Chapter 64

Morgan felt all the air go out of his lungs.

Could Alicia do it? Kill an innocent child? Her own flesh and blood?

A few days ago, he would have thought it impossible. But now…

“Back away!” she ordered.

The eyes of everyone in the courtyard were fixed on Alicia as she clutched Miles. Frozen in shock, no one moved a muscle.

“Back away, I said!”

They shuffled back. Morgan stood his ground, but slowly and carefully set his sword on the grass. Maybe—if he could calm her down and avoid falling apart—he could talk some sense into his wife.

“Listen to me, Alicia.”

“Stand back,” she warned, pressing her dagger against Miles’ pale wee neck. “I’ll do it.”

“Please,” Morgan choked out. “Whatever’s happened, whatever ye’ve done, I can help ye. There’s no need to go back to the English. I can keep ye safe here.”

The last thing he expected was Alicia’s jangling laughter.

“You fool,” she said. “’Tis the English who are going to keep me safe from you. You’re the coldblooded killer who murdered their lord and stole my infant.”

Of course. He’d forgotten. Alicia had neatly pinned the blame for her crime on him.

He could deal with her treachery later. For now, all he cared about was safely retrieving his son.

“Now out of my way,” she growled.

Morgan couldn’t let her leave with Miles. If she did, he knew he’d never see him again.

“Please, Alicia,” he said. “Can’t we talk this over? Leave the bairn here. I’ll give ye safe passage beyond the wall.”

She smirked at his offer. “Ye’d have a knife in my back ere I reached the door.”

“Nay. I swear. Only don’t take him.”

“I need some assurance you won’t come after me,” she explained. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to poor wee…what are you calling him now?”

Yards away, Danald snapped, “Miles!” Though his tone toward Alicia was venomous, he probably blamed himself for the bairn’s capture.

Morgan issued a steely promise to her. “If ye take him away, I’ll hunt ye down, I swear. I’ll follow ye to the ends o’ the earth.”

She raised her dagger, reversing it in her hand and letting it hover over Miles’ belly. “Maybe I’ll get rid of him to save you the trouble.”

One downward thrust would end Miles’ life.

“Nay!” Morgan’s cry was hoarse and full of torment.

In the end, he had to admit defeat.

She wouldn’t negotiate with him.

She didn’t want to stay at Creagor.

And he couldn’t convince her to surrender Miles.

He couldn’t even risk taking the bairn by force. He saw now that Alicia had no feelings for her son. She had no feelings for him. He wondered if she had feelings for anyone save herself.

The slow march toward the doors was interminable. Alicia warily advanced, clenching her hand around the dagger that threatened Miles’ vulnerable body.

Morgan and his men followed her at a safe distance, waiting for her to make a mistake.

Trip up somehow.

Falter.

Drop her guard.

Change her mind.

Anything that would give them the advantage.

But she never stumbled. Never veered from her course. Never hesitated or had second thoughts.

She took a dozen tortuous steps.

Then, on the thirteenth, the sudden earth-shuddering crack of the battering ram made everyone jerk in distraction. Everyone except the highly focused archer who sent an arrow spiraling through Alicia’s upraised forearm.

The thud at the doors didn’t garner as much attention as the tortured scream Alicia emitted when she felt the arrow’s wicked bite.

The dagger fell from her hand. Her eyes rolled wildly as she stared at the shaft impaling her and the blood dripping down her arm. While she staggered in shock, Morgan rushed forward, easily snatching Miles out of her arms.

Then he scanned the battlements to see who had shot the arrow.

A lone archer lowered a bow.

Jenefer.

The mist swirled around her like smoke off a fire. Her face was grave, graver than he’d ever seen it. She must know the risk she’d taken. If her shaft had drifted by so much as an inch, she might have killed Miles or one of the men behind him.

He wanted to be vexed with her. But the truth was she’d saved Miles’ life.

He gave her a nod of gratitude. And he prayed he’d live long enough to thank her properly.

The battering ram thudded against the doors again, opening the crevice. The men shoved the cart forward, sealing it again.

Soon he’d have to prepare for a second round of hand-to-hand fighting. He needed someone to take his son to safety.

He glanced at Jenefer again. As if she’d read his mind, her gaze dropped to Miles, and she started down the steps.

But he shook his head, stopping her.

He wouldn’t waste her talents.

Anyone could look after a bairn.

There was only one Jenefer, master archer.

“I need ye on the wall,” he called to her.

She nodded and immediately started issuing commands to a group of lads on the wall. “You lads! Gather all the arrows. Pry them out of the dead if you have to. Quick! Bring them up to the archers.”

Meanwhile, Morgan spotted Danald, who stood apart, twisting his cap in his hands.

“Here, lad,” Morgan said, “I need ye to take Miles.”

“Are ye certain, m’laird?” Danald asked. “I failed ye once. Lady Alicia—”

Behind Morgan’s shoulder, Alicia screamed in agony.

Two of the Campbell brothers had taken mercy on her. They’d broken off the arrow head and were pulling the shaft out of her arm.

“Won’t be seizin’ anythin’ for a while.” He placed his son in Danald’s hands.

The lad gave him a solemn nod and fled with Miles to the safety of the great hall.

Alicia screeched again, this time in outrage. The Campbells were tearing her fine leine to use the linen for a bandage.

The next crash against the doors came with an ominous creak. One or two more hits, and the doors would not only open. They’d splinter off their iron hinges. Then there would be no trickle of English soldiers through the entrance. There would be a flood.

“Archers at the ready!” Jenefer shouted from above.

“To mac Giric!” Morgan bellowed, brandishing his claymore to embolden his men.

They roared in response.

The Campbells had no more time to tend to Alicia. They handed her the bandage, leaving her to bind her own wound.

Jenefer’s throat thickened with pride as she watched the archers all along the wall nock their arrows in perfect unison. Her eyes welled with tears of admiration as she saw the mac Giric lasses reassemble above the entrance, armed with whatever they had left.

How could she ever have imagined they were dimwitted savages? These Highlanders were fierce and brave, loyal and resourceful, a clan anyone would be proud to claim.

She only prayed she wasn’t condemning them to death.

She drew her own bow, watching the doors, determined to defend them with her last breath.

Then she felt a strange tingle at the back of her neck.

Something was coming.

She dared not look away from the doors. But the sensation persisted.

Swiftly, what began as a prickling became a sound, as if someone were calling to her.

Hardening her jaw against distraction, she kept her focus on the entrance as the battering ram once again tried to break through the thick oak.

Again the men-at-arms were able to hold back the beast, shoving the cart firmly against the doors. But the oak had splintered partially away from the heavy iron hinges. The doors wouldn’t withstand one more pummeling.

In the few moments the English would need to regroup, Jenefer eased the tension of her bow and stepped to the battlements. Still feeling the queer shiver along her neck, she cast a glance toward the palisade gates.

The field was thick with fog. An archer could shoot an arrow and never see where it landed. But she thought she glimpsed something stirring in the mist.

Figures.

She blinked her eyes to make sure she wasn’t imagining the shapes.

And then she saw clearly that they were figures. Dozens of warriors marching through the gates and toward the castle.

She held her breath, fearing they might be English reinforcements.

And then she glimpsed the familiar banner emerging from the fog.

“Rivenloch,” she breathed, her heart leaping with hope.

When she recognized her cousin Feiyan leading the charge, she knew at once that rescue was at hand. And when she spied Hallie and all the parents at Feiyan’s flank, armed and armored for serious battle, she knew the English were finished.

“Rivenloch!” she cried, grinning in triumph when she turned to call down to Morgan. “Rivenloch is coming!”

It didn’t occur to her that Morgan would perceive Rivenloch as the enemy.

His face fell. His shoulders dropped. His mouth turned down, grim but resolute. Still, he lifted his claymore in defiance, as if to proclaim he wouldn’t lose Creagor without a fight to the death.

“Nay!” she called to him. “They’re here to give aid!”

He still looked skeptical. His men reflected his uncertainty.

“Feiyan brought them,” she tried. “She and Hallie are here with dozens of warriors.”

“’Tis true, m’laird,” William called down from the wall. “I can see a whole army comin’ through the gates.”

Jenefer noticed the English had ceased their attack. She peered over the battlements to see what was happening.

The English were muttering among themselves, a few frantically pointing at the incoming soldiers. Someone finally recognized the banner, and startled barks of “Rivenloch” circled their ranks.

No doubt they knew the Border clan by virtue of their reputation. Since the English couldn’t fight on two fronts at once, they were forced to abandon the battering ram and turn to engage Rivenloch.

“Archers, to the walls!” Jenefer commanded.

While the English awaited Rivenloch’s arrival, the archers were able to wound a few unwary soldiers.

Meanwhile, Morgan and his men waited in the courtyard. When the moment was right, they would move the cart and attack the English from the rear.

“At my signal!” Jenefer called down to Morgan.

Never doubting her for a moment, he answered with a curt nod.

She held her arm aloft, calculating how long it would take Morgan’s men to move the cart and get into place.

Rivenloch’s charge was awesome to behold. Jenefer, accustomed to being in their ranks, had never seen the army from this vantage point. She was astounded by their power to intimidate. The mass of warriors stormed toward the castle, shoulder-to-shoulder, shield-to-shield, brandishing their blades with a mighty roar.

“Archers, halt!” she cried as Rivenloch drew near. In the coming melee, the risk of shooting an ally was too great.

At the clash of the first two blades, Jenefer signaled Morgan with the drop of her arm.

Morgan ordered the cart rolled aside. The doors sagged inward. His men wrenched them out of the way. Then they began to engage the enemy from the rear.

Jenefer watched from the battlements, her bow at the ready.

It wasn’t difficult to distinguish the armies of Rivenloch and Creagor.

Rivenloch’s warriors were fitted with polished armor and flawless chain mail, armed with painted shields and gleaming broadswords.

But Creagor’s soldiers, despite their simple cotuns and trews, their crude targes and well-used claymores, fought ferociously.

Morgan was magnificent. With one powerful shove of his targe, he knocked three English foes onto their arses. With a sweep of his claymore, he sent another man sprawling.

At the fore of the battle, Jenefer saw Hallie fighting with cold, calculating menace, slashing one man’s thigh and another man’s arm with two expert blows.

Next to Hallie, Feiyan raised one of her heavy forks, catching and snapping off an enemy blade with the flick of her wrist.

Her Uncle Pagan used his shield to shove a knight toward her Aunt Deirdre, who dispatched him with ease.

Feiyan’s mother, Miriel, leaped about like lightning, stinging victims with a needle-like dagger, while her father, Rand, finished them off with thrusts of his broadsword.

And Jenefer’s own mother and father, Helena and Colin, sent up showers of sparks as they crossed swords with their foes, bellowing out curses and howling in triumph.

The tide was turning.

They just might win this battle.