Page 26 of Highlander’s Claim

He didn’t need to say to his friend who “her” was.

“Aye, Lord,” Beathan said and sprinted towards Jennifer. Aulay turned to his men. “Let us go and protect our people and our land! Protect yer families, yer wives, and yer home! Clann Domnhnaill! Clann Domnhnaill!”

“Clann Domnhnaill! Clann Domnhnaill!” echoed his men, pumping their fists, holding their claymores high up in the air.

Then they were off, sprinting like wolves down the inner bailey and through the gatehouse and down the road to the village. Aulay could already see the first enemy warriors clashing with the villagers. Every MacDonald—farmer, shepherd, or blacksmith—had a sword and knew at least the basics of how to wield it. He had made sure of it.

But most people who lived in the village were not true warriors. Their daily business wasn’t to train on the sword or the bow. It was work that sustained the everyday life of the clan.

But in cases like this, they could protect themselves at least for a short time.

Aulay and his men hurtled through the village.

Goddamn it to hell, how had the English arrived here? Did they land on the other side of the island and come here on foot?

A dozen villagers fought and were losing against two dozen enemy warriors. One villager held his sword at the level of his head while the Englishman forced his sword down on him. Another, backed against a wall, had a bad gash on his right shoulder and slashed with his sword poorly at the enemy.

Aulay roared, “Clann Domnhnaill! Clann Domnhnaill!”

The villagers heard him. “Clann Domnhnaill!” they echoed.

“Clann Domnhnaill!” Aulay’s warriors shouted.

They ran at the enemy with full force and clashed. Aulay pushed one Englishman off Conn, the tanner, and swung his sword at the man’s head. The man deflected it and slashed with his own blade. It was Aulay’s turn to deflect, and he knocked the sword back with no difficulty. The warrior was young and strong but inexperienced. Aulay could see right away with pups like him where his weakness was.

Aulay made a small lunge to his right, but instead, went left and thrust his sword into the bearded face. The Englishman fell and didn’t stand up again.

Aulay clapped Conn’s shoulder. “Thanks, Lord,” the tanner said.

Around him, his men hurled spears, wielded their axes and swords, sliced at limbs and heads. Warriors circled each other, came together, and clashed swords. Steel glistened, and as flesh tore and blood spilled, men cried in pain.

There were more of the English than Aulay had thought. It must have been a ship or two full of warriors. He knew he had seven dozen warriors by his side. Their numbers were fairly evenly matched, but the English were far better armed. Still, they were Highlanders and they were fighting for their home and their honor. It would take more than several dozen Englishmen to bring them to their knees.

The iron tang of blood was so thick around him, he could taste it on his tongue. The earth of Islay was being generously fed with gore today. Then all was a blur of gore and the rage of a battle that took him over like a full goblet of fiery uisge. He jabbed and cut and ripped his blade into the chain mail. He twirled and ducked and avoided bad blows.

Until he didn’t. He had just clashed swords with another Englishman when his back prickled with an acute sense of danger. But he couldn’t turn, or he would be killed.

Then there was something like a soft push. He took a step to his side and thrust his sword belly-deep into the Englishman right through his boiled armor.

Then he looked.

Nae!

It was Beathan.

He lay on the ground with a spear thrust through his chest. His eyes were unmoving, and blood bloomed through his léine-chròich, around the wooden sheath.

He had taken the death meant for Aulay. Disregarding the chaos of the battle around him, Aulay dropped to his knees in front of his loyal friend. He lowered his head and pressed it against Beathan’s chest. Pain tore at his gut.

“Nae ye, Beathan. Nae ye!”

Countless times Aulay had saved Beathan’s life. Countless times Beathan had saved his. Beathan was ten years younger than Aulay, and he had been one Aulay’s first students to train in sword fighting. He had been late to take a wife, but Ailis was the love of his life, and Una was the very center of his happiness.

What would he tell Ailis? How could he go and tell her that her husband and the father of her bairn would not return to her?

He straightened his back, closed Beathan’s unseeing eyes, and laid his friend’s sword on his stomach, pressing his still-warm fists around the handle.

“Rest in peace, my friend,” he said. “Ye are with God now.”