As if sensing her thoughts, Val’s voice resonated through the darkening forest. “You’ll pay for this! We’ll have our champion returned or die trying.”
“Impressive loyalty,” the man sneered. “For a cold-blooded killer, you inspire some passion in your men, or maybe it is terror. It is astounding what some men will do with hearts full of fear.”
“My men do not fear me,” Lena replied in the same low tone, outraged at the audacity of the man who held her so intensely. Who was he to accuse her of inspiring fear? Fear was what he lived to impart on all the neighbouring lands.
“I aim to bring you to justice and expose you for the low-down coward you are,” the deep voice continued, his tone laced with contempt. “I will take you back to my keep and hang you from the tower. There, all the families of the men, women, and children you have sacrificed and slaughtered will see your pain.”
Lena gasped. There had been a few casualties on both sides of the trysts, but she had never knowingly slaughtered anyone. A few arrows in the backside, so the warriors could take a message back to their masters had been her only crime. As for women and children, she would never stoop so low.
Darkness had now consumed the wood, and the icy fingers of night crept inside Lena’s heavy jacket. She tried not to think about the warm hearth that would have greeted her, or the filling fare that would have satisfied her growling stomach on her arrival back in Rwenor. Instead, she tried to focus on the plan that would get her down from the tree and away, in case her men were unable to detect any trace of her whereabouts. She also feared that they too would be caught in the trap that this frustrating man had set for her.
“Persistent, these men of yours.” Her captor sounded puzzled. “I wonder what manner of man can cause such devastation yet be rewarded with such devotion?” His voice trailed off to a murmur as he seemed to ponder his captive. “No matter, we have a rendezvous to attend and a long ride ahead this night.”
Lena felt the arm that imprisoned her loosen. Before she could take advantage of her position, a thud resonated through the air as a heavy object made contact with her head. A blinding light coupled with a searing pain were the last things that Lena remembered before she lost consciousness and fell into a black abyss.
Chapter Two
Stref Harris brought the handle of his sword down on the head of his enemy with a satisfying crack. He felt the surprisingly light form in his arms go limp, and smelt the familiar odour of fresh blood catch the gag reflex at the back of his throat. The man he held imprisoned, purely by the strength of his arm, had a lot to answer for. Half of the male population of his croft had returned to him with tales of a demonic warrior whose companion was a golden eagle, and who struck terror into the hearts of all who beheld him. Judging by the limp form in his arms, Stref assumed that cruelty was the man’s weapon, as brute force did not seem to be a quality the small man had been blessed with.
At first Stref had been bemused by the healthy condition of his men. Most had been returned to him unharmed, apart from the odd scar left in their rear ends where an arrow had struck. Stref had begun to respect the leader of Rwenor for his fairness. That was until the burnings began. The first report was from a young boy who arrived at the gates of his keep, black with smoke and coughing in racking spasms. The youth had told of a raiding party who had screamed out the name of Rwenor as they threw a burning torch to the roof of his family’s cottage. All but he had perished in the blaze. His mother, father, and two younger siblings had been lost to the inferno. The boy too had later passed away from the inhalation of smoke from when he had fought to save his kin.
This had been the first of many such blazes and, try as he might, Stref could see no purpose for them. When he went to war, he took no prisoners and spared no warrior. He had the reputation for being aggressive and cruel, but he would never attack for the intent of malice. He sought to strengthen his position in the Highlands against those that would see him dead. His claim to his uncle’s lands had been a late one, and two other lairds had their sights set on the acreage. Stref’s mission was to claim more land and strengthen his position among the Highland warriors. He had a lot to prove, and was hell-bent on doing so as quickly as he could. Rwenor, an undefended and rich arable land was his target, and he was determined that no hired thug would stand in his way. His keep would serve to shelter the people of Rwenor and bring them under his protection, thus defending them against any other claims to their lands—claims that may not spare the lives of the clan as he would. For all his fearsome reputation, Stref was a good protector of his people, and those who swore their loyalty to him immediately fell under his guardianship. It had troubled him that Rwenor had sold out to a mercenary whose sole purpose seemed to be causing unrest among the high and lowland clans.
With the infamous “Green Bow” now his prisoner, Stref was convinced that the people of Rwenor would yield to him and accept his dominance over them.
Stref listened for the sounds of the camp that lay below his vantage point. He had expected the crofters to welcome the abduction of their leader, and return to Rwenor. He remained perplexed by the display of loyalty he witnessed playing out below him. The search had been well executed and thorough, and the men had seemed reluctant to cease as darkness fell. The appointed leader of the group had barked orders to the other men with genuine concern in his tone.
Stref regarded the flaccid figure in his arms. “What makes you so special?” he wondered aloud.
The darkness of the moonless night, and the shadow cast by the overhanging branches prevented Stref from glimpsing the features of his hooded prisoner.
Light may bring more than improved sight, Stref mused. It may bring answers to what manner of man you are my friend.
With that, Stref swung his captive over his left shoulder and descended silently down the coarse bark of the tree trunk. His feet seemed to find the gnarled crevices easily and his path was steady. At the bottom, he landed with feline grace and melted into the shadows of the wood. A waiting mount was soon located and he hefted the bulk of his captive unceremoniously onto the saddle before swinging himself up. The horse whinnied in recognition of its beloved master before tracking a path through the trees.
* * * *
A few leagues further up the track a group of anxious men waited for the arrival of their laird. They had spent the darkening hours, hiding from the search party that combed the area. It was the only indication the men had that their master had been successful in his mission.
“The old dog has done it all right,” a toothless man whistled out from the black stumps that were once his teeth. “Said he would and he has.”
“Old Haigh won’t like it at all,” added his young companion. “He was hoping we’d fail. Could be a dangerous thing if Stref could conquer Rwenor.”
“I dinna suppose Fogert will like it much either,” a third man chimed in.
Gavin Haigh, with lands to the east of Stref’s, was a ruthless man. His grim, towering keep was set on a rocky pinnacle with little or no vegetation surrounding it. The land was sparse and its people hardened and tough. Relatively few families dwelt within the walls of the keep. It was really only the forces of Gavin Haigh along with the servants that lived in the keep with their master, confined to quarters not even fit to house animals. Men trained in brutal combat then raided homes in the lowlands to claim their base needs. Women were left raped and scarred from the onslaught of the sadistic army. Gavin Haigh himself was a vicious tyrant. Tales of how he imprisoned the daughters of his rival lords to gain their allegiance then subjected them to unspeakable horrors before returning them to their families as broken souls were rife in the lands surrounding his. Daughters born to local families of note were often hidden away or sent to reside in safer dwellings in the south. Fear allowed Haigh to take as he pleased, and take he did. The lands of his arch-enemy Fogert, as well as Rwenor and Harris, were the only ones that had so far eluded him.
Haigh’s main rival in both wealth and land wa
s an equally vicious man. Trent Fogert had money. His lands were rich and fertile and lay many leagues to the west of Haigh’s barren borders. Stref Harris had land that divided the two powerful men, with Rwenor lying on the lower planes of the landscape. Fogert’s people flourished, yet his greed knew no bounds. Living in his spectacular castle with liveried servants and immaculate grounds, he loved to survey his estate from the top of his tallest tower. What became his unhealthy obsession from this vantage point, was the land that did not belong to him. He could see land owned by Stref Harris, as well as the fertile valley that made up Rwenor, and it enraged him. Wanting it all was Trent Fogert’s fixation. It was what drove him. It was all he spoke of, and was driving him slowly insane. Trent’s long-suffering wife, Emma, along with most that knew him could not stand the sight of her jowly, pompous husband. Instead, she took comfort from a handsome young footman who was only too happy to oblige his sweet-smelling, well-groomed mistress. Fogert had one son; a pasty individual who showed no interest in the outdoor pursuits that suited his father. Rather the boy had been caught and shamed with a footman with an eye for a certain type. In disgrace, the boy had been sent to complete his adolescence and schooling with an aunt who resided in the more fashionable and prosperous city due south of the highland plains.
Located between the rival men, Stref Harris had been a most unwelcome arrival. As a nephew, he had a legitimate right to claim his uncle’s lands and lairdship over them. Haigh and Fogert had, albeit reluctantly, abided by the highland laws and upheld the claim of the new Harris. Instead, they each decided to turn their attentions on their nearest lowland neighbour Rwenor. With its verdant lands under their command, they each harboured the desire to overwhelm the smaller clan of Rwenor. What followed was a series of unprovoked attacks on the outskirts of the croft, burnings, raids and vicious attacks. Each lord was then baffled by the retaliation of the new champion, the one they called Green Bow. His arrival and the mighty presence of the golden eagle had sent even the most hardened warriors scurrying back to their lords in fear. Both Haigh and Fogert, from their respective homes, now seethed and plotted, waiting for their next opportunity to strike at the lands of Rwenor.
* * * *
The quiet sound of hooves on the road ahead signalled the approach of a rider. The band of men drew their swords and faced the oncoming intruder.
“At ease, men,” came the familiar voice of their Laird.
Each man lowered his weapon in relief. They grinned as the shape of a lifeless body draped over the horse became apparent.
“I see we have a prisoner,” cackled the toothless man.
“Aye, Bill, seems we have. We’ll put him in the dugout and have a good look at him on the morrow.”
Bill’s laugh filled with perverse anticipation, and echoed around the quiet track. “He’ll rue the day he was caught by Stref Harris all right!”
The men mounted and moved off northwards, their hooves making the only sounds on the dusty track.
The night was at its blackest when they arrived at the gates of Harris Keep. The gatehouse doubled as a holding cell. Prisoners were a rarity in the Highlands as attacks were often bloody and merciless. Occasionally, a hostage would seal an alliance, but brute force was usually the only bargaining tool required. The still motionless body of Green Bow was tipped into the small round cell. A large lock was secured at the door and the tired group of raiders returned to their beds. All except Stref who paused to pour himself a large tumbler of fiery amber liquid. He marvelled at the feel of the burning trail the drink left in his body as it rushed down to pool in his gut.
“Ahhh!” he gasped as he raised the vessel to repeat the sensation. As with many things, the next gulp had less impact and he drained the cup, disappointed that he could not reclaim the thrill of the first taste. Out of the corner of his eye, Stref saw the buxom form of Anna, a cook in the keep. She had been known to warm his bed after a raiding trip, and was doubtless looking for the invitation to do the same. As with the drink though, Stref found himself increasingly tired of her obvious charms. The first time had been a heady sensation, it was true. Her soft fair skin and tumbling auburn locks had been a welcome port, and her fleshy breasts had tasted as sweet as her moist feminine core, but she had not the brains or wit to maintain his interest for very much longer.
Stref was restless. He had come to claim his uncle’s lands at the insistence of his mother. She had seen herself as the lady of the highland home. However, one look at the bleak landscape and crudely fashioned huts that surrounded the dark, dismal keep had sent her rushing straight back to the more hedonistic delights of the town. Stref loved the outdoors. He had grown to love the people who looked up to him and depended on him to maintain their protection. He enjoyed the raids and the battles, and had trained his warriors with a fierce pride, but Stref still yearned for something more. He wanted to be a father. He wanted sons and daughters that he could raise to love the land. He wanted a wife that would love it too. Someone who would bring light and companionship to his bleak and isolated life; someone who would love the people and the land with the same passion, and who would love him with a fervour that matched his own. Stref had seen the loveless marriage his parents shared. He had been the only offspring of the union, and once his mother had fulfilled that dismal duty, she had proceeded to live her own life in the company of the social elite that resided in the bustling city. Stref had stayed in the country home with his father, learning to hunt and fight, and respect his fellow man, no matter their social standing. His father had seen to it that his son was raised a highlander.
After the untimely death of his father, Stref had been forced to move to the city with his mother, where she had introduced him to what she deemed as “polite society.” The big burly highlander had been an interesting distraction to the social scene, until his boorish ways had grown tiresome to the elite. The scented ladies and their flirtatious interest had ceased, leaving Stref cast out. At that time, news of his uncle’s passing had reached him, and it had seemed prudent to take up the position as Lord of Harris. At twenty-seven, Stref had found the place where he belonged, and yearned to have his own family one day. He longed to lift a laughing boy above his head and swing him around in the fresh highland air, and teach his daughters to hunt and defend themselves. Stref often sat, almost hearing the happy sounds of laughter echoing through the hallways of his home. His heart ached as he brought himself back to the solitude of the room and the empty glass in his grasp.
Turning to smile at the round-faced cook who leaned beguilingly on the doorframe, Stref nodded his head with a lazy invitation towards the wooden stairway that spiralled up to his bed chamber. He once again resigned himself to a night of sexual satisfaction that always resulted in a hollow ache in his soul. Anna beamed and skipped towards Stref, her eyes alight with victory. Stref watched her, his desire for what was about to ensue thickening his girth and tenting his plaid. As she came into reach he stretched out his arms and grasped her rear with a vice-like grip. Pulling her into his arms, he lifted her off her feet. He growled as her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and he strode towards the bottom stair. Stref knew he would not allow himself to sleep whilst such an important prisoner was locked in his keep, so he decided he may as well pass the time until light with a willing mate. Ascending the stairs, Stref’s body focussed on the wench in his arms, but his thoughts were with the figure incarcerated in his dugout cell.
Chapter Three
Lena woke as the first rays of the new day penetrated her cell. Her initial sensation was pain. Her head throbbed as if it had a pulse of its own. A tentative exploration with her fingers revealed the cause. A large bump adorned the top of her skull. It protruded from her head and was tender to the touch. Lena recalled being held fast in the branches of a tree then nothing. She assumed, by the telltale wound that her abductor had used a weapon to ensure her docility.
The smell of her surroundings was the next thing that Lena noticed. The scent of freshly turned earth
filled her nostrils, its pungent aroma familiar to Lena. Her hand reached out to explore the cold, damp walls, which had been roughly dug to form the tiny enclosure.
Suddenly realising the enormity of her situation, Lena pulled herself to her feet and tried in vain to see some of her surroundings. The narrow opening in the door allowing just a thin shaft of light was too high for Lena to see out. Its purpose was evidently to allow some light into the cell without giving the advantage of orientation to the prisoner. Knowledge was an advantage, and Lena knew the more she could discover about her jailor, the better her chances of escape. She had the advantage of her anonymity—for now.
Lena recalled the voice that had spoken into her ear. Her body responded to the memory, shivering with desire. His voice had been like a caress, tingling along her skin and sending trails of delight through her. Lena could not let the prowess of the animal that held her, distract her from her purpose. Her people were at risk. Once word spread that Green Bow was no longer protecting Rwenor, it would leave the croft exposed to more of the raider parties that threatened the life of her people. With this thought in her mind, Lena felt more determined to free herself from the enclosure. She had seen with her own eyes the devastation that had rained down on her people. Women and children had been raped and maimed, houses had been torched. Men had been left for dead, tortured by brutal monsters that called themselves lairds. Lena baulked at the thought that she may even be at the hands of the Lord behind those raids. She imagined the possibilities of what her captor would do when he discovered her gender. She recalled her captor’s threat that she would be hung from the tower, and now this seemed an easy option compared to the havoc that could be wrought on her innocent body. Determined that he would never get near enough to discover her sex, Lena withdrew a small knife that she managed to conceal within her plaid. She had been unable to pull it from her garment last night in the tree, because she had been held too tightly, but the cool metal had teased her flesh with its potential to main the brute that ambushed her. Today would be her chance to get even. Her father had taught her well, and she was never without a few tricks up her sleeves, literally up her sleeve in this case. Positioning herself against the wall of sod, Lena leaned against the rustic surface, allowing her body to slide down into a stance that enabled her to be ready for action. Her cloak hung in folds around her, disguising her crouched position, and the hood covered her head. Frozen, she waited.
Captured by a Laird Page 2
