The Ford of Annock
Alec rose at dawn, still furious.
He’d arrived at the stables the previous evening to find Robert standing there, a leather whip coiled in his hand and their younger brother, David, lolling behind him as if the whipping of a Cunningham chambermaid would be a fun sport to observe.
The following exchange hadn’t been pretty.
Far from it. Robert—as well as Alec, himself—had been stunned to discover just how deep Alec’s fury could run.
They’d almost come to blows before Robert abandoned his plans of torturing the lass, but not before a rift had formed between the brothers, and a great one—one that Alec was uncertain even time could heal.
When they heard of the fight, the younger Montgomerys took the earl’s side, believing Alec’s defense of a Cunningham lass amounted to a betrayal of their clan. But Alec understood that well enough. They were only lads.
But Robert?
He scowled, his rage threatening to rear its ugly head once again.
Robert had ended the night by declaring that to a man, the Cunninghams were treacherous, and then he’d coldly informed them all that he’d escort the younger Montgomerys to Eglinton himself on the following morn, adding that Alec wasn’t needed—or welcome.
With an angry jerk, Alec belted his sword about his waist and yanked his boots on.
He’d see his brothers safely over the river to Eglinton, whether they wanted him to or not.
And then, he’d return for Sorcha and ride north with Taran, away from this accursed place. He wasn’t certain he would be coming back. Ever.
The door to his chamber opened, and Taran stepped inside. One look at the set of his shoulders and Alec knew the tidings were of the worse kind. “How bad?” he asked, a feral growl rising in his throat.
“Robert stood the guard down,” Taran grated. “All of them.”
Alec expelled a shocked breath through his nose. Aye, Robert, ever the hot-headed fool. He’d endanger them all simply to make it known that he had no intention of listening to Alec’s counsel any longer.
“They shall ride with us then,” Alec said grimly.
“Aye,” Taran replied with a curt nod.
They half-ran down the tower steps but were only part way down when, through a narrow window slit, they caught a glimpse of Montgomery horsemen galloping out of the stables.
Cursing, Alec and Taran broke into a run. There was just enough time to join them. Just.
Reaching their waiting mounts at the tower entrance, they vaulted into the saddles without a moment to spare.
Alec glanced up. It was likely to be a miserable ride. The skies had darkened and the wind had taken a violent turn, ripping the autumn leaves from the surrounding trees to send them swirling in the air.
Robert galloped past then, with the younger brothers in tow. To a man, they turned their heads away from him and trotted out of the castle gates.
“We see them off,” Alec growled stubbornly.
“Aye,” was all Taran said.
But as Alec turned his horse’s head to follow, he heard a scream from the ramparts.
Leaning back, he glanced up to see Sorcha running towards him, the wind whipping her hair wildly around her face.
He didn’t want to wait. He couldn’t afford to lose the precious minutes. But one look at her face announced something was dreadfully wrong. And as she ran down the stone steps, nearly falling in her haste to reach him, he saw that she was limping.
Exchanging an alarmed glance with Taran, he leapt from the saddle, noticing for the first time that she’d lost a shoe, her clothes were stained, and her face was whiter than snow.
“’Tis a plot,” she screamed at him before he could reach her. “Hugh … ambush … the earl … Margaret.” Unable to say more, she buckled, clutching her stomach and frantically pointed above her head.
Alec whirled to see Margaret standing on the ramparts, a length of white cloth in her hands.
“Have a care in Lainshaw, lad. ‘Tis there the river of blood ‘twill begin.”
A cry tore from Alec’s lips as a moment later, a pistol shot in the far-off distance rent the air.
The next thing he knew, he was bursting through the low-hanging branches barring his path to the Annock River ford, half a league from the castle—having no recollection of how he’d gotten there.
Behind him, he heard Taran’s raw Mackenzie battle cry and the roars of the Montgomery guards who accompanied them, bellowing like bears.
There were no enemies to be seen—or if there were, he didn’t see them.
He saw only the Montgomery plaids in the river.
His brothers. Faces down, arms and legs splayed out, floating with the feathered shafts of arrows protruding from their backs. The green of their plaid swirled in the current, around the red staining the water in dark, pluming clouds.
His stomach recoiled, and both cursing and praying at the same time, he sprang from the saddle, splashing towards them, the blood roaring in his ears.
He caught one of his brothers in his arms, and then another, and yet still another, but they were lifeless, the waters of the Annock already turning their bodies cold forever.
Others were there, pulling his younger brothers’ bodies out of the river.
Andrew. David. Aonghas. Eadan. Even the two youngest, Niall and Sean.
Numbly, Alec staggered to the shore, spent and with sagging shoulders, he stood over them in shock.
“The earl!” someone cried.
Alec whirled to see Robert’s horse emerging from the trees on the opposite bank, but the relief in his heart was short-lived. Robert hung from his saddle, his arms dragging the ground and with a full score of arrows protruding from his chest.
Pain descended over Alec then, a physical pain, like a knife in his heart, but he couldn’t move. He could only stare in disbelief.
“The three of ye ride to Lainshaw and see if ‘tis safe for all to return,” Taran was ordering the Montgomery guardsmen. “The rest of ye stay with us. These traitors will likely return to ensure not one Montgomery lives. Protect the earl. Protect him with your lives.”
“He’s dead, Taran,” Alec choked in a strangled whisper.
The highlander’s blue eyes narrowed beneath tangled brows. “Nay, ‘tis not that earl of which I speak, cousin,” he clarified, his face passive, shuttered.
Bewilderment creased Alec’s brow, and then bile rose in his throat as the Montgomery guards formed a protective circle around him.
Ye’ll sit on the ancient seat of your clan afore winter falls, and as the last of your line.
He wanted to vomit.
It seemed only a moment later before the guards returned, declaring the path to Lainshaw firmly under Montgomery control, and almost as if in a dream, Alec rode back, bleary-eyed and blood-spattered.
He glanced over at Taran, riding at his side, sword drawn and ready, and his ebony hair streaming down his back.
Dark patches of blood stained his plaid, but Alec knew he was unscathed—they all were.
The blood wasn’t theirs.
Montgomerys stood on the ramparts, bows and pistols ready. They lined Alec’s path as he rode through the gates. The gleaming steel of their swords surrounded the courtyard’s perimeter as he trotted inside to find Montgomerys pushing Cunninghams upon their knees.
Women screamed.
He heard a child’s terrified cry.
He recognized the situation for what it was: the beginnings of a blood bath.
Aye, rage seared through him in a fire he wasn’t sure could ever be quenched. Aye, ‘twas time for justice for the fallen—but not like this.
“Nay,” he said. “Not like this.”
He saw Sorcha then, face pale, standing almost where he’d left her, and he closed his eyes, summoning every ounce of strength he possessed to regain control through the pain.
She’d warned him of the river. How had she known? By all that was holy, how had she known? Had she known of the plot all along?
He wanted to vomit again.
Sweet Mary, had Robert been right? Had he made enemies of his own brothers, or worse, caused their deaths by his actions of the night before?
Guilt stabbed his heart—or what was left of it.
Feeling his soul tearing into shreds, he turned away, refusing to look at her, and faced the enraged Montgomerys standing along the walls instead.
It was then that Auld Bertha’s words chose to ripple across his mind again, aye, he felt like a man possessed, hearing the old woman say: Have a care in Lainshaw, lad. ‘Tis there the river of blood ‘twill begin.
He choked and bowed his head.
Nay, Bertha was wrong. He’d make her wrong. He’d stop this bloody river. He’d stop it himself.
Lifting his head, he heard his own voice ring through the courtyard, “I want justice!”
A thunderous din greeted these words. Every Montgomery in the place called out the same. Some unsheathed their swords.
The Cunninghams quailed. Most dropped to their knees. A few looked ready to stand, to fight to the death.
Clenching his jaw, Alec raised his hand for silence.
It took some time before he could continue, but it was with words he knew the Montgomerys would be shocked to hear.
“I want justice. Justice. Not revenge. I’ll not exact a bloody revenge, without mercy, upon the innocent.
There will be no more killing here this day.
As the Montgomery, I order ye to stand down. Sheathe your swords.”
Shock. That was the prevailing expression on the Montgomerys surrounding him. That and defiance.
Taran was the only one to nod in approval.
Alec eyed the men still holding their swords.
“Stand down,” he thundered again, giving the pent rage inside him free rein in his voice. “I am the Montgomery and I order ye to stand down. If ye dinna obey me, then there’s no place for ye here. I’ll slaughter ye myself. Sheathe your swords. And at once!”
They blinked. And then slowly, he heard the scraping sound of swords meeting their scabbards. The sound rose in a wave before slowly diminishing, but a handful of men refused. With mutinous cries, they swung their swords above their heads and escaped towards the stables.