The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(96)

From the amount of blood that spurted out, Magnus knew even before the Irishman toppled to the ground that it was a death blow.

“How many?” Magnus asked.

“Only a handful. But they’re skilled.”

He’d noticed. Something to ponder after he helped the other men fight off the remaining attackers. But as the first group of attackers had done, with a whistle the remaining brigands retreated into the forest.

Magnus met MacGregor’s gaze and nodded. MacGregor quickly organized a handful of men to go after them, including Fraser, De la Hay, Sutherland, and Munro.

Magnus was already looking for Bruce and Helen. But the minutes passed, each second in increasing agony.

Where the hell are they? He searched frantically, like a man possessed.

Panic nipped at his heels. He tried to kick it back. They were here. Somewhere in the chaos and misty darkness, they had to be here.

He ordered the torches lit, then searched the bodies that littered the forest floor and anywhere else he could find. But it wasn’t until he saw Sir Neil Campbell staggering through the trees, blood streaming down his face, that ice penetrated his bones. The vaunted knight would never have willingly left the king’s side.

“Where are they?” Magnus asked, dreading the answer.

Sir Neil shook his head dazedly. “I don’t know. God’s bones, I don’t know.”

It all happened so fast, Helen didn’t have time to be scared. One minute she was waiting—praying—for Magnus and the others to return safely, and the next they were under attack.

“Get back!” Bruce shouted to her. “Take them and get back.”

But the king’s command wasn’t necessary. Once the initial moment of shock—when the first brigand had stepped out of the trees and with one swipe of his sword brought down two unfortunate guardsmen—had worn off, Helen had leapt into action. She gathered her two terrified tiring women and the servants who wouldn’t know what to do with a weapon if one were put in their hands, and whispered for them to follow her. She didn’t know where they were going, just that she had to get them out of the way so the warriors could do their job.

A safe refuge was too much to ask for, but the mist and darkness provided some shroud. In the desolate landscape of the Dirrie More, there were few natural hiding places. The patch of pine trees would have to do.

From behind the trees, Helen and the others watched the battle unfold. At first Helen was relieved. She counted only a handful of attackers, while the king had perhaps four times that many at his command.

The surprise of the attack had caught the king’s men unaware, but not unprepared. It took them only seconds to take the weapons that had been readied in hand and begin to repel the attack.

But to her growing horror, she saw the king’s men falling. She lost sight of her brother and Donald, but the king and Sir Neil Campbell had taken a defensive position in front of her and the others.

One of the attackers was pushing toward them, cutting down all the men in his path. Sir Neil moved forward to engage him just as another attacker came into view.

She lost Sir Neil in the hazy darkness, but could still make out the king’s mail-clad form and the steel helm laden with a golden crown as his sword clashed with the brigand’s.

Helen’s heart jumped with every horrible clash of steel. Though she knew the king was one of the greatest knights in Christendom, it didn’t take her long to realize that the man who faced him was no common brigand. He wielded his sword with a strength equal to that of the king—if not more.

The battle between the two men seemed to go on forever. But where were the others? Why had no one come to his aid?

To her horror, she realized that the brigand was purposefully moving the king toward the pine trees where they were hidden, away from the main battle.

The closer they drew, the more the tension in the small group began to mount. She motioned for the others to stay quiet, but from the wide, horror-filled eyes of her ladies, she feared they weren’t going to last much longer.

They could hear the heavy breathing of the men as they exchanged blow after blow, until finally, the king’s blade met the other man’s with such force, the sword slipped from his hands.

Helen nearly gasped with relief. The king lifted his sword to deliver the death blow. But the other man was not going to surrender to death without a fight. Somehow he managed to extricate a battle-axe from his body. Even as the blade of Bruce’s sword was slicing through the air, the brigand landed a one-handed blow of the axe to the king’s head.

Momentum finished the king’s job for him—the brigand’s neck was nearly severed in two—but Bruce staggered, the blade of the axe still stuck in his helm.

He lowered to his knees, and then stopped himself from keeling forward by extending his hands.

Helen didn’t think. With the bag that Magnus had made for her looped over her shoulder across her body, she ordered the rest of the group to stay there and raced forward to help the king.

When she reached him, she fell to her knees at his side. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight shining through the mist to see the blood gushing down his face.

It was like some macabre farce. The blade of the axe was stuck into his helm and had penetrated the steel into his brow.

Dear God, let it not be deep.

“Sire,” she said gently. “Let me help.”