by Barbara Bard
Finlay cocked his head. “Are ye alright? Something seems…off with ye, me son.”
Eamon shook his head. “I am merely weary, father. It was a long night.”
Finlay took a beat. “Well…the ride tae the coast will nae take long. Two days at the maist.”
Eamon glanced around. “Where is Gavina? The Bairdsmen?”
“They hae departed already tae find the Hands of God. I bid Gavina yer goodbyes.”
“I am sure she will be victorious in her plight.”
“Aye…as dae I.”
Eamon and Finlay then connected gazes, the two of them exchanging silent words between one another as Agatha waited in the rear with a beating heart and a racing mind. Finlay then grabbed his son and pulled him in close, holding him as tightly as he did the day he was born before saying: “Be wise, me son…dinnae stray from the plan.”
Eamon shut his eyes as he held his father, his guilt over lying to him weighing heavy on his heart. “I love ye, father.”
“And I love ye…”
The two men broke their embrace. Eamon and Agatha then headed towards their steeds, mounting them in sync as Eamon felt his father’s gaze burning into his back like hot coals.
Eamon turned as he straightened himself on his saddle. Finlay’s expression was nothing shy of dismayed as he looked at his son for what he feared would be the last time.
Eamon raised his hand and nodded. “Goodbye, father,” he bid Finlay.
Finlay raised his hand in reply and returned the nod. “Goodbye, me son…”
Eamon bucked his horse and rode with Agatha off into the distance, Finlay watching as they turned into faint outlines before completely disappearing from sight.
An eerie silence settled over the village as Finlay took the long slow walk back to his cottage. Rose was in the kitchen, preparing a meal for Finlay and instantly sensing the dismay in his composure.
“Are ye alright, father?” she inquired.
Finlay said not a word as he sat at the table and folded his hands, closed his eyes, and offered up a prayer to God. Rose waited as he prayed, wringing her fingers, and waiting for her father to speak.
“I fear,” Finlay finally said, “that we hae seen the last of yer brother…”
Tears welled in Rose’s eyes. She sniffled, dabbing her perspiring eyes as she nodded and said: “I fear that as well. I could sense it in him this morning.”
The father and his daughter looked at one another, both of them weeping as Rose came up behind Finlay and hugged him tight.
“I love ye, father,” Rose said. “Mair than ye will ever ken…”
Finlay planted the softest of kisses on Rose’s hand. “And I love ye, me daughter. Mair than ye will ever ken…”
They sat in silence for several minutes, saying nothing and taking comfort in each other’s embrace as their fears for Eamon, the clan, and the safety of all their brothers and sisters in the Highlands reached a high that they had never experienced before.
***
The combined forces of Connor and Sir Ian’s men were gathered at the front gates of the village. Connor, counting all of the numbers, walked up to Sir Ian and gave him the final tally.
Sir Ian smiled. “A formidable force,” he said, his pride seething through his yellow teeth. “We will nae doubt be victorious.”
Connor nodded. “Aye,” he replied. “The Bairds hae naw idea what trouble they are in fer.”
Sir Ian laughed. “We will slaughter them all. It will happen with ease.”
“It is a three-day ride tae their village.”
“And once we arrive? What then?”
Connor shrugged. “We kill them all…”
Sir Ian clapped his hands and then embraced Connor. Connor wrinkled his nose at Sir Ian’s stench, grinding his teeth and wanting nothing more in that moment for the man to stop touching him.
“A glorious fight it shall be!” Sir Ian said. “I maist fetch a drink tae dull me senses afore this ride! Ha! I cannae wait tae see the look on Eamon Baird’s face when I slit his family’s throat in front of him! Ha!” He sauntered off, moving toward the tavern and singing a Highlander hymn of death and destruction as Connor shook his head and huffed.
Connor’s right-hand man, Kelly, cozied up alongside him. “He seems tae be in good spirits.”
Connor spit on the ground. “Fat bastard,” he said, lowering his tone. “I can barely stand the sight of him.”
“We made oot well. We will be richer and mair prosperous at the end of this.”
Connor began to sport a sly grin.
“What?” Kelly said, laughing. “What are ye nae telling me?”
Connor pulled Kelly to the side, whispering and making sure they were far from Sir Ian or his men. “This bastard Ian does nae deserve what he has.”
“Which is why you insist on taking half of his riches.”
“It is nae enough.”
“What dae ye mean?”
Connor took a beat. “We will follow through with his intent tae kill the Bairds. But once it is done…we shall kill Sir Ian and all his men as well.”
Kelly’s eyes were wide. “Are ye mad?”
Connor laughed. “These poor bastards he rides with could nae gae toe-tae-toe with us on their best day. Think aboot it, Kelly—after we take possession of the Baird’s village and resources as well as Sir Ian’s…” His smile grew ear-to-ear. “We will be the richest and most prosperous clan in all of the Highlands. We will be kings. Gods. Tell me that is nae a tempting notion.”
Kelly could not help but think of the prospect of becoming one of the wealthiest men in all of the Highlands. The riches, resources—and women—that he would possess would be countless. It made his pensive expression grow into an elated grin. “Aye,” he said. “A very tempting notion indeed.”
Connor slapped him on the shoulder. “So…ye are in?”
Kelly took one last moment to think about it, and with a laugh, he said: “Tell me what the plan shall be…”
Chapter 17
Sir George was living the last few days of his life, consumed by an illness that had him hacking and wheezing at every given turn. He was an old man, older than he had ever thought he would live, and seated on the throne of his castle overlooking a forest in the Scottish Highlands, he wondered if today would be the day that he would finally succumb to the sickness that had been eating him alive for what seemed like an eternity.
His servant entered the room, bowing his head sheepishly before asking: “Is there anything I can fetch you, my lord?”
Sir George shook his head. Coughed. Covered it with the back of his sleeve. “No, my good man…I am fine…”
The servant bowed again. “As you wish, my lor—”
A woman’s scream echoed through the chambers and caused both men to shudder. Sir George thought for the briefest of moments that he was experiencing a heart attack. He stood, his withered frame shaking from the effort as he said: “What in God’s name was that?”
The servant, without replying, hustled toward the door leading into the chambers and threw it open—that was the moment he was impaled by a broadsword straight through his chest cavity, piercing his heart and killing him where he stood.
He fell, Sir George collapsing back into his throne as more cries of death began to ring out throughout the castle. The man who had pierced the servant’s heart entered the room with six other men, all of them clad in gray tunics with a red flaming cross sported across the front.
Sir George knew immediately who they were, and shuddered with fear when the leader, a man by the name of Simon, slowly sauntered in and stood a few feet away from the throne.
No one said a word. Nothing but the clanking of metal outside the chambers and the sounds of murder filled the air.
Simon turned to his men, nodded, and said: “Proceed with the purging. I will speak to Sir George myself.”
The Hands of God left the room, the man who had killed the servant wiping the blood from his blade as he stepp
ed over the servant’s body and led the charge.
Simon took two steps forward toward the throne, Sir George, though he sat with a placid expression, felt a wave of fear overcoming his senses like the rush of a harsh incoming tide.
“Sir George,” Simon said, bowing, though doing it in a patronizing manner.
Sir George drew a breath. “Sir Simon…I thought you had perished.”
Simon shook his head. “I no longer go by that name…the name that you gave me.”
Sir George closed his eyes. “I always knew this day would come.”
“Then you should have left the Highlands.”
Sir George pressed his palm against his chest. “The journey would have killed me. I am on death’s doorstep already. I suffer, Simon. More than you could ever know.”
Simon shook his head. Took another step forward. “You know nothing of suffering…” A beat. “Just kill me, my good man. Make it swift.”
Simon shook his head. “You do not deserve such a pleasant departure from this world. Not after all of the sins you have committed.”
Sir George pointed a bony and weathered finger in Simon’s direction. “You were my finest warrior. I taught you all you know. Your loyalty was unmatched by any other English knight in these lands. I gave you everything—food, shelter, an army. And this is how you repay me.”
Simon turned his head up, his eyes wide and manic. “You truly believe,” he said, “that you did me right? You sit there on your throne built on the bloodshed I partook in and dare claim to me that you are a saint?”
“I never said such a thing.”
Simon took another step forward, now just a few feet away from Sir George as more cries of terror and panic rang out throughout the castle. “Do you know,” he said, “what my loyalty to you cost me?”
“I do.”
Simon gritted his teeth. “You…know…nothing. You know nothing of the pain I experienced, the heartache I have had to live with for what feels like an eternity. I lost my wife. I lost my child, and it was all due to your incompetence to provide me with the resources necessary to properly execute the campaign you set me on.”
Sir George leaned in; his eyes squinted. “Is that what this is about? Vengeance? Is that what this crusade is your masquerading as a holy war? Revenge?”
“It is not about revenge.”
“It is. Do not lie to me. I know of what you and those ruffians you lead have done. You are murderers pretending to be men of God. You lie to yourself and them that this war you have waged is done in an attempt to honor a higher power, but it is nothing more than you spreading your hurt and petulance throughout these lands when all is said and done…You hurt, Simon. You grieve. I can see it in your eyes. But you lie to yourself and misguide the motivations of you and your men to justify embarking on nothing more than countless and unnecessary bloodshed…”
Simon took a moment to heed the words—and then he smiled, walking up the steps leading to Sir George’s throne and standing toe-to-toe with him. He looked down, leering at Sir George with the most intense of gazes. “Men like me,” he said, “were created and forged because of the acts of men like you. You made me what I am. You allowed all I cared for to be taken away and destroyed right in front of me.
“No, Sir George. This is not an act of vengeance. I have learned through my years that humankind, especially in these lands, is a disease. Nothing more. And the only true way to find peace, the only method in with to create a lasting harmony is to scorch the earth and wipe it clean so that it may start anew.”
Sir George was seething. “A fool’s errand,” he said. “The words you speak are nothing more than one’s coming from the berth of a madmen.” He sat back in his throne and settled in, the cries around the castle now dying down. “So…do what you will. Take my life. It will not bring you any peace. It will merely offer you nothing more than more sorrow and pain…”
Simon said nothing as he stared at Sir George, and for the briefest of moments—very brief—he pondered the notion that Sir George may have been correct.
The door opened to the chambers, two of Simon’s men entering with a casual grace, one of them sporting a lit torch in his hand. “It is finished,” he said. “The village is purged.”
Simon nodded. Waited. Then he walked away from the throne, descended the steps, and took the torch from his man. “You do not deserve the blade,” Simon said to Sir George. “That I will not give you. You will burn in this castle. You will burn along with everything you have built.”
Sir George, scared but accepting of his fate, nodded. “So be it…” he said as he closed his eyes.
Simon then began to light the banners, furniture, and drapes around the room, the fire quickly spreading and roaring with the resounded manner of an animal as he looked at Sir George one last time and said: “Burn in hell, you bastard…”
Simon then tossed down the torch and left the chambers, his men following suit as the fire raged and consumed everything in its path. It inched its way towards Sir George’s throne, the heat causing the old man to perspire as he was slowly and surely consumed by the fire and burned alive along with every inch of the castle.
***
Agatha and Eamon had arrived at a village a half-day from their own. They entered the tavern sporting rooms to let, eager to rest their heads for the night and chart their route to their salvation in the Highlands.
The tavern was packed with Scotsman, all of them drinking and talking with chipper timbres as Agatha and Eamon strolled up to the bar.
“Whiskey,” Eamon said.
The innkeeper nodded and fetched them both a drink, Eamon and Agatha then meandering over to a table next to a pair of men who were talking about women in a crass fashion at a loud volume.
“We stay here for the night?” Agatha said.
Eamon nodded. “Aye. We’ll plan our journey fer the morrow after we get some rest. I did nae think I would be as exhausted as I am.”
Agatha placed her hand on top of Eamon’s. “A lot has happened. It takes a toll on the mind…”
One of the men at the table next to him, sporting greasy curled hair and a shaggy beard, said: “Ye should take one another tae bed! That will take yer mind off things!” He cackled, the man with him following suit.
Eamon huffed, not in the mood to indulge the man. “The man we are going tae see,” he said to Agatha, “will naw doubt except us in. He is a frien of me family—”
“Will he mind the sounds of yer youthful lovemaking?” the greasy-haired man said with another cackle.
Eamon, his face red, turned and faced the man. “Quiet yerself. The drink is influencing yer tongue mair than necessary.”
The greasy man shrugged. Then he nodded to Agatha. “Perhaps she would like tae see what I can do with me tongue…”
Eamon curled his fingers into a fist. Agatha rest her palm on top of his hand to try and calm him down as the man and his friend continued to laugh at their crass language.
“That is enough,” Eamon said to the man. “I will nae here anymore of this talk.”
The greasy man pointed to Agatha. “Oye…dae ye really want tae be with a man who will nae stand up fer ye? He should hae hit me the moment I spoke of using me tongue on ye.”
“Enough,” Eamon seethed.
The greasy man stood. “Naw! Naw! She should nae be with ye. Ye are a fool! She should be with a real man.” He leaned in toward Agatha. “Tell me, love…what are ye like between the sheets?”
Eamon could stand the talk no further. He stood up from the table, balled up a fist, and struck the man down, knocking him out cold as his head made contact with the table.
The greasy man’s friend stepped in, raising his fist and preparing to strike—but Eamon quickly kicked him in the groin and caused the man to double over. Eamon then grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, cocked his knee, and planted it in the man’s nose, breaking it instantly.
The innkeeper pointed, his voice raised as all the conversations in the room
ceased. “Ye!” he yelled at Eamon. “Get oot of here! The both of ye! I dinnae want tae see ye here again!”
Eamon, nodding and grabbing Agatha by the hand, rounded the table and left the tavern.
“We maist gae,” he said as they made their way to their horses. “This was a mistake coming here. This town is full of drunks and bastards.”
They began to mount their horses, Agatha perturbed at witnessing Eamon display such an act of violence.
“We will gae tae the next town,” Eamon said as they began to ride. “It will be safer there.”
All Agatha could think to do was nod as they rode. They rode in silence for the entirety of the journey, both of them unable to help but think, based on the first encounter they had once they left their village, that their decision to go against Finlay’s order was proving to be the direst of mistakes.
