Page 67 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Tòrr shook his head. “Nay.” He was still holding onto hope “But at least she didnae decide outright.”
After that exchange, they lapsed into silence, while their men lay ranged around them, their focus on the encampment below.
The moon was up before every last one of the gallowglasses had finally quietened. One or two who had been sleeping arose and stumbled into the trees to relieve themselves but soon returned to sleep.
At last, when he was certain no one was stirring, Tòrr gave the signal and each of his men, clad in their hauberk and chainmail vest, holding his claymore at the ready with his killing dirk at his waist, raised his stout targe and crept silently down the hill.
Once they arrived at level ground they surged forward, eager to do battle after lying so long in wait. Across the sward, the clash of steel rang out as the three surprised guards stood their ground to do battle with the incoming warriors.
Although the three men fought bravely, they were no match for the press of Tòrr ’s warriors and before many blows were dealt, they lay dead in spreading pools of their own blood.
However, they had bought sufficient time for the remainder of the mercenaries to waken.
Tòrr watched as some of the gallowglasses rushed forth, ready to join battle. They were mostly burly, heavy-set men, wielding their axes and depending on brute force rather than skill.
He was reminded of his own encounter with the men outside the Priory. His warriors were nimble, well-trained and, although some glancing blows were dealt by the mercenaries, they were superior fighters.
A huge man lunged at him, ready to bring down his axe, but he slipped aside as the blow was dealt and before the man had time to recover, Tòrr’s dirk dodged his enemy’s clumsily held shield and found its deadly mark in the space between his ribs, leading directly to his heart.
Beside him, the battle raged. He joined one of his men who was fighting against two men, and quickly evened the score. Once his opponent was dispatched he turned his attention elsewhere.
Some unfortunates among the mercenaries, still suffering from a surfeit of last night’s ale, stumbled to their feet, dazed, scarcely able to hold their claymores aloft. They were cut down immediately, slaughtered before they were even fully aware they were under attack.
Those who remained of MacDougall’s men were putting up a better fight than Tòrr had anticipated, yet it seemed, as the battle raged on, that his men were prevailing.
Then, to his horror, he saw one of his men fall, a gaping wound pouring blood from his shoulder. But before the enemy could deal the killing blow, Tòrr was there, standing over his guard, his shield parrying the axe, his claymore swift as lightning, slicing the man. Still the giant came on, weakened by the injury to his arm, but with the advantage that he stood inches above Tòrr.
While Tòrr was able to parry every blow from the axe, the man used his shield well, and it was only his injured arm that slowed him. Finally, the moment came when Tòrr broke under his defenses bringing his claymore down with a mighty blow, ending the fight.
Yet still another man came roaring at him from behind. He whirled, catching the man’s hands with his claymore even as the fellow brought down his axe. He reeled back, missing Tòrr completely, both hands hanging by mere threads, spouting blood. He screamed and Tòrr ended his life before he had time to close his mouth on the scream.
They fought on, Tòrr joining with an outnumbered man, helping to even the score again and again, until it was clear the tide had turned in their favor. Few gallowglasses remained standing, and even those dripped blood from many wounds.
One man made a dash through the trees to the place where their horses had been tethered. Tòrr caught the man as he took his pony’s mane in his hand and went to leap onto his back.
Tòrr pulled him to the ground and showed no mercy. These men would have killed him just as surely as he dealt the killing blow.
He darted back into the fray, but the fight was done. The complete defeat of MacDougall’s men had been achieved. The gallowglasses lay on the grass beside the loch, crows already making a foray onto one of the sprawled figures. Tòrr ’s men moved among the fallen, collecting the dead men’s weapons and shields
Several of his men wore cuts, some of which were deep, some not of any great significance. Edmund was already tending the lad who had fallen and Tòrr had saved. Tòrr recognized him as Angus MacGregor, one of the young knights in training, bloodied in battle for the first time.
The bleeding to the gash on his shoulder was staunched and bound by strips of linen ripped from a shirt and the lad was helped to his feet.
He was pale as rain, but he smiled when he saw Tòrr.
“I thank the Laird Tòrr fer saving me life. If nae fer ye I’d have had me skull smashed and me brains scattered.”
Tòrr grinned. “Can ye ride, lad? Fer I wish us tae leave this place as soon as we can. Our job is done.”
When, the boy nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain, Tòrr signaled to three of his men, who came running to his side.
Tòrr pointed in the direction he’d just come from where a narrow track led to the place the gallowglasses had tethered their ponies.
“I leave ye tae deal the horses. We’ll take them wi’ us and this young lad can ride wi’ ye. Keep a close watch on him and bring him and the ponies safe back to Dùn Ara.”
He turned to Angus with a grin. “Ye’re saved from climbing the slopes wi’ the rest of us. We’ll see ye safely returned tae the castle.
Dawn was breaking, slicing the dark sky with hints of pink and gold as they set off. Edmund had gathered their men and, as the young lad was helped down the track, they began to wend their way up the slopes of‘S Airde Beinn.
