The Cursed Highlander Page 18

  The man was the best swordsman he had ever seen. He knew in his heart that he was not his equal. Yet he had to face him. For honor. For his word. For the future, when he would be free to marry.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I accept.”

  The priest looked horrified. Alexander smiled. However, he was not looking at their faces.

  He was looking at Joanna, who was looking back at him with a look in her eyes that said he had just changed, in her eyes, becoming something monstrous.

  He wanted to explain to her, to tell her that he could not back down. Could not refuse. It was the only way. Did she not see that? However, he was too late to get out the words. Silent, her arms at her sides, she stepped backwards out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  FIGHT

  FIGHT

  No.

  The word resounded in Joanna's head like the bell in the church tower at Lochlann. She wanted to scream it. Wanted to repeat it until it clouded her mind, becoming nonsense with the repetition, a comforting litany.

  No. No. No, no, no. No.

  “Joanna?”

  “No!” It crossed her lips before she thought about it. She looked up to see who had broken in on her tormented mind.

  It was Dougal. He had come out into the hallway to talk to her. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to talk to him. She was so angry with him! How dare he? How dare he let their love be skewered on a sword point, just to salve his brother's wounds? How dare he?

  “Joanna. Please?”

  “Daughter...?”

  It was the voice of the priest that brought her up short. Wavering and quiet, it carried nonetheless further than all the agony in Dougal's words.

  “Yes?”

  She stopped. Walked back a pace to the end of the hallway, where the priest and Dougal stood in the door, waiting for her.

  “Daughter, don't be hasty,” the priest cautioned gently. “Your man is brave. He is doing the right thing. There is power in the swords of the righteous. Trust me.”

  Joanna sniffed. She had to admit, deep in her heart, that she believed his words. She respected the power that flowed through him, and respected even more his pureness of heart.

  “I will trust, Father,” she said softly. “I will try to.”

  She felt her lip wobble dangerously. She walked the last few paces back to the door. She did not look to her right. Did not look to where Dougal stood, on the leftmost side of the priest, his face drawn and sad.

  “Good,” he said gently. “Now. Come with me. Come. We will pray. We will prepare. All will be as it should be, you will see.”

  Joanna swallowed hard. She let the old man put a gentle hand on her shoulder and lead her up the hallway, listened with half an ear to his gentle words.

  “...and there is strength in the righteous. A man may move mountains if he has faith! All will be well, daughter. Come. Let us pray.”

  They had reached an empty room. Joanna was not sure what it was, though it had benches and desks. She guessed it to be a scriptorium, and felt quietly impressed that the castle in fact had one. They must have several holy men here, something that was a strong indicator of their wealth as well as their support of, and favor with, the Church.

  She listened as the priest began his litany, closed her eyes and let the slow, familiar Latin flow through her, washing her cares away.

  She felt numb. She was tired, cold, and weary. She wanted very much simply to leave, to run and run and never return here. She should do it. Let Dougal and his brother settle matters as they saw fit.

  She should free herself of this care, simply walk away.

  Yet, how could I? I could not walk away. I love him.

  Joanna sighed. She clasped her hands, letting the reassuring words flow over her. She did love Dougal. She loved him intensely, absolutely. With every fiber of her.

  She could not walk away.

  The priest seemed to be coming to a stop, the words taking a different path, slowing down. Joanna found her attention straying to the windows, where she could see the stone of the practice ground, far, far below them.

  She could see Alexander there. He had some men with him and they appeared to be setting up a square, marking the boundaries of where the men would fight. She watched the easy way he moved, so arrogant, so sure that he would win.

  I do not blame him for that. She felt like her heart had just frozen. Even I know of his swordsmanship.

  She had not made the connection, but now that she thought about it, she had heard of Alexander. Her father had been to Edinburgh in the autumn, some years back, had attended a pageant. Seen the jousting. And the fights. Bouts of wrestling, fights with shield and dagger, sword fights.

  He had said Lord Alexander was the finest swordsman he had ever seen.

  Now that fine swordsman will end Dougal's life.

  She knew this was meant to be a tournament fight, not a fight to the death. She also knew Alexander. Knew him well – his face and manner ingrained from her dreaming. She knew his ambition had possessed his soul, curdling his admiration for his brother into hate. She knew with a terrible clarity that he would stop at nothing to remove him.

  Dougal would die on that tournament ground. She would be powerless to stop it.

  Unless...

  She paused, listening to the echo of past memory. It spoke into her head in Alina's measured, wise voice.

  You held the brand. You could see. You can change things.

  She drew a shuddering breath. She could see. She could change things.

  Even if all she had at hand was herself. She added her own to the priest's gentle prayers.

  I know what I must do. Help me do it. Please.

  She heard a step in the doorway. Lifted her eyes. The world was going slowly, a strange, dreamlike fluid quality making everything slow down, as if they walked through pitch, or clear lamp oil.

  “My lady?”

  “Yes?”

  “I apologize. I did not wish to disturb. I am Alfred. Lord Dougal’s companion. He sent me to fetch you?”

  “Thank you, Alfred,” Joanna said softly. “Thank you for calling me. He is...outside?”

  “The sword fight is about to begin, my lady. He asked if you would...be there?”

  He sounded so cautious that the last words were a question. Joanna sighed.

  “Of course I will. I'll follow you down, Alfred.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” the man said. He bowed deeply again, then stood back so Joanna could exit. Father Mallory followed.

  Together, they followed the tall, brown haired nobleman outside.

  In the courtyard, the wind had risen. Fitful, it played with Joanna's cloak, tugging at her wide skirts, lifting her hair. She shivered and then her eyes moved to the square.

  Dougal stood in the center.

  Blank eyed, his face a mask, Dougal looked as if he was already walking on the long path that led to the gates of Heaven. He stared at her, unseeing.

  “...and do you agree to accept the word of Alexander, that he is blameless and his honor regained, as he draws first blood?”

  “I do accept.” Dougal's words were harsh.

  “Good,” the man, a tall, thin-faced man who Joanna guessed to be the master at arms in the castle, said sadly.

  “Anything to add?” Alexander was in a good mood. Joanna looked across the square to where he had arrived, his hair brushed back, radiant the way a horse is before the race.

  Dougal shook his head.

  Joanna looked at him, heart knotted in pain.

  I love you. She wanted to shout it, but she knew she could not. She watched, helpless, as Dougal stepped back and his brother stepped forward, weapons held out flat across the palms of his hands.

  “Well, then,” Alexander said lightly. “Take your sword.”

  Dougal nodded. He lifted his sword. He walked to the other side of the square, and then turned. The master at arms was in the center of the square, a scrap of cloth held between his fingers.r />
  “Assume your stance,” he said. “One, two...off!”

  He dropped the cloth. Joanna watched it, transfixed, as it fluttered from his fingers, a pennant, and a last hope. It fell, the wind dropping it. It lay on the flagstones, drifting in a gust of wind.

  She looked up at the first clash of sword on sword.

  They fought with long swords, heavy and deadly. Joanna knew that first blood would likely be the death of whoever fought. The swords were meant for slicing, as liable to cut off an arm as they were to make a cut. Neither man wore mail, which might have slowed a blade, reducing the damage it could do. Mail would make them too heavy, and this fight was meant to be fast.

  Dougal hissed and swung his sword down. It hit against his brother's, the sound of the impact clattering off the high walls of the keep. Joanna winced.

  Alexander twisted his blade, breaking the deadlock, and then swung his own in an arc that could have sliced his brother's throat. She covered her mouth with her hands, frozen in horror as she watched the blade move along the inevitable arc it made. She felt the priest put his hand on her shoulders and they stood together, watching the slow movement.

  It never completed its swing. Dougal brought his blade up, twisting round. The arc was broken and Alexander's blade forced sideways.

  “Ha!”

  Alexander shouted a wordless battle cry, his face savage. He wrenched the blade free, then drove it sideways in a motion that could have cleaved Dougal at the waist, had he not stepped back to block it.

  He was tiring. Joanna noticed it with horrifying clearness. He had three wounds already, two of them far from healed. He had been drained by the pain and loss of blood – she knew how it dragged at his steps, making everything a little harder for him. She watched now as he regained his balance, and then swung at his brother.

  He made the swing a challenge, using the blade to ward him away rather than with any intent to wound him. Joanna saw it and commended his approach. She also saw that his brother had no such intention of fighting fairly.

  Lifting the sword in a cut that Joanna knew, distantly, would never be allowed on the field at tournaments, Alexander brought the blade down in a hissing arc, aiming straight for his brother's head. Joanna saw as Dougal, disorientated from his own swing, stumbled forward. Saw, with horror, as the sword moved down, on and down, straight towards the crown of his head.

  “No!” she screamed. Her voice came out high, a strained absence of noise. She covered her mouth with her hands, watching, horrified, as Dougal fell to his knees, and then lifted the blade just as his brother struck down.

  The swords met, ringing, and the blow skittered sideways, spent. Alexander smiled. He did not seem to be upset by the sudden thwart. Instead, he raised the blade, bringing it down sideways.

  With dreamlike clarity, Joanna watched as, fluidly, slowly, it arched down to the vessels in his neck. She knew, just as she had in the dream space, how the blade would slice down, sawing through cartilage and vessels, slicing into the great veins of his neck. Draining out his life.

  Unlike the dream, she could change things.

  “No!” she screamed.

  No thought, no hesitation. She ran for Alexander. Ran to stop him. Ran to quell that thrust with the only thing she had.

  She screamed and ran into his arm, knocking him off balance.

  The swing missed. Whistled over Dougal's head, clanging to the dirt.

  “Joanna!” Dougal shouted, loudly. “No!”

  Alexander glared at her. He raised his blade. He swung it.

  Joanna was in the way of the arc. Backhanded, the blade sliced through her shoulder.

  “No!”

  The cry came from the depths of someone's soul, the deepest, most eerie, most heartrending cry Joanna had ever heard. Holding her arm, feeling her sight mist as the blood pumped, damp and warm, through her fingers, she shook her head, wondering what it was. She fell onto her knees, trying to discern why it was she felt no pain. She was cut, bleeding. Probably dying. However, there was no pain. Why?

  Dougal ran at Alexander. Screaming, roaring, he took a swing at him. His brother parried it. They were fighting in earnest now, the space of the tourney forgotten. All that drove him on, now, was rage. The clangs of sword on sword rang out through the courtyard. The sound of Dougal, roaring her name.

  “Dougal!” A voice rang out through the courtyard. Dougal paused. “Alexander!”

  Alexander, too, paused. Joanna frowned, looking, eyes stretched with confusion, to where the tall, stooped man with the scarred face walked slowly onto the marked out square, the priest gesturing urgently by his side.

  “Uncle?” Alexander shouted.

  “Stop!” the older man shouted. “I demand it. As lord of Albraith, I demand you listen. And in the name of your mother, the lady Jeanne. Stop this.”

  Alexander lowered his sword. Dougal did the same.

  “Now, listen to me...” the old man said. Alexander looked at him.

  Quickly, faster than anyone could have been to stop him, he walked from the square. He reached the stables, just as the seconds realized what he was doing.

  “Wait...” Dougal called out weakly.

  Alexander mounted a horse, a flashy black stallion with white markings. Then, turning quickly in the center of the courtyard, he blazed towards the gate.

  No one stopped him.

  The older man turned, slowly, following Dougal's stretching gesture. His stare fell on Joanna. His eyes went round.

  “My lady!” he said. He ran to her. However, he was too late.

  Joanna felt the haziness cloud her vision. Then everything was black.

  She was floating in an icy river, the numbness slowly creeping through her body, taking every finger, every toe, and every limb...Her mind floated on the darkness of it and at last, as the black waters closed over her, there was peace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WAKING AGAIN

  WAKING AGAIN

  Darkness. Black water. Blissful numbness.

  Can I stay here?

  The dark was so inviting. Here, there were no questions, no pain. Here she did not have to think about the future. No worries about marriage. No ache in her heart as it twisted with love for Dougal and the thoughts of its denial. No duty. No convention. Only black.

  I want to stay.

  No.

  The voice came from the darkness. Joanna, hearing it, blinked.

  Why not? Her mind asked. I want to. I feel safe here.

  The darkness answered. Strangely, it spoke with Alina's voice.

  You have much yet to do, daughter. Your life does not end here. Not in darkness. Rise. Go up to the light.

  Joanna blinked. There was light there. It shone through the water, just above her head. Blinding and white, striking rainbows off the surface.

  She paused. Out there, in the blinding light, were questions. There were demands. There was worry.

  “Joanna?”

  There was also love. Hearing that voice – his voice – reminded her. The light changed. Softened, became a beacon of love.

  I'm coming back.

  Whether she said it, or thought it, Joanna could not know. All she knew was that, the instant the intention rose in her, she shot upwards. Moving from the darkness, the numbing grip of the waters, the clinging blackness that sought to hold her, thick as tar against her skin, and up. Up. Towards the light.

  She surfaced, gasping.

  Her head hurt. A blinding, searing pain that made her close her eyes, tight shut. She could not feel her toes. She could smell the coppery wet scent of blood. Her arm was agonizing. She winced. She did not want to move.

  “Joanna?”

  Joanna opened her eyes.

  She was looking into dark eyes and blue-green ones. She blinked. The eyes separated, became two pairs. One was Dougal. He was closer. His eyes, she noticed, were red-rimmed. He was exhausted. She thought he had new lines on his face. She reached out a hand to him. He took it.

  “Th
ank Heavens.”

  She squinted at the other eyes, feeling strength flow through her from his touch. They resolved, mistily, before her eyes, turning into another face that she knew well.

  “Mother!”

  She smiled. Amabel smiled back. Her delicate features rearranged, composing themselves into a damp-eyed picture of wonder.

  “Daughter. You have returned to us.”

  Joanna laughed. It hurt, and so she stopped. “Mother,” she said happily. “How are you here? How did you get to be here? When...”

  “I fetched her from the inn,” a voice said. Dougal. It was raw, rusty, cracked with feeling. Joanna raised her eyes to his face and saw a face that was bleak and racked with pain. She drew in a shuddering breath as he continued.

  “When you...when it seemed like...as if you were dying...I rode to the inn. I brought your mother back. She nursed you.”

  “Though not so well without the help of a certain Father,” Amabel said. Joanna looked, blinking, to her left, where she could just make out the haze of Father Mallory's pale features, outlined with white light from the window behind him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Not at all, daughter,” the priest's soft voice said. “The least I could do. Least any of us could do.”

  “You are brave in a way that I have never seen,” Dougal said quietly. He sat down heavily by her bed, his hand stroking hers. “I cannot...I...”

  He was weeping. Joanna stared, aghast, as she watched tears, gold in candlelight, slide down his weathered face.

  She saw the two forms behind him slowly withdraw. Feet almost silent on the flagging, they walked out.

  “Dougal,” she whispered, lifting her hand to stroke his hair. She recalled, too quickly, the reason her right arm was immobile. Clenched teeth holding back a sound of pain, she stopped it.

  “Joanna. Don't,” he said softly. “I don't...I don't deserve it.”

  “What?” Joanna was horrified. She sat up, heedless of the pain in her head, the red circles that suddenly appeared on the edge of her vision, blurring it. “Dougal? What in Heaven's name do you mean?”