Page 80 of The Falcon Laird
A discarded battle axe lay on the ground and she picked it up, reeling under the weight of it.
“Get back!” Gavin shouted toward her.
She lifted the cumbersome thing to swing it, planting her feet wide on slippery grass as a soldier came toward her. Gavin shouted again. She swung hard, the axe nearly spinning her with its force. The knight jumped away in surprise, and she righted the thing to swing again.
He reached for her, but Christian aimed for his ankles, and he went down hard, knocked off his feet. He fell, bellowing and grabbing at her skirts as she ran past, slamming her the ground and rolling his weight over her. His hands slipped around her throat.
She tried to scream but her breath seared her lungs. She groped, kicking and struggling, but his weight held her down. Then the man arched back and lurched forward, limp. He slid away from her.
John stood over him, breathing hard, and held out a hand to her. She came to her feet.
“Get away from here, lass,” he growled, pushing her. She ran toward the trees as another knight came toward him. She could not find Gavin in the commotion. Then she stopped in astonishment.
Just shadows in the dusky, rainy light, not far from where she stood, a group of men stepped silently out of the oakwood. They raised their bows and released a stinging hail of arrows. Other men emerged from the winter wood with swords drawn. They moved past her to join Gavin and Fergus—she saw those two now, still struggling.
One man lingered for a moment, helmet on his head, sword strapped to his back. He looked at her and raised his hand in a salute. She blinked, mouth open in surprise.
She knew the eyes that held her gaze. Her cousin Robert waved and hastened toward the others.
“My thanks,” Gavincalled breathlessly to the bearded man in a ragged cloak, helmet, and leather hauberk who had suddenly, rather inexplicably, appeared to fight at his side. Several men had joined the skirmish from somewhere. But he was not about to question it. He was just grateful for assistance.
He struck out deftly at an English opponent, striking him hard in the shoulder, and the man came down to the earth with a scream. Turning, he assisted the ragged knight and others to push back a few soldiers who advanced toward the armed woodsmen. With the help of the strangers, Gavin, Fergus, and John soon surrounded the English, not outnumbering them, but defeating them.
The rest of Hastings’ men turned and ran, dragging with them their wounded. Other survivors caught their mounts and scrambled into saddles, shouting to their companions to hurry.
As the knights retreated through muck and rain, Gavin looked around. Twelve, perhaps sixteen men stood on the muddy ground. All, clearly, were Scots. They were as ragged as their evident leader, the knight who stood beside Gavin. Most were bearded and long-haired with shabby cloaks and tunics; their armor, what there was of it, was tarnished and piecemeal. A few Highlanders in plaid stood among them, tall and fierce in appearance, wearing quilted coats beneath their plaids, their helmets making them look even larger.
They watched Gavin silently, warily. He stared back, then turned slowly. Christian, disheveled and pale, came toward him, eyes wide and very frightened. Fergus and John came with her. His uncle placed his hand on her shoulder as the knight beside Gavin stepped forward.
Gavin turned then, feeling as if he moved very slowly. “Robert Bruce?”
Gray eyes somber, the man nodded. “Gavin Faulkener. We met long ago, at Edward’s court. I know your reputation.”
“And I know yours. My lord, you saved all of us here. I owe you a debt, my lord.”
Bruce shrugged to say the debt was small. “I am glad to help my cousin and her husband. I would rather have you at my back, man, than facing me with a sword. You fight like the wrath of God.”
Gavin gave a flat laugh. “When I saw men threatening my wife, I surely felt that.” He drew a shaky breath. The battle-blood that flowed through him had left his muscles trembling, his heart pounding. Everything had an aura of unreality, like a dream played out in slow, vivid detail.
He held out his hand to Bruce, the one man in Scotland he had been ordered to capture. “If ever you need my help, my lord—”
“I will call on you.” Bruce clasped his hand, a glimmer of a smile in the eyes behind the helmet. Then he lifted a hand in farewell to Christian, and motioned to his men. Between the rain and the shadows, Bruce and the others stepped into the tangled oakwood and disappeared.
He shoved his wet, straggling hair back with his hand and looked around. His gut turned with anguish. He hated battle, hated its aftermath even more. Several Englishmen lay slain, some wounded. The rest had retreated.
Christian ran toward him with a sob and he held out his arm to bring her into his embrace. She hid her face in his tunic and clung as icy rain pelted their heads. He eased his hand over her back, rested his cheek on her head. Fergus and John approached, pulling hoods over their heads against the rain.
“We will surely hear from Hastings about this,” Gavin said.
“We had reason,” John said.
“This is just one more issue between Oliver Hastings and me. No man will threaten my wife without paying for it.”
Christian looked up. “But we are safe. None of us were wounded, and they are gone. No talk of revenge or hate. Let us go home.”
“Whatever were you doing out here in this poor weather?” he asked then. “Dominy and the others came back to Kilglassie first.”
“We were delayed,” Fergus said. “I reinstated your wife in the Scottish Church. Christian nodded.
