The Clan MacDougall Series (148 page)

John quieted himself and began to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth as Wee William had taught him to do on the training fields. One of the lessons Wee William had taught was how to clear your thoughts and steady your breathing in order to assess any situation with a calmer mind.

“Let the boy go, Crawford,” Wee William said calmly.

“Nay,” Horace said shaking his head and pressing the sword against John’s chest. “I don’t believe I’ll do that. If you want him to live, you’ll do as I tell you.”

“I strongly encourage ye to listen to the man, Horace,” Rowan said coolly.

“Why would I want to listen to a filthy Scot?” Horace barked.

“It be fer yer own good that I warn ye to heed him. Let the lad go and we might let ye live to see another day,” Rowan took a step sideways.

Wee William climbed off the ladder and quietly assessed the situation. With a nod of his head, he could order his men to kill Horace. But Horace had his sword pressed against John’s side. He might stab the boy before anyone could kill him. If any harm came to John, he knew Nora would never forgive him.

Horace Crawford did not see the dagger coming. Naively unaware of the fact that John had been training with the best warriors in all of Scotland, Horace had not been prepared for the boy’s assault.

As Horace had been arguing with Rowan and making threats he could not possibly keep, John had been stealthily removing the small dagger from his belt. Curving his fingers around the hilt with the blade pointed down, John lifted his hand ever so slightly and thrust back and upward with all his might. The moment John felt the blade tearing through Horace’s skin, he pushed himself forward and headed toward Rowan and Wee William.

Horace reeled backward, clutching his side, unable to believe that the boy had just stabbed him. The blade had only grazed his skin, though it did begin to bleed considerably. As John scurried toward Rowan, Horace reflexively chased after him as he drew his sword over his head, ready to slice off the boy’s head.

In the end, it was Horace’s arrogance and over-confidence that killed him. That combined with Wee William’s intimidating speed and strength as he thrust his sword through Horace Crawford’s stomach. Horace spoke no final words as blood gurgled up his throat and out of his mouth.

The sickening rasp of metal sucking through skin, flesh, and muscle when Wee William pulled his sword from Horace broke the deathly silence that had fallen around them. Horace Crawford slumped to his knees before keeling over, unable even to clutch his hands against his wounds.

He died alone, just as Aishlinn and Nora had warned him he would.

John had turned as pale as milk, his eyes wide, staring at the sight of Horace Crawford as he died in a thick pool of blood. John had never seen a man killed before. This was not fun and games, this wasn’t he and his friends playing as warriors fighting against evil. This was real life. Or real death, depending on one’s perspective.

Wee William wiped Horace’s blood from his sword by running it back and forth across Horace’s legs. One of his men stepped forward and offered him a dirty cloth so that he could more fully clean the blood from it. Wee William waved him away with his hand as he sheathed his sword. He’d worry about cleaning it later. For now, he had to get to his wife.

As Wee William climbed down the ladder to his wife, Rowan stayed above with John, who continued to stare at Horace’s body.

Thinking the lad felt remorse or guilt or worry over what had just taken place, Rowan placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Ye did good, lad, with yer dagger. Ye should be verra proud that ye didna let fear get the better of ye. Do no’ worry or feel guilt over the death of Horace Crawford.”

John had only been half listening to Rowan. It was his statement about feeling guilt that broke his quiet contemplation. John blinked and tore his gaze away from Horace to look Rowan in the eye.

“I carry no worry or guilt over his death, Rowan. Horace Crawford was a mean son of a whore and the world is a better place without him.”

John took a deep breath as he knelt down and began to clean his dagger using the water from a sizable puddle. He would lose no more sleep over Horace Crawford.

T
he stench of vomit, musty air, and damp earth assaulted Wee William’s senses. Infuriated with the harsh treatment shown his wife, he dropped to his knees beside her and lifted her head gently onto his lap. He ran his hands across her arms and legs, looking for signs of broken bones or bruises. The relief at finding her in one piece, unharmed save for filthy and soaked clothes, he allowed a sigh of relief to escape through his lips.

Nora trembled and shook as he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the ladder. Rowan carefully took Nora from Wee William’s arms only so that he could climb freely. John stood anxiously next to Rowan.

“Is she alive?” John asked with a trembling lip.

Rowan offered him a slight smile. “Aye, she is lad. Cold and soaked to the bone though, but we’ll remedy that shortly. To yer horse now lad, and be quick about it.”

John fought back tears of relief before running off to gather his horse.

Black Richard hurried to the small group, pulling Wee William’s horse along behind him. “How is she?” he asked apprehensively.

Wee William answered as he mounted his horse. “She fainted when she saw me and has yet to wake,” he answered curtly. He leaned over and took Nora from Rowan’s arms and settled her on his lap. Black Richard handed up a blanket that Wee William wrapped around his wife.

As he settled his wife in, he took in his surroundings. His men still encircled the area but none of the villagers had yet made any attempt at stopping them. Nor had anyone stepped forward to tend to Horace. Wee William knew that the serene atmosphere could change in the blink of an eye.

“Mount up, men. We’ll meet Angus and the others at Castle Firth and then be gone from this stinkin’ place!”

Wee William tapped his feet against the flanks of his horse urging him forward. Many of his men were still mounted, their senses on full alert, scanning the crowd of villagers that had formed for any sign of trouble. They offered a safe barrier as they parted to let Wee William ride through.

In short order, the three hundred Highlanders that had stormed through the town less than a quarter of an hour ago were now leaving. They left in the same thunderous manner as they had arrived.

Wee William led the way out of the village and down the road that led to Castle Firth. He clung to his wife, praying he had reached her in time, praying that she would soon wake. Nora continued to shake but had yet to open her eyes. Frequently, he would look down at her lying limp in his arms as he sped down the road. His own eyes began to fill with tears of joy and regret.

Soon they were riding past the gates of Castle Firth where Angus, Duncan and Findley and four hundred other Highlanders had surrounded the castle. They were taking no chances with the English soldiers that were within those walls.

Angus and the others had surrounded the place an hour ago and thus far, only one man had come to the gate to make inquiry to their presence. Angus had responded by telling the young soldier to deliver a message to the new earl of Penrith. It was a simple message.
We have four hundred men surrounding your castle, three hundred more within in the village, and another four hundred waitin’ patiently in the forest to the west. If one soldier so much as peeks his head out a window, a rain of hell and fury will ensue, the likes of which the earl has never witnessed before.

Obviously the earl took Angus at his word for not another person had been seen since Angus had given his warning.

Once Wee William felt they were far enough away from Penrith and Firth, he led his horse into a dense part of the forest. Rowan and Black Richard followed him in, gave him a tunic, woolens, and clean blankets then left Wee William to tend to his wife.

Tenderly and with great care, Wee William peeled away the layers of his wife’s dirty clothes. Goosebumps appeared the moment the mist hit her skin, but still, she did not move nor make a sound. Quickly, he dried her skin with one of the blankets as best he could and pulled the tunic over her head. Next, he covered her legs with the woolens. So large they were and so wee she was, that he was able to pull them up to the middle of her thighs.

Once he had her in fresh, dry clothing, he wrapped her in both blankets, rubbing warmth into her arms and legs with the palms of his hands. Even with dry clothes and warm blankets, she shook and trembled and grew paler as the moments slowly crawled by.

“Nora,” he whispered her name as he held her close. Mayhap he had not arrived in time. Mayhap she had slipped into a sleep from which she would never wake. It was killing him slowly, moment by agonizing moment that she did not wake.

“
Mo bhean álainn,
” he whispered softly as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Her skin was as cold as ice and just as pale. There were dark circles under her eyes, dirt under her fingernails and scrapes across her knuckles. The image of his wife trying to claw her way out of the deep hole tore through his heart.

“
Mo bhean álainn,”
he repeated. “Please, open your eyes for me,” he pleaded, he begged.

Tears of anguish and regret formed, threatening to spill. Honestly, he could not remember the last time he cried. He had to have been a boy. But cry he did. Big, large tears fell from his hazel eyes, down his cheeks, leaving trails through his dust covered skin.

He cried until his body shook, so overcome with grief, anguish, regret, guilt, and sorrow. Aye, he was holding his wife in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, but it wasn’t enough. He desperately needed to look into her eyes, to see all the love and adoration that she had, at one time, felt for him. He needed to hear the sound of her voice, telling him that all would be well and that she would be fine.

The steady rain had turned to a fine mist as Wee William of Dunshire held the love of his life close to his heart, rocking back and forth under the canopy of trees. Back and forth, he cradled Nora in his arms, begged her, and pleaded with her to not leave him alone in this world.

When his pleas went unanswered, he looked upward, sobbing like a bairn, looking to God for hope, direction, and help. He prayed openly, uninhibited and desperate, that God would take his life and spare Nora’s.

Nora deserved better than to die here, on English soil after all that she had endured these past many days. Nora was all that was good and right with the world. She was a bright light in an otherwise dark world. She was gentle and kind and showed everyone nothing but compassion and generosity.

Nora was his life, the reason he took one breath after another, and why his heart continued to beat. She was his only reason for living. He cried out to God for Him to please show his wife some grace and mercy. He cried until he was spent and certain he could not shed another tear. Nora was slowly slipping away from him, he could feel it in the way her body slowly stopped trembling and her breathing grew shallow.

He had no idea how much time had passed as he begged and made deals with God. Soon, Nora had stopped shaking altogether.

He pulled her limp body away so that he might see her face. He brushed away loose strands of her dark hair and tenderly caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen, even as she teetered near death.

Just when he thought he had shed all the tears that he owned, they began to fall again, though not nearly as torrential as earlier. This time, they fell away from his face, dripping off the end of his chin. He continued to caress Nora’s cheek and to pray.

Wee William whispered soothing words, speaking in the Gaelic. Quite some time passed as he rocked steadily and spoke his words of love to Nora. He spoke them not so much for her, but for himself. If she were going to die this day, then he would feel better knowing he had shared what was in his heart.

The mist had slowly evaporated, leaving the air heavy and humid. Soon the sun peeped through the gray clouds just as it began its late afternoon descent to the west.

Wee William pressed his lips against Nora’s forehead again, closed his eyes and whispered softly against her skin. “
Le do thoil nach dtéann, Is breá liom tú.”
Please, do not go, I love you.

It was then that Nora took a deep, slow breath and tried to speak.

“William.” The sound of her weak, ragged voice tore through his heart. Elated though he was to finally hear her speak, his heart warned him that these were her last words.

“Wheesht, lass,” he murmured against her forehead. “I am so sorry, Nora.” He pressed another tender kiss against her forehead.

“William,” she tried to speak more forcefully but her throat and mouth were far too dry. “Water,” she managed to scratch out.

Wee William searched for the flagon of water, found it lying on the ground next to his legs and hurriedly opened it. Nora took a mouthful and swallowed slowly before taking another drink. When she had her fill, she wiped her mouth against Wee William’s shirt. She sighed contentedly and snuggled against him.