This Chapter is dedicated to a wonderful new friend and fan called LadyFoxglove, Thank you, for all ur support, comments and feedback. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
O.k everybody, as promised chapter 13, for some reason I enjoyed writing this chapter a lot. It just flew out. I hope it shows in the execution. I pray all of u enjoy it. Plz let me know what you think by giving me your COMMENTS AND VOTES, but ONLY IF YOU LIKE IT LOL.
Thank you very much for hearing me out and now sit back, relax and ENJOY!!!
CHAPTER 13:
IAIN'S RESOLVE:
"Filthy heathens!"
Every single one of the highlanders heard those words. There was no way they couldn't have. But they all ignored the knight who had just thrown that insult in their faces. They didn't move so much as a muscle, they remained where they were, stoically and silently behind their Laird, lined up at one end of the field along with hundreds of other men waiting for the Estor.
All morning they had heard nothing but verbal abuse from the crowds, and it seemed the knights had finally decided to join the merry club. Until a little while ago they had avoided bandying insults about, only finding the temerity to voice their opinions now that they were standing in their hundreds alongside the highlanders. Perhaps they thought there was safety in numbers, or maybe they thought the odds were in their favour.
And they were right, the odds were in their favour, overwhelmingly so, or so it seemed.
Appearances however were quite often deceptive.
From the looks of things it didn't seem like the small group of Highlanders stood a chance in hell. How could a small band of eleven men, no matter how powerful they were, compete against hundreds? And it would indeed be hundreds that they went up against, for the knights; even though they might fight amongst themselves would all target the Highlanders first.
The highlanders silence in the face of every insult was making the knights even cockier about their chances. To them it seemed as if the heathens were running scared.
And that was their greatest folly, one that would cost each and every one of them the tourney. For Iain had no wish to prolong the battle over the customary three days. He wanted to send a very clear message today to all his opponents and to the Baron.
He could bet the man was grinning right now, lounging in his high chair, licking his chops in anticipation, watching Iain and his small band of men.
In fact all the Englishmen in that field were smirking derisively as they looked upon the Highlanders, eagerly awaiting the their defeat in battle.
But unfortunately for them they would not be getting their fondest wish today or any other day for that matter. For unbeknownst to them the man they had gleefully denigrated all morning had concocted a plan of action, and it was already well underway.
Iain didn't even spare a glance at the Knight taunting him, nor the jeering crowds. His gaze was focused exclusively on his foes across the field, and his mind was busy thinking about the men waiting in the shaded forest, behind him, the men no one knew anything about.
The foolish English thought the Highlanders were at a disadvantage because of their apparent lack of manpower, but while they had all been revelling and wenching in their Pavillions Iain had been busy laying down the groundwork. None of them knew what Iain planned and he had made sure of that by visiting the Baron's feast last night, 'twas the perfect diversion.
The Baron's lack of vigilance would cost him dearly this day, for he had handed Iain the most important commodity in any battle, the element of surprise.
Iain's legend painted him as a barbarian warlord, one who had a thirst for blood and a craving for violence. It was a legend Iain had inculcated himself over the years. An impression of him he had always encouraged, for it had served him well.
He was a man of strategy, a man who planned everything in advance, a quality none of his enemies ever expected him to possess, but one which was Iain's greatest weapon. His level headed decisiveness combined with an uncanny ability to strategize every action was a deadly combination. Iain had won many a battle over the years due to his intelligence and cunning and not because of his brute strength which had always been his last resort.
A battle was like a game of chess and Iain was a grand-master, he knew how to turn weaknesses into strengths and today he planned to do just that.
As in the past, every knight there had fallen for the legend, they expected him to charge into battle like a madman, hacking and slashing, throwing his sword around without thought. After all, to them he was merely a lowly highlander, a filthy heathen, nothing but an uncouth barbarian. And Iain allowed them to harbour their misapprehensions, in fact he welcomed them. He was glad they considered him a blood crazed monster, one who would ride to his death today.
"Everything is in readiness, m' Laird. Quinlan and the men await."
Angus one of his most seasoned warriors, had just whispered those words. Iain showed no outward reaction, an imperceptible nod the only indication he had heard those words.
The big, bearded warrior with a giant axe strapped to his side looked at his Laird with an eager smile on his face.
"Where be the rest of your men Wolf?" a knight mocked from the sidelines, "Or have they all run away afore the battle" he guffawed with laughter.
Angus's hand went immediately to his axe. He would cut out the churl's tongue for that insult. No man insulted the laird and lived, no man. Angus's loyalty to his leader was unquestionable, all the McLaughlin warriors would gladly lay down their lives for their leader without hesitation and they would consider it nothing but an honour.
But just as Angus turned to confront the man with a murderous scowl on his face, he felt a warning hand grip his forearm, a signal that was more than enough to stop him in his tracks.
"Leave your anger for the battlefield. Ye do not raise your weapon until I say so,"
"Aye m'laird,"
Angus said, releasing the bulky handle; he knew well when to heed the wolf's command.
Iain's orders were to show no reaction, to let everyone think that this small group comprised the only highlanders that would fight today. 'Twas all a ruse, a trap. Angus reluctantly settled down, ignoring the jibes. Soon, he thought, soon they would all savour victory.
Angus knew his Laird's orders served a very special purpose. He wanted his men fighting mad, and there was no better way to motivate a warrior and make his blood boil then by ordering him to remain quiet in the face of every insult under the Sun.
And Iain's strategy was working, each and every one of his men was raging inside, and all they wanted to do was charge into battle to slay their opponents, they were all relishing the prospect of engaging in battle.
Which was exactly what Iain had wanted from the very beginning, he wanted his men to fester with anger and resentment, 'twould only serve to sharpen their resolve.
Aye, today the Baron and all the English Knights would learn a valuable lesson, one that they would not soon forget, and the black wolf would make certain sure of that.
Sarah held her breath. The main event was about to begin. She could feel it in the air; it was thick and heavy with a sense of anticipation. For once even the spectators were deathly silent.
A gust of wind blew across the massive empty field, and for a moment nothing moved except the trembling blades of grass. Everyone waited with bated breath for the herald to give the cry so that the Estor could begin in earnest.
Sarah was reminded of those dramatic scenes in old western movies where two guys stood at either end of a narrow street facing each other with loaded guns in their hands. But this time there were no guns, and no cowboys or dusty streets, instead there were hundreds of knights on horseback holding onto lances, facing each other, single file, across a flat field.
Sarah couldn't help but stare at a particularly small band of men waiting on horse back primed for attack. She was stunned to see their numbers; they stood out in their line of knights like a sore thumb, conspicuous not only because of their clothes but also because there were so few of them.
Was that suicidal idiot really serious? Sarah wondered, what did he hope to achieve with that tiny troupe of men? she thought. Sarah had counted them; there were eleven in total, with the Laird positioned in front of the group, holding onto a levelled lance. It seemed he really was a crazy barbarian after all.
Sarah ran her eyes over the knights on the other side of the field, the ones the Highlanders would face, God in heaven there were hundreds, so many that she didn't even bother counting. And it wasn't just the knights on horseback either, behind them stood footmen and arrow-men with long bows at the ready.
Benedict told her those guys would serve as the infantry, they wouldn't be taking part in the actual Estor but would form lines of protection for their respective knights, somewhere where the knights could retreat to if they couldn't stand the heat. Off course any one who did that would forfeit the competition. The infantry also served another important function; they could help their knights in battle by targeting their opponents in the field with arrows.
There were also groups of men waiting behind the lined boundaries in front of the Berfois, these were the squires. They held onto three replacement lances, if a knight broke his lance in combat he could ride back and claim another from his waiting squire.
Sarah spotted several fidgety peasants and serfs waiting impatiently on the sidelines too, like droves of ravenous vultures, with crude clubs in their hands. Benedict told her that these guys were called the Kippers and it was their job to keep an eye on the proceedings and collect the spoils of war. They were hired by individual knights to collect the booty from their fallen opponents; they were even allowed to club a fallen knight, to knock him unconscious so that they could collect the rewards for their respective employers.
It made Sarah sick to her stomach to know that injured men writhing on the ground would probably be clubbed too for their weapons and belongings.
And finally she learned of the most shocking aspect of a medieval tourney, one that seemed absolutely bonkers to Sarah; Benedict told her that the knights who captured an opponent could hold him hostage for ransom.
This was the reason why men risked their lives; fortunes could be made and lost today. The Tourney served as the biggest gambling ring in the Middle-Ages. Unfortunately the stakes were much higher then mere money, many would pay with their lives.
The only way captured knights could be set free was by agreeing to hand over whatever the captors wanted. Their Destriers, their broadswords, their armours and even any land they owned was up for grabs. And that is why the men fought so viciously, trying desperately to not only defeat and capture their opponents but to also avoid capture themselves.
This is why the melee could be fatal; men would fight till their very last breath to avoid disgrace and possible financial ruin. They would give it everything they had. To Sarah it seemed absolutely crazy, she wanted nothing more than to get up and leave before she saw anything like that but she knew she couldn't. She had to stay the course whether she liked it or not.
This whole situation was forcing Sarah to think of another occasion in her past, one that she wanted to forget.
She had seen a bullfight in a Spanish stadium on holiday once. She had seen the poor animal bleed slowly to death, charging desperately, helplessly at his tormentor. She had seen the matador lance the animal again and again till the poor thing was panting for breath and staring at his attacker with blood-shot eyes, eyes that mirrored only suffering and anguish.
Sarah had let out a cry of despair as the matador had lanced the animal one final time, piercing his heart.
That day she had sat in that sunny stadium with people cheering all around her and the matador posing dramatically below her in the arena, while roses were showered on him by the spectators, but all Sarah had seen was the prone, butchered body of that poor bull lying in a pool of its own blood, suffering painfully till its very last breath.
Her eyes had been misty with tears as she had left the stadium that day. She had never been able to forget that bull, or the sounds of its keening cries, and today she would be reliving that experience all over again, only this time there was no bull to be slaughtered, it was men who would lance each other.
Sarah stared helplessly across the field at the man who had caused her a sleepless night, the stranger who had done nothing but infuriate her since their very first encounter, the man who had kissed her with a passion that had left her shaken. And looking at him now, she couldn't suppress a shudder of apprehension.
Why did it worry her so? Why did she care if he made it out alive or not? And why in heavens name did her heart beat fearfully when she thought of him dying on the field in front of her?
Finally the Herald gave the cry, and Sarah closed her eyes for a split second, a desperate prayer reverberated in her soul,
"Please...... please don't let him die"