A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “On, on!” cried Juarez, and the men obeyed. Anne could see the tall youth better now – the sun shone on his high helm, and the figuring on his nose-guard seemed more elaborate than the others. Foolish, that. If you want to hide someone, you should not pick them out by giving them better gear than everyone else. Foolish. He was younger than the rest of them too, for sure. A handsome face, she thought; strong jaw, a long, straight nose, high cheekbones. She hoped they could take him quickly. For a moment, something strange happened. She could have sworn that he met her eyes. It was the most fleeting impression, but there it was. He saw her. Their eyes met. Then the defenders roared and charged down the slope toward the raiders, and the glimpse was gone.

  They met with a mighty clash and roar, and almost immediately, Anne was aware of the shock within her party at the sheer ferocity of the defence. Nobody had expected this. The village of Skylness should have been populated with fearful fishermen who would run or drop to their knees begging for mercy at the sight of Neil Gow-Sinclair’s ferocious raiding party. Instead, they met steel with steel, and with volley after volley of crossbow fire. Men tumbled and crumpled in the sand, and the raiders fell back, their first charge repulsed. The defenders roared in fierce victory, and sure enough, Anne saw them gather around the handsome youth with the figured armour. Their leader was a big, brawny man armed with a huge, old-fashioned axe which he wielded single-handed, his round shield in the other. He raised both axe and shield up and roared out an order which she didn’t hear.

  Juarez shouted “hold, hold! Remember the target!” and then another volley of crossbow bolts hit them, dropping more men. The raiders reformed around their leader, but the defenders did the same, and they had the advantage of high ground. Anne pushed forward with the rest of her group, flinging her small weight against the back of the man in front as their line braced to bear the brunt of the defenders’ counter-attack. Then, as they met and clashed once again, she squeezed backwards, away from the shoving, shouting press that was the front of the battle. The women with the crossbows were holding their fire, afraid to shoot into the melee. Anne moved to the edge of the group, glanced around, and found her target.

  He looked like he was itching to get into the fray but could not. As she had done, he was pushing toward the edge of his group, trying to get to a place where he would have room to swing his axe. One of the men seemed to be shouting to him, trying to get his attention, but he was paying no heed. His eyes were fixed on Juarez, who was trying to keep order. The push of the last charge had run them back down the beach toward the boats – it was not far. As she watched, the handsome youth broke free of his group and ran toward the side of the raiding party. His axe was raised, and the raider he met fell with surprise in his eyes, his sword useless at his side.

  The handsome youth roared out his victory and raised his axe to strike again, but Anne hit him a ringing blow on his helmet with the flat of her sword. His axe faltered, as he swayed, trying to turn, but she leapt full upon his back, dropping her shield, her fingers seeking the front of the fancy helmet that had given him away. She found the edge and hauled upward, wrenching it loose as he ineffectually batted her with his fists. Twisting around, he grabbed at her helmet, pulling it free and giving her a solid punch to her jaw. Dropping her sword, she hit him in on the side of the head with his own helmet, using every ounce of adrenaline-fuelled strength she could muster. He went down like a felled tree.

  “Prisoner!” she yelled, “Prisoner!” Around her, her compatriots realised that their goal had been achieved. Three men leapt to her aid, and together they dragged the unconscious young man down the beach, his heels leaving a long trail in the wet sand.

  “Fall back!” Juarez roared, as the defenders looked on in amazement. “They got him! They got Thorvald!” came the shout. Now was the critical moment. They would try to regain the prisoner. With the others, Anne put her strength into dragging the mail-clad youth over the lip of the boat. Retreating raiders piled in around them, the last few pushing the boat out, and then they were off, the sudden surf catching the fat-bottomed boat and hefting it upward as men fell to at their oars.

  On the beach, she saw the last of the raiders fleeing full-tilt toward the other boat. The defenders were giving chase, but the invaders had what they wanted, and they were not going to hang about to argue. As the other boat beat off from the shore and got underway, Anne looked down at the unconscious young man who lay pinned in the bottom of the boat. She was still holding his fancy helmet, but she had lost her own, her shield and sword, too. The left-hand side of his head where she had hit him was swelling, and his left eye was puffy and swollen shut, but his right eye opened. It roved for a moment, then found her and held her in its gaze.

  Anne realised that she was smiling.

  * * *

  “Grapples!” shouted the crew in warning from the deck of the Caithness Seal.

  Ropes with grappling hooks fell splashing into the choppy water, eager hands reaching out from the small transport boats to grab them and hook them into the anchor points at either end.

  “Grapples on!” went up the shout and “Haul up!” came the reply. Strong, practised shoulders were set to the winch wheels high above, the ropes snapped tautly, and the little boats began to rise, seawater sluicing from their shallow hulls as the sea gave them up. Thorvald lay on his belly in the bottom of the boat, glowering, as two men pinned his arms and another sat on his legs. The sides of the raiding vessel soared up like the sides of a cliff, dwarfing the smaller boat. The sailors cried aloud a rhythmic sea-song as they hauled the winch wheels in unison.

  Thorvald struggled into a sitting position. His guards, two ugly men on each side, helped by hauling him painfully upward with their hands on his wrists and shoulders. Unwilling to show them his fear, he tried a smile through his swollen face.

  “Well, lads,” he mumbled, “looks like ye’ve got me fair and square. I just wish I knew what this is all about, and why ye have taken me so!”

  “Hah, he’s got pluck, this one!” guffawed one of his guards, a big, red-haired Scot with a face disfigured by old pox-scars.

  “Kind of ye tae say so!” Thorvald replied gallantly, “though it would have been even kinder tae leave me at home. If ye’ve kidnapped me for ransom, I’m sorry tae disappoint ye; I’m just the poor son of a fisherman, and in the whole village there’s barely enough coin tae pay a ransom.”

  The transport boat bumped against the side of the Caithness Seal as it creaked up toward the deck, and without really intending to, Thorvald had caught the interest of the rough men with his banter.

  “What does the Captain want with him, then?” called one sitting at the end of the boat. “Anne, he’ll whip the hide off ye if it turns out ye’ve taken the wrong man!”

  Anne. Thorvald had a strange feeling when he heard the name. Anne? He glanced about and saw her. She was sitting in the boat a little way away, looking at him levelly. She hauled the leather helmet from her head, and the sweat and heat made her short hair stick up crazily around her pale face. She had dark eyes, a small, delicate nose, and red lips cracked with the sea salt in the air and long exposure to the sun. She was breathing deeply and looking straight at him.

  What did he see in that gaze? Interest. Excitement. Perhaps a little weariness, sitting in the boat with her back bent and her elbows on her knees, her leather helmet dangling from her long fingers. What on earth, he wondered, was she – a woman clearly a few years younger than him – fighting with this gang of thieves and cutthroats. The surprise and shock must have shown on his face because one of his handlers leaned down and spoke near to his ear.

  “Aye, that’s right,” he said. “Ye were captured by a girl!” The men all around him roared with laughter, and a smile flickered around the corners of Anne’s mouth.

  Before he could reply, the boat bumped hard against the side as it reached the gunwale, then rocked as the men began leaping in twos and threes onto the deck of the Caithness Seal. Thorvald watched Anne a
s she clambered competently from the transport to the deck. She was strong, he saw, lean and well-trained, economical in her movements, but still feminine despite her evident toughness. Strong, he thought again, wincing at the memory of the stinging blow she had dealt him with his own helmet. Where was the helmet now? Did she still have it?

  She preoccupied his thoughts as his guards manhandled him onto the ship.

  “Easy, lads,” he cried jovially, though his tone belied the tension he felt. He caught a flash of pale sunlight on metal. She did still have his helmet. He saw her slip it into a hessian sack as she disappeared toward the back of the ship. Anne, he thought. Her name is Anne. My captor.

  “There’s the scum!” came a loud voice, harsh as a crow. Thorvald had to work hard not to recoil as he saw the sneering anticipation on the disfigured face of the man who clumped across the deck toward him. The man was ugly beyond the scarring on his face. He was ugly in a more profound way than just the physical. An ugly soul thought Thorvald.

  “That him, Captain?” said one of the men holding Thorvald.

  “Aye, that’s him alright,” sneered the captain. “Just as described. He give ye any trouble?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ahh, I thought not. Just as well for him. Looks like a weak, whimpering boy to me.”

  Thorvald drew himself up to his full height, and Neil’s face darkened, realising he would have to look up into his prisoner’s face. He drew back his knotty fist as if to hit Thorvald in his midsection, then registered the chainmail and changed his mind. Taking a step back, he surveyed the young man. All around them, men were moving about, sailors hauling the transport boats back over the side, and soldiers clapping each other on the back, pulling off gear and moving aft toward their quarters, where they could be out of the way of the crew on duty.

  Neil spat on the deck at Thorvald’s feet, then gave one of the men holding him the smallest nod. The man kicked Thorvald’s legs out from under him, driving him to his knees, and Neil looked down on him with cold satisfaction.

  “Strip the mail from him but leave him his clothes and boots for now. Lash him tae the mainmast. I want him where we can see him. Juarez, set sail for home and then come with me tae the quarter-deck tae report.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering.

  Neil’s orders were ruthlessly carried out; his chainmail and an undercoat of good leather were removed, and he was lashed to the main mast with a great coil of rope, his hands bound separately at his sides, and even his ankles immobilised. As Neil had ordered, Thorvald’s elegant boots were left upon his feet – for now. Not knowing what else to do, the lad tried to keep up a merry stream of banter with his captors, but the sight of Anne watching quietly from the bow of the ship unsettled him. He could not read her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  The afternoon was getting on, and they were far out at sea when Neil sent for Anne. A man came to her, looking surly. She was sitting on a bench by the bow, looking out over the water, aware of the prisoner’s eyes on her from a distance.

  “Cap’n wants ye,” the man grunted, then turned and loped away, not waiting to see if she obeyed. She rose immediately and made her way across the rolling deck.

  When she had first come upon the deck of the Siren, her uncle’s first ship, the rolling motion had made her first nauseous, and then sick. Neil had laughed cruelly and called her weak with many a foul curse. She remembered that now, for some reason. It had been a long time since she had felt sick on deck. Well, not from the rolling, at least. As she passed the prisoner, his intent eyes – as dark as hers, followed her across the deck. She glanced at him, then looked away.

  His head-wound looked terrible, blood-caked where the skin was broken, and a big, ugly bruise was swelling across the side of his face. His eyes looked puffy. Someone had punched him, or perhaps he had been hit accidentally when he had been manhandled into the boat; there was crusted blood under his nose, and his bottom lip was split. Thinking of him stirred a strange feeling within her belly, an image of running her hand over the cut lip and bruised cheek... She shook her head to clear it. The man at the ship’s wheel glanced at her, then glanced away as she scrambled up the steep ladder and gained the quarter-deck. Juarez, standing behind him, did the same.

  The captain, the uncle who had raised her, sat at his table, a cup of dark ceramic in one hand and the neck of a bottle in the other, the base balanced on his knee. She approached, self-consciously raising a hand to smooth down her rumpled head of hair. She did not speak, but stood straight, hands loose, looking past her uncle’s face at the water. He said nothing, but only raised his cup and drank again, his face as expressionless as a mask.

  “Well,” he said at last but seemed to have nothing more to say. He drank again, coughing hard, his eyes bulging. In the low, bright sunlight, she saw a fine spray of brandy and spittle fly from his lips.

  Anne stood still, not quite meeting her captain’s eyes. After a moment, he composed himself, took another drink, and looked at her over his cup. Behind him, the late afternoon sun threw long, distinct shafts of light down across the frothing water.

  “Do ye know, child?” he said at last, “how long I’ve been at sea?” His voice was eerily calm. It was not a question which required an answer, and Anne held her silence.

  “I’ve been at sea since before ye were even a twinkle in yer father’s eye,” he spat, then leered at her, knowing well that the topic of her father made her uncomfortable.

  “I’ve been all over in my time – the Caribbean Isles, the Gold Coast, the Americas, aye, even India. I’ve seen fights and battles and damned silly men get killed for doing damned stupid ways, but I have never in my days seen a woman like you take a prisoner like him!”

  With a sudden uproarious laugh, he flung himself back in his seat and thumped the table with the flat of his hand.

  “Never!” he repeated. “They told me what ye did! Smashed him to the ground with his own helmet, yes! Like a little fighting dog, eh? Vicious!”

  Despite herself, Anne felt a smile creeping up toward her mouth. She hated this man, it was true. He taunted her, bullied her, maligned her in front of the crew, and made her fight and drill with her sword as if she were a soldier. But for all that, he was the only person in her life from whom she could seek approval. For all that, he was all the father she would ever have. For my sins, she thought.

  But Neil Gow-Sinclair was not finished. Suddenly enough to startle even her steady nerves, he lunged forward across the table and caught her by the wrist, hauling her forward, so she bent uncomfortably across the table, smelling his reeking breath.

  “But now,” he growled, “the boy is your prisoner. And ye shall have the caring of him, d’ye hear me? I won’t have my men take on women’s work, bandaging and coddling a sickly boy who cannot even fight off a woman half his size. And ye should remember it as a lesson, girl. Ye should have left the taking of the prisoner tae men more capable than yourself. I won’t have ye getting above yer station, d’ye hear? Now go. Go and see tae the snivelling whippet ye have captured. I want him alive when we reach the castle, and if he’s not, it’ll be ye that I’ll be looking tae for explanations. Get out of my sight!”

  With a disdainful sweep of his hand, he dismissed her, and she fled, her cheeks burning. His rebuke was so contradictory and so petty that it churned her insides up with anger and rejection, causing a sick sensation in her belly. The man was mad, she thought. He must be. It was the only explanation she could think of for him being angry at her for taking the prisoner, and seemingly mad at him for being taken, all the while acknowledging that it was Neil’s own efforts to make her train hard as a fighter that had allowed her to do so. Neil had taught her how to fight. The achievement was his as much hers.

  Hating the tears that came unbidden to her eyes, she wiped them roughly away and climbed down the ladder and moved away from the quarterdeck, approaching her prisoner.

  Thorvald was tied to the mainmast with a stout ro
pe wrapped around his torso, another round his ankles and neck, his hands bound up to the sides of the thick post. Anne did not think he would be left there long. Already it was clear that he was getting in the way of the crew’s smooth operation of the vessel. She could see the first mate, Juarez, regarding the prisoner from a distance. Anne did not think it would be long before he plucked up the courage to ask his captain for permission to move the boy. At the rate the captain was drinking, Juarez would have to do it soon.

  Anne approached Thorvald from behind, getting a good look at the bruise on the side of his head before he noticed her. It was ugly; purple swelling around a small cut on his cheekbone, his left eye swollen almost shut. She took two more steps.

  His head snapped around, and she saw him wince in pain.

  “Easy,” she said without thinking, as she might to a skittish horse, and he narrowed the one good eye at her. It was not hot, but the afternoon spent tied to the mast had taken most of the fight out of him. The jocular banter, so apparent earlier, had vanished.