A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “I’m coming too,” said a voice, and the procession stopped. Thorvald twisted his head to look. It was Anne, swathed in a fur cloak against the night’s chill. The man with the torch shrugged broadly and gestured with his hands to show that he did not care. She ignored them all, walking toward the transport boat ahead of them and climbing in.

  The crossing was smooth, and as they drew away from the ship, Thorvald saw for the first time the castle. The two towers loomed up, blacker patches against the night sky, blotting out the stars. High up in one of the towers, a light burned. To Thorvald, it looked ominous.

  “At least it’s not raining,” Thorvald spoke to no one in particular.

  “Shaddup!” growled one of the guards, raising a hand to strike him.

  “Enough, McArthur,” said Anne quietly from her place in the bow of the boat, and the man glowered and lowered his clenched fist.

  “This man is a valuable prisoner and is tae be treated with respect and care. Ye know my uncle’s orders.”

  The boat slowed. There were six of the crew in the boat, four holding Thorvald and two rowing. Anne and Thorvald made it eight, and this was one of the smaller dinghies of the Caithness Seal. It was a crowded space, the oars bumping and scraping as the rowers slowed their pace.

  Thorvald could feel the tension in the men holding him. A man named McArthur began to speak.

  “Aye, we know the orders well enough. But maybe we know too that there’s no self-respecting man who should take those orders from the likes of ye! Just a woman, and barely more than a girl. What are ye tae yer uncle, eh? What makes ye so sure of yerself? I don’t need tae take orders from ye, but I’ll take something else from ye!”

  He had risen from his seat and stood in the rocking boat, a tall and menacing shape. One of the oarsmen spoke.

  “We’re too close tae the ship, ye fool. Not here, not here!” But it was too late. With a snarl like an animal, McArthur had drawn his knife and lunged for Anne. She barely moved. Thorvald felt his gaze widen in astonishment as Anne’s sword flew free of its scabbard, darted a deadly blow at McArthur, then withdrew. The big man toppled over and fell into the water with a splash, sinking like a stone.

  It happened so quickly. The three remaining men let go of Thorvald and charged toward Anne, but the boat was tiny, and they got in each other’s way. Quick and graceful as a dancer, Anne leapt in the air, landing with one foot on either edge of the boat’s bow. Her blade flashed, once, twice, three times. Three men stopped in their tracks. One of the oarsmen swung his oar in a huge, wide arc at her, but she ducked and sprang on him as he teetered over, unbalanced by the force of his own swing. She pushed him, hard, and he toppled into the water. Clad in chainmail, he didn’t stand a chance.

  “Yield, yield!” gasped the last man, as, quick as lighting, Anne was upon him, her blade held to his throat.

  “Whose idea was this, Wilson?” she asked him through gritted teeth. One of her hands gripped a handful of his hair.

  “I... i... it was McArthur! All his idea! He doesn’t like taking orders from Neil, and he was going tae take the prisoner and try tae ransom him himself. When ye came on the boat, he wanted tae get revenge on the Captain by hurting you! That’s all, that’s it, honest! I didn’t want tae, but they made me! I had no choice!”

  The man was babbling, and Thorvald watched with increasing admiration as the lithe, short-haired woman – who did not seem even to be out of breath after her fight – withdrew her sword from his throat.

  “Can ye swim?” she asked coldly.

  “Well enough...” said the oarsman, doubtfully.

  “As ye said, we’re not far from the ship. Off ye go now, and ye can report back tae Juarez and the Captain about what’s happened here. Alright?”

  The oarsman looked dubiously at the gap of dark water between them and the ship, but then he stripped off his chainmail and plunged into the water, striking out vigorously for the ship. Anne stood in the boat and watched until she saw him catch a hanging rope and shimmy up and over the side.

  “Why did ye do that?” asked Thorvald quietly. She looked up from where she was busy working her way through the pockets of the men who lay in the bottom of the boat.

  “Because I want tae have ye all tae myself, of course... ah! Here it is!”

  She had found an iron key, and without hesitation, knelt to unlock the manacles which bound his hands to his back.

  “Move forward,” she said and fiddled for a moment until he heard the satisfying sound of the manacles clicking open. He drew his wrists round in front of him and massaged them gently.

  “I thank ye.”

  “Well, ye could hardly take an oar with yer wrists in chains now, could ye? Come on now.”

  Thorvald did as he was told, taking up an oar beside her, and they began to pull for the shore.

  “Will yer uncle the captain not be angry that ye killed his crewmen?” he asked her after a little while.

  “It’s happened before. They get the idea that they shouldn’t be taking orders from a woman, and they have a go. The captain, well, he’s a strange one. He takes it as a compliment, really, that I’m one of the best fighters in the crew. Unique, I am. Like a circus freak.”

  She delivered the last words with a venom that shocked him, but he let it pass.

  “Where did ye learn tae fight like that?”

  “I had a good teacher.” Her tone did not invite further questions. “Where did ye learn tae fight so badly?”

  He laughed heartily.

  “We had a master-at-arms come from the town. He taught us basic stuff, how tae swing and parry, and how tae work like a unit and not get in each other’s way. Simple things, ye know.”

  “But not how tae defend against a madwoman with yer own helmet in her hands?” she asked wryly.

  “No, they never taught us that.”

  “How’s the head?”

  “Better, actually.” It was. The dressing had lessened the pain a great deal, and before long, they reached the jetty.

  “Now, listen,” she turned to look at him intently, her face very close to his, “I don’t know what he wants ye for, but I do know that he’s keen tae keep ye alive and safe. Ye may think that ye’d be better running off and making yer own way, but I don’t think ye will be – he will send men out after ye if ye do that, and they may cause ye harm if they catch up with ye. Trust me. Let’s go back up tae the castle together and let me deliver ye. I will look out for ye, Thorvald. I... I do not wish tae see ye come tae harm.”

  “Very well, Anne,” he thought of her blade flashing as quick as lightning when she was attacked. If nothing else, he seriously doubted his ability to get away from her, even if he tried.

  “Thank ye, Thorvald,” and to his great surprise, she darted her head forward and planted the briefest kiss on the edge of his mouth. His skin tingled, and he looked into her eyes in surprise.

  “What was that for?”

  “Just because I could,” she smiled. “Come on, let’s get the boat moored.”

  It looked like a smuggler’s cove – a rotten wooden jetty with only enough room to tie up two small boats at most. The cliffs reared high above them, but here a little rocky inlet gave into the cliff-face. They scrambled from the boat, getting their boots wet. It was very dark, and they slipped on the seaweed and slimy rocks as they made their way across the stony beach.

  “Here,” she called and put a hand on his wrist to lead him through the darkness toward a cave. He had to crouch and duck his head to enter, but after a moment he felt the space around him open out.

  “Hold this.” He felt her hand on his, pressing something hard into it. With a crackling noise and a spark, there suddenly flared a light. He was holding a torch she had lit with a flint and striker. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Thorvald saw before him a vast, roomy cave, with a flight of steep, narrow steps carved from the rock, climbing up one wall through a crack in the roof and into darkness.

  “This is the way in,” Anne exp
lained, “Ye can’t use it at high tide, or when it’s stormy, but on a night like tonight it’s perfect for getting intae the castle unseen.”

  They found the stairs and began to ascend. It felt to Thorvald that they had reached a place of trust, or at least mutual respect. She still made him walk in front, and he wondered if he was mad not to have tried to escape when he had the chance, but then the foolishness of it caught him. No way could he get away from this fierce, talented fighter. Had he not just watched her dispense with six opponents almost without getting out of her seat? Perhaps he would be able to turn the situation to his advantage in some way.

  He stopped.

  “What is it?” she asked, a note of annoyance in her voice. He looked down at her, and she noticed that the swelling had reduced over his eye. She rubbed her jaw where his head had hit her.

  “Can I really trust you?” he asked, and the honest plea in his voice touched something in the hardened girl.

  She answered as honestly as she was able.

  “I don’t know; I hope so.”

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  About the Author

  Kenna Kendrick is an American based author of Historical Scottish Romance living in Austin Texas with her husband and three children. Her more than 25-year-old experience as an English Teacher has brought her close to the literary world, growing her love for fictional stories.

  Her love for literature was also strong because of her father John who used to write crime-stories. While she tried following on her father's footsteps, a trip to Scotland sealed the deal for as she fell in love with the Celtic myths and the bleak Highlands.

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