Elizabeth McBride (25 page)

Breakfast was eaten quietly. The men, who knew the
value of eating even if they weren't hungry, shoveled porridge into their mouths with grim deliberation. Mhoire followed their example.

She chewed on her anger along with her food. Nothing
made sense! Someone was after Drosten-he had convinced her of that. But someone was after her, too. Whomever that person was had sent a message to Drosten to kill
her. And Drosten would have, if his loyalty to his clan had
been stronger than his love for her.

Could that message have been a ploy to get Drosten out
of the fort so he could be attacked while alone? That was
exactly what had happened. But there was no need for such
a maneuver. He routinely left Dun Darach to go hunting.
There were all manner of opportunities to hurl an arrow in
his back.

Why then send a message to him to kill her? Someone
truly must want her dead. That could certainly be Gormach
mac Nechtan, who everyone knew hated the Scots and
would do anything to ensure the supremacy of the Pictish
nation.

But would Gormach attack his only son? What goal
would that achieve?

Possession of Dun Darach. It all came back to that. To
the broken-down fort that looked to the sea. The gateway to the land they all wanted-the Picts, the Scots, the Britons, the Danes.

And her. Right or wrong, her heart was bound to this
land. She had made Dun Darach her home. She had planted
its fields, fought for it, almost died for it. And its people
had become her clan.

But to whom did Dun Darach really belong?

As her mother's bastard daughter, she had no claim to
Dun Darach under Irish law. When her uncle Malcolm was
killed by the Danes, Dun Darach became the property of
his sister's husband: Colman. Colman had bestowed it upon
Mhoire as a dowry. But if Colman didn't know that Mhoire
was not his daughter when he arranged the marriage, once
he found out, he could take Dun Darach back. Unless, that
is, Colman so wanted the alliance with the Picts that he
cared naught for her paternity. But for her and Drosten to
remain married would put both their lives at risk. Even if
Colman wanted them married, someone else wanted them
dead.

It was enough to make a woman furious.

She felt Drosten's eyes upon her.

"I'm going back to Dun Darach," she announced.

Relief flooded his face.

"And you're going with me," she added.

His eyes darkened and he opened his mouth to speak,
but she cut him off. "I must find out who is behind this. I
want to know who thinks he has a better claim to Dun
Darach than I do."

"Mo milidh-" Drosten looked exasperated. "-you said
yourself that you came to Dun Darach under false pretenses. If the fort is not yours, then it certainly can't be
mine. I cannot go back with you and pretend I have a legitimate right to it. But if I sever the marriage, I believe I
can keep my father away from you. He's a fierce man but
he's honorable. He won't kill you out of vengeance and he
won't try to take Dun Darach by force."

"Do you want to sever the marriage?"

His voice lowered. "Nay-"

"Are you afraid to fight?"

His brows shot up and he sat back.

"I didn't think so."

"Mhoire, I have a force of only twenty men-"

"And eight women."

He blew out a breath.

"One of whom," she added, "is an excellent archer."

He closed his eyes.

"You are a warrior and a prince. You must have a strategy for this kind of situation. You've been outnumbered
before."

Drosten opened his eyes and looked over at Alfred. Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"Thirty against a thousand," Drosten muttered, shaking
his head.

"We don't know it's a thousand," Mhoire insisted. "It
could be twenty. It could be one. We don't know who is
behind this. That is what we must find out."

Drosten ran his hand through his hair.

"If I must give you up," she went on, "if I must give up
Dun Darach, I won't do it without a fight." Her hand crept
to the small pouch at her breast with its three round pebbles. "My mother wanted me here. Dun Darach was her
home. I told myself that because it was my mother's land,
it should be mine. Why, if I were a Pictish woman. .."

Mhoire's mouth shut abruptly. But her mind finished her
thought. If I were a Pictish woman, I would have inherited
Dun Darach from my mother. It would be mine. And suddenly she knew who it was who wanted them dead.

Drosten stationed Mhoire inside Dun Darach's outer
wall. It was not where he wished her to be-he would
rather have had her miles away, hidden in some cave, safe.
But he knew it would waste his breath to argue with her.

She had insisted they return to Dun Darach. "Our mere
presence will provoke an attack," she said. And that had
become the plan.

At least inside the wall-in a tiny chamber with a narrow arrow slit designed for archers-Mhoire would be relatively safe. Besides, she was better with bow and arrow
than anyone else, and Drosten needed all the warriors he
could muster.

He strode across the courtyard surveying his men, who
were checking their weapons and saddling their mounts.
Drosten wasn't convinced that Mhoire's strategy was the
best course of action, but it delayed separating from her.
And if there was a chance that he could stay with her forever-with her brave heart and generous body-he had to
seize it.

And he had a plan himself; two plans. Drosten couldn't
help but smile remembering Mhoire's challenge. Surely,
he'd been outnumbered before, hadn't he? Aye, and so plan
number one, if it was obvious that the enemy could mow
them down, was to surrender and hand over the fort. He
would beg for Mhoire's life and the lives of the women.
As for himself and his men, well, they all knew that in this
case surrender would mean death.

Plan number two was far more complex.

Drosten climbed a ladder to the top of the wall and
looked out across the fields. He and Mhoire had crossed
those fields openly so that anyone watching from the woods
would see them approach and know that they were alive.
That would give their enemy two choices. He could attack
the fort directly. Or he could harass them so that they
wouldn't be able to set foot outside the fort. Then he'd wait
until they starved to death.

Drosten's instincts told him this enemy did not like to
wait.

He expected an attack to come soon. Thus he had split
up his forces. Under the cover of night, more than half of
the men had clambered down around the south side of the
fort to hide among the rocks between the cliffs and the
beach. When the time came, the remaining men would ride
north and confront the enemy. After the opposing sides
clashed, his men would feign fear and retreat back toward
the fort and the open beach. There the bulk of Drosten's warriors would be ready. They'd pin the enemy between
the cliffs and the sea and, he hoped, pick them off or drive
them into the surf. From her spot in the wall, Mhoire could
protect the fort if any of the assailants turned toward it. The
other women would be ready, too, with their daggers, their
prayers, and pots of boiling water that could be tipped over
the wall.

Mhoire had given the women leave to escape during the
night-to hide in the caves or seek refuge in the ruined
chapel. But they all had refused. Their only concession,
after much debate, was to conceal little Oran and a cache
of food in the cave they had once shared.

Drosten scanned the countryside, his eyes narrowed. The
tide was low, and a wide, hard strip of sand lay exposed
below the cobbles. Satisfied with what he saw, he backed
down the ladder and threw off his tunic. From his saddlebag, he drew out a tin of blue paint and lay a broad strip
down each arm and both legs, and across his brow. This
was how the Picts had fought from the beginning of time:
marked by the clan symbols tattooed on their skin and the
blue paint that gave them power.

Drosten mounted his horse and signaled to his men to
do likewise. He checked for his sword and his axe, made
sure they were positioned as he wanted them, and then
picked up his round metal shield. Glittering among the
square wooden ones his men carried, it identified him as
royalty. That was as it should be. He was the enemy's prey.
He was the one his assailants would chase to the beach. As
the oaken gate swung open, he prayed silently and briefly
that he could outrun them.

Mhoire watched them leave. As soon as Drosten had
cantered through the gate, she had slipped from her spot in
the wall and dashed up a ladder at the north end of the fort
so she could keep her eye on what was happening. The
sight of Drosten painted a ghostly blue nearly froze her
blood.

With scarcely half a dozen men behind him, he galloped straight across the fields toward the shadowy woods. They
could have been a hunting party, heading off under a glorious late-spring sky. Except, that is, for the sense of purpose in their postures, the silent efficiency of their
movements.

The small band was only halfway to the woods when
dark forms peeled off from the line of trees, as if the trees
themselves were splitting in two.

"Oh, God!" Mhoire whispered. They were right there.
Men with axes raised, hurling themselves toward Drosten.
Fumbling, she shrugged her bow off her shoulder, pulled
an arrow from her quiver, notched it, and raised her
weapon.

Her eyes once again found Drosten, riveted themselves
on his fair head and his white stallion. Saw him lift an arm,
strike a blow. "Run, my heart, run! Run to the beach!" she
cried, her words snatched away by the wind.

As if he had heard her, Drosten swirled his horse around
and retreated a few yards. Then he stopped and turned to
fight again.

How many enemy soldiers were there? Mhoire tried to
count. Not hundreds. Tens. She searched the field for the
opponent she was expecting to see. Not there. She searched
again. Scrutinized every face. Where was he?

Then the pack of men swerved as if they were all one
body. Mother of God! They were coming toward the fort,
galloping. "Bring up the water!" she cried to the women
below.

Mhoire raised her bow higher and fixed her aim on the
man galloping directly behind Drosten. "To the beach!" she
muttered through clenched teeth. "Go to the beach, Drosten! Follow your plan!"

Drosten leaned forward onto his stallion's neck and flattened himself so that horse and rider were one clean line.
Inch by inch, he pulled away from his pursuer. The attackers still followed, chasing their rabbit. Why was Drosten
leading them to the fort? That wasn't the plan! Mhoire
looked over her shoulder, saw Brigit and Elanta struggling up the ladder with an iron pot, and then turned back to the field.
She raised her bow again and, squinting, tracked the rider
behind Drosten.

Suddenly, Drosten veered. Sharp to the west. Away from
the fort. At the last moment, when his pursuers didn't have
a second to consider why, he plunged his horse onto the
cobblestone beach. From there, horse and rider skittered
down to the sand.

Mhoire raced down the ladder. She whirled and ran for
her spot in the wall.

Down in the cave, Oran sat with her knees to her chin.
She hated being in the cave. It was cold and dark and wet.
Her thin little body, clad only in a threadbare woolen gown,
trembled from fright and chill. Every time an icy droplet
fell from the ceiling and hit her on the head, she jumped.

Don't make a sound, her mother had said. Don't move.

Oran whimpered quietly.

If only she could sit a little closer to the light at the front
of the cave, she wouldn't be so afraid. She had never liked
the cave, even last winter when her mother and grandmother and the other women had been sleeping in it with
her. She had always been afraid of the dark.

The ground was drier near the opening where the sun
shone in. If she could just sit there. Then she wouldn't get
so dirty and she wouldn't be so afraid. And if a dragon
came roaring out of the blackness, she could run outside
and get away.

She inched forward. Bit by bit she crept, trying not to
make a sound, just like her mother had commanded.

Finally, she reached the patch of sunshine that was warm
and bright. But then Oran stilled. She heard noises. Bad
noises. Men grunting. Crying out. Horses squealing.
Louder. Closer. The terrible clang of iron. Louder still.
Coming toward her.

She knew those sounds. She had heard them before. On
that awful day. The day that her father lay covered with
blood, cut open like a slaughtered pig. And her uncles, and her grandfather, and all the men that she knew. The day
her mother cried and could not stop.

Oran rose to her feet and stood in the sunlight, stiff as a
stick, her eyes round and her mouth open. Then she ran.

Disbelieving her eyes, Mhoire saw Oran stumble over a
boulder, fall, push herself up with her little hands, run a
step, and fall again. From where she stood inside the wall,
she had a clear view of the child below. And the men fighting just around the curve of the beach.

Mhoire yelled out the arrow slit. "Oran! Go back! Go
back!"

But the child was too far away to hear.

Could she protect Oran from above? Not if she hoped to
protect the fort as well.

But she couldn't leave Oran alone out there. Where was
Drosten? She searched for him. There! At the far end of
the beach. Sweet God, he'd never see the child from that
distance.

Mhoire scrutinized the beach again. None of the warriors
had yet noticed Oran, who was crawling low to the ground
and away from the mayhem. If she could just ...

She slung her bow over her arm and scrambled out from
the wall.

Swiftly, Mhoire padded across the courtyard. All the
women were up on the ladders watching the fighting. Good.
She dared not tell them about Oran for fear chaos would
erupt. With a big pull on the gate, she cracked it open and
slipped out.