by Barbara Bard
A tension-laced silence settled over the table. All eyes were on Eamon, eagerly anticipating his answer.
“A difficult question to answer,” Eamon said. “What we ken of the Hands of God are mostly rumors.”
“All of them true,” Lord Ian said. “If I recall correctly, the McManus clan has seen them in the flesh.”
Eamon furrowed his brow. “The McManus clan?”
“Aye. Dae ye ken of them?”
Eamon nodded. “Me clan has an alliance with them.”
“I would suggest speaking with them,” Lord Ian said. “They might possess knowledge that can assist ye in yer mission.” He turned and looked at Agatha. “Agatha! Fetch us some more wine. And be quick, though I ken it is a task fer ye.”
Eamon huffed and caught eyes with Agatha. She smiled at Sir Ian and nodded before saying: “Right away, my lord.”
Eamon couldn’t help himself once he saw the dismay on Agatha’s face. “How did she manage tae become a maid fer ye?” he asked Sir Ian.
Sir Ian huffed. “Ha! She was gifted tae me by a Sassenach knight. It appears that she spurned his proposal, so he banished her from his stead and gifted her tae me. Quite a pain she has been, I maist say.”
Eamon clenched his fist, irked by Sir Ian’s words that Agatha could no doubt hear from the next room. “She appears tae hae served ye well.”
Sir Ian waved a hand—but Eamon caught a ravenous glimmer in his eyes before he spoke. “She is adequate. I might just dispose of her once she has outlived her purpose.”
Eamon furrowed his brow. “What dae ye mean?”
“There is a shelf life with women, me frien. All men ken this. Once they hae reached a certain age, they naw longer become of use. Like monkeys they tend tae be. Swinging from one tree tae the next until they lose their strength and fall tae the ground.”
Eamon could not help but shake his head at Sir Ian’s callous words over a woman who so clearly was stuck in a situation she could not control. He wanted to confront Sir Ian, but he knew he had to do it in a way without being direct.
“Tell me,” Eamon said to Sir Ian. “How is yer health, Sir Ian?”
Sir Ian, through mouthfuls of food, squinted. “What dae ye ken?”
“Well, I just think of me father, Finlay. He was a fine warrior. But the years and battles took a toll on his mind and body. He is naw the man he once was.”
“Aye. I concur. The same has happened tae me.”
Eamon shook his head, held up a finger, and leaned forward. “Aye, I understand. But even though me father is naw the man he once was, he still…well, how should I put it, manages tae keep himself in significant shape despite his age…I am just wondering why the same has nae worked fer ye…?”
Smiles and laughter were stifled as Eamon made it a point to glance at Sir Ian’s gut. Sir Ian felt the dig and did his best to pretend that it did not affect him.
“Aye,” Sir Ian said, waving his hand. “I inherited me large frame from me father.”
“And perhaps,” Eamon said patronizingly, “too much ale and raw meats assisted in yer current state.” He laughed, pretending it was a joke though all at the table knew that it was not.
Sir Ian turned a shade of red. The other Bairdsmen tried not to laugh. Agatha, sensing Eamon standing up for her as she lingered in the kitchen, turned away and smiled.
“I sense,” Sir Ian said, placing down his utensils, “that ye are insulting me, Eamon Baird.”
Eamon waved his hand. “Naw, I am nae. I am just merely jesting ye, Sir Ian. Ye are a fine man. Ye treat those around ye well.”
Sir Ian could sense another jab being taken at him, but instead of engaging Eamon, he polished off the last of his plate and stood up. “I believe I am full,” he said. “I am going tae retire tae the tavern fer one last drink. Agatha—put a cork in the wine. I believe our guests hae had enough.” He stepped away from the table as Agatha and Eamon connected gazes—intense and filled with appreciation.
“I think I shall see this tavern,” one of the Bairdsmen said, standing. “Sounds like a proper way tae end the night.”
Several Bairdsmen joined him as Eamon moved toward Agatha. She looked up at Eamon, drew a breath, and said: “Is there anything I can assist you with, my lord?”
Eamon nodded. “Aye—I would very much like it if ye took a walk with me.”
Agatha smiled. “Yes…Yes, that sounds delightful.”
***
Eamon and Agatha walked with a little bit of distance between them as they went through the village. Eamon could not help but notice how peaceful everything amongst the villagers felt. It was a stark contrast between the atmosphere he felt back at home. “It seems,” he said to Agatha, “that yer village has nae seen war in quite some time.”
Agatha nodded. “Yes. Sir Ian has forged many alliances with other clans and the Sassenach. He established certain rules of trade that maintains the peace.”
Agatha huffed. “Are you married, Eamon Baird?”
Eamon smiled. “Naw, ma’am. I am nae.”
She smiled. “A gentleman of your looks and personality? I find that hard to believe.”
Eamon felt his memories creeping back into the front of his mind. It was hard to suppress them, but he always tried to press them as deep down as he could. He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out.
“Something troubles you,” Agatha said.
Eamon shrugged. “I think tae much.”
“We all do. It is the curse of being alive.”
Eamon laughed. “I think of the young ones in me clan.”
“How do you mean?”
“About their innocence. I reminisce of the days where I was like them when nothing troubled me. When all I worried about was when I could play, and eat, and enjoy the simple pleasures that life brings aboot. Being an adult is…” He couldn’t find the words.
“Cumbersome,” Agatha added.
Eamon smiled. “Aye. Cumbersome is the proper word.”
They passed the village tavern on their left, alive with the laughter, and singing, and clinking of glasses as the Bairdsmen and several of the locals drank their worries away.
“Do you want a drink?” Agatha inquired.
Eamon shook his head. “Naw…I am finding the pleasure of yer company a suitable enough vice.”
Agatha stopped, crossing her arms as a playful smile stretched across her face. “Oh,” she said with a hint of sarcasm, “so I am a vice now?”
Eamon wagged his finger. “Ye ken what I mean.”
She smirked. “I do…yes…”
The two of them locked eyes, their gaze unflinching as they stared deeply into each other’s eyes
“We have the same eye color,” Agatha noted. “We both have hazel eyes.”
Eamon moved in closer. “Aye…I noticed that as well…though yers are much mair beautiful.”
Agatha waved him off. “Ye flatter me.”
He stepped in closer, their noses within inches of touching. “I mean every word.”
Both of them felt that proverbial fire burning inside of them, the longing for one human being to feel the comfort and touch of another. Neither of them was the type to willingly lay with someone without feeling the connection of hearts and minds—and in that moment, they did.
Agatha nodded over Eamon’s shoulder. “Sir Ian,” she said, “will most likely be there for a good while. I don’t imagine he will return home soon.”
Eamon laughed, feeling the inevitable about to pass. “So, if we were to return noo,” he said, “we would nae be disturbed.”
Agatha slowly reached out and rested her palm on Eamon’s chest. “We would not. No.”
Neither of them said anything for a good while.
Five minutes later—they were back in Sir Ian’s domicile and inside Agatha’s room as she locked the door behind them.
***
Eamon and Agatha began kissing, slowly at first, but picking up quickly in rhythm as the excitement of two individuals explo
ring the other’s body overcame them.
Agatha then began reaching down toward Eamon’s waist and removing his belt. As Agatha began pulling off Eamon’s lower garb, Eamon slowly pulled down her blouse and began kissing her neckline, the sweet aroma that she emitted intoxicating him more than any ale or liquor he had consumed in his life.
And then Eamon stopped, thoughts of his late wife flooding his mind. He felt as if he was betraying her, as if he was somehow tainting her memory.
“Stop,” Eamon said.
Agatha held her hands up in surrender, her eyes wide as she backed away a few inches from his face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I do something wrong.”
Eamon turned away, his heart racing, angered at himself but knowing that he was simply intoxicated by the woman in front of him. He couldn’t help himself—but he was still angered nonetheless.
“I cannae,” Eamon said. “I cannae dae this.”
“I want this,” Agatha said. “I do.”
Eamon nodded. “Aye. As dae I…but I simply cannae…it is…it is hard tae explain.”
They waited in silence for several moments, Agatha feeling awkward as Eamon’s breathing filled the air around them. “Is it me?” she asked. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Eamon shook his head. “Naw. Quite the opposite. I just…” He looked into her eyes. “It is hard tae explain.”
She breathed. “Should I go?”
Eamon slowly reached over and rested his hands on top of hers. “Naw. Stay with me. Let us…lay here for a while. Is that alright?”
Agatha nodded, nuzzling up to Eamon and holding him tight. She could feel his heart racing within his chest, his internal conflict boiling over inside of him. There was clearly turmoil brewing inside of him. There was an edge to Eamon that Agatha could not quite put her finger on—but she trusted him, and was undoubtedly starting to feel something for him. She could sense his pain, his dismay, and wished that she could do something to alleviate it for him as they held each other and slowly drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 6
Far away from the chamber that Agatha and Eamon were currently sharing, Simon and the members of the Hands of God were perched on a hill overlooking a small Highland clan. It was a small group of people, about forty in total, set up in a temporary encampment nestled in the middle of a ravine. It was surrounded on all sides by steep inclines that their leader felt would properly conceal them from view or any kind of incoming attack—but he was sorely mistaken.
Simon breathed slow, counting the numbers of the men, women, and children in the clan as they gathered around a campfire and set about stretching and yawning and moving toward their tents.
Simon turned to one of his men. “They are about to settle for the night. We shall wait until they are in a slumber.”
The man nodded. “What of the women?”
Simon shook his head. “God has spoken to me. He said that all must perish.”
The man flexed his brow. “And the children?”
Simon slowly turned and looked at his man. “All must perish.”
The man knew not to question the word of Simon—the proxy of God—and nodded. “Yes, Simon. I understand.”
The Hands of God waited for an hour for the Highlanders to fall into slumber. Night settled over the camp, and the fire that was once roaring in the center of the camp was doused out by one of the women before she retreated into a tent to join her family.
“Simon,” one of the Hands of God whispered, “they have two guards posted up on either side.”
Simon squinted to get a better look and saw two men, both of them weary and nodding off, standing guard on either side of the village. “Go,” he whispered to the man. “Take someone with you. Dispatch them. Send us the signal when you have finished.”
The man nodded, recruited one of his fellow Hands of God, and slowly descended into the camp with no sounds being made.
The two guards standing watch in the camp from fifty yards apart kept watchful eyes on their surroundings. The one on the right at one point heard the hoot of an owl not far off in the distance. He turned his head to get a better look, and as he squinted to find the source of the noise—his world went suddenly black. The guard would never know before he passed into the unknown that a member of the Hands of God had quickly and painlessly buried a dagger into the back of his neck, killing him instantly.
The guard on the left heard the noise and turned to look—but another one of the Hands of God dispatched of him with the same move and with the same speed. With both of the guards now dead, the two assassins then held a lit torch to signal Simon and the others that the time had come to attack.
Ascending on the village with not a sound being made, Simon and the Hands of God slipped into the camp like a river of gray and red. Only the sounds of nighttime animals could be heard as they broke off into twos, each pair of men standing in a crouch outside the tents and waiting for Simon to give the order.
Simon waited, taking a quick glance around to make sure that no prying eyes were watching, and no stragglers were wandering around the camp. Drawing a deep breath, Simon removed a curved dagger with a bible scripture forged into the steel, nodded, and ordered his men to attack.
It was swift. Without noise. None of the Highlanders in the village knew what had happened. Several awoke from their slumber upon feeling the intrusion of someone in their tent, but they were quickly dispatched with swift slices of blades and daggers that cut through them with precision and ease. All forty of the villagers—men, women, and children—were murdered silently in the night…save for one man—the leader of the clan.
Simon made it a point to pinpoint the man during their surveying of the encampment, and once all the members of the clan were disposed of, Simon ordered the leader to be brought before him.
The leader, a ginger-haired gentleman, was thrown onto his knees as he took a look around at the dead members of his clan. The shock was so potent that he couldn’t mutter a word, and nothing but tears streamed down his face as Simon stood before him.
Flanked on all sides by the Hands of God, Simon surveyed the damage as his men wiped the blood from their weapons and stood at attention.
The leader of the clan looked up at Simon with nothing but sheer terror in his eyes, shaking all the way to his bones as he held up his hands pleadingly and said: “Mercy…please…show mercy…”
Simon got down on one knee, face-to-face now with the clan leader. He rested his palm gently against the leader’s cheek, shaking his head and offering up the subtlest of wry smiles. “This is mercy,” Simon said. “We are here to purge you and your countrymen from the lives you lead. The time of the Highlanders and the Sassenach have come to an end. My friend…this is mercy at its finest.”
The leader cried, shaking uncontrollably as Simon once more took his dagger out of his sheath. “I offer you the chance to repent,” Simon said. “Confess your sins to God. Join us. I will spare you your life if you do.”
The leader weighed his options carefully, once more looking around at the dead members of his clan as he made his decision. Eventually, he relented, nodding his head and saying to Simon: “I repent. Please. Spare me. Spare me life!”
Simon looked into the leader’s eyes deeply, examining his words with the utmost scrutiny. He then sighed, shaking his head as he raised his dagger and said: “Your words are not true. You do not seek salvation…you seek only to spare your life.”
The leader raised his hands in protest. “Please! Naw!”
Simon shook his head. “May God be with you, my friend,” he bid the leader before he brought down the dagger in a swift and ruthless scythe.
***
Finlay somewhat hobbled on his cane as he left his domicile. He could not sleep. It had felt like days since he felt any sort of rest of reprieve.
He sighed, moving away from the front of his house and toward a small pasture surrounded by knee-high fencing and peppered with flowers of all variations. Inside this pasture w
ere the graves of the fallen members of the Baird clan, and resting at the head of it with a wooden cross situated tall and proud was the grave of his wife—Isla.
Finlay always took a look out the window in the home he and his wife once shared every morning at the cross. He missed her, more than he knew or could even admit. It felt as if a piece of him had died the day she passed, and moments like these—visiting her at her final resting place—helped as much as it hurt.
Grunting as he exerted all the energy he had, Finlay approached Isla’s grave and got down on one knee. He smiled, resting his palm flat on the earth and closing his eyes. He imagined Isla standing right beside him, as gorgeous and as fearless as the day they first met.
