Page 108 of The Scottish Bride
By now, his brothers had drawn their swords, stepping wide, ready to fight anyone who threatened the cage. Elsewhere on the walkway, a door opened, and men burst out, three, four, five—James Lindsay, Finley Macnab, Iain Campbell and others, armed with bows. Nocking arrows, they stood in a line, training their arrows on the men in the bailey and the English climbing the far set of steps.
Nearby, Sir David stepped up to the walkway and came toward Liam. “What do you need?” he asked immediately.
“A key, and a way out of here.”
Beyond, a door to the keep burst open. Malise Comyn stepped out, sword drawn, striding fierce and heavy along the walkway. He wore no helmet—few of them did, not expecting battle—and his blond hair winged about his head as he surged forward.
“Seton!” he bellowed. “William Seton!”
“Here,” Liam said, motioning his brothers behind him. All stood ready, Liam now closest to the cage, his back to the women there. From the corner of his eye he saw Patrick Siward and others, including villagers, crowding up the steps to the walkway.
Liam turned, sword in his hands, and braced his feet. “Malise Comyn.”
The man came closer, sword raised, alert. “We have a grudge, you and I.”
“More than one, I would say.” Liam moved toward him, away from the cage. He sensed men shifting out of the way, clearing the space between the two men. On another angle of the wall, Lindsay and the others stood, bows nocked and ready, guarding against anyone else who might try to take the battlement.
Malise strode toward Liam, fury in every muscle, in the lines of his face, chain mail gleaming in the torchlight. Close enough then, he stilled. Liam stilled too, wary. As Malise raised his hand to strike, Liam leaped back, eyes flashing forward, sideways, to judge the precipitous edge of the open walkway. Malise raised his sword.
Gripping the broadsword in his right hand, Liam sliced it upward with a twist to meet Malise’s blow, the loud ring of steel jarring, the blow shuddering along his sword arm to his shoulder. He angled left, right, keeping an eye on the wall, the men nearby, the cage, the drop. Stepping left, he swept the weapon downward, struck steel, felt the shudder again. He pushed upward to drive Malise and his sword back. The manmanaged to thrust forward again as Liam turned. The blow met air.
Liam offered another quick thrust of his sword and Malise answered with a glancing strike, the scrape of steel on steel raising sparks. Sidestepping, Liam missed the next blow; that threw him off balance to stumble, shuffle, regain. Ever alert to the edge of the walkway, Liam realized that the narrow space was making his opponent anxious. Good, he thought.
He lunged and struck Malise’s forearm, the blade sparking on chain mail. Liam shifted forward, back, forward, back. Malise came at him again, forcing Liam toward the wall, against stone. The next few steps reversed their positions. Now Malise had his back to the cage. Liam either had to back up, risking blind spots, or force Malise closer to the cage.
For an instant, he glimpsed his sister clinging to the bars, face pale, eyes bright with hatred more than forgiveness. Then Malise drew his attention with another move.
Comyn pushed forward, striking, steel ringing. Swords met up, met down, to the side, blades sliding, shrieking. Leaping sideways, Liam neared the cage, keeping his balance and awareness. His wounded shoulder was weak, but he forced it, lifting the blade again, arcing down in a powerful blow that would have been lethal—
But Malise shuffled to the side, beside a tall merlon, his back shielded. He was closer to the cage now. Dipping his sword, he drew a dagger from his belt and turned.
Liam saw then what he meant to do—Comyn raised his arm to bring the blade down between the iron bars within range of one girl or the other.
With a roar, Liam leaped forward, knocking him against the wall with enough force to stun. But his sword struck a cage bar and tilted out of his hand to clatter to the stone walk. He stretched for it just as Malise turned to raise his sword high andstrike down toward Liam’s back. Noticing, Liam started to roll away.
But suddenly, strangely, Malise tilted, missed his footing, and tipped forward, stumbling. His sword flew from his hand as he fell forward awkwardly, arms outward. With a shriek, he tumbled over the edge of the walkway and down, down to the bailey. The crash and thud of his fall was a sickening sound. Scrambling to his feet, Liam reached the edge just as Malise tipped over. Liam had no way to stop the man’s descent—or he might have. That was his immediate instinct.
Sprawled on the bailey floor, Malise lay face down, body contorted and motionless. Men rushed toward him across the bailey and others hurried down the steps. Liam stood, breathing hard, wiping a hand over his mouth, pushing his sweat-damp hair back, stunned, trembling with the aftermath of the fight in his blood. He watched the flurry below. What had happened in those few moments, that blur of turmoil between them? He was not sure.
He turned toward Tamsin and Agatha, standing in the cage, holding the bars, their eyes wide, fearful, their faces white with fear and distress. Then he noticed that Agatha held the hilt of Liam’s sword in her hand with its missing fingers. The point thrust between the bars. Meeting his gaze, she set the sword down.
He walked toward her. “Did you stab him?” He was glad of it.
She shook her head. “I only meant to trip him. I did not know he would fall that way.” Her eyes were rimmed with liquid. She dashed away a tear.
“Just as well, dear. You saved my life.” He was glad to see Tamsin put an arm around his sister and draw her in.
Below, Patrick Siward looked up and called out. “He is alive!”
Liam went back to the edge and held up a hand in acknowledgment. Then he looked toward his brothers. Gideon came to the edge and looked down.
“Make a litter. Bring him to the hospital at Holyoak,” he called down. “Ride through the night. I will go with them,” he added.
Liam nodded. “Well done.”
Tamsin held Agathain her arms until the abbess drew a breath and stepped back. “I am fine—thank you, Tamsin,” she whispered.
“Thankyou,” Tamsin murmured. “You saved him.” For a moment she recalled a snatch of conversation—tell Liam perhaps a damsel would save him one day. She nearly laughed, lifting a shaking hand to her tousled hair, looking around for Liam.
