Page 148 of Bride of Fire
She let go of the shovel and scooped up the infant. He was still and silent. She thought he might be dead, killed by the impact. Not that it mattered. She only needed Morgan tobelievehis son was alive.
After a moment, however, the lad began to squirm. His face turned red, and he opened his mouth to wail in protest.
She smothered his cries against her chest before they could draw too much attention. Then, with her head bowed, clinging to the shadows of the hall, she skirted past the gathering women and slipped out the door.
The courtyard was in chaos.
Men raced back and forth with swords, bows, pikes, and shields, shouting orders.
The penned sheep milled in a panicked circle.
Chickens flapped in the rising dust.
Archers stood atop the front wall, their bows at the ready.
A heavy cart blocked the entrance, and three strong men pushed their backs against it. But a jarring blow from outside rocked the gates, forcing the men to scramble to slide the cart back into place.
It wouldn’t be long now. Roger and his men would break down the gates. They’d charge in with gnashing teeth and slashing broadswords, leaving carnage in their wake.
But she’d be fine. Her safety was assured. She had control of the most valuable mac Giric asset. Morgan would surrender his castle, his clan, and even his life for his precious heir.
With strangely maternal calm, she stroked the back of the infant’s downy head. His cries were loud, desperate, insistent. But they couldn’t be heard above the din of the coming battle.
“Shite,” Morgan muttered as he watched the men shove the cart back against the gates.
They couldn’t hold out forever. The English axes had made a crude battering ram out of a fallen tree. Eventually, the repeated pounding would splinter the wooden doors.
He’d hoped to force the invaders to a siege rather than an attack. Once tempers cooled, he might be able to negotiate for peace.
But it was clear that wasn’t the situation. Their blood was hot. Their thirst for revenge was urgent. Alicia had probably told them that the keep was ill-prepared for battle. That Morgan’s resources were limited and his men were few. It was only a matter of time before they breached the courtyard and started spilling clan blood.
He couldn’t let that happen. He eyed his claymore, propped against the wall. Eventually, he might have to surrender the keep. Or bargain with his own life to save the lives of his people. But he didn’t intend to surrender without a valiant fight.
Abandoning diplomacy, he instigated battle tactics, using a castle’s first, best line of defense.
“Archers, take your positions!” he yelled.
As one, they snapped to attention along the wall. Morgan was impressed with their new discipline, something they’d doubtless learned from the master archer who’d been working with them.
“Aim!” he called, peering down at the invaders. “Draw!” Hearing his command, the English raised their shields to form a protective armor of sorts, resembling a giant scaled dragon. “Loose!”
The handful of arrows rained down. Most of them bounced off or lodged in the overlapping shields. But one shaft managed to find a crevice between the shields, piercing a man in the shoulder.
At this rate, with so few archers manning the wall, even if they managed to hit their mark every time, they’d be lucky to claim a half dozen victims before they spent all their shafts.
Morgan scowled, scraping his hair back with one hand. This wasn’t going to work.
As he racked his brain, trying to think of a better strategy, more clansmen arrived to populate the wall. He narrowed his eyes. They were carrying a strange assortment of objects—rocks, pots, crockery, clay vessels, iron pans, cooking spoons. A few even brought jordans.
It was only when he looked closer that recognition dawned. They were dressed in men’s clothing. But they weren’t men. They were the lasses of the clan, come to join the fight.
It didn’t take him long to guess whose idea that was.
“Jenefer,” he grumbled.
Furious that she’d convinced the mac Giric clanswomen to leave the protection of the great hall, he prepared to order them back.
But before he could intervene, one of the lasses hurled a stone at the English. Another pitched a ceramic bowl. Two more heaved an iron cauldron over the wall.
