His Lady of Castlemora(43)

'I thought that would get your attention.'

'You murdering scum.'

'Did you really think I'd let you keep Isabelle?'

'I had no need to keep her. She chose me.'

'Much good it has done her. She will not live long enough to regret her choice.'

Ban's jaw tightened. 'No more will you. Prepare to die, you cowardly bastard.'

'It will afford me the greatest pleasure to carve you into little slivers.'

'This time you face those better able to defend themselves.'

'Say you so?'

Murdo circled slowly, looking for his opening. Then without warning he  darted into the attack. Ban parried the thrust aimed at his shoulder and  replied with a swinging cut. Murdo blocked it and then launched into a  fierce assault. Nothing loath Ban went to meet it. He lost awareness of  everything else around him, the world reduced to two blades and the man  he hated most in the world.

He did not see Murdo's accomplices slain, or how the men of Glengarron  gathered a little way off, standing in approving silence to watch this  last battle. His whole focus was driven by the desire to avenge; his  long apprenticeship with Black Iain evident in every move that he made.  His sword arm rose and fell tirelessly, his enemy hard pressed to block  the deadly blows that rained down upon him. However, a man with nothing  to lose is the most dangerous foe, as Ban well knew. Murdo was alone and  surrounded with no possibility of escape now. He would sell his life  dear. Ban could feel the weight of that dark and mocking gaze. Its owner  was enjoying the rage he saw reflected in his opponent's eyes, knowing  only exultation in the understanding of why it was there, that his plan  had worked and Isabelle was dead. All that remained was to take his  final revenge on the man whose coming to Castlemora had been nothing but  a source of trouble.

Murdo met his eye and grinned, and for several moments it was Ban who  was forced back step by step as the master-at-arms launched a savage  assault of his own. However, it was born out of increasing desperation:  unbeknown to the observers, he had begun to feel the blooming ache in  his side where Ban's blade had struck before. The wound had been  infected for a while and was yet imperfectly healed.

Ban showed no sign that his own shoulder wound pained him at all. His  rage sustained him. He lay on with a will and, seeing a chance, thrust  past Murdo's guard to leave a bloody gash across his arm. Another  slashing blow straight after it cut across his ribs. Warm blood flowed,  the tell-tale darkening patch growing on his tunic. Both men were  breathing harder now, their ragged breaths sounding loud in the silence  beneath the trees. Still Ban came on, his sword like an extension of his  arm, a deadly whirling arc of light showering sparks as it met the edge  of the defending blade. And it was defending now, he could tell. Murdo  was beginning to tire, his assault less controlled though no less savage  for that. It was time to end it.

Ban feinted, giving a little ground, inviting his opponent in. Murdo saw  it and smiled. Then he lunged. Ban sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the  point, and appeared to stumble, falling to one knee. Murdo lunged again,  closing for the kill. His opponent rolled, bringing up his own blade  between them. Unable to check the impetus of the blow, Murdo rushed on  to the point and the blade was buried for half of its length in his  breast. For several seconds he hung there, his face a mask of shock,  before he buckled and sank to his knees, his sword dropping from his  hand. Ban pulled the blade free and swung it again hard. It severed  Murdo's head cleanly. The body fell at his opponent's feet. For a moment  or two Ban surveyed it with grim satisfaction, leaning awhile on his  sword, knowing the savage exultation of victory.                       
       
           



       

Iain surveyed him for a moment before glancing at the head of the enemy;  then turned towards the watching men. 'Bring me a spear.'

* * *

It was late when they returned at last to Glengarron, their tired horses  lathered and blown. Ban, bone weary and sick with the knowledge that  Isabelle was lost, dismounted and gave the reins to a groom. Then, with  Iain beside him, he entered the hall. It was empty, save for the  servants who hastened to bring ale and wine and food for the returning  men. The mood was dark and subdued even though the enemy had been so  soundly defeated. It seemed at best a Pyrrhic victory.

Hearing a light footstep and the rustle of a gown Ban looked up to see  his sister standing in the doorway. With a glad cry she hastened  forwards to greet her husband and brother. Ban's face was pale beneath  its tan, his eyes wells of misery as he beheld her face waiting for  confirmation of all he dreaded most.

'Isabelle?'

'Lives,' she replied.

For a second or two it was hard to take in and all he felt was the  painful thudding of his heartbeat. Then, no less painful, a tiny flicker  of hope took root there too.

'She lives?'

'She's very weak but she's holding on.'

Ban swallowed hard. 'Take me to her.'

He strode along the passageway in Ashlynn's wake until they reached the  chamber where his wife lay. As the door opened Meg turned to regard them  soberly.

'How does she, Meg?' he asked, hastening to the bedside.

'She is weak. The arrow missed the vital organs but there has been much blood loss, my lord.'

His heart sank. 'Will she live?'

'I do not know.' Meg paused. 'Only time will tell us that.'

He knelt by the bed, his gaze taking in the deathly pallor of the face,  the dark circles beneath the eyes, and he felt the chill of the hand he  held. It seemed every bit as icy as the chill around his heart. If he  could have given her his blood and his strength, he would have done it.  As it was he could only look on helplessly and wait.

'Don't die, my love,' he begged. 'Please don't die.'

* * *

For several days it seemed that Isabelle's life hung by a thread. Meg  tended her closely, aided by Ashlynn and the servant, Morag. Ban hardly  stirred from her side. Sometimes he slept, only to wake with a start,  fearing that she might have died meanwhile and he knowing nothing of it.  Then he would catch sight of her shallow breathing and know she lived  yet. He cursed himself that he had not returned sooner to Dark Mount  that day. If he had he might have been in time to prevent the encounter  with Murdo. Why had she and Nell been there? He had no idea. Nell could  never tell him and perhaps not Isabelle either now. All he could think  about was the imminent, mind-numbing possibility of losing her. His  conscience though was far from numb. She had once thought him  self-seeking and that his love of land and wealth came before any  thought of her. And she had been right-then. He had no idea when that  had changed because the change had happened so gradually. All he knew  for sure was that it had happened. She had found a place in his heart  that only she could fill. If he lost her it would be as though a part of  his heart had been ripped out. If only she might live so that he could  tell her the truth.

The thought of her dying and leaving him alone sent a roiling fear  through his entire being. Life would not be worth living without her.  Once before, he had lost everything. Now it seemed that by a malign  trick of fate it was about to happen again. Even the wounds he had  sustained in the sack of Heslingfield hadn't caused the kind of agony he  felt now. 'Don't leave me, Isabelle. My darling, I beg you, don't leave  me.'

* * *

Isabelle struggled through a stormy sea, fighting to keep her head above  the waves that threatened to draw her under. Every movement was slow  and painful, every breath an effort. Part of her urged the futility of  the struggle, a siren voice that spoke of surrender. If she stopped  fighting and let the waters take her, the pain would be gone and in  their depths she would find peace. Yet somehow, over that siren voice,  she could hear someone calling her, someone she must reach. It was a  man's voice, gentle and loving, summoning her back. She must keep  swimming, but her strength was ebbing and only her will kept her going  now. If only she could find the owner of the voice she would be safe.                       
       
           



       





Chapter Nineteen


One afternoon, a week after the drawing of the arrow, Isabelle awoke.  For a while she had no idea where she was but then, gradually, familiar  details began to impress themselves on her consciousness. She had been  in this room before. The walls, the tapestries, the bed were familiar.  How had she got here? Surely she had been somewhere else before. A  memory surfaced of trees and men and a woman screaming. Her brows  twitched together. She couldn't quite recall who they were. Then she was  aware of another presence in the room with her, a man. He too was  familiar somehow. He was sitting beside the bed but his gaze was  elsewhere as though he were deeply abstracted. Eventually, sensing  himself watched he turned towards her. Blue eyes met hers. The sombre  expression changed in an instant to incredulity and joy.