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“Dinna let them pass!” yelled William.

Someone pushed the door open, and the skirmish spilled out into the storm-darkened courtyard. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Rain descended in a wet curtain, and the daylight was as gray as dusk. Seeing their loss, the Ross men were picking up the fight and attacking with renewed strength. Outside in the storm, Angus knew it would be a pig shite of a battle.

If the Ross men closed the portcullis, they would seal the Mackenzie group inside the courtyard. Ross archers would obliterate them, shooting from the walls.

If Angus and his men wanted to survive, their best chance was to run, not fight.

“Once ye’re outside, lass,” he said to Rogene, “run to the gates and dinna stop a moment whatever happens, aye?”

They could now descend the stairs as more and more people moved outside.

“I’m not leaving you!”

They pushed away and mixed with the crowd moving towards the door. As they moved, someone slashed at Angus with his knife, and he pierced the man with his dagger. It didna need to come to this, he thought. If only Euphemia didna have the need to spill blood and to own him, body and soul. They had to step over the bodies of the dead and the wounded that lay on the floor, and his stomach felt sick as he thought of how many lives had been lost here today.

Unnecessary.

And then, suddenly, there was more space as most people had made it outside.

“Ross men! Yer mistress lost!” Angus cried. “Stop fighting and let us pass.”

“Dinna let him get away!” growled William, who was in the middle of the crowd but staring at Angus.

A man launched at Angus. Angus hit the warrior right in the nose, and he yelled, clinging to his face as blood rushed down over his mouth.

“She’ll never have me,” Angus growled.

He was shielding Rogene and pushing the Ross men aside. He had to stab, and slash, and hit them, as no one wanted to stop the fight. And then they were through the door and into the cold, wet air. An icy gust threw a handful of rain into his face, and he had to blink. It was like plunging into the loch—sprays of cold water flew right into his eyes. The Mackenzie men were running in the general direction of the gate as it was impossible to see even the walls through this storm, only the shapes.

“Shoot them!” yelled someone. “Shoot them!”

“Whom?” came a call back.

“The damned Mackenzies!”

An arrow flew past Angus and thunked into a black puddle. His feet slurped and mud clung to his shoes as he ran with Rogene’s hand in his.

Then another arrow swooshed past and someone yelled, “Stop shooting! ’Tis me, Maol-Moire!”

“Ah damn, ye’re shooting yer own men!” Angus jeered at the archers.

“Stop shooting!” Maol-Moire cried again. “Close the portcullis!”

Ah, goddamn it.

“Faster!” He tugged Rogene after himself.

They ran, losing their balance and landing in the sludge, but getting up again and continuing.

Finally, there it was, the gate. Another few steps or so… The portcullis was almost down!

“Quick, Rogene, go before me,” he cried as he pulled her by the hand so that she was in front of him. “Roll!”

Just twenty inches or so remained between the sharp metal spikes and the ground. Rogene fell to the muddy earth and rolled under the portcullis. He threw himself to the ground, but as he rolled under the portcullis, it landed on his tunic and pinned him in place. He grabbed the tunic, pulling with all his might. The strong fabric finally tore, and he was free. Rogene grabbed his hand and they ran down the slope. He looked for his clan but couldn’t see anyone.

“We have horses hidden!” Rogene cried to him through the raging storm. They were both soaking wet. “Can horses go through this storm?”

“They have nae choice. Do the rest of the men ken where the horses are?”