“I would rather stay a lifetime in this room than have anythin’ to dae with the man who killed my parents and now attempts to kill my father,” she said, as Howard laughed.
“She is certainly feisty today, but she’ll come around, father. I have offered her marriage, but perhaps it should just be forced,” he said, pulling Isla towards him and wrapping his arms around her, his hand over her mouth.
Without warning, she sank her teeth into his finger, tasting blood as he let out a cry and fell back.
“Get out,” she cried as he staggered forward and made a grab for her.
“Enough. We shall leave you to mull things over, but just be warned, I shall be back and next time, you shall be more cooperative, else your father may hear news of your sorry demise,” Sir Percy said and led his son from the room, who was clutching his bitten finger. The door slammed, leaving Isla alone.
At once, she went to the window, standing on tiptoe to look out across the landscape, hoping for any glimpse of her father and the other men. But there was nothing to be seen, only the rolling Lowland hills and moorlands, stretching out across the borders.
“Thank ye, father,” she whispered, as a tear rolled down her cheek. “If ye can be strong, then so can I,” she muttered, her resolve strengthening, for Isla knew that she would never give in to the wickedness of the Musgraves and would rather die before she saw an English flag raised above Kirklinton.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Fraser, wake up, Fraser,” and he opened his eyes to find Duncan standing over him, his hand on his arm. “There’s men outside, quickly, come on.”
At these words, Fraser roused himself and went quickly to the door of the cottage with Duncan to listen to the sounds coming from outside. His brother was right, there were voices on the track, raised and anxious, and now a man crying out in pain.
“Soldiers, Scots, though,” Fraser said, looking fearfully at his brother through the gloom.
“What dae they want? Usually, they use the track above the village if they are goin’ to the castle. Have they been across the border, dae ye think?” Duncan said as the voices came closer.
“Aye, it must be the Laird,” Fraser said, the commotion now right outside the cottage, and he remembered Sweeney’s words about the raid upon the Musgrave castle.
Suddenly there came a banging on the door and the call to open up. Duncan and Fraser looked at one another in alarm, and Fraser put a hand upon his brother’s shoulder.
“‘Tis alright. If they are Scots, they are welcome,” he said, and taking a deep breath, he went to the door.
Upon opening it, he found a group of soldiers outside. One of them was being supported by two of the others, and they had dismounted their horses back along the track.
“This man needs help. The men say ye are somethin’ of a healer, is that right?” one of them said, as they brought the injured man forward.
“Aye, of sorts. Though some say ‘tis a skill nae to be trusted,” Fraser replied.
“This man will die if something is nae done for him soon. May we bring him inside?” the soldier asked.
“Very well. Ye can lay him on the bed there. At the very least, I can give him some water and make him comfortable,” Fraser replied, as the men filed inside.
Duncan had stoked up the fire, and they lit candles around the room as the man groaned and was placed upon Fraser’s bed.
“Stand back and give me some room,” Fraser said, and he knelt at the man’s side and laid his hands upon him. “What’s yer name, lad?” for the man was merely a boy, no more than fifteen years old, and his injuries were severe.
“Liam,” he whispered, coughing violently and crying out in pain.
“‘Tis alright, lad, lie still, and we will make ye comfortable,” Fraser replied, and he placed his hands upon the boy, uttering a silent prayer as Duncan crossed himself.
The others went silent, and peace descended upon the cottage, as Fraser knelt silently by the boy. He had stopped crying out in pain now, his eyes closed, and his breathing becoming steady. Fraser was just about to rise when the door to the cottage flew open, and Alistair Elliott marched in, followed by several other soldiers.
“What is all this? I ordered ye back to Kirklinton, and now I find ye in the hovel of the blacksmith. Get away from him! What are ye doin’?” Alistair asked, striding forward and looking in anger at Fraser and the soldiers.
“The lad is injured, Laird. We brought him here because the blacksmith is rumored to have healin’ hands. He has quietened the lad down and see, before he was screamin’, but now he’s quiet and seems at peace,” one of the soldiers replied.
“I said get him out of here,” Alistair cried. “Now dae it!”
The others rushed to pick up the boy, who once more began to groan in pain, and between them, they carried him out of the cottage. Fraser stood quietly to one side, and eventually, he was left with only the Laird and Duncan, as the sounds of the men departing came from outside.
“I presume yer mission to rescue Isla was nae a success,” Fraser said, not looking at Alistair, who had turned to leave.
“Isla is still in the castle of the Musgraves,” Alistair said, “and for that, I am sorry.”
“Laird, if ye will …” Fraser began, but Alistair rounded on him, his hand on his sword hilt.
“I will be dead before I take ye with me on any foolhardy rescue attempt,” he cried. “Now see to it that ye stay out of my way, and there are to be nae more reports of yer healin’ in this village, ye hear me. Ye are just a blacksmith, and that is all. Ye are nothin’ to me, and ye are nothin’ to my daughter,” and he stormed from the cottage, slamming the door hard behind him.
“A broken man,” Fraser said, shaking his head, “and one that knows he will soon lose this conflict and lose everythin’ he holds dear.”
“But if he cannae rescue his own daughter, then what chance dae ye have?” Duncan said, as though sensing just what Fraser was thinking.
“I have just as much chance, but if I dinnae try, then he will be right. I will be just a blacksmith,” Fraser replied, and sighing, he went out to the workshop, as the early morning light began to dawn.
* * *
Sweeney arrived at the workshop later that day to tell Fraser that the young lad was making a remarkable recovery. He had suffered a nasty arrow wound to his side, but back at Kirklinton, they had managed to remove the end which was still lodged and to stem the bleeding, a remarkable achievement, and one which everyone was attributing to Fraser’s healing hands.
“Ye have done a great service,” Sweeney said, but Fraser just shook his head and continued at his smithy work.
“But still there is nae sign of Isla, and we are nae nearer to rescuin’ her. That boy was injured for nae reason at all. One might rejoice more if he had suffered for somethin’ worth sufferin’ for, but the Laird’s raid did nothin’ except cost lives and pain,” Fraser replied.
“Aye, but at least the English know we will nae sit back and allow one of our own to be taken. We shall regroup and try again,” Sweeney said, standing tall and drawing his sword, which he preceded to wave around his head.
“Ye have changed yer mind, I thought ye said it was futile to attempt a rescue?” Fraser replied.
“Aye … well, I can dae so if I wish, and I have seen the determination in the Laird’s face. He will stop at nothin’ before he gets Isla back,” Sweeney replied.
“Yet he still refuses any offer of help from me,” Fraser said, “and why is that? Surely, he needs all the help he can get, and yet he continues to despise me for no other reason I can think of than he considers me a lowly blacksmith.”
“There is more to it than that. I am certain. Though what it is, I dinnae ken,” Sweeney replied, shaking his head.
“Aye, well, neither dae I, but I dae ken that he needs all the help he can get,” Fraser replied, shaking his head.
Sweeney went off back to the castle, and Fraser finished off in the blacksmith’s workshop, before return
ing to the cottage. Duncan was at the kirk, assisting Father MacConkey, and Fraser used the time alone to prepare for his rescue attempt. He packed a small dagger and a little food into a pouch to tie around his belt, hiding it under his bed in readiness to depart the next night.
Fraser was determined and resolved in what he had to do. There was no turning back, no cowardly option. The armed rescue attempt had failed spectacularly, and now the only hope lay in Fraser and his plan with the apple cart. It seemed almost hopeless, but Fraser had no intention of remaining as a mere blacksmith any longer. He would show Alistair Elliott that he was worthy of his daughter, or he would die trying, and with that promise in mind, he lay down to sleep, his thoughts on Isla and bringing her safely home.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Time passed the next day slowly, as Fraser waited for nightfall. He tried his best to sleep late, knowing that he would have precious time to rest in the hours to come. He neglected his work and dismissed Duncan’s questioning of him as idle talk, later sending him off to the kirk with the promise that soon he could go to Lanercost and begin his studies.
“Ye still intend to go to the Musgrave castle tonight, brother?” Duncan asked as Fraser pushed him out of the door.
“Aye, and there is nothin’ ye can say to change my mind, Duncan,” Fraser replied. “Ye will go to Lanercost, whether I am alive or dead, I promise ye that.”
“Dinnae be like that, Fraser, but I am tellin’ ye that this is madness and that ye cannae hope to rescue Isla. Sometimes we must give up the things we love and move on,” Duncan said.
“And if I said that to ye about God and yer vocation, what would ye say? Now go, because we shall only argue more if ye stay, Duncan,” Fraser said, as his brother sighed and wished him good luck, grudgingly.
Once he was alone, Fraser brought out the pouch of supplies and tied it to himself with his belt. A sword would be too cumbersome, and he hoped that violence would not be needed. Though he had packed the dagger just in case.
Twilight was falling now, the woodland about the village growing dark and dingy, as the bell of the kirk sounded its sad lament. Before he left, Fraser stooped down and felt about beneath his bed, pulling out a small bottle and taking a drink.
The whiskey burnt his throat, and he grimaced, for he rarely drank the ruin of so many others, and shaking his head, he replaced the bottle in its hiding place.
“Nae need for that stuff,” he said, standing up straight and taking in a deep breath.
It was time to leave, but he found himself making every excuse possible not to do so. He would not go by horse that night, preferring instead to travel as quietly as possible across the border. The animal was tied up outside, and it whinnied and stamped its hooves, as Fraser stepped out of the door.
“Nae tonight, ye stay here and mind Duncan,” he whispered, patting the horse’s mane.
With a final look around him, he began making his way along the path up out of the village. He hoped to meet no one, for explanations could be uncomfortable, and if it were discovered that he was mounting a rescue mission, then there would be questions, and the news would surely get back to Alistair Elliott. He thought about the Laird as he hiked up onto the ridge above; he was a bitter man, but then who could blame him? The once-proud clan was reduced to a handful of men, about to be set upon by the English hoards, and Alistair Elliott could not even mount a rescue mission to save his own daughter.
But none of that explained the animosity which the Laird so clearly felt towards Fraser. The look he had given him the other day when Fraser had laid hands upon the injured boy. It was more than a casual dislike or a distrust of Fraser’s healing hands. There was something else, but what it was, Fraser simply could not imagine.
He was startled by the hooting of an owl as he emerged from the trees above the village and looked back down upon the motley collection of cottages below. The faint light of a candle burning could be seen in several of the windows, but all else was quiet, and the bell of the kirk had ceased tolling the evening hour. A breeze caught him as he came onto the ridge, and across the heathers, he could see the faint outline of the castle at Kirklinton. A great black mass against the darkening sky. The Laird would be brooding there, perhaps even now planning his next move against the Musgraves. But Fraser had no interest in further antagonizing him and no intention of his finding out his plans to rescue Isla. Not until he had safely returned with her, if he ever did.
Now, he turned his sights towards the borders and, steeling himself for what lay ahead, he marched on. Soon the night grew cold, and the moon was hidden behind clouds so that there was little light along the way. The path seemed more foreboding on foot, the trees dark to either side and the way ahead gloomy and forbidding. But Fraser kept his spirits up, thinking of Isla and the happiness each would feel when they were back in one another’s company.
It had been quite a change of heart, and his brother had been right to be surprised. A few weeks ago, Fraser would have happily settled for his lot in the blacksmith’s workshop, albeit grudgingly. He had promised his father that he would continue his legacy, but his heart was not really in it, at least when he was being truthful. Duncan could fulfill the desires of his heart, but Fraser would forever be a blacksmith, never realizing the dreams which lay in his heart. Until now. Meeting Isla had ignited something in him, a passion and excitement he had never felt before. He was certain he was in love with her, a feeling which had only grown stronger in her absence. As he marched on, it was that thought which kept him going, and with dogged determination, he crossed the border, ready for whatever lay ahead.
* * *
It took several hours of steady walking before the Musgrave castle came in sight. Fraser paused, glancing around him for any signs of guards or patrols. But there was no one around. After Alistair Elliott’s failed assault, Fraser had expected the castle to be better guarded, but the only sign of life was a faint light glowing in the gatehouse. A sign that at least some of the guards were at their duties.
Fraser made his way cautiously down the hill, keeping off the path and close to the tree line. The ground was boggy there, and more than once, his foot sank deep into the mud so that by the time he arrived close to the path leading to the gates, he was wet and shivering. There was no sign of the apple cart yet, so he settled himself down in the same hiding place as before to wait.
His eyes were growing heavy, and despite the chill, he found himself nodding off to sleep. He shook himself and rubbed his eyes, willing himself to remain awake, lest he miss the opportunity to enter the castle. He watched as the guards made their patrol of the battlements, but he was too well hidden to be seen, and there he remained concealed as the night wore on. Eventually, there came the sound of cartwheels approaching and a man singing to himself as the horse's hooves clipped and clopped along the track.
It was now or never, and Fraser crept along the tree line until he could see the cart approaching. It was just as before, the apples piled high on the back of the cart underneath a blanket. As the cart passed him by Fraser slipped out from his hiding place, and in the semi-darkness of the early dawn, he walked behind the cart out of the merchant’s view. With a deft jump, he climbed on board, pulling himself under the blanket and in among the apples, which he discovered were half rotten and mushed.
“Woah there,” the merchant said, as the cart jolted and the horses pulled up, “must have gone over a nasty rut there, walk on, walk on,” and there came the sound of the whip.
Fraser breathed a sigh of relief and buried himself further in the mound of apples, finding one that was not rotten and taking a bite. He did not know when next he might eat, and as the cart pulled up outside the gates, he bit into another, the sweet, tangy juice running down his beard as he listened intently to the merchant’s conversation with the guards.
“More apples for Sir Percy,” the merchant said, as the horses came to a stop.
“Half of the others you delivered were rotten, they were fed to the pigs,”
a voice said, “Sir Percy was not happy.”
“Ah, well, these apples are stored; they are not fresh from the tree. Sir Percy receives what he pays for, I assure you of that, and they make excellent cider, as I am sure you know,” the merchant replied.
“For your sake, I hope these are better,” the voice replied, “open the gate. Take your cart to the kitchen yard and wait there. The kitchen servants will unload it in due course, and then you can be on your way.”
“I hope I won’t be kept waiting too long. It was over an hour last time, and I need to set out for Carlisle as soon as possible,” the merchant said.
“So you can sell your rotten apples to the good people there? Go on, be on with you,” the voice replied, and others could be heard laughing, and there came the sound of a hand slapping one of the horse’s flanks.
The cart trundled through the gates without further questioning and soon came to a halt, as Fraser lay still.
A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 16
