The Laird's Captive Wife(87)

His men moved into the ancient monument and formed up in a large inner circle leaving Fitzurse at its centre. Then each one drew his sword. The Norman darted swift looks around him but could find no way out. Moreover, the faces that met him there were cold and hard, entirely without pity or remorse. He licked dry lips. The Scottish laird strolled into the circle, a naked sword in his hand. He halted a few yards away.

‘Cut his bonds.’

When Dougal had obliged, Iain thrust the sword into the earth and left it quivering there. Then he drew his own blade and looked at Fitzurse.

‘Defend yourself.’

The tone was soft but there could be no mistaking the intention behind. Fitzurse edged forward, his gaze darting between the sword and his waiting opponent, half-expecting some trick. It never came; the other man made no move towards him. Then his hand closed on the hilt and the weapon was his.

The two men circled each other and Ashlynn caught her breath as Fitzurse rushed forward. Iain side-stepped, parrying the thrust easily. The blades engaged again as the Norman attacked with a rain of fierce blows. Each time his sword was met and turned aside. Then, without warning, Iain lunged. Too fast for the eye to see, his blade caught his opponent across the upper arm. The only sign of its passing was the sudden red stain that bloomed through the rent sleeve of the leather tunic. Fitzurse glared at it and then retaliated with another series of savage cuts. Again they were turned aside. Another swift lunge and Iain’s sword drew a deeper gash along the other arm. Biting back the cry of pain the Norman gave a little ground, circling once more, warier now as he looked for an opening. Then he darted in again. This time Iain gave ground. Fitzurse smiled and went after him. Too late he saw the feint. The Scottish sword opened a gash along his ribs. Fitzurse snarled, clapping a hand to his side, feeling there the sticky warmth of blood. In fury and desperation he laid on anew, succeeding in driving the other man back by the sheer ferocity of the attack. Sparks leapt from the edges of the blades.

However, no matter how hard he tried he could not penetrate his enemy’s defence and his sword met only steel or empty air. Another cut appeared on his left arm. He realised then that the Scot was playing with him, meaning to weaken him gradually, until he could step in and deliver the coup de grâce. Fitzurse knew a moment of panic. The wounds he had sustained were bleeding freely and the pain increasing. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had fought many opponents but never one as fast or as skilled.

‘Why do you not end it?’ he demanded.

‘I’m not ready to end it yet,’ the Scot replied.

Fitzurse reeled away towards the edge of the circle, seeking blindly for some means of escape but was met with a ring of steel. Seeing there was nothing else for it, he turned and stumbled back towards his enemy. Iain let him come. The Norman laid on again, but his blows were wilder now and careless costing him a slash to the leg. He cried out as blood poured from the wound, staining the grass at his feet.

Ashlynn drew in a sharp breath, her gaze fixed on Iain’s face. It was utterly remorseless, the face of a warrior whose hand wielded death, a face that fascinated and appalled. Beside her Ban never moved, riveted by the spectacle before them, understanding now exactly what he was watching.

It went on for some time until Fitzurse, bleeding from a dozen cuts, sank to his knees, exhausted, his expression filled with loathing.

‘End it then, damn you.’

Ashlynn trembled, waiting for Iain to deal the death blow. It did not come. Instead he lowered his sword, regarding his enemy with contempt.

‘I’ll not take your worthless life,’ he said then. ‘I’ll leave your fate to a higher authority.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My king is well acquainted with your evil deeds already, and his views on those who violate the peace of his realm are well known. You’re going to Dunfermline.’ He turned away and gestured to Dougal and Fergus. ‘Get him on a horse.’

Fitzurse paled, knowing the swift death he’d looked for would not be forthcoming. In its place was something far worse. The realisation of how much worse filled him with desperate fury. He struggled to his feet and lifting the sword rushed at his enemy’s unguarded back.

Ashlynn screamed a warning. Iain spun round, sword raised to block the coming blow. As he did so Fitzurse’s injured leg gave way, throwing him off balance and on to the thrusting point. The Norman froze in his tracks, hanging there, an expression of shock on his face, before both legs buckled and he fell.

Ashlynn looked on in shuddering disbelief. Then she ran towards her husband and a moment later was in his arms. He held her close and for the space of several heartbeats neither one spoke.