Highland Destiny (19 page)

“I dinnae think they will spit on you,” she said, pained by her inability to ease his fears. “They have cared for ye for thirteen years, Eric. I dinnae think that can change so verra quickly.”

“Mayhap not.” He gave her a crooked smile, a little embarrassed by his own foolishness, then sighed heavily. “It will change though. It has to. They may have cared for me for years, but they have also loathed and fought the Beatons for years as weel. ’Tis hard to explain. ’Tis just that I feel things must change. How can they not?”

“I fear I have no answers to give ye, Eric. I dinnae ken your clan as weel as ye do. James, Balfour, and Nigel all seem to be good, fair men. Aye, and they all possess some wit. It would seem to me that it should make no difference in how they feel toward you. After all, ye havenae lied. Ye also thought ye were a Murray. They told ye that from the day ye were plucked off that hillside and brought to Donncoill.

“There is one thing ye must do, however. Dinnae let this change you. Dinnae let it poison your heart so that ye see hate and mistrust where it doesnae exist. Aye, it can be painful to hope all will be weel, then find out that it will not be. But, if ye make yourself believe that they must dislike and mistrust you, ye will become a different mon, not the one they have known for so long.”

“Ye are saying that if I continue to believe the worst, then the worst may just happen. I will make it so.”

“Aye, something like that. Now, ready yourself, for I see your foolish brother Nigel limping his way up the hillside.”

Eric laughed and eagerly accepted Nigel’s hug. Nigel collapsed on the grass by his side and Eric was soon relating the tale of their escape all over again. Maldie felt
someone staring at her and looked up to see that James was standing before her. Her eyes widened a little when she saw how uneasy he looked, as if he was a little embarrassed.

“I said I would stay here,” she said, smiling a little as she tried to ease some of the awkwardness he so clearly felt.

“Aye, I suspect ye will.” James cleared his throat. “I but wished to apologize for my suspicions.”

“Ye dinnae need to,” she replied, wishing she could stop his unnecessary apology. “Ye had a right to suspect me. If naught else, I was the only one ye didnae ken weel, and I arrived at your gates at a verra suspicious moment.”

“That is nay good enough. I had no proof that ye were a Beaton spy. None at all. I should not have let my concerns make me unfair in my judgments.”

“Ye did what ye had to. I feel no ill will.”

He nodded, then frowned slightly. “Ye didnae happen to find out how Beaton discovered who Malcolm was, did ye?”

“Nay, I didnae talk long with Beaton and he wasnae of a mind to confide in me.”

“I think I may be at fault for that,” said Eric.

“Nay, lad. Ye would ne’er betray your own,” Nigel said, patting his young brother on the back.

“Not on purpose, nay. But, I think I may have revealed in some small way that I recognized him. He came down to the dungeons with Beaton the day after I was tossed down there. I was verra surprised to see him standing there at Beaton’s side. That may have shown on my face, and it was all Beaton needed.”

“Nay, he would have needed more than that, I think,” James said.

“Mayhap Malcolm was seen when he came to visit me later, alone,” Eric continued. “I think he hoped to rescue me. ’Tis what he spoke to me about.”

“That would be the mistake that got him killed.”

“Aye,” agreed Nigel. “It would have been. Beaton would have had the dungeons carefully watched. Aye, the wrong glance from you may have stirred a suspicion or two, but they would have died away. Malcolm acting so quickly to try and set ye free would have made that brief glance of recognition far more important than it needed to have been. None of us will e’er ken what Malcolm was thinking, but by showing so much interest in you, he gave himself away. That is what got him murdered.”

Eric shivered and, wrapping his arms around himself, rubbed his hands up and down his arms in a vain attempt to remove the sudden chill that had run through his body. “And it was a slow, brutal murder, too. I dinnae want to see such cruelty e’er again. For that alone Beaton should die a hundred deaths.”

“Ye saw Malcolm murdered?” demanded James, his voice hard and cold.

“Beaton thought it would harden me to see how traitors are treated.” He shook his head. “Malcolm suffered for days, but he ne’er told Beaton a thing, whispered not one secret about the Murrays. He was a verra brave and loyal mon. I dinnae think I could have held firm throughout such agony. Nay, not when it went on for days.”

“No lad should have had to see that.”

“I suspect Beaton saw such cruelty at a young age,” murmured Maldie. “From all Eric told me, the mon seemed to think the lad needed such training, needed the hardening it would bring. Aye, sometimes men like Beaton are born mean, but sometimes such men are made, the evil in them nurtured and strengthened throughout their younger years.”

“Ah, so ye mean to say that since Beaton’s father was a cruel bastard, that made Beaton a cruel bastard, too,” said Nigel, and Maldie nodded. “Sad, but it willnae save him from the killing he deserves.”

“Nay, and I wouldnae suggest that it did. In truth, I think Beaton would welcome death if he wasnae so terrified of the judgment he will face. And I believe Beaton’s father may have been crueler than we can e’er imagine. ’Twould be one understandable reason why Beaton killed him and seems to suffer no guilt for having done so.”

“Beaton killed his own father?” James asked, his voice softened by the horror of such a crime.

“Aye, he told me so himself.”

“He killed my mother as weel,” said Eric, pulling the men’s attention his way.

As Eric explained how he had gained that piece of information, Maldie took the moment to try and gather her courage. Eric would soon be telling his brothers and James the whole truth about himself. That meant she would have to be truthful as well. James’s reaction to the news that Beaton had killed his own father told her that at least some of her truths would not be accepted. It was indeed a grave sin to murder one of your parents, but she had never allowed herself to think about that for long. She had the sick feeling that she would soon see just how unacceptable it was to everyone except men like Beaton.

Beaton’s opinion that she was more like him than she would like to be stuck in her mind and made her inwardly cringe. She did not want that to be true, but she had to wonder on it. If she had been quicker and Beaton and Calum had been slower, she would now have the blood of her own father on her hands. The truly upsetting thing about it all was that Beaton, foul work of a man that he was, probably had far more justification for killing his father than she had for trying to kill hers.

Deep inside of her brewed a hard anger at her mother. The only thing that kept it locked within her heart was that right beside it was a pain she was not sure she could deal with. If her mother had loved her at all, the woman’s bitterness had eaten it all away. No truly loving mother would do to her daughter what Margaret Kirkcaldy had done to hers. Margaret had raised her only child to go and kill a man, and not just any man, but the one whose seed had made her, and she had not once cared what that might do to her child.

Maldie wondered how much else Beaton had said might be true, and feared that a great deal of it had been. Margaret had not wanted Beaton dead because her heart had been broken, or even because she had been left poor and shamed, but because her soaring vanity had been stung. It was a horrible thing to see in one’s own mother, but the more Maldie considered it, the more it tasted like the truth.

Whenever Margaret had spoken of love and broken hearts, the woman had often sounded as if she quoted some minstrel’s lyrics. There had always been a faint ring of falseness to her protestations of love lost, but Maldie had tried to tell herself that it was simply a reticence to speak of such personal things. However, other things her mother had said when speaking of Beaton had clearly concerned her badly stung pride, the insult she felt over being cast aside like some common whore, and they had always sounded sincere. Even when her mother had been dying and demanding that Maldie swear a blood oath to kill Beaton, the woman had spoken of her injured pride, of the outrage she still felt that the man would do such a thing to her. Maldie realized that it was only when she had hesitated that her mother had even mentioned her broken heart. She also realized that
not once had her mother spoken of the man’s crime in deserting his child. That had always been her own grievance, and she had just assumed that her mother had shared it.

When Eric nudged her to draw her attention to him, she welcomed the interruption in her thoughts. All the pain and anger she held inside were rising up, choking her, and now was not a good time to face them or any of the other hard truths she had ignored for so long. Eric was like a salve on her sore heart. He cared for her and she had no doubt about that at all. The youth did not have a false bone in his body. She prayed that that would never change.

“Are ye tired, Maldie?” Eric asked.

“Aye, weary to the bone, but I will be fine,” she replied. “This will all be over soon.” She looked toward the village, pleased to see that there was little fighting there. “I hope my dear friend Eleanor got safely away.”

“The old woman ye stayed with?” asked James.

“Aye, how did ye ken that?”

“Douglas told us.”

Maldie briefly gaped at James. “Douglas is a Murray mon?”

“Aye, always has been. When ye tried to kill Beaton and were sentenced to hang for it, he came back to Donncoill. Too much had changed and he was gaining little knowledge. As he said, to act even a little curious about the laird and his doings was enough to get ye killed.”

“It was,” agreed Eric. “Beaton hanged several men simply because he thought they
might
be guilty of treason against him. From what little I heard they had committed no crime save to ask the wrong question or hear some small thing Beaton felt they shouldnae have. Most people kept their distance from the keep and from Beaton. Few people e’en dared to open their mouths. Douglas was wise to get away while he still could.”

“Ye saw the old woman Eleanor, did ye?” Maldie asked, regaining James’s attention.

“Aye, and she saw us,” replied James. “Ye warned her, didnae ye?”

“I did. I hope she heeded it and did so without harm to your cause.” She smiled crookedly as she looked at the smoke rising from within the walls of Dubhlinn. “’Tis clear she didnae hurt ye at all.”

“Not at all, and I feel sure she got to a safe place. There is nary a doubt in my mind that she had guessed we were not here for the wares of the marketplace.”

“Good. She is a sweet, kindhearted woman and I was afraid for her.”

Despite all of her efforts not to, Maldie realized that she could not stop herself from continually glancing toward the waning battle. She knew she was looking for Balfour, and the hint of amusement in James’s eyes told her that he knew it, too. It made no sense, for anything she might have shared with the man would soon be brutally ended. Yet she was hungry for the sight of him, wanted to see with her own eyes that he had survived the battle and was able to enjoy a well-deserved victory.

“I am going to go and find that fool laird of ours,” James announced, pointedly glancing at Maldie. “I cannae believe there are any Beatons left to fight.”

“Calum said he left his laird facing yours,” Maldie told him.

“Weel, that confrontation should be over by now,” James muttered, frowning slightly as he hurried back toward the keep.

“Balfour wouldnae lose to Beaton, would he?” Eric asked Nigel, his voice softened
by concern.

“Nay,” Nigel replied without hesitation.

“If Calum spoke the truth, then the fight between Balfour and Beaton has either lasted a verra long time or—”

“There is no
or
, lad. Balfour will defeat Beaton. Mayhap he plays with the mon. Mayhap Calum lied. Mayhap Balfour and Beaton had a lot to say to each other ere they truly began to fight. The length of time one takes to fight an enemy doesnae determine who wins or loses. Believe me, lad, Beaton doesnae stand a chance against our brother.”

Maldie watched James disappear through the high gates of Dubhlinn and prayed that Nigel was right. Eric’s worry was her own. Beaton should have been defeated by now, and yet there was no sign of Balfour. She felt sure that, after today, she would never see Balfour again, but she did not want that to be because Beaton had killed him.

“Murray, ye bastard,” yelled a raspy voice, and Balfour tensed.

He easily recognized the voice. It was the same one that had taunted him from the walls of Dubhlinn the last time he had tried to rescue Eric and failed so miserably. Beaton was approaching him from behind and Balfour felt alarm ripple through him.

Balfour quickly turned, his sword at the ready. He was surprised that Beaton had even spoken, had not simply crept up on him and stabbed him in the back. It should have been Beaton’s first thought upon finding him without a man to watch his back, but Beaton was obviously too enraged to think clearly. It was understandable for the man was seeing everything he had built be cut down before his eyes, but it could prove to be fatal.

Beaton stopped but feet from him, ripped off his mail cowl, and Balfour gaped, unable to control his expression of shock. The last time he had seen the man Beaton had been high up on the walls of Dubhlinn, and Balfour had not been able to see the way the man’s disease had ravaged his face and body. Although he could only see Beaton’s face, it looked as if the man was rotting away. Balfour’s first instinct was to back away, to put as much distance as he could between Beaton and himself for fear of catching whatever ailed the man, but he resisted that urge to give into his fear. No one else at Dubhlinn seemed to be suffering the same affliction, even though Beaton had been fighting it for at least three years. That indicated that it was not something one could just catch. He also trusted in Maldie’s knowledge of such things. She had told Douglas that it was just some affliction of the skin, and would have quickly warned the man and everyone else she could if it was one a person could catch. Since she had not issued such a warning, Balfour decided that what Beaton suffered was his own private torment, something that could not be healed or inflicted upon others.

“I have come for my brother,” Balfour said, watching Beaton closely since the man had a reputation for fighting in less than honorable ways.

“Ye mean my son?”

“My father’s son. Ye cast the lad aside as if he were no more than scraps from your table. Ye have no claim to him. Ye denounced that years ago.”

“A serious lack of foresight that I now intend to correct.”

“No one will believe it.” Balfour then shrugged, having espied Calum slipping away and leaving Beaton alone to face his fate. “It doesnae matter anyway, for ye will soon be dead.”

“This slow rotting ye see hasnae killed me yet.”

“Nay, but I dinnae intend to leave ye alive now that I have found you. Ye have committed your last outrage against my people.”

Balfour knew the moment that Beaton realized he was alone. The slight loss of color the man suffered when he saw that Calum had deserted him made Beaton look an even more sickening gray. For one brief moment he wondered if it was right to fight with the man. It seemed somewhat dishonorable to take up his sword against such an obviously sick knight. Then he watched Beaton move and realized that, no matter how bad the man looked, he still had his strength and probably some of his former skill. Beaton still had the ability to kill him, and that was all he needed to know.

“Arenae ye going to ask about your wee whore?” Beaton taunted him as they began to slowly circle each other.

“If ye try to enrage me with your insults about Maldie, I would save your breath,
especially since ye willnae be enjoying it for much longer. Ye willnae cause me to act foolishly. Ye will just be giving me more reason to kill you.”

“Mayhap, my boastful enemy, I shall kill you.”

“Face to face with no one to aid ye? I think not. Ye have let others do your fighting for you for too long, Beaton. Aye, either that or done your killing treacherously in the dark, and from behind. A mon can lose his skills quickly when he doesnae keep them honed.”

Balfour realized that Beaton was not keeping the same control over his emotions that he was. The man’s face flushed a deep red, accentuating the sores and seared skin grotesquely. Beaton was clearly too lost in his fury and sense of defeat to realize the weakness he was revealing. As plainly as if he had spoken the words aloud, he told Balfour that he could be taunted into acting rashly and that could make him easier to kill.

“Ye may have won this battle, Murray, but I intend to see that ye ne’er survive to enjoy the sweet taste of victory. Aye, and neither will the two ye have come to save.”

It was hard, but Balfour ignored the man’s threat, Beaton’s not so subtle claim that Eric and Maldie were about to murdered. Fear for them was a hard knot in his belly, however, as he met and parried Beaton’s first, somewhat frantic strike. The power of the blow was enough to tell Balfour that he needed to keep all of his attention upon Beaton. The man’s skill may have slipped due to high emotion and lack of use, but he was still a serious threat. All he could do was pray that Beaton lied, or, if he did not, that he could reach his brother and his lover before whatever murderous plan Beaton had made was enacted.

The battle was fierce and silent. Balfour was grateful for the fact that Beaton needed all of his strength to fight him and had none left for any taunts. He was proud of his control over his emotions, the way he had concentrated all of his feelings and attention onto one goal, killing Beaton, but Balfour knew his grip was a tenuous one.

It did not take long for Balfour to know that he would win the fight with Beaton, unless some horrible twist of fate or one of Beaton’s men intervened. The man still had some skill left and strength, but that strength was waning. Whether it was because of the illness or too long a dependence upon others to do his fighting, Beaton tired swiftly. His sword thrusts became more erratic, and he began to stagger when he avoided Balfour’s attacks.

The end came in an almost disappointing way. Beaton stumbled even as he tried to parry a blow by Balfour, and left himself open for a swift, clean death stroke. Balfour did not hesitate to take full advantage of that, thrusting his sword deep into Beaton’s chest. As he watched the man fall, Balfour felt little more than relief that it was over, and that now he could find the two people he had come to save. Beaton had been their enemy for so long, Balfour was surprised at how little he felt over the man’s death, but decided that he did not have the time to sort out his own vagaries.

He wiped his sword clean on Beaton’s jupon, idly noting that Beaton’s armor was old. Although the man had been accumulating wealth off the backs of his people for years, he had clearly not spent much on weaponry and armor to protect them. Beaton had evidently depended mostly on hiding behind Dubhlinn’s high, strong walls. It explained the ease with which the battle was being won once they had gotten within those walls.

“Weel, now ye are the corpse ye have looked like for so long,” he muttered as he stood up and looked around.

The few remaining Beatons who were still fighting had either seen or already heard of their laird’s death. A cry had gone up as soon as the man had fallen. Balfour doubted they would continue to fight, at least not for Beaton. Since so many of Dubhlinn’s men at arms were hired swords, outlaws, and outcasts, there might be some who feared capture more than death. The battle, however, was as good as finished.

As he strode toward the keep, Balfour paused by one badly wounded Beaton man lying in the mud, bent down, and grabbed him by the front of his tattered jupon, lifting him off the ground slightly. “Where are the prisoners?” he demanded, wanting to make sure that matters had not changed since Douglas had fled Dubhlinn.

“Which ones?” the man asked, his voice weak and hoarse with pain, but still holding a thread of defiance.

“The lass Beaton meant to hang and the boy he tried to claim as the son he couldnae make for himself,” Balfour snapped, gently shaking the man.

“Jesu, cannae ye let a mon die in peace?”

“Nay, and, if ye die before ye tell me what I wish to ken, I will follow ye to the gates of hell to throttle the answer out of ye.”

“In the dungeons, curse ye.” The man groaned when Balfour let him go and he fell back down on the ground.

“Who is with them?” Balfour felt a brief touch of guilt over his rough treatment of a wounded man, then looked more closely and decided that, although the man was badly wounded, it was probably not fatal.

“One guard.”

Balfour stepped over the man and walked into the keep. He held his sword at the ready, but met no one who challenged him. In fact, he met no one at all, and realized that his surprise attack had been more successful than he had hoped, so complete that no one had had time to set up a defense within the thick, sheltering walls of the keep. Stepping into the great hall, Balfour saw the door Douglas had told him about, and all of his fears for Eric and Maldie rushed up to choke him. Without any thought for his own safety, he ran straight for it, flung it open, and hurled himself down the steep stairs.

As he slumped against the cool wall of the great hall, Balfour wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He had fought his way to the hall and heedlessly rushed down to the dungeons only to find a frantic maid and a groaning guard. They told him that Eric and Maldie had knocked them out, locked them in, and fled. Balfour had left the two there, ignoring their colorful aspersions upon his, Eric’s, and Maldie’s characters as he raced back up the dark stairs. Once back in the great hall, however, he had come to a halt, unsure of where to go and what to do next. He had been so sure that he would find Eric and Maldie that he felt rooted to the spot with the weight of his disappointment.

He did not know where James was, or Douglas, or Nigel. Once the battle had begun he had paid little heed to anything except getting to the great hall, to the dungeons where everyone had said his brother and Maldie were being held. Cursing softly under his breath, he started out of the room, knowing to his disgust that he could well have passed within feet of them, may have even missed them by minutes. The only comfort he could find was that, if Beaton had planned their murder, they had escaped that. He just did not know when, where to, or if they had been successful. Trying to flee in the midst of a heated battle was not easy.

Suddenly, he saw the dead man sprawled beside the head table, and he tensed. Balfour realized that he had become so consumed with finding Eric and Maldie that he was not keeping a watch on the enemy. This man was dead, but he still should have at least noticed the body, been aware of the implications. For all that it looked deserted, the inside of the keep was obviously not completely safe. Balfour wondered who had killed the man and prayed it was neither his young brother nor Maldie. Neither of them was hardened enough to accept killing a man as necessary, as simply a part of battle and survival. And they should never have had to, he thought with a strong wave of self-disgust, for he should have been there to protect them.

“Balfour,” cried a deep familiar voice from the doorway.

“James, I dinnae think I have e’er been so glad to see you,” Balfour said as James walked up beside him and stared down at the dead man.

“Yours?”

“Nay. I was just hoping that it wasnae Maldie’s or Eric’s.” He frowned when James grimaced. “Have ye seen them? I went racing down to the dungeons only to discover that they had already let themselves out.”

“Aye, they have and aye, this death came at their hands.”

“They are unhurt?”

“They are. Calum tried to see that they didnae leave Dubhlinn, alive, but I ended that threat.” James suddenly grinned. “I came upon them by accident. Your wee lass was standing there trying to lift a sword that was bigger than she and keeping herself between Eric and Calum. For a wee lass she has a lot of courage.”

“She tried to fight with Calum?”

“She was just trying to get herself and the lad to safety. Have ye seen Beaton or has that slinking coward managed to avoid the judgment he so richly deserves?”

“I just sent Beaton to the devil.”

“So that is why the fighting has all but ended.”

“Then I need not return to it. Good. Where are Eric and Maldie?”

Balfour was eager to see his brother and Maldie, eager to see with his own eyes that they were unharmed. Until he did, he knew he would not be completely at ease, would not be able to fully believe that he had won. If nothing else, it had all gone too well, been too successful, and he found such ease of victory a little hard to believe in.

“They should not have had to do this,” he muttered, nudging the dead man with his foot. “Maldie should ne’er have been forced to take up a sword.”

“Lad, ye cannae be standing guard over everyone all the time,” James said. “Ye would die from lack of sleep.”

Balfour smiled briefly. “I am not completely guiltless in all of this but, aye, ye are right. I cannae watch everyone all the time or ken every danger that may lurk about the next corner. Dinnae fret. I am nay donning a hair shirt, just feeling a wee pinch or two of guilt.”

“Then let this victory soothe it.”

“’Twill be better soothed if I can see my brother and Maldie.”

“Follow me, laddie. I set them with the pages and the horses, safe upon the hillside. I put your fool of a brother Nigel there, too.”

“He is alright?” Balfour asked as they stepped out into the bailey.

“Aye, just weary. He still doesnae have the strength needed to endure a full battle.
Once his men no longer needed his direction, once it was clear that only God could snatch this victory from our hands, I took him out of the fighting.”

“I suspect he wasnae too pleased.”

James just smiled, and Balfour turned his attention to what was happening in the bailey and beyond. The battle was indeed over. His men were disarming the ones who had surrendered and the women and children were already appearing in the bailey. They meandered amongst the dead and wounded, looking for their men. The sharp sounds of grief were already welling up and Balfour inwardly grimaced. Beaton had left him no choice, but he did feel for the women and children who had lost fathers, sons, husbands, and lovers. There was a good chance that their lives would be better now that Beaton was dead, but he knew they would draw no comfort from that for a long while.