Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ivar woke up with the dawn and rolled over, to be greeted by Catalina staring at him, the blanket wrapped tightly around her, with a horrified expression on her face. He sat up immediately, worried about her for she seemed to be having trouble breathing.

She gasped out, “What happened, Ivar? What did we dae? What does it all mean?”

Still foggy from sleep, he tried to summon a reassuring reply, though he was not sure he understood what had happened himself. But before he could say a word, the door creaked open, and Agnes’ little son toddled into the room. He smiled at them both happily and said in his childish voice, “Ma says there’s breakfast fer ye.”

Thankfully, as far as Ivar was concerned, the child seemed to require no response and toddled out the way he had come.

“Come on, Cat, let’s eat and then get out of here. We can talk about things then.”

“Aye, all right,” she replied, scrambling from the bed with the blanket tightly wound around her as if for protection.

“Wait,” he told her, pulling on his blanket. “I’ll fetch our clothes. Hopefully, they’ll be dry by now.” He went out into the main room, where Agnes was crouching by the hearth stirring a pot of porridge that was hanging on a hook over the fire. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Good mornin’. I hope ye slept well.”

“Um, aye, we did, thank ye.” He felt himself blushing like a virgin. “I was lookin’ fer our clothes.”

She pointed to a neatly stacked pile on a chair. “Aye, there they are. They’re mostly dry.”

“Thank ye,” he said, grabbing the pile and retreating back to the child’s room. “Here, put yer clothes on,” he told Catalina as he pulled on his stockings and trews. Worryingly, she was sitting on the edge of the bed as if she was in shock, her hair in wild disarray. She looked breathtakingly lovely. Without saying anything, she snatched her clothing from the pile and began putting on her stockings and petticoats. She held up her stays with an air of despair, indicating that she needed his help in lacing them. He did the best he could, not having much experience in that department, and then he helped her into her gown and fastened it for her.

She waited for him to dress in silence. When they were both decent, he led her by the hand out into the main room, where Agnes greeted them cheerfully. Her little son was sitting on a stool by the peat fire, making a mess of his breakfast. When they were seated, Agnes served them a bowl of hot oatmeal. Ivar would have rather left right away, but he decided it was only polite to eat what the woman offered before taking off.

In his refreshed state of being, he wanted to thank her properly for her generous help and leave her a little something to make her trouble worthwhile. Catalina appeared unable to speak, although she ate the porridge, so it was left to him to make small talk about the weather and the coming harvest.

When the child went out to play a short time later, he was mortified on Catalina’s behalf when Agnes suddenly grinned at her and said, “Were ye all right in the night? Ye made quite a lot of noise.”

“Me wife has night terrors when she sleeps in a strange bed,” he said, seeing Catalina’s cheeks turning crimson. “She moans and groans and makes a racket. I apologize if she disturbed ye,” he went on, warming to the subject. He could not resist adding, “She keeps me awake for hours sometimes.”

He grinned at Catalina, knowing he would pay the price later. But somehow, he was looking forward to it.

When they finally left the cottage, he placed two crowns on the edge of the table for Agnes to find later, a thank you for her kindness.

“I suppose ye think that was very funny, what ye said back there,” Catalina said accusingly as they went to collect the horses from the barn behind the cottage. He could not help himself; laughter burst out of him.

“Aye, I think it was the funniest thing in ages,” he replied, grinning at her. “Ah, come on, Cat. If the shoe had been on the other foot, then ye’d have been the one laughin’ at me, wouldnae ye?” The indignant expression on her face made him laugh even harder.

“If the shoe was on the other foot, ye can be sure it’d be kickin’ ye up the arse,” she replied, making him laugh again. She refused to speak to him for some time after they mounted their horses and started back to the castle in the early morning light. It was a beautiful morning. The storm had washed everything clean and then passed over, leaving the promise of another fine summer day. For a change, Ivar felt full of energy and happy to be alive.

They were riding along the outskirts of the wood when he first had the feeling that something was not quite right. It was too quiet, and he had the uncomfortable sensation of eyes boring into his back. He listened carefully to what was going on around them, all his senses on alert, straining to identify what was bothering him.

“Ye said we would talk about what happened last night in the mornin’,” Catalina suddenly said. “Well, ’tis the mornin’.”

“Shhh,” he hissed, listening hard. “Be quiet.”

“How dare ye speak tae me like that?” she shot back in an annoyed tone.

“Catalina, please be quiet fer one minute. I’m tryin’ tae listen,” he said softly, sensing her fiery mood.

“Listen tae what?” she asked, frowning.

“I’m nae sure yet,” he admitted, scanning the shadows beneath the trees. A sixth sense was telling him danger was near, but as yet it was nothing more than a feeling in his bones, for he could see nothing.

“Something feels wrong,” he told her. “Stay close behind me.”

“Ivar,” she whispered, anxious now, “what is it?”

“I told ye, I’m nae sure. I just have a feelin’.” He slowed the horses, keeping his eyes on the trees, the most likely place for a threat to emerge. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I can feel it too. I dinnae like it,” Catalina said, her voice still a whisper. She looked around nervously.

“D’ye have yer knife with ye?” he asked.

“Always.”

“Good. When I tell ye, we’re going tae make a break for it across the field there. If someone is stalking us, it’ll be harder for them tae attack us out in the open. Whatever happens, just stick with me, all right?”

“Aye.”

He appreciated her unquestioning acceptance of his instructions, for the most important thing to him was to protect her at all costs. Even if the cost was his life.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes more, but the feeling of being watched soon became overpowering. “Let’s ride,” he said, kicking up his horse and heading out into the field, with Catalina hot on his heels.

It was then that he heard what he had been expecting all along, the soft thud of multiple hooves on soft ground and the jingling of many harnesses.

“Stop them!” a voice shouted from behind them, and as Ivar glanced back over his shoulder, he could see a stream of armed men on horseback emerging from between the trees and riding hard to catch up with him and Catalina.

“Ride, Cat, ride a fast as ye can!” he shouted to her as he urged his horse onward, his heart pounding in his chest. Silently, he cursed himself for his folly in coming so far from home without any guards to back him up. For there was no doubt in his mind who was after them. It could be none other than Sir Henry Chisholm, the man who had waged a bloody war against the Mathesons to gain Anastasia as his bride and control of her father’s clan as his dowry.

But it was not Anastasia riding with him, as it should have been. It was the spirited Catalina, and he knew with a horrible certainty that it would not matter to Chisholm which sister he took. Anastasia or Catalina made no difference to him. Either way, the madman intended to get what he wanted, the lairdship of the Matheson clan. And now Ivar realized that, in his pride, he had placed the woman he cared for in terrible danger. As Chisholm’s men overtook them, he could only pray he could get her out of it safely.

He and Catalina rose in their saddles, urging their horses onward as they flew across the grass, hooves thundering against the uneven turf. Gobbets of wet mud sprayed out in their wake as they raced ahead, hitting Chisholm, riding at the head of his men, and his horse in the face and chest.

“Try tae get ahead of me, Cat,” he shouted across to her, slowing slightly, desperate to put himself between her and Chisholm. His anxiety was at its peak—the idea of her getting hurt or Chisholm getting his hands on her was unbearable.

“I’m nae leavin’ ye!” she yelled back, but he still tried to hang back a little to put her in front. But even as he did so, Ivar knew it was no good. Any hint of a decrease in his speed only brought the riders closer, and he could not block five men from getting to her by himself.

Finally, the pounding hooves and snorting of the horses chasing them drew far too close for Ivar’s liking. Chisholm and his men were now breathing down their necks. To his dismay, two of the soldiers began to overtake them, and he could see nothing to do except to attack their pursuers, in hopes of holding them back long enough to allow Catalina to flee to safety.

His blood running hot, he unsheathed his sword and held it aloft. “Ride, Cat, ride as fast as ye can, and dinnae stop!” he roared, turning his horse to face their assailants, launching a ferocious attack on Chisholm’s men, using every trick he knew to hold them off. Chisholm himself had dropped back a little, clearly content to allow his men to do his dirty work while he watched from behind.

“Go, Cat, ride!” Ivar shouted again, desperate for her to be out of danger so he could apply himself to the destruction of Chisholm and his men without fear of her being hurt of captured. From his peripheral vison, he saw her turn her horse in the opposite direction, and she galloped off across the field. Despite his predicament, relief flowed through Ivar. He renewed his attack on Chisholm’s soldiers, parrying and thrusting, expertly turning away the men’s blades with his own.

Then, to his horrified amazement, from the corner of his eye, he saw she had only ridden a short way off and then reined in her horse, turning it around again and looking back at him. Despite his distraction, he managed to stab one of the men through the upper arm, sending him toppling from his mount with a shout of pain. The man’s horse ran off, while the injured soldier rolled over several times and then sat up, swearing viciously as he snatched the kerchief from around his neck to staunch the blood from the wound.

“Come on ye cowards and fight! ’Tis one man against the lot of ye. What dae I pay ye fer? Kill him and get the lassie!” Chisholm bellowed, clearly furious. At his urging, his other soldiers redoubled their attack on Ivar. Ivar fought ferociously, parrying every blow, straining every sinew in an effort to hold them back.

“Why d’ye nae flee, Cat? Go, I tell ye. Get away while ye can!” he yelled, silently urging her to run with all haste.

But instead of riding away, she was charging straight at them, the blade of her dirk flashing in her hand. She rode into the men, slashing at them with her knife, aiming for their faces. The injured men, panicked and half-blinded by their own blood, struggled to keep their mounts under control.

Catalina kicked up her horse and tried to put a short distance between her and her wounded attackers, her dripping dirk clutched in her hand as she gripped the reins.

In the following confusion, hoping she would be able to get away, Ivar saw his chance and rode to attack Chisholm. The madman proved to be a skilled and determined opponent, his swordsmanship honed through war, matching Ivar blow for blow as the two men clashed violently on horseback, panting and grunting as they fought.

Despite Ivar’s height and weight advantage, he had trouble getting Chisholm off his horse and onto the ground, but eventually managed it. By the time Chisholm lost his hold on the saddle and crashed to the grass on his back, and his panicked horse bolted, Ivar was already poised over him, the point of his blade pressed to the man’s belly.

However, in the meantime, the downed soldier with the injured arm rallied and ran to his chief’s aid. But seeing Chisholm pinned to the ground, with Ivar’s sword poised to end his life, he stopped, clearly fearing that if he tried to intervene, Ivar would kill his master.

It was then that a shrill scream rang out, and Ivar’s focus was immediately diverted to the source of the terrifying sound. A few yards away, he saw Catalina fighting the uninjured soldier on horseback. In his attempts to grab her, her assailant had been forced to sheathe his sword and try to dodge the blows as she desperately wielded her dirk against him.

As the pair fought fiercely, the other two soldiers, with blood running down their faces from her earlier attack, rushed to assist their companion, hemming her in on all sides as they struggled to subdue her. Ivar admired her valor, but it was only a matter of time before she was overcome despite her valiant struggles.

Sustaining several injuries, her main attacker managed to snatch the dirk from her, and she was finally pulled screaming from her horse, which bolted in a panic. Then, taking tight hold of her upper arms, the men dragged her back to where Ivar had their chief pinned to the ground. Valiantly, she struggled the whole way, cursing at them roundly.

“Step away and let him up,” the uninjured one instructed Ivar, gripping Catalina cruelly by her hair and pulling her head back sharply. She cried out in pain, making Ivar feel both furious and nauseous. She ceased fighting, but she continued cursing the men roundly. “Or I’ll slit her throat,” her captor added.

“I very much doubt it,” Ivar said as calmly as he could, not moving from his spot, the point of his sword pressing on Chisholm’s breastbone. “I imagine yer maister here wants her alive. He’ll nae take too kindly tae anyone who harms her.”

The man’s response was to put Catalina in a chokehold with his arm and press her own dirk to the tender skin of her throat. Gasping for air, her feet almost lifted off the ground, she exchanged a terrified glance with Ivar. Seeing her so frightened was like torture, and he knew he could not take the risk. He stepped away from Chisholm and watched as the soldier with the injured arm now ran forward to help Chisholm up and then went to retrieve their horses.

“I’ve done as ye said, now take the blade off her neck,” Ivar commanded Cat’s captor.

“Dae as he says,” Chisholm barked from behind him, his sword in one hand and the reins of his horse, now restored to him, in his hand.

His soldier complied by slightly loosening his grip and removing the blade from Catalina’s throat. She bent over, heaving and coughing, taking in great lungful of air.

“Now what?” Ivar asked, his hopes for a safe outcome rapidly fading. He cared naught for himself, only for Catalina, and he had no intention of just letting them take her. Despite being badly outnumbered, he vigilantly watched his opponents for any slight opening to relaunch his attack. He knew he needed to disable the men long enough for him and Catalina to take off. Their horses were not far away. But it seemed hopeless.

He kept his gaze fixed upon her and realized she was signaling to him with her eyes, which flicked continually to his belt and the dirk nestling there. Surely, he thought, she doesn’t believe we can fight our way out of this?

“Now, I’m only lettin’ ye live so ye can tell yer braithers about this. In the meantime, I’ll take the lassie,” Chisholm said, his bulbous eyes gloating.

“What d’ye want her fer?” Ivar countered, trying to buy some time.

“What’s it got tae dae with ye what I want her fer? ’Tis me business,” Chisholm sneered.

“’Tis me business. Anastasia is me betrothed. Ye have nae more claim on her,” Ivar pointed out.

“That’s nae Anastasia, ‘tis her sister,” Chisholm said, jerking his thumb at Catalina. “And I cannae help wonderin’ why it is that ye’re with her rather than yer betrothed. What are ye up tae, eh? Are ye jugglin’ the two sisters, is that it?” He gave a vulgar laugh full of innuendo.

His jibe made Ivar’s blood boil. But he could do nothing for fear they would hurt Catalina. His fists clenched, and he gripped the pommel of his sword more tightly, wishing it was Chisholm’s throat. “Dinnae speak of them like that if ye value yer life,” he told the man through gritted teeth.

“I’ll speak about those two sluts any way I chose. Their faither tried tae cheat me out of the wife he owes me. Anastasia is mine, and I mean tae have her.”

“Keep dreamin’,” Ivar replied mockingly. “That’s all it’ll ever be, dreams. Ye’re nae getting’ yer hands on either of the lassies while I live.”

Chisholm gave one of his jeering laughs. “Aye, while ye live.”

“And if ye kill me, me braithers will never rest until they hunt ye down,” Ivar replied cooly, still playing for time.

Chisholm pretended to look around, then he shrugged. “Brave words, lad, but yer precious braither’s are nae here now, are they? So, yer threats count fer naethin’. Say whatever ye wish, just be sure that I intend tae have Anastasia as me wife, come what may.”

Just as Chisholm finished speaking, there came a choking gasp from nearby. Both men’s eyes snapped around towards Catalina and her captor. Ivar could hardly believe his eyes: the man who had only moments ago been holding her own dirk to her throat was now reeling backwards, clutching at his throat, trying to pull the blade free.

“Ye damn fool, ye let a lassie get the better of ye,” Chisholm berated the fatally wounded soldier mercilessly. Ivar realized that he too had worked out what had happened. It was obvious that Catalina had patiently waited for her captor to loosen his grip around her neck long enough for her to ram his hand, which was still gripping her dirk, into his own neck.

In the split second it took for Ivar to comprehend, she was next to him, whipping his dirk from his waistband and brandishing it in front of her threateningly.

“Nae man’s takin’ me anywhere I dinnae want tae go,” she spat, dropping into a fighting stance, her side welded to his.

“What are ye doin’, fer God’s sake, woman?” he berated her frantically. “Get out of here!”

She shook her head defiantly. “Ye tried tae save me, and I’m nae leavin’ ye here tae fight them by yersel’,” she declared, her eyes flashing as she glared fiercely at their opponents.

Ivar had less than a moment to appreciate her ingenuity and bravery before the fighting started in earnest. Chisholm and his men, swords out, rushed to him, and he had to defend himself ferociously against all four of them, drawing on all his skills and experience. The odds were stacked against them, he knew, and he wished with all his heart that Catalina was safe at home and his brothers were there to help him.

But however dire the situation, he was not about to give an inch. At that moment, the only thing that meant anything to him was keeping Catalina safe from Chisholm.

Suddenly, there seemed to be a whirlwind next to him as Catalina went fearlessly into action with the foot-long dirk. She did not hesitate to attack the man in front of her, though he was much larger than her and had a longer reach because of his weapon. Occupied though he was, Ivar could not help but be aware of her as she danced and ducked and dived at his side, slashing and feinting with the blade, moving like lightning, panting as she dodged her opponent’s persistent sword blows by mere inches.

The sword was a mighty weapon to be sure, but it required some space to be wielded effectively. Catalina gave little space for the man to maneuver, using his own inevitably slower movements to find a way through his defenses, the point of the lethal dirk seeking out the tiniest of chinks in his armor.

Finally, she provoked her assailant into raising his sword doublehanded in what he clearly thought would be the decisive blow. Then, when he had exposed his chest, she darted inside his defenses. Letting out a fierce shriek, with both hands, she rammed the dirk into the gap between his chainmail vest and his helmet.

The man screamed and fell over backwards, blood spraying from the wound. Without pause, she was upon him, kicking him down further and, bracing her foot on his thigh, pulling out the dirk before whirling on her feet, ready to tackle the next man harrying Ivar.

Meanwhile, next to her, fending off Chisholm and two of his men as he was, Ivar needed all the help he could get. With a scream of fury, Catalina suddenly leapt on the back of one of his assailants. She hung onto the man’s neck before stabbing him everywhere she could with the dirk. He flailed uselessly against her, like a bull trying to shake off a wasp, but she held on, finally weakening him so much, he toppled over and joined his dying companions on reddening grass.

“Leave them!” Chisholm suddenly shouted to his remaining man, turning tail and running for his horse. “Ye might have won this time, MacLeod, but I’ll be back, and next time, I’ll take her with me!” Chisholm yelled over his shoulder.

“Ye can try, ye bastard. I look forward tae meetin’ ye again and havin’ the pleasure of killin’ ye!” Ivar shouted back, disappointed to have to let him go.

But to Ivar’s amazement, he saw Catalina was hot on Chisholm’s heels. Wielding his dirk, she raced after the maniac and soon caught up with him. She took him unawares from behind, slamming into him and slashing at him with the blade as he turned to defend himself. Ivar watched as a deep gash opened up on the man’s cheek, welling with blood.

“Ye’ll pay fer that, ye wee vixen!” Chisholm screamed furiously, swinging a vicious backhander across her face. Catalina flew several feet then, dropping like a ragdoll to the ground, with the dirk landing next to her. Chisholm made a sound of disgust as he flung himself into the saddle. Cursing at her, he pounded his beast’s flanks cruelly with his heels. It reared up on its forelegs with a loud whinny and then took off at a fast gallop back towards the trees. Having retrieved the loose horses of his companions, his remaining man followed, fleeing after his chief as fast as he could.

“Cat, Cat! Are ye all right?” Ivar yelled, sprinting across to where she lay on her back, motionless. His heart pounding with fear, he sheathed his sword and knelt beside her, slipping his arms beneath her fragile form, lifting her up and putting his ear to her chest. Hearing a strong heartbeat, he breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, he stared down at her delicate, blood-spattered features, praying her eyes would open.

But they did not.

“Stay with me, Cat,” he implored her unconscious form, filled with panic at the thought of losing her. “Stay with me. Everything’s going tae be all right. I’m going tae get ye some help as soon as I can.”