Chapter 26 #3
Having fled Carlisle so swiftly, Keane had abandoned more than half his promised men.
He was ill prepared to meet more than twice his number on the field of battle.
But the attackers came not from the motte, he realized, unsheathing his sword, and placing himself between his men and the assailants, to give his men precious seconds to prepare.
But seconds was all the time he could buy, for they flew at Keane, one by one.
“To the laird!” his men cried, rallying themselves to fight.
“To the laird!”
The clash of swords rang against the twilight. Metal struck metal. Sword against axe. Axe against sword. Men shouted battle cries unto the heavens and Keane felt the cold bite of steel pierce his shoulder...
“To the laird!”
“To the laird!”
Riding hell-bent through the pinewood forest, the dún Scoti sisters heard the cry to arms and spurred their mounts to greet the battle, with Lachlann and Luc close at their heels. They reached the melee as the battle engaged.
There were no banners flown, but Lael had no need to know whose blood she would spill to defend her brother. “To Keane!” she shouted, unsheathing her great sword along with a nine-inch blade from her belt.
Standing in her stirrups, Cailin drew her crossbow, slamming the butt against her shoulder.
Crying out in vengeance, Sorcha, drew her sword.
Together, the dún Scoti sisters shouted the dún Scoti war cry. Painted in woad, and ready to die for their kin, they joined the battle at the foot of Dunràth’s hill.
By the gods above—every last one—Keane had never been more relieved to see three women in all his days! He recognized the war cry of their ancestors and grinned—for the sound was no less terrifying coming from a woman’s tongue. He heard Lachlann’s shout as well and knew the battle would be turned.
If he’d been surprised by his sisters’ arrival, the assailants were all the more so and their momentary stupor was their undoing. Keane felled one, and cut down another as Lael came galloping by, wielding her long blade alongside him, cutting down another.
Already, his arm was covered with blood, making it difficult to wield his sword.
He gritted his teeth and fought through the pain, struggling to retain command of the heavy blade.
Lachlann flanked him on one side, Lael on the other, and together they fought, parrying every blow.
Cailin’s arrows came whizzing by. Unlike Keane’s hunting bow, hers was made for war.
Each and every arrow met their marks with deadly thunks.
He lost two of his numbers before another thirty warriors came marching down the motte, and another ten circled, attacking from behind.
“To the laird of Dunràth!” they shouted to a man.
“To the laird!”
Like rats before a torchlight, the assailants fled into the woods.
So swiftly, the battle was done. But in the space of minutes, more than twenty men were felled—a few of his own.
The mottled snow was strewn with bodies and peppered with blood.
Dismounting, Keane saw to his fallen men.
Only one of the assailants remained alive.
He lifted the man to his feet and hurled him toward Lachlann.
His brother’s captain held a blade to the man’s throat before he could take a step.
“Take him to the gaols,” he commanded. “Find out who sent the bastards and why.”
And then he turned and saw her.
His wife.
Mounted upon a snow-white mare, like the ones his sister rode, she trotted down the motte, with ten more men at her rear.
She wore a heavy gambeson over a bright green dress, but the look did not suit her.
And still, she was lovely to behold. Overcome with emotion and relief, Keane sheathed his sword and went to her.
Without a care that his men—and sisters—might witness a grown man cry, he went to greet his Moray bride.
Spilling into his arms from her saddle, Keane swung Lianae jubilantly, covering her with his blood.
She didn’t seem to care. Her amber eyes were liquid. “Ye’re hurt!” she cried.
“Nay, Lianae, I am whole again,” he said; and only now did he know it for truth. She was the piece of him he’d been missing most of his life.
Lianae wept unabashedly, soaking his blood-stained coat with her tears. “Welcome home,” she sobbed, hugging him fiercely. “Welcome home, my prince!”
“Ach, my love… what good is a prince without a princess?” he asked, and set her down upon her feet, falling to one knee, bloodied though he might be. “From this day forward, Lianae of Moray, I pledge my troth to ye… to the bairns we’ll make together, to the land we’ll keep and serve.”
Weeping as she reached for him, her hands smeared blood and sweat across his whiskered face, but it was the most tender caress Keane had ever known.
“My heart is yours, my laird of Dunràth,” she said.
“I love you truly. And if ye can see it in your heart to forgive me, I will be your faithful wife.”
“I forgave ye before I left ye,” Keane confessed, and it was true. He had known from the first time their lips met that she was the only woman he would ever know again. To keep her, he realized he must trust her, and to trust her he knew he must love her.
The people shouted huzzahs, but neither Lianae nor Keane heard them. The world fell away as they kissed once more… one last kiss to change the fates.