Greta cowered between the pews, her heart in her mouth, while the two raiders ransacked the church. However, when they went into the vestry, she peeped above the pews to see if the coast was clear before she stood up and tiptoed out of the church.
She accidentally bumped her shoe against one of the kneelers, causing a slight clunking sound that echoed through the building. She tensed for a moment and crouched down again, expecting to be challenged by one of the robbers, but nothing happened, and she made her way out as quickly and quietly as she could.
When she emerged into the daylight she saw a scene of utter chaos. She watched as the rest of the bandits, yelling and screaming at the tops of their voices, galloped into the main street and cut a swathe down the middle of it, scattering everything in their path.
The low wall of the well, which supplied water for the whole village, had been broken down, and stones were scattered all over the muddy ground. A flock of sheep had been set loose and were running all over the main street, bleating in panic as they encountered the noise and chaos around them. However, that was not the worst of it.
Littered around them were the bodies of perhaps twenty people, both men and women. Some were moving and attempting to crawl away, some were alive but bleeding and moaning, and a few were quite obviously dead. Greta felt rage surge into her body as she gazed at the familiar faces of people she had known and respected her entire life, who had been cut down in their prime. However, there were a few unfamiliar bodies, and as she realized that they were bandits, she felt a surge of unholy triumph.
But how could people behave like this toward their fellow creatures? She would not have treated a cat or a dog like this.
Suddenly she saw a little boy of perhaps five years old running into the street toward the baker’s wife, who was trying to crawl away toward the safety of the bakery doorway. “Mammy! Mammy!” he cried, tears pouring down his face.
Greta rushed over and grabbed the little boy around the waist, then set him down just in front of his home. “Stay there!” she ordered sternly. She hurried over to where Innes MacDonald was trying to make her way to safety. She had a great bruise on her forehead and was bleeding from a long wound on her arm.
Greta reached out to help her, then dragged her backward out of the way of the mêlée in the street. “Try an’ get her inside,” she told the little boy, but just then, his grandmother came out, helped Innes to her feet, and drew her inside, shooting Greta a grateful look.
Greta saw a large pitchfork, which was used to strew hay in the stables, standing by the wall and grabbed it, then advanced into the chaos. Strangely, at that moment she knew no fear, only a raging fury at the needless destruction of lives and property she saw all around her.
Suddenly she saw another child, a little girl this time, trying to run into the street to get to one of the fallen bodies. A glancing blow from a horse’s hoof knocked her down, but she was determined to reach her father. However, as she stood up, Greta saw another horse coming toward her, and she placed herself between the child and the horse, holding up the pitchfork.
The horse reared up, and Greta stabbed the tines of the pitchfork upward, hoping to do it some damage, although truthfully she would rather have injured the rider. By some miracle the horse dodged the direct thrust, although one of the tines scraped its foreleg, causing a long deep cut, and it whinnied in pain.
“Go!” Greta shouted to the little girl. When she hesitated, Greta screamed, “Go! Get inside, lassie!”
The little girl scurried to obey while Greta stood her ground as the injured animal pranced in front of her, neighing shrilly. Greta looked fearfully at the rider, whom she recognized as the vicious-looking man from the church. She was determined not to look afraid, however, and she was definitely not going to run. Even if the bandit killed her, she would go down fighting for herself and those she loved, and if she could, she would kill him too.
She was terrified, but she pasted a fierce frown on her face and jabbed the pitchfork toward the horse again, making it swerve sideways and collide with the stone wall of the bakery. Greta hated cruelty of any kind, but she was acting in self-defense. It was kill or injure, or be cut down by these savages, and some animal instinct had been awakened within her which was showing her how to survive.
The tall man with the dark blue eyes had been thrown onto the ground and grazed his arm, and now he looked as dangerous as a wounded bear. He advanced toward her, his eyes almost black with rage. “That was my favorite horse!” he yelled. “Look what ye have done to him!”
Greta gazed at the stricken animal for a moment, and seeing the long, deep cut on its leg and the dazed look in its eyes, she felt ashamed. It had only been doing its master’s bidding and had no idea of the damage it had caused. However, although it was dazed and bleeding, it was struggling to its feet and fortunately did not seem to be seriously injured. Even so, Greta felt guilty.
Greta advanced toward the man with the tines of the heavy implement aiming straight at his heart. “Aye, well, I am sorry for yer horse.” Her voice was gritty and furious. “But I am more sorry that I missed my real target—ye!” She almost spat the last word out.
The man advanced toward her, and she began to jab the big farm tool at him once more, but he was laughing, and as he backed her down the street, he took out his sword and waved it at her. The movement was not threatening in the least, however. He was toying with her and enjoying himself at her expense, but he could easily change his mind at any moment and become violent. The sword was not covered in blood, but Greta knew that if she got in his way, or he became impatient, the man could either impale her on it or slice her in half with it.
Briefly, she thought of giving up, then she looked at the sword again and saw that its edge was lethally sharp and gleamed in the daylight. Then she thought of something else. Perhaps she could engage him in conversation to allow the villagers to escape. There were other raiders, of course, but he was the leader, the man who held them together.
“Ye know that we have nothin’ worth stealin’ here,” she stated, fixing her eyes on his.
“Ye have a few nice trinkets in the church,” he said airily, shrugging. Then he grinned. “An’ I might just take ye. A pretty lass like ye would lift the men’s spirits tae nay end.”
Greta felt a surge of terror go through her, but she kept her face impassive by an enormous effort of will. “Aye, well, ye could do that, an’ I would no’ be able tae stop ye, but I am not as quiet an’ nice as ye think. Have a care.”
“An’ is that supposed tae frighten me?” he asked, his eyes glinting with amusement. As he looked at her, he knew that she was too feeble to put up much of a defense, but she certainly had the spirit of a warrior.
Greta’s plan seemed to be working. As she watched, she saw that the villagers were collecting themselves and arming themselves with more farm implements. Spades, hoes, more forks, and axes, amongst others, were being wielded by the strongest of the men, sometimes with lethal results. Had she been able to watch from a distance, she would have seen some of the bandits being knocked from their horses and brutally thrashed and a few of them beaten to death. The villagers of Shieldaig were not giving in without a fight.
Nonetheless, Greta had no time to watch them as she was far too busy fighting for her own life. The tall bandit was grinning at her now, but it was not a smile of pleasure or admiration. He was still taunting her, playing with her, for he knew that he could have disarmed her at a moment’s notice and cut her in two without any effort at all. Greta had no doubt that he was only waiting for the right moment.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Greta saw one of the children standing by the stables across the street being narrowly missed by a plunging horse and a swinging ax wielded by one of the villagers. He looked too scared to move. She felt a flash of irritation as she wondered why they had not stayed in the church as she had instructed them to. She began to move in the child’s direction, trying to dodge horses, villagers, and bandits alike in her attempt to reach him.
“Ye cannae save him,” the man said, smiling at her with his evil leer. “Don’t waste yer time, hen.”
“Are ye such a coward ye would do away wi’ an innocent child instead of fightin’ wi’ me?” Greta yelled furiously.
“Me? A coward? Ye will be sorry ye said that, hen!” The man gritted his teeth and charged at her, but she stepped out of his way, and he skidded to a halt a few yards further on, growling in frustration.