A Knight to Desire (32 page)

Before he could turn back to de la Roche, a loud cry of "Attack!" echoed around him.

He could delay no longer as de la Roche's army charged, thundering forward like a dark wave against the dirt.

Simon dove for the bow and arrows near him and let them fly into the massive army that approached. Before their arrows were spent, a roar of the ages erupted out of the chaos — the
cath-ghairm
— the call of the Highlanders. The MacDougalls had arrived. A hundred men on horseback swept across the field from behind where the Templars had taken their stand, surging with wrathful power toward de la Roche's men.

Everywhere, battle erupted. Tar was thrown, spears were tossed, and around them the clangor of steel against steel sounded above the shouts and cries of men and horses.

Simon fought alongside Brianna, the two of them making their way toward the Frenchman who now hovered at the rear of the fighting. A volley of arrows took down de la Roche's horse. The Frenchman jerked away before the beast could crush his legs. De la Roche rolled then gained his feet. His eerie gaze connected with Simon's over the fighting. Simon knew this was it. The final confrontation. Simon strode forward and raised his sword in salute.

De la Roche offered him a sneer of a smile and did the same.

They both dropped into position.

"You can leave this land in peace. Go back to where you came from and never darken the shores of Scotland again," Simon said as they began to circle each other slowly, each taking measure of the other.

De la Roche laughed. "I'll not walk away from my destiny to conquer and rule over all. Are you afraid of death, Lockhart? For that is your destiny this day."

"There is no destiny," Simon answered. "Nothing is written," or dreamed, he added in his mind, "that cannot be changed."

De la Roche lunged. As he moved he dropped his shoulder, focusing his action. The man was older than Simon and though he still walked with a limp, there was nothing but youthful strength in his motions.

If only he could knock the sword from de la Roche's hands…

Simon parried and spun to the right. De la Roche brought his sword around in a sideways sweep, but Simon was ready. His blade arced up and back, stopping Joyeuse's slice. As the swords collided, Simon kicked, catching de la Roche in the stomach and sending him staggering backward.

The Frenchman kept his feet. He grinned at Simon. "Good," he said. "Very good. A worthy opponent at last."

Simon didn't answer. He kept his body low as he watched de la Roche's body for the next attack.

Brianna clutched her sword in her left hand and faced her opponent. She could not keep her gaze on Simon for long; the Frenchman she'd come to know as Philippe leaped forward. Her breath hitched. This was it — the battle she had longed for and dreaded with equal fervor.

Gathering her strength, she blocked the man's blade and spun away. Her grip was firm, her strike confident. She could battle with her left hand just as effectively as her right.

"A girl," he said in a thick French accent. "This should be nothing more than child's play."

Brianna attacked, her steps quick and sure. The Frenchman parried, but he threw his weight off balance with his strike and Brianna slashed. Her opponent fell away, only to be replaced by another, and another.

She fought her way through the wave of men, keeping Simon in her peripheral vision at all times. She had to protect herself, but she also had to be ready to help if de la Roche gained the advantage.

Simon would not die.

Anguish filled her momentarily at the idea of him falling in this battle. She forced the thought away, giving no life to negative thoughts. She had to stay positive, think positively, in order to see this battle through.

The men who charged her fell like leaves against the wind. One after another, they came and fell. She looked out at the fighting. The monks were holding their own, as were Kaden, Alaric, and Kendall. Brianna's eyes slid across the fighting, to a familiar figure in the distance. Her heart seemed to freeze at the sight of her father. He fought against de la Roche's men.

Why? Why was he here? He'd come to the MacDougalls to gather his own protection. Why would he follow them into war? Without fully seeing them, Brianna slashed at the men who lunged at her as she fought her way to his side.

Crimson blood spilled from a wound on his chest down the front of his tunic. Icy fingers gripped Brianna's spine. Her father might not love her, but she still cared for him, still remembered happier times, times when he had cared for her. She took two steps forward then froze.

She couldn't leave Simon's side.

Her gaze shifted between the man she loved and the man who'd sired her. Simon appeared in control of the situation while her father's opponent raised his sword, turned it, and brought it down.

Brianna cried out. Her father's opponent hesitated at the sound, but for only a heartbeat. She surged forward. Threw herself onto the enemy, knocking him to the ground. Was she too late? She hadn't seen the strike, but her father lay on the ground beside her, horribly still.

Her eyes blinded by pain, her right hand shot forward, connected with the enemy's face. She felt bones cracking and the man went limp. She tossed him aside and crawled quickly to her father's side.

He lay with one hand covering the wound on his chest. Blood stained his fingers. Brianna's breath hitched once more as she felt the pain in her own body. She brushed the hair away from his face and his eyes fluttered open. His eyes were not filled with the disappointment she had grown used to seeing there. Instead, she saw pride.

"Brianna," he whispered. "I was so wrong."

"Father, don't waste your strength with talk," she said urgently. "I'll get you somewhere safe. I'll take care of you—"

"Brianna." He reached up and touched her face with cool, trembling fingers. "You are a warrior. Better than your brothers. I'm sorry."

"Hush," she said, feeling her throat tighten.

"Nay, 'tis time I told you what you need to hear, what I should have said after you returned from Teba." His voice was growing weaker. "I saw the pain I put into your eyes at Aros Castle and later by the tree. I followed the MacDougalls here to tell you I was wrong. I'd never considered that your birth had a different meaning than the one I always tried to force upon you. You saw that. I did not — until it was too late." His eyes glittered with tears. "Can you forgive an old fool?"

A single sob filled her, rose, caught in her throat. "I forgive you."

A smile came to his lips as his hand caressed her cheek. His eyelids fluttered closed and his hand fell away. His breath came in labored gasps.

"Nay!" Brianna's heart clenched. He couldn't die. Not when they had just—

Behind her she felt a presence. A slash fell against her left arm. Pain radiated. Instinct moved through her as she switched her sword to her right hand. Pain flared, then stilled as she whipped around, still crouched, and brought her sword up. The enemy fell.

She stood and sheathed her weapon. Ignoring the pain in her arm, she grasped her father's arms and dragged him back toward the open abbey doors. With her heart in her throat, she looked over at Simon to see he and de la Roche still fought. Her heart thundered in her chest as she pulled her father into the abbey.

At the doorway, she reached for the Grail she had tied to her belt and ran to the chapel entrance. She scooped holy water from the stoup near the door, then returned to her father's side. Kneeling beside him, she forced the blessed water past his lips. "Drink, father!" she pleaded. "The Grail can help you."

He swallowed roughly, taking the liquid inside himself.

"More!" she pleaded.

He took another swallow, then another, and his breathing became easier.

"I must leave you here," she whispered near his ear and placed a single kiss on his cheek. She took the final swallow of liquid in the cup to ease the pain in her injured arm then tucked the Grail back into her belt. Removing a dagger from her boot, she slid it into her father's hand. "Just in case," she said a moment before she raced for the door. She had to get back to the battle, and to Simon.

Simon.
She prayed she wasn't too late.

Simon's battle went on. He lunged and parried, cut high, low, silently grateful to the Templars, and all his brothers, for all they had taught him. He would have to bring all his training to bear if he were to prevail against de la Roche and that sword.

The Frenchman's blade arced toward Simon in a disemboweling sweep, the blood grooves on the blade whistling their deadly melody as he dropped back, and let the blade swing through the empty space where his body had just been.

De la Roche was mighty, but Simon was quick. And most of all, de la Roche was arrogant, and too confident. Wielding a mighty sword was not all a warrior needed in battle. Wit and skill could never be taken away. Arrogance, however, could be exploited.

Simon gave a calculated stumble, testing his theory. He watched the arrogance, the certainty of success, flash across de la Roche's face. With it came the opening Simon had been waiting to find. De la Roche's sword swung wide. Simon jumped inside and drove his elbow into the Frenchman's face. With a half turn, the razor edge of his sword laid open de la Roche's arm and slid into his side.

De la Roche was not stopped. His sword flashed again, and slashed Simon's thigh. Simon fell to the ground on both knees.

Joyeuse flashed. The weapon arced upward, as de la Roche prepared to sever his head from his neck.

Simon tried to force all his strength into his good leg, tried to force himself up, but before he could, Brianna appeared beside him. She kicked out with her foot. The bones of de la Roche's knee shattered beneath her heel. The leg bent backward, and the Frenchman screamed with agony as his leg went out from under him. He dropped Joyeuse to the ground. The sword thumped against the earth and rolled an arm's length away.

De la Roche's face was cold — hard as iron. His eyes were burning coals of rage straight from the deepest pits of hell as Brianna took two steps forward and drove her sword deep into his body. He cried out and clutched at the sword, but his hands had no strength left. "No!" de la Roche growled. "This land is mine!"

Simon rolled and came up, ignoring the pain in his thigh. "You will leave Scotland in peace." He gripped his sword, prepared to strike again if the Frenchman so much as moved.

Brianna pulled her sword free and bent to retrieve Joyeuse from the ground. As she bent, the Grail glinted in the orange-red sunset that had fallen over the land.

"The Grail!" de la Roche panted in pain as he fell to the ground. "You must give it to me!"

"The Grail is to be used for good, not evil purposes." Brianna straightened and backed away. "If I gave you the 'water of life,' would you leave this country and stop your revenge against the Templars?"

His eyes narrowed. "If I live, this land will be mine."

"Then you leave us no choice," Simon said, bringing his sword down, severing the man's head from his shoulders. His head rolled two paces from Simon and landed face-down in the dirt.

De la Roche's body slumped, remained still.

Simon released a ragged breath and looked around him. At the sight of their fallen leader, the other Frenchmen turned and fled.

"Follow them back to their boats," Simon called out to Hector MacDougall and his men.

"Consider it done," Hector replied with a bow of his head. The Scotsman kicked his horse into motion and along with several of his men, cleared the battlefield.

Simon ripped a length of fabric from the bottom of his own tunic and tied the cloth tightly about his wounded thigh. De la Roche had knocked him to the ground, but the wound he'd inflicted would not destroy him. He would heal and go on.