Chapter 22
BY THE WORD AND THE SWORD
Sorcha had never seen anything so awful and so beautiful at the same time. A silent scream left her open mouth as she watched Lachlan throw himself down, becoming armor for his wife. His injured wife.
Aila’s blood was oozing onto the ground beneath her. Lachlan’s large body pressing on her, keeping her from being able to do anything to staunch the bleeding.
Perhaps more shocking, was the fact that the man Aila had been fighting, the man who still had his sword lifted in the air overhead, ready to swing down on Lachlan’s neck, was frozen.
Shock, disbelief even, was written on his face.
Sorcha would have felt the same thing had she not been witness to the deep love Lachlan had for Aila developing and growing over the past couple of years.
“Yer quarrel is with me,” she heard Lachlan say, as he craned his neck to glance over his shoulder at the Englishman.
“Take me and leave her be. Let them all go. I will take whatever punishment the Baron sees fit for my crimes. But please, I beg ye, dinnae make my family suffer anymore. They are undeserving of his wrath.”
Sorcha finished off her opponent and crept closer to her friends, readjusting her grip on her sword, readying herself to use it should anyone be foolish enough to do as Lachlan wanted. From the corner of her eye, she watched Oliver do the same.
One by one, the fighting around them slowed. Men lowered their swords, each studying how fervently Lachlan tried to protect his wife. It was a moving sight, regardless of whose side they were on.
Daring to hope that this could be the end of the fighting, the end of the bloodshed, Sorcha locked eyes with Oliver.
To her horror, he was slipping his dagger back into its sheath, using the now empty hand to fish something out of his pocket.
His eyes stayed on the enemy lines, scanning for faces he recognized, she was sure.
“What are you all doing?” a booming voice shouted, echoing through the nearly still courtyard. “Finish the job!”
When no one moved to heed the man’s orders, the man moved forward with a scowl.
“Fine. I will do it myself.”
Shoving his shoulder into the soldier standing over Lachlan, the man tried to lift his sword, but Oliver darted in front of him. With a quick flick of his wrist, he had the commander disarmed and fuming.
“If you value your life, you will all put down your swords and walk away,” Oliver spoke through bared teeth, eyes on the commander, though he spoke to everything.
“Ha!” the Englishman barked out. “It is because I value my life that I am here, following orders. Or do you not know what it means to be loyal to your own kind?”
Sorcha’s temper flared at the accusation against Oliver. She knew it was one that struck him deeply, but he did not flinch.
“Is that any way to speak to a member of the Crown’s nobility?” Oliver sneered, using his title as deftly as a weapon. “Allow me to inform you that you are addressing Lord Blackwood, Marquess of Dunhaven and a close, personal friend of the king.”
It was a skill Sorcha had never seen him wield before, one that she knew cost him greatly. But it was effective in silencing the man.
“A-apologies, my lord,” the Englishman stammered out, ducking his head in a slight bow.
“I have here,” he said, speaking as though the commander had not, “irrefutable proof that the man you have all followed here today, Lord Dudley, has committed treason.”
He paused, letting his words absorb into the crowd.
“Treason?” a harsh voice called. “What kind of treason?”
Pasting on a diplomatic grin, Oliver held up the letter for all to see.
“I am so glad you asked. The Baron has been stealing from the crown for over two decades. Embezzling funds, forging documents, seizing land that is not his to claim, as he is trying to do here, today. All hangable offenses, I might add.”
“You will forgive me, my lord,” the commander said through gritted teeth, “if I do not take your word for it. You are, after all, fighting with the enemy today.”
“Read them yourself,” Oliver offered, handing over the documents to the man. “These are merely copies of the information.”
The battlefield waited with bated breath as their leader read the letters. Letters that Laura had fled for her life with to bring to them.
While the commander read, Oliver reached down to Lachlan, offering a hand. The Laird rose to his feet, immediately turning to gather Aila into his arms, cradling her against his chest.
“I am all right,” Aila whispered in protest. “Put me down. It will nae do the men good to see me as feeble.”
“Nay one thinks that, my love,” Lachlan assured her, but he gingerly set her down all the same.
When she swayed on her feet, Sorcha darted to her side, but Lachlan was already there, putting an arm around her to hold her steady.
Aila winced, and her face paled with pain, but she made no other noise.
Sorcha knew they didn’t have long if Aila was going to remain on her feet for the negotiations.
Eyes locked on the commander, they all waited for him to be done reading.
Oliver crossed his arms and sighed, seemingly bored with it all.
But Sorcha knew better. She knew he was putting on a show for the Englishmen, trying to prove to them how little they were affected by the battle.
Taking her cues from him, Sorcha relaxed her posture and let out a breath of her own.
She cantered through the crowd, silently taking inventory of who was injured and who was not.
With nearly imperceptible nods of her head, she assured the state of their army, should they need to stand and fight again.
At long last, the commander shook the letters he held, barely avoiding crumpling the parchment into a ball as he thrust it back at Oliver.
“I do not understand. I am not a lawyer. What does all of this mean?”
Smoothing the letters and folding them neatly before tucking them into the pocket of his coat, Oliver looked smugly at the commander. He knew better than any of them that to have any kind of authority in the situation, he had to play his role as Lord to a tee.
“It means,” he drawled, confidence infused in his every word, “that once the Crown is given these papers, along with all the appropriate evidence we have collected, the Baron will be found guilty of treason.”
Gasps, murmurs of confusion and disbelief scattered throughout the English lines.
Sorcha watched as seeds of doubt and discord began to take root in the enemy’s armies.
She had seen for herself in those short, miserable hours inside the Baron’s estate that the men who fought for him were doing so for one of two reasons: fear or greed.
Neither could stand the trials of treason charges.
The more Oliver spoke, the more sure he was, the less so the English became.
The air from the men behind her started to shift as well.
She could tell that they all understood the implications of what Oliver was claiming.
Moments ago, mere moments before, when the cling of swords clashing and the mournful groans of men dying had filled the air, they had all been filled with such doubt—bordering on hopelessness, that they would all perish where they stood.
She had seen it in the wild ruthlessness Lachlan fought with.
The desperate perseverance of all those who had encountered the English on a battlefield before.
Everyone, the McKenzies and the McGregors, allies from near and far, knew that this wasn’t merely a fight to defend the Kincaid territory.
It was a battle against good and evil, right and wrong.
It was the doorway, the threshold the Baron stood at, inching his way closer to threatening all of their livelihoods.
He wanted to steal their lands, to slaughter their women and children.
Sorcha felt quite sure that Dudley wouldn’t be content until the Scots were done away with entirely.
It was the letters Laura had risked her life to deliver and their contents that had changed the tides.
It was evidence that the Baron was wrong that was putting out the fire in the redcoat’s fight, leaving nothing but a sizzle and steam as the flame of their hatred was doused.
Sorcha could see it on every face she silently walked by.
And when her eyes sought the Baron’s, the coward still hiding behind hundreds of men, under the shade of a tree with his best warriors to defend him, she could see that even he knew this would not end well for him.
“I am sure,” Oliver continued, moving from addressing the commander only to speaking to the rest of the English army.
“The Baron has told you all you have every right to be here. He has sent you in pursuit of a dangerous man who escaped from prison and a woman who broke a betrothal contract. In normal circumstances, I would have to tell you that the law would agree with your mission here today.”
He paused. The silence was just long enough to have everyone within earshot sitting on the edge of their seats.
“But these letters,” Oliver patted his jacket pocket, “do more than prove your master has betrayed the Crown. They discredit him entirely. You see, as soon as the Crown’s council receives these letters, which I will personally deliver and ensure they are understood, they will not only find him guilty of treason.
They will also strip the Baron of all his titles, all his lands, and all his assets.
If they are merciful, they will hang him.
If they are not, they will throw in the tower to rot.
As such, any and all claims Dudley might have against any party here are null and void. ”
Hope rose in Sorcha’s chest. She was slowly coming to see the entire point Oliver had been getting at. It took him a matter of minutes to say it plainly.