True to the Highlander(96)

At the top, Alethia took the lead. “I know the way. There are no guards here at present. You must go back to help Mairen.”

“I said I would see you safely to the minstrels’ gallery, and I shall.”

Arguing with him would be a waste of valuable time. Instead, she led him the short distance down the dark corridor to the small door into the gallery. “This is it. Return to Galen. Mairen waits for your signal.”

She watched him leave as soundlessly as they had arrived. Holding her breath, she put pressure on the door and prayed the hinges were well oiled. It didn’t budge. Frustrated and tense, she waited until noise from the great hall rose loud enough to cover any noise the door might make. It didn’t take long before an argument broke out below. Sending them her silent thanks, she pushed with all her might. The door creaked open, and she slipped through.

The small gallery hadn’t been used in a good long while. She covered her face with both hands to smother the sound of a sneeze, as each step sent up a cloud of dust. She crouched low and crept toward the half wall overlooking the hall below. Unfastening her cloak, she let it fall and slipped her bow out of the quiver slung on her back. She reached the railing and pressed herself up against the wall far enough back that any man happening to glance her way wouldn’t see her.

She found the folded skin holding the bowstring in her pouch and drew it out. Her hands shaking, she fit the loop at the end of the string onto the notched end of the bow, stepped through it, and bent the wood over her leg to loop it over the top notch. Sweat beaded her forehead.

Cautiously, she peered over the railing at the scene below. It was not yet time for the toast. Notching an arrow, she listened. Her body thrummed with tension and dread. She forced herself to breathe deeply. It wouldn’t help anyone if she couldn’t shoot straight because of nerves. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the wall and again prayed for courage—courage and a good aim.

The laird gave the signal for slaughter. His voice rang loud through the hall, and her heart jumped to her throat.

“From this day forward, let there be peace between our two clans. Come, lift your cups and let us toast the dead.”

Each MacKintosh warrior leaped from his place as the signal was given. Man-for-man they stood behind their Comyn foes as if the move had been choreographed. The sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards filled the air with a metallic twang, making her ears ring.

Angus crossed to the doors of the keep and lowered the beam of wood that would keep the innocent out of the impending fray.

Malcolm pressed the tip of his sword against the throat of the treacherous laird, staying well out of the man’s reach. Everything went still. Tension filled the hall. She held her breath.

“Before we toast, raise up your right hand so that we might bear witness to your sincerity,” Malcolm shouted.

The laird roared with rage and brought up the hand gripping a dagger. Every Comyn followed suit.

“So much for the word and the honor of a Comyn. Move and he dies,” Malcolm proclaimed. “Unlike you, who would win a battle through cowardice and treachery, the MacKintosh will only fight fair. Let us end this once and for all.” He stepped back, but remained poised to strike. “Gather your weapons.”

The Comyn warriors scrambled for their swords and clubs where they rested against the opposite wall. The MacKintosh men kicked the trestle table over, sending the contents of their goblets and trenchers crashing to the rushes covering the floor. The smell of the spilled feast mingled with the scent of fear and sweat radiating off the men. The warriors faced each other from opposite ends of the hall, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then all hell broke loose with the crash of metal against metal and the sounds of men exerting themselves in a fight to the death.

Alethia readied her weapon and fixed her eyes on her husband. He fought John—just as her vision foretold. Without sparing a glance toward the others, she watched Malcolm and John. Her husband had the upper hand, but she’d witnessed this fight before and knew the outcome.

John forced Malcolm into a retreat with a flurry of blows. Malcolm fended them off easily enough, took one step back, then another. She pulled her bowstring taut, holding it in position until her muscles shook with the effort.

Another step, and the laird himself appeared behind Malcolm, tripping him with an outstretched leg. It took only an instant as Malcolm fell to the floor and tried to roll away. John struck, opening a gash in her husband’s thigh. Malcolm shouted with rage as John lifted his broadsword to attack Malcolm while he was down. Pushing himself back with his legs, he attempted to scramble away, but his body met solid wall. He lifted his sword to deflect the blow, and John kicked viciously at his wrists, sending Malcolm’s sword flying through the air to land out of reach.