Page 13 of The Devil in Plaid
Chapter Five
“More wood for the fires,” Fiona shouted to the lads carrying baskets on their backs, teeming with cut wood. She stood on the battlements where large cauldrons of water lined the parapet, suspended over hot flames in preparation for a breach of the inner wall.
“Fiona!”
She whirled around and crossed to the other side of the battlements and looked down onto the courtyard, which was filled with her kinfolk. The alarm had sent villagers rushing from the fields and their vulnerable peat homes to the safety of the keep. She prayed the many cottars that dotted their lands had made it to one of the fortified towers built to protect those who lived too far to reach Castle Creagan in case of attack.
Below her, she glimpsed mothers trying to soothe crying babies while children huddled in their skirts. Farmers were being turned into warriors. They took up swords and targs, listening intently to orders from the MacDonnell captains.
“Fiona!”
Again, her father called to her. Looking down, she met his gaze, his face red with fury.
“Blast it all, lass! Get yerself to the keep,” he shouted.
She shook her head. “I will not hide away, Father. I’m needed here.”
“Who needs ye?”
“I’m helping Broden.”
“Fiona, Broden can handle it. Get down here!”
She stood her ground, despite her father’s protests. “Ye can yell at me after we’ve saved our necks.”
She turned away from her laird and scanned the outer curtain. Dozens of MacDonnell warriors lined the battlements, standing in the crenels with pikes and crossbows at the ready. A sudden cry snaked her attention to the stone stairs leading up to where she stood. One of the wee lads had tripped, spilling his basket of wood.
“Hurry, William,” she shouted and raced down to help. The lad thundered up the stairs in front of her when his basket was righted, then dropped to his knees, adding fuel to the hot flames.
“’Tis still not enough,” she cried.
William nodded, jumped to his feet, and scurried back down the stairs.
“Look, my lady,” Broden shouted from where he stood further along the inner wall. With crossbow in hand, he pointed beyond the outer curtain. Her gaze followed his. At least five score riders charged down the sloping moors. Her hands gripped the wall as they disappeared from view only to rise up, cresting over the next hill. Each rider clasped a torch. Fire blazed and danced as they barreled toward the outskirts of the village.
“Nay,” Fiona screamed, leaning over one of the crenels. Helpless, she watched the enemy circle their fields, swinging their torches. Her heart quaked when their crops went up in flames.
She whirled around the instant she heard the MacDonnell war cry rend the air and the clanking of the drawbridge being lowered. Horses thundered across the cobblestones beneath her. Holding her breath, she watched as her clan’s warriors cleared the outer wall and raced out to meet the enemy with her father in the lead. Fire spread. Flames licked the peat huts, but when the enemy reached the heart of the village, her heart sank. So much destruction. The clash of metal rang out, distracting her from the fiery scene. She strained to distinguish her clansmen from the enemy, but the skirmish was too far away.
She tore her gaze from the fray and hastened across the battlements, a surge of determination coursing through her when she saw the large cauldrons had begun to boil.
“Ready yerselves,” she called to her men.
Then she cupped her hands and shouted across to the warriors on the outer wall.
“What do ye see?”
“The enemy retreats,” Alasdair shouted back.
Her heart leapt. The men around her cheered.
She turned back to look beyond the battlements to the village, but her view was obscured by a blanket of thick gray smoke.
The enemy had withdrawn. Still, they had set her world on fire.
She prayed her father had fended them off before the blaze found their stores.
Fiona raced down to the courtyard and waited breathlessly at the gate for her father and the warriors to return. When she spotted the riders, she scampered out of the way. Hooves pounded the wooden bridge. Her father dismounted. She raced to his side, weaving around the horses and men.
