Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(31)
Heart pounding, she raced to the window in the great hall just in time to see the guard who was manning the gate tumble over the curtain wall, an arrow protruding from his back. She didn’t need to look down to know that attackers were already inside. Another guard attempted to lower the yett but took a hagbut shot in the stomach for his efforts.
Chaos reigned as her clansmen fought to take control against the surprise attack. She froze at the window in horror, watching helplessly as a considerable force of men—numbering at least a few score—stormed through the gate and swarmed the barmkin. They’d obviously come prepared for battle; the steel from their helmets and mail gleamed in the sunlight. They carried swords, but a good number were armed with guns as well. This was no ragged band of marauding outlaws, she realized. These were well-outfitted soldiers, which perhaps explained how they’d virtually walked right in. They did not wear the regalia of the king’s guard, leaving only one possibility—her heart dropped—Argyll.
A sick feeling twisted low in her stomach as she picked through the crowd of armored men near the front, looking for one in particular. Please, not him. She was able to identify the leader right away by the way he was issuing orders, and she breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. The man wasn’t tall or broad enough to be Jamie.
The fighting was over before it really started. There was nothing her father’s men could do. Once the soldiers had breached the gate, the battle was already won. To Caitrina’s great relief, she realized that the invaders didn’t appear intent on attack but seemed to be looking for something. They’d obviously come with a purpose.
What did they want? And where were her father and brothers?
Her gaze swept the courtyard. There. At the far side of the yard, just coming into view, her father and a score of his guardsmen, including Malcolm and Niall, were rushing from the armory. They’d not had time to properly outfit themselves for battle, wearing the leather jerks and plaids they wore for practice rather than mail or cotuns, but at least they’d taken the time to put on steel knapscalls to protect their heads. And they appeared to be well armed.
She heard her father’s voice ring out in anger as he confronted the Campbell leader. The two men argued back and forth, but it was difficult to hear what they were saying. At one point, she heard the Campbell say clearly: “We know he’s here. Tell us where he is or suffer the consequences.”
Who were they talking about?
The Campbell pointed up to the tower and said something, turning his face toward hers. Her brows drew together. It was strange. He seemed familiar somehow. Whatever he said, however, had enraged her father, and his guardsmen clasped their claymores threateningly behind him.
Her pulse raced, knowing that the situation was deteriorating fast.
The commotion must have alerted the castle servants that something was wrong. The great hall started to fill with people, and thankfully, Mor, ever the voice of reason, appeared to stem the rising panic.
Like a veteran general, the old nursemaid started issuing orders. “Hurry,” she said to a few young kitchen maids. “Run to the kitchens and bring up the wood used for cooking and the oil for the lamps.” To another she said, “Bring me all the linen you can find.”
Caitrina’s chest clamped, knowing exactly what Mor intended. It was something her father had drummed into Caitrina’s head countless times: If they were ever under attack and the gate was breached, set fire to the stairs.
No! The reaction was visceral. Father, Malcolm, and Niall were out there. She ran up to Mor and clutched her arm. “Stop. We can’t do it. They will have nowhere to go.”
Mor took her by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Your father and brothers can take care of themselves. They can flee into the hills and hide in the caves if necessary. But they will never leave if you are not safe.”
She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. “But—”
“They are doing their job, Caitrina. You must do yours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and with her eyes indicated someone across the room. “Think of the lad.”
Brian.
She sucked in her breath, looking around frantically, and found him emerging from the tower stairwell, holding an enormous sword that her father kept in the laird’s solar. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so terrifying. He darted across the room toward the door. Guessing what he was about, Caitrina shot after him and caught him by the arm. “Stop, Brian, you can’t go out there.”
He tried to pull away. “Let go of me, Caiti.”
He looked far older than his two and ten years. She read his mulish expression and thought quickly, knowing his young man’s pride was at stake. “We need you in here. If you leave, there will be no one to protect us.”
His gaze swept the room behind her, seeing the dozen or so frightened women and children. At this time of day, most of the men were busy outside, practicing their battle skills. Those who weren’t fighters fished in the loch, tended to the livestock, or cut peat.
“Please,” she begged.
He nodded, and Caitrina wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight in gratitude and relief. The serving girls had returned with the wood, cloth, and oil, and for the next few minutes they were kept busy wrapping the oil-soaked cloth around the wood like torches.
Brian had positioned himself near the doorway, keeping vigilant watch on what was happening outside and readying the stairs by dismantling the rope and nailed-in pieces of wood that kept them in position. It had been necessary to open the door, but as soon as the stairs were loose, they would set fire to them and bar the door. Caitrina could see he was having trouble. Time and age had rusted the iron, making the nails difficult to remove, and the knots in the rope were so tight, they could not be worked loose. It had been a long time since such drastic measures had been necessary, and never in her lifetime.