A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “Your father, yes, you are the daughter of the Laird. Come on now, tell us your name,” Howard said, still holding her in an iron grip, as the others laughed.

  Isla remained silent, but she knew that any pretense at deception would be foolish. They had captured her, and by the sounds of the battle, it was the English who would be victorious that day, the Scots defeated and already in retreat.

  “Well, well, well, what a splendid prize,” Sir Percy said, “and look, my dear, your father’s forces are quite decimated.”

  Howard pulled Isla to her feet and turned her back towards the battlefield, holding her tightly and forcing her to watch. From their vantage point, they commanded a view of the whole scene, and the English were routing the Scots, forcing them back over the border. Her father’s men were fleeing, and in the distance, she could see him, still sitting on his horse, his hand clasped to his leg as though in great pain.

  In the moonlight, it was hard to make out any of the others, but there was no doubt that victory had been won by the English, and a cheer went up over the battlefield as the Scots fled before them. Isla watched in sorrow as her father and his men disappeared, and Sir Percy raised his sword in victory, the cowards having not lifted a finger in the fight.

  “A great victory for us. It will not be long before these lands are under the king’s banner, but now we return to Musgrave Castle. I am interested to learn more about our prize,” Sir Percy said to his son, who pulled Isla roughly to himself and ordered that she be bound.

  “We should leave a garrison here to guard the road, lest the Laird seek to reclaim his prize,” Howard said, and his father nodded.

  “Yes, see to it that a goodly number remain. I want to be ready for anything. These Scots are a dastardly bunch, and when they realize she is gone, they will want her back,” Sir Percy said, smirking at Isla who met his gaze with a disdainful look. “Well, my dear, if you will go riding out across the battlefield with no idea in your pretty little head of how to comport yourself, then it is no wonder you fall into the wrong hands,” and he and the others laughed.

  Isla was now led to a horse by Howard and flung over the saddle, she aimed a well-placed kick to his jaw, causing him to smart and recoil.

  “Little wench, nasty little wench,” he growled, ordering her feet to be bound, as well as her hands.

  Thus, Isla was taken back to the castle of the Musgraves. Slung across the saddle of the horse and with no chance of escape. She struggled at first, but the soldiers merely taunted her and flung fresh insults upon her father and the clansmen. As dawn began to break, they crossed the border, the first light giving view to the castle beyond.

  Isla had never been this far south, and only once had she crossed the border, on that fateful day when first she had encountered Howard Musgrave. Now he held her prisoner, and there was little or nothing she could do about it. But she knew her father, as cross as he would be with her, would never allow the English to hold her, and with that thought in mind, she found a little hope, amidst the darkness of her present situation.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Isla blinked and rolled over, her body ached all over, and her head was hurting, as she struggled to sit up. Light was pouring in through a small window above her, and she lay on a ratty blanket on the bare boards of an attic room.

  It took a moment for her to remember where she was, the events of the night before seeming like a lifetime ago, as she recalled what had happened. She must have lost consciousness on the way back to Musgrave castle, for she could remember nothing of how she had come to be in the room or how long she had lain there.

  Was it the night before when all this had happened? Or had she slept for a day. Was it morning? Noon? She shook her head and rubbed her eyes again, the bright light causing her to turn away and shield her eyes.

  “Where am I?” she moaned, struggling to her feet.

  With her senses somewhat regained, she began to look around her. The room was poorly furnished, indeed hardly furnished at all. Apart from the blankets, there was a broken old table and chair, a chamber pot of sorts and a mirror, into which she now gazed, startled by the reflection of the woman who looked back.

  Her face was bruised, and she had a nasty looking cut to her forehead, her hair was matted, as though it had caught on brambles or thorns as they had ridden back to the castle. She stretched her arms up and winced at the aching pain that rushed through her body.

  “I should be dead,” she said, and she crossed to the little window and stood on tiptoes to look out.

  “Whatever the precise time was, it was daytime, and she could see across the borderlands towards Scotland beyond. From the position of the window, it seemed clear that she was at the top of the castle, and there was no chance of escape by that route, the roof shearing down from her vantage point. She rattled feebly at the frame, and it gave way, a blast of cold air rushing in, for despite the sun, it was a chilly day.

  She pulled the window to and crossed over to the door, which, of course, was locked. She rattled the handle and banged hard on the wood. But the only answer which came was the echoing of the banging along some far distant corridor, and she could only assume that she had been put far out of hearing by anyone.

  “Hello,” she cried, “anyone?”

  “Hello, anyone,” came the echo, and she banged her fists upon the door in exasperation, a tear running down her cheek.

  How foolish she had been, and this time it had cost her dearly. Why had she not just heeded her father’s words and remained at home? She would have been safe. Sir Percy had not carried out his threatened attack on the castle, satisfied it seemed at defeating the Scots on their own soil, but she had ignored her father, ignored the clansmen, and believed she was right.

  Now she was a prisoner, and what would happen to her now was anyone’s guess. She sat back down upon the blankets and brought her knees up to her chin, sobbing quietly as she wondered what to do next. Her father would try and rescue her, she knew that for certain, but would that just end in more bloodshed? It seemed certain, and what would Howard Musgrave and his father do with her? Would they demand a ransom or keep her here forever as their prize?.

  “Fool,” she said, “ye are nothin’ but a fool.”

  But as she said these words, she heard footsteps coming along the corridor, two distinct steps. One was heavy, as though the bearer was wearing boots, and the other light, like those of a woman. The floorboards creaked, and the footsteps paused outside the door. Isla scrambled up, ready to defend herself against whoever should be on the other side of the door.

  A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. But it was not Howard Musgrave who stood there, nor his father, but an older woman, bearing a tray of food and behind her a burly soldier, his hand upon his sword hilt, lest there be any trouble from the prisoner.

  “Hello there, dear, I’ve brought ye some food,” the woman said, smiling at Isla, who looked confused.

  “Ye are … ye are Scottish?” Isla said as the woman set down the tray before her.

  “Aye, my name is Lena, and ye must be Isla. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet ye. Sir Percy has tasked me with lookin’ after ye, and I shall dae my best to make ye comfortable. I am sorry for the accommodation into which ye have been placed. I shall try to bring ye some more blankets, perhaps a cushion on which to rest yer head,” the woman said, smiling again.

  “But … why? Why are ye here? Are ye a servant in this place?” Isla asked, taking a piece of bread and cheese, for she was ravenously hungry.

  “Aye, and perhaps in time, I shall explain a little more to ye. For now, though, ye must get some rest. I can clean yer wounds for ye too, now ye are awake. Poor lass, ye were in no state for that last night, the wicked way they treated ye,” she said, glancing back at the soldier, who made no response.

  Isla allowed Lena to clean her wounds, and as she ate, she felt some of her strength returning, though she knew not whether to trust this woman or not. Why was a Scot working as a servant to the
English. Had she been some kind of spy? Was she there to gain Isla’s trust? She seemed kind enough, though, kinder than the Musgraves or the English soldiers, and Isla appreciated her gentle touch and comforting words.

  “It’ll be alright, lass, I promise ye,” she said, as Isla finished her food, and Lena took up the tray.

  “Ye seem very confident of that,” Isla replied, sitting back against the wall with her head resting upon her chin.

  “Things usually turn out alright in the end,” Lena said, and she bid Isla farewell, the soldier turning the key in the lock, as Isla was left alone.

  It all seemed very strange, and Isla was at a loss to understand. So much had happened to her in such a short space of time that it seemed almost overwhelming. She stood up and went to the window, standing on her tiptoes and looking out across the borderlands beyond. How close her freedom was and yet so far, and a tear ran down her cheek as she thought of her father and Fraser. What would they be thinking now, would Fraser even know she was gone, and would she ever see him again?

  With these thoughts, she lay down upon the mangy blankets, wrapping them around herself and shivering. A chill was setting in and a draught blowing beneath the door. What a fool she had been, and as she closed her eyes, she began to weep, thoughts of Fraser and her father foremost in her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Laird, a list of the deceased,” Sweeney said, tentatively handing Alistair Elliott a piece of paper, on which were scratched the names of those whose bodies had been identified, or who were known to be missing.

  “What … I … put it there,” Alistair said, waving his hand dismissively, and staring into the fire.

  “Sir, the men …” Sweeney began.

  “The men! What dae ye except me to dae about the men? They are here, aren’t they? They have survived. They have nae been cut down, so damn the men, Sweeney. What about my daughter? What about Isla? What am I to dae about her? Damn the men,” he cried, causing the dogs to cower from his side, as Sweeney mumbled an apology.

  “Sir, I … I dae nae know what to dae about Isla, but they will nae have harmed her. She is too valuable a prize, of that I am certain,” Sweeney said, as Alistair turned to him and sighed, his anger giving way to sorrow.

  “Aye … I … I know that Sweeney, but … I swore to keep her safe, and all these years, I have done so. But now, I have failed on the very anniversary of her own parents’ deaths, and she is in the castle of those murderous Musgrave’s, and I dinnae know what I shall dae without her,” he said, and tears began to roll down his cheeks, and he sobbed uncontrollably, as Sweeney stood awkwardly at his side.

  “Sir, there is hope, I promise ye. We … we will band together, mount a rescue party, cross the border and see to it that she is rescued. We still have strength enough for that, dae we nae? We will nae give her up, I promise ye,” Sweeney said.

  “But what hope is there, Sweeney? Right now they will be plannin’ what to dae with her, a ransom note will soon arrive, or worse, nothin’. They will just keep her there, and I shall never see or hear from her again,” and he began to sob again, as Sweeney looked sadly down at his shoes, “I have failed my daughter, the daughter of this clan.”

  “She is nae lost, sir, and I promise ye we shall get her back,” Sweeney replied.

  * * *

  There was an air of desolation in the blacksmith’s workshop that day; in the morning, there had come a steady stream of passers-by reporting on the battle the night before.

  “The moor is littered with bodies; they straddle the border left and right. A field of the dead,” one man had said, shaking his head, as Fraser shod his horse’s hooves, “a sad business, and it will nae be long before they return to finish the job.”

  “What will become of all of us if the English come?” Duncan asked later, as they watched the man disappearing with his horse along the track.

  “We will go on as we have always done, Duncan. Scottish horses are the same as English ones, and the makin’ of a sword is nae different whether it is to be wielded by a Scot or by a soldier of Percy Musgrave. Though I would prefer it to nae come to that,” Fraser replied.

  “But surely ye dinnae want the English flag raised above Lochrutton?” Duncan replied, shaking his head.

  “Nae, of course nae, but what I want is to be left in peace, though livin’ here upon the borders is hardly a wise choice for such a wish,” Fraser replied.

  But his thoughts were not on English or Scottish victory; they were on Isla, and he was worried as to what might have happened to her. The reports were sketchy, and another man passing by had claimed that the Laird himself had been injured in the battle. Was Isla safe? Fraser knew that the fighting had not reached the castle at Kirklinton, but surely it was only a matter of time before it did.

  He intended to go there again, whether the Laird liked it or not, and offer Isla a safe place to hide. Anywhere was better than remaining there, vulnerable to attack. She could come to the croft in the village, or else they could hide at her grandfather’s old farm, as far away as possible from any fighting. It was a bold plan, and one he had spent much of the night mulling over, but Fraser was certain of one thing, he was falling in love with Isla and had every intention of seeing her protected from the wickedness of whoever might wish to do her harm. He had realized that if he was serious about his feelings for her, then he must lay his own sensibilities aside, he could no longer be the quiet blacksmith, but rather must take it upon himself to act. Alistair Elliott could say what he wanted, but Fraser was determined to see Isla protected, and later that day, he prepared to set off for the castle.

  “I will nae be long, Duncan. Ye can mind the workshop for me; and see to it that we have some fresh bread for supper, we may have a guest,” Fraser said, and Duncan looked at him in puzzlement.

  “A guest? Who dae ye mean?” he asked. “And besides, I want to help Father MacConkey in the church. Perhaps he will take me to Lanercost tomorrow, now that the English attack has come.”

  “Nae, Duncan, ye are nae goin’ to Lanercost until all this had died down, and ye might as well know that I intend to invite Isla to stay with us. She would be safer here than up at Kirklinton with her father. The English wouldnae look for her here,” Fraser replied, tightening his sword belt about his waist and throwing his cloak about his shoulders.

  “But ye heard what Alistair Elliott said, and he will be in nae mood for yer presence after a defeat,” Duncan said, looking in amazement at his brother.

  But Fraser was resolved, and he set off immediately up the track away from the village towards Kirklinton. There was no one on the road, and a strange atmosphere hung about the moorlands. There was a sense of death and foreboding, as though the battle of the night before still hung in the air. Above him, a hawk was circling, diving down for its prey as its cry echoed across the heathers. Fraser was in a grim mood, and he had every intention of bringing Isla back home with him, whether the Laird liked it or not.

  As he came in sight of the castle, he saw a familiar figure hurrying down the track, and when he saw Fraser, he shouted a greeting and called for the blacksmith to stop. It was Sweeney, and a few moments later, he came face to face with Fraser, breathing heavily.

  “I was just comin’ to see ye. Ye should turn back now, there has been a bad business, a very bad business indeed,” he said, a worried look upon his face.

  “If ye mean the Laird’s injury, then I have heard, and the reports say many good folks are dead upon the heathers at the border,” Fraser replied, but Sweeney shook his head.

  “That news would be bad enough, but there is worse to hear, and ye must steel yerself for what I am about to tell ye, Fraser,” he said, as the blacksmith looked at him with a puzzled expression.

  “There’s nae time to waste, Sweeney, I’m takin’ Isla somewhere safe. The Laird will nae stop me, and if he wants to keep his daughter safe, then he’ll allow her to go away from this place where she is sure to meet her end the next time the English cross
the border,” Fraser replied, striding on up the track.

  “Wait, wait, nae, ye dinnae understand, Fraser. ‘Tis Isla that is the problem. She has been taken; the English have her,” he said, and Fraser turned to him, a look of horror upon his face

  Chapter Thirty

  “Taken? But how? The English didnae get to Kirklinton. Was this some kind of devious plot?” Fraser said, shaking his head, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “Nae, they took her on the battlefield in the heat of the fight. She had taken it upon herself to follow her father, and she must have found herself on the wrong side of the lines. It was a pitched battle. I was lucky to get away with my life,” Sweeney said, pointing to a deep wound on his left arm.

  “But they’ve taken her? Dae ye know where?” Fraser asked.

  “To the castle of the Musgraves, I should say. They will keep her there until they decide what to dae with her,” Sweeney replied.