing, like the woman in the book Bree had read to her.

She was angry with herself and with the English bastard that now lay dead in his tent. No matter how hard she tried, she could not tamp the anger down and it kept growing until she felt her skin might glow white hot, like the iron in a blacksmith’s forge.

As she lay there with Duncan’s lifeless body on top of her, soaked from the rain, mud and her husband’s blood, an Englishman fell dead at their side. Not far from where they lay, she heard Angus shouting something in Gaelic and she thought she heard Wee William’s voice too.

A violent determination came over her and she decided to act. She would rather die fighting than be slain while she lay on the ground hidden under her dead husband. Vengeance would be hers this day. Vengeance for the lies Broc had told that kept her from knowing her real family and vengeance for her husband’s death.

She squirmed and managed to wriggle herself from under Duncan’s body. A dead English soldier was an arm’s length away. She rolled over to her stomach, reached out and grabbed the dead man’s sword and stood. A bloodlust rose in her as she began violently swinging at any soldier who came near her.

Months ago, she would not have been able to act in such a manner. Now she swung and thrust her sword at anyone who dared come near her. Three came at her from different directions and she took hold of her weapon with both hands as she swung full circle. She sliced each of her enemies at their waists, all the while letting loose with another blood curdling scream. Blood spattered across her face and chest but it mattered not. She was avenging the death of her husband.

She crouched low to get a better grasp of her surroundings. Angus was to her left, fighting off two Englishmen, Wee William had three not far from Angus. Rowan was to her right, Gowan ahead of her, both busy with their own battles.

Not far from where she stood was a mounted soldier. A flash of a very determined smile came to his lips as he dashed towards her. She stood, waiting until the last possible moment before thrusting her sword into the soldier’s steed. The horse cried and whinnied before it fell, trapping its rider beneath it. Begging God’s mercy for killing such a beautiful animal, she took her sword and thrust downward into the man’s chest.

The sword began to grow quite heavy in her hands and she started to tire. She would not however, give up in her pursuit to avenge her husband’s death. Nor would she give in to the weight of the sword.

Her clansman surrounded her as they fought the English. There was much grunting and moaning mixed in with the clanging of metal. Blood flowed from dead or dying soldiers. The rain had increased and in the distance she could hear the roar of thunder.

She saw Caelen McDunnah across the clearing fighting sword against sword with an English soldier. For a moment she pondered his presence. Why was he here?

Her eyes searched for a better weapon, for she knew she could not hold the sword much longer. Catching sight of a fallen archer, she raced towards him at a full run, grabbed his quiver and bow and surveyed her surroundings. Her legs felt heavy but she would not give in. She stood and began to take aim at the English soldiers. Within a minute’s time she had killed seven of them, emptying the contents of the quiver. Seeing no more arrows within reach, she returned to the sword and began hacking her way through the crowd of battling men.

More English soldiers fell at the hands of her clansmen as she battled her way through the remaining soldiers. Her frenzy intensified as she sought out more of the bastards.

From somewhere to her left Angus bellowed a warning. “Behind ye!” She turned in time to see the soldier as he lunged his sword towards her. She had not moved quickly enough and the tip of his sword sliced through her upper left arm. Consumed with hatred and rage, she ignored the blood as it trailed down her arm.

She used her rage and plunged her sword deep into the English soldier’s belly. With her sword lodged firmly in his midsection he felt backwards and landed in a twisted heap. Using her foot as leverage, she wiggled and pulled until the sword finally let loose with a nauseating sucking sound.

She turned to seek out more men to kill. Duncan’s tunic and her shift clung to her body soaked in mud, sweat, blood and rain. She fought to raise her sword again as her breath came in great bursts. Using her free hand to wipe the sweat from her eyes she looked about readying herself to kill anyone who came near her.

She noticed that her clansmen were staring at her with wide-eyed bewildered expressions. A deafening silence had filled the air. Angus began to cautiously walk towards her with one hand held out fearful she was so caught up in the moment that she might kill him.

“Aishlinn,” he said nervously. “’Tis me, Angus. Yer da.” She stared right through him as if he were an apparition made of mist.

“Lay the sword down, lass. They all be dead now,” he spoke quietly, trying to reassure her that it was over. He took another step towards her and prayed she would soon acknowledge him. “’Tis all right, Aishlinn. ’Tis over.”

She recognized him finally and let loose the sword. It landed with a thud on the ground at her side. The ferocious rage she had felt only moments ago was now replaced with absolute despair and anguish. She fell to her knees, her body racked with guilt, remorse, and grief. She cried not for the lives she had just taken, but for her dead husband whose body lay not far from her. His men had surrounded him, shaking their heads and mumbling words she could hear over the sound of her own sobs.