Page 68 of The Devil in Plaid
Chapter Thirty Two
Ranulf stood on the battlements, watching the army approach. He licked his lips and gripped the wall as a frenzy of excitement shot through him. Without even a drop yet spilled, he could smell the blood about to be shed. He inhaled deeply, imagining the iron taste in his mouth. Soon, agonizing cries of the dying would rend the air, the sound mingling with the roar of the victor. He relished the anticipation coursing through his veins. He was close to achieving his longstanding dream of dominance. His reign would be vast, and all would bow to him.
“Let them come,” he shouted as the enemy marched across the green and curved around the moat. Hundreds of Highland warriors, clad in the MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids stood just beyond the outer wall, and yet, Ranulf knew no fear in his heart.
The wealth of Clan MacKenzie was great even before Ranulf added the spoils of his own hard-earned coin to the coffers. His keep was strong and well-defended. He did not doubt that he could squash any attack, especially when the wife of the commander was his captive.
“Yer husband should have stayed home and found a new wench to warm his bed. Now, many of these men will die. ‘Tis a pity, really. I would have given yer warriors a chance to join our ranks.”
He relished the raw emotion passing over the lady’s beautiful face.
His words made her eyes narrow. “They would rather die than swear fealty to a murderer like yerself,” she spat.
He crushed her to his chest and kissed her lips hard. The more she struggled in his arms, the more aroused he became. He turned her around and pressed her up against the wall, so that she faced outward. He gripped her head with his hand. “Now, watch as yer warriors fail.”
He gazed out upon the vast army, waiting for the glorious sound of metal slicing the air as they unsheathed their blades. But they did not draw their swords, nor were they positioning a battering ram. They stood, silent, unmoving. Suddenly, from the lips of a single warrior, the battle cry of the MacDonnell rent the air. The entire army repeated the cry. The same warrior sounded the call of the MacLeod. Once again, the entire army thundered the words across the battlements.
Ranulf sneered. “Those words will be their last.”
And then the warrior unsheathed his blade and raised his sword high and shouted the battle cry of the MacKenzie—Ranulf’s own call—the cry of his people. His hands gripped the battlements in confusion as the entire army sounded the battle cry of the MacKenzie.
In a flash, MacKenzie warriors positioned on the outer wall turned and aimed their crossbows into the baily and fired on his men. Warriors, wearing his crest, crumpled to the ground. And then a rush of MacKenzie warriors surged from the stable and attacked his men at the gate.
“What are they doing!” he cried, shoving Fiona aside. Then he turned to Kenric. “Get down there. Kill the rebels. Kill them all!”
Ranulf stared in horror as more of his men fell. And then the grating of the gate wheel blasted his ears. “Stop them,” he shouted to Gregor who was now fighting his own kin, MacKenzie fighting MacKenzie. Ranulf leaned over the wall. “They are lowering the gate,” he screamed.
“Ye there,” he shouted to a cluster of farmers pressing against the wall to keep away from the fray. “Pick up a bloody pitchfork and kill those men.”
The farmers looked at each other, and then they sprang into action. But they did not heed Ranulf’s order. Some of the them rushed to the wheel to help open the gate while others did, indeed, take up pitchforks and sickles, but they trained their weapons only at the men wearing black, leather jerkins.
“Fergus, ye bastard, what is happening?” Ranulf shouted. His son’s eyes were wide. His hands gripped his hair.
“I do not know, father,” he cried.
“Stop it,” he shouted down at a dozen or more cottars who had Gregor surrounded. “Nay,” Ranulf shouted as the mob cut Gregor down.
Ranulf’s heart pounded. He spied Kenric swinging his sword, cutting down the treacherous farmers and MacKenzie warriors who dared defy him. “Get them, Kenric!”
The drawbridge touched down. A surge of MacLeod and MacDonnell warriors thundered into the baily with a massive swordsman in the lead.
“Jamie!” Lady Fiona cried out beside him.
“Shut up,” he snarled and brought the back of his hand against her cheek. She stumbled back, falling on her side.
He looked back to the battle below, grinning when he saw that Kenric was even larger than the infamous Laird MacLeod. With greedy eyes, he relished each blow of Kenric’s sword as he forced Jamie to retreat.
He reached down and yanked the lady to her feet. “Watch while yer beloved falls beneath the might of a true swordfighter.” Then he shouted. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”
Kenric swung his sword. Ranulf held his breath, but the MacLeod ducked. Again, Kenric lashed out, his blade glinting in the sun. This time Jamie blocked the blow. Still, Kenric trudged forward, using his greater strength to push his opponent back. Jamie’s feet slipped. He fell forward, but rolled quickly, avoiding Kenric’s sword that plunged down, driving into the earth rather than the MacLeod’s body. Jamie spun, swinging his blade. Kenric yanked at his sword, freeing it from the ground just as Jamie’s sword sliced through his neck.
“Nay!” Ranulf shouted as Kenric’s head fell to the ground, his body crumpling moments after.
Ranulf whirled around. “Ye,” he snarled at the lady.
Her eyes glinted, and a smile curved her lips.
“What have ye done?” he gritted, his fingers biting into her shoulders.
