Highlander’s Broken Love by Fiona Faris
Chapter Thirteen
“What did ye say to these people?” Ian asked Bhaltair and Gilroy as he stepped forward, away from the tent and nearing the center of the encampment.
On their side of what was to be the battlefield, there were lines upon lines of people. The area designated for battle had been cordoned off, and where some people had brought seating to watch, most had chosen to stand.
“The truth,” Bhaltair declared with a smile of triumph. “They all ken ye’re the rightful laird, regardless. Ye’re Fionntan’s son. The clan should be yers.”
“I left though,” Ian felt his guilt return as he crossed toward the people. It was why he felt he didn’t deserve the clan. When Grier had staged his coup, Ian had avoided the battle and fled. He didn’t think he was owed the clan’s loyalty.
“These people arenae blind,” Gilroy laughed on Ian’s other side. “Most were there at the time. They ken what happened, and most ken that if ye hadnae gone, ye may well be dead. They’re just glad ye’re back now.”
“Hmm,” Ian made a non-committal sound as he looked around the faces on his side of the battlefield. He easily had twice as many supporters as Grier had on his side. As well as men and soldiers, there were many women and children too who intended to cheer Ian’s name. The simple act was touching indeed. They were placing their faith in him to be a good laird, and they barely knew him.
“Ye ready?” Alex appeared as if from nowhere, stepping up to the cordon on their side of the battle arena.
“As I’ll ever be,” Ian sighed, looking out to the far edge of the camp. It was difficult to see Elisabeth at this distance, but he could just make her out. Someone had given her a stool, for she was now standing on top of it in the effort to watch the fight, peering above people’s heads.
“Concentrate,” Alex warned, urging Ian to flick his head back round, away from Elisabeth.
Alex turned to the supporters, grabbed Ian’s wrist and thrust it high in the air. It was the display of a champion. As one, his supporters cheered his name.
“What are ye doin’?” Ian hissed under his breath.
“Rule number one of bein’ a laird may be winnin’ a fight,” Alex said back with a smile. “Yet rule number two is kennin’ how to be the laird yer people want ye to be. Ye have to give them what they want for that.”
Ian nodded; there was much he had to learn. As he lowered his arm, he turned around. Kenny was running forward, holding the MacPherson sword aloft in his hand.
“Sharpened it,” he said with a wink.
“Thank ye, Kenny,” Ian said and placed the sword in his belt.
All fell quiet behind him, alerting him to the fact that something had changed. He looked up to see that Grier had arrived on the opposite end of the cordoned arena with Jockie close behind him. Jockie’s hand had been bandaged up with linen, and someone had fashioned him a sling with an older jerkin, too.
“Are ye the one who broke Jockie’s wrist?” Bhaltair asked, nervously.
“Aye,” Ian answered quickly. “He tried to slit me throat to save his faither’s skin.”
“Ye should have broken more than his wrist then,” Bhaltair said, holding back a laugh. Had Jockie been any other man, Ian would have agreed, but he was family at the end of the day; there was something about that fact that made a higher level of violence uncomfortable.
“Before this begins,” Laird Grier’s voice boomed out across the people. He climbed over the cordon and addressed Ian’s supporters. “I see many of ye have thrown yer lot in with the pretender here,” he pointed to Ian with a mocking jeer. The supporters fell completely silent now, not even a murmur or a whisper amongst them. “Let me be perfectly clear. When I win this fight, any man that supported Ian’s claim will be punished for it. Any woman, too.”
Hearing these words made Ian sick. He stood perfectly still, just watching as Grier walked up and down his side of the field, his eyes darting between the faces.
“This is yer last chance to make yer move,” Grier said slowly. “Move to me side now, and ye will nae be punished. Stay where ye are, and ye will pay for it in time.”
No one moved.
Ian looked around, startled by it. He would not have blamed any man or woman for stepping away then, in the interest of saving their own lives. Yet in the silence that followed, they all held their ground, staying firmly behind Ian.
“This is yer last chance!” Grier bellowed the words, and they echoed back off the trees and castle ruins. “Move to this side now. Or you will lose everything you have. That is an order.”
Ian looked again, certain this time that someone would move forward.
“We have already lost everything,” Bhaltair’s voice bellowed back, almost as loudly as Laird Grier’s. “I’m riskin’ nothin’ by stayin’ here.”
“Here, here!” Gilroy said at his side.
“I stay by the rightful Laird,” the new voice made Ian whip his head round. Ualan was there, one of the two brothers that he had seen talking nervously by the table earlier that day in the council meeting.
“As do I,” Torquil said at his side. The two stepped forward to the front of the group, clearly unashamed to be seen supporting Ian.
“Ye have yer people’s support now, me friend,” Alex whispered in Ian’s ear, clapping him on the back. Looking around everyone’s faces, in particular between the four that had just spoken, Ian was overwhelmed. They all thought he had the right to make this fight. It was about time he started to believe in his own claim to the lairdship.
He reached for the sword at his belt and pulled it out. The moment the metal made a sweeping sound against the scabbard, a cheer came up from his supporters. They called his name and urged him on, leaving Grier on the other side of the field to take a step back.
“Remember,” Alex said quietly to Ian under cover of the cheers. “Give the people what they want.”
Ian took the hint and strode forward. Rather than addressing the opposition, just as Grier had done, he turned his back on them and addressed his own supporters instead. They calmed in their cheers, clearly waiting for him to speak.
“Me friends,” he breathed deeply, remembering how his father had always addressed the clan with the same term. “I ken I havenae always been here for ye these last few years, but I give ye me word. If I win this fight, we shall rebuild this clan to what it was before under me faither, Laird Fionntan.” As he said the words, he saw some people in the crowd stand taller. An old woman even mopped tears from her eyes, remembering the well-loved Laird that had passed. “I give ye this, me vow. That I will be yer leader as he was, and I will rule with the same principles he always showed: honor, discipline, prosperity…” he paused and glanced back to Elisabeth in the cage, “and kindness.”
He looked back, his gaze connecting with Alex who nodded his approval.
“And for any man currently standin’ behind Grier,” he turned around and addressed the others. “If I win, ye willnae be punished for supportin’ Grier. Ye will be given a choice, that is all, to accept me as yer laird or to leave.” He turned back to his own supporters and nodded his head at Bhaltair.
“For the next and rightful laird, Ian!” he called loudly and raised his fist in the air, the other supporters followed suit, just as Ian turned around and climbed over the cordon, into the battlefield.
“Enough words,” Grier bellowed. “Now, we fight.”
Ian couldn’t agree more.
“To the death,” Grier added.
* * *
Elisabeth felt her hands tighten around the bars as she watched. The battle was now beginning. She could hear the roar of the crowd clearly; it was almost as if they were bellowing in her ear rather than up ahead in the center of the camp.
At once, Grier and Ian marched toward one another. Grier was standing tall, his sword outstretched ready for battle. Ian was bent forward slightly, his body coiled to pounce like a predator, and, with his sword horizontal, ready for an advance.
For a minute, Grier and Ian circled one another, each one waiting for the other to make the first strike.
Elisabeth could not remember when she had last felt so fearful for another. Her heart was beating loudly in her ears; her breath was erratic. She had pulled so many times at the wooden bars in desperation for a better view that she had nearly fallen off the stool and the palms of her hands were grazed red.
She murmured words of good luck the entire time, as she waited for the first blow to come.
Grier struck first. He lashed out, raising his claymore high in the air and trying to bring it down over Ian’s head.
She yelped under her breath, almost whimpering as she flinched with the blow.
Ian somehow blocked the blow easily. He drove Grier’s sword back with his own and forced his uncle back around so that they continued to circle each other.
Grier didn’t wait long for the next attack. It came quickly, with him running toward Ian and screaming a battle cry. This time, they fell into parrying one another. Each time Grier tried to strike, Ian blocked the blow, moving his heavy blade fast, as though it were a light weapon and not made out of heavy steel.
As they moved around one another, Ian ended up with his back toward Elisabeth. No longer able to see the focus in his face, she had a perfect view of Grier’s. The way his tongue was out between his teeth in concentration and the strength of his gaze showed how much energy he was using just to stay attentive to every move that Ian made. There was more though in that expression.
Even at this distance, Elisabeth could see the wicked smile every time Grier made an advance and forced Ian backward. She detested the sight of it.
As the fight went on, the crowds from the clan grew raucous in their cheers, each side shouting for their champion in desperation to see him win. She was tempted to shout too, wishing somehow that Ian would be able to hear her above the cries, but she was too far away.
She settled herself with sending prayers to God instead, begging for Ian’s safety.
“Ian, attack! Stop defendin’!” Laird Alex’s words came clearly, shouting above the din made by the clan. Elisabeth looked at him out in front of Ian’s supporters, watching as he cheered his friend on, then she returned her eyes to Ian.
He must have heard the insistent instruction, for he suddenly drove forward. Now, Grier was the one backing up, drifting further and further back across the field. Each time Ian struck out against Grier’s blade, the current Laird struggled to meet it just in time.
A roar erupted as Grier fell backward onto the ground, landing in a heap on his rear with his sword outstretched.
Ian lifted his sword, clearly ready to take the winning blow when Grier moved.
Elisabeth saw the glint of sunlight against another weapon, just as Ian froze in place.
Oh, my God…
Elisabeth released the bars and covered her mouth with her hands. All because Grier had pulled out a concealed dagger and was holding it against Ian’s stomach.
* * *
Ian saw the weapon too late. He’d been distracted, thinking he’d finally got the winning blow. He cursed himself, and jumped away, just as Grier struck out. He felt the blade, though not across his stomach. The dagger cut against the back of his left hand which was not protected by a gauntlet, only leather. It sliced open the leather binding.
Ian backed away, checking the wound. He was bleeding but not heavily. Nevertheless, the momentary retreat gave Grier time to get back on his feet with two weapons now exposed.
Disgusted that Grier would cheat enough to carry another weapon, just as he had been warned, Ian felt despondency rise inside of him. How could he win a fight against a man that refused to fight fair?
He backed up a little, putting more and more space between him and his uncle as he lifted the sword again.
“I remember yer faither teachin’ ye to fight when ye were a lad,” Grier said quietly, with disgust in his voice, as he moved toward Ian. “Ye were useless then too.” He swiped out at Ian with the sword, but Ian dodged it easily, running around Grier and making his uncle turn in a frantic circle. “Even when ye were older, ye couldnae even beat that weak man.”
“Daenae speak ill of me faither,” Ian saw red. His anger flashed as he reached out to Grier. He pulled his usual trick. He made an appearance of striking in one direction. As Grier moved to block the blow with his sword, it left the hand carrying the dagger unshielded. Ian used the opportunity to knock the dagger from Grier’s hand with the edge of his sword.
“Ahh!” Grier roared out in pain as Ian’s sword drew a blood red line across his palm. “Just like yer faither,” Grier composed himself again and placed both hands on the hilt of the sword. “Able to give a wound, but nae able to give the deathly blow. This is a fight to the death, Ian.” He barreled forward again, forcing Ian to back up.
Ian fought sluggishly, trying to keep up with each strike as quickly as possible but struggling with it. Each insult Grier made was getting into his head; soon all he could think of was Fionntan and what his father would say if he were watching this battle.
Ian blocked out the sounds of the crowd and especially of Alex issuing instructions. He could only think of Grier, Fionntan, and himself.
Grier struck another blow, and Ian went down onto one knee, nearly falling over.
I may have lost this now…
The thought was gut-wrenching. Grier glorified in the moment though and looked back to his supporters, making them cheer his name.
The sight disgusted Ian, and he looked down at the weapon in his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of blue silk and looked to the token Elisabeth had tied around his arm.
This wasn’t just about him, Fionntan, and Grier anymore. It was about the people of his clan, and it was about Elisabeth, too. He wasn’t going to let them down.
He darted a glance up, catching one glimpse of Elisabeth above people’s heads. She was clinging desperately to the cage bars.
I willnae lose this, Elisabeth.
His hands tightened on the hilt of the sword. He knew that if he were going to beat Grier, he’d have to use a few clever maneuvers.
As Grier moved back toward him, lifting his sword to make the killing blow, Ian rolled away. So stunned by the move, Grier’s sword met the earth with an awful thud.
Ian jumped back to his feet and held the sword aloft. This time, he didn’t give Grier a second to recover. If his uncle wasn’t going to fight fair, then he certainly wasn’t going to, either.
He hurried forward with the blade out and struck against Grier’s so strongly that his uncle began to retreat. Then came another blow, and another—so many in fact, that Ian could see Grier’s face began to contort in fear.
This time, he was ready when Grier’s left hand disappeared from the sword and went to his belt.
He’s concealed another weapon!
He pulled out a dirk and lifted it, clearly preparing to throw it.
Ian used his uncle’s slip in focus to knock the claymore from his hand. Grier was so surprised that he didn’t release the dirk straight away. It allowed Ian to swing his sword to knock the dirk clear, too.
Then he turned the sword and used the hilt to strike his uncle’s forehead, knocking him to the ground.
Grier began to scramble away across the earth, more like an animal than a human, reaching for his weapons. Ian kicked the claymore away first, then the dirk, pushing them far out of reach. Then he placed the tip of his sword at Grier’s chest, stopping him from scrambling any further.
Grier was breathing heavily, his cheeks above his black beard flushed scarlet and his eyes so wide that Ian could see the whites around his irises.
“Ye goin’ to kill me, then, Ian?” Grier taunted, holding his hands up in surrender.
Ian couldn’t believe it. He’d done it. He could hear the crowd cheering behind him, urging him on to make the kill.
What would me faither say to this?
He knew exactly what his father’s response would be—one of outrage that blood could kill blood. Ian lifted the sword high and made a show of driving it down again.
Grier flinched and covered his face while many in the crowd cheered, but Ian simply had struck the earth beside Grier’s face.
“Enough!” he called, and his supporters fell silent. “There will be mercy today and no death.”
He looked down, watching as Grier’s hands fell away from his face, revealing a narrowed glare of surprise. “But ye still lost the fight, uncle. The clan is mine now.”
