by Barbara Bard
Gregor, still stunned, stared at the body of the messenger as his once pink skin started to turn into an ashy white. Lord Henry, growing ever impatient, held up his sword and pointed the tip in his right-hand man’s direction.
“Now, Gregor,” he said, no sense of negotiation in his tone.
Gregor nodded, turned his horse, and prepared to head back the encampment. “As you wish, my Lord.”
As Gregor rode off, Henry placed his sword back in his sheathe, took a breath, and reminded himself that no one would stand in the way of him taking his future bride.
Not even his own father.
Chapter 10
The next morning when Finlay and Isla awoke, Isla had already left the comfort of her tent and set about mingling with the members of her clan as they packed up their belongings and prepared for the second day of their journey to the farthest reaches of the Highlands. Finlay felt his hand searching for her warmth as he awoke, still lost in the memories that had been made the night before as a pleasant chill from the wind infiltrated the tent and slowly brought him to his senses.
“Isla,” Finlay said just shy of a whisper. After realizing that she was not in his company, Finlay dressed himself and slowly emerged from the opening to the tent to make sure that no one outside was lurking around. With everyone in the camp occupied from packing up, he made his way to a small huddle where Isla was addressing all of the able-bodied men like she was commanding a military operation, which, in a way, she was. Keeping a safe distance, Finlay waited in the rears as Isla coordinated her people, admiring the strength of the woman he had come to know and love so tenderly the night before.
“We have a two-day ride ahead of us,” Isla said, her arms crossed and chin held high, doing her best to embody the mannerisms of her father. “I cannae stress how vigilant each and every one of ye must be during our journey.” She puffed her chest. “The Sassenach draw closer with every minute that passes. Lord Henry and his minions will do everything they can to make sure that each and every one of us our slaughtered withoot a seconds hesitation…”
Solemn looks overcame the men as they gripped onto the heels of their broadswords and hoped to one day return the pain that had bestowed to each and every one of them from the Sassenach. Their hearts were heavy, grim and forlorn faces hidden behind thick beards and physiques were somewhat weakened by thoughts of those they loved and lost.
Isla, stepping forward, looked at the red-haired man directly to her right. “Sean,” she said. “Ye have lost more than I can tally. Much has been taken from you.”
The man named Sean hung his head as his brother next to him placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“All of ye,” Isla continued, her gaze moving from one man to the next, “hae suffered more than any man should bear. But we must not give in. We must fight to take back our land and create new memories and a new place for the future generations of Scots. That be our only option, our only choice. Forget not yer strength, yer conviction, yer sense of duty, but make the intention, here and today, to no longer allow ye or yer people to be ruled by the tyranny of men the likes of Lord Henry.” She stood tall, proud. “Today is that day, the day in which we take back our lands. Our freedom.”
Grunts and nods of approval were passed around the camp, a new sense of optimism found among the clan as they patted each other on the back and shouted out “Aye!” in approval.
“Finish dismantling the camp,” Isla said, clapping her hands together. “The time tae move is soon.”
The men bid their Lady good tidings, dispersed, and went about setting up the caravan. Finlay, approaching Isla with a cautious and somewhat bashful step, looked Isla square in the eyes. “Quite a speech, me Lady.”
She shrugged as she turned away and walked toward the other side of the encampment. “Aye,” she replied. “A man I recently came into contact with inspired me tae, how does one put it, rally me people.”
“They look tae ye noo. Words of encouragement have led and won revolutions many a time before.”
“Hence, why I found it necessary to speak to them how I did. Ye were right, Finlay Baird. I can possess me doubts and fear—but it is not safe if me people know of them. It will inspire turmoil, nae hope.”
They rounded a corner, caught in a blind spot of the camp behind a wheel wagon currently unattended to. Checking over both shoulders to see that the coast was clear, Isla reached forward, grabbed Finlay by his furs, and planted her lips passionately on his. The two felt their hands moving over different parts of each other’s bodies as they embraced, once again lost in a moment shared only by the two of them.
“Careful, me Lady,” Finlay said as he slowly parted his lips from hers. “Ye have already ruined half of my clothes last night.”
Her arms around his neck, Isla let out a light laugh. “Forgive me, Finlay Baird. Something has overcome my senses since you arrived in our encampment.”
Finlay nodded, caressing her cheek with his finger and feeling his heart warm at the tender quality of her skin. “The same,” he said. “I cannae explain it.”
Hearing the noise of an approaching member of the clan, the two broke the embrace and stood a couple of feet apart, waiting for the clan member, hoisting around a crate a food that he loaded into the wheel wagon, to leave before Isla said: “I dinnae want tae dictate or try to predict the future,” she said, “but…if ye…” she began to blush, holding her hand to her mouth as Finlay started to beam.
“What is it?” he asked.
It took her a moment to reply. “I cannae say fer certain. I am not sure what it is that I am feeling…”
Finlay nodded reassuringly, himself searching for words and a way to express the storm of emotions brewing inside of him as his gaze wandered to the hills off to the right about two hundred yards from the camp. As he opened his mouth to offer Isla some solace, Finlay made out the outline of a rider on a pale horse pacing to-and-fro on a ravine.
His eyes went wide. He gritted his teeth. Isla could sense the dismay in his demeanor as she looked to her right and said: “What is it?”
Finlay was already moving away toward his steed. “It’s begun,” he said. “That bastard Henry has already arrived.”
The scout that Lord Henry dispatched to locate Isla and the members of her clan had taken a shortcut from the designated route provided to him by Henry’s right hand man, Gregor. He had ended up stumbling across the camp two-and-half hours after departing, and found himself elated when he saw, from the top of a ravine, a small collection of brutal and savage highlanders in the midst of disassembling their camp.
“Splendid,” the scout said to himself, unfurling a piece of parchment to jot down notes on how many people he was laying eyes on. “The Lord will revel in this. I will win favor with him after this undoubtedly.”
Distracted, his head hung low and unaware that a highlander by the name of Finlay Baird had seen him from deep inside the encampment, the scout took a tally of everything he saw to provide a thorough report to his Lord. By the time he raised his head to get another glimpse he heard the approaching rumble that was the undeniable beating of hoof prints approaching his direction from the light.
“Oh, hell,” the scout cursed, searching for the source of the hoof beats. By the time he had laid eyes on the source of the noise, the scout spotted two men bearing down on him from fifty yards away as they descended their terrain toward his position. Securing the reins on his horse, the scout kicked at the sides of his steed and turned back in the direction he had come.
“Stop!” one of the men on horseback shouted after him. “Stop, ye Sassenach bastard!”
The scout did not bother to turn or look as he gripped tightly on the reins and cursed at the steed to move faster than the animal was able. He rode for a half-mile, the men behind him closing the distance with each moment that passed as the one with the red beard flanked him on the right, and the man known as Finlay Baird flanked him on the left. Knowing he was out of options, the scout began reaching
toward the sword sticking out of the belt on his hip, prepared to defend himself not for sake of protecting information for his Lord, but for nothing more than the sheer preservation of his own life.
Finlay, on the man’s left, knew from the way the scout was fumbling about gripping onto his sword that the man was not one who would hold up well in a sword fight. Finlay knew that if he engaged the man in a duel, he would have to put him down quickly to stave off the wild and uncoordinated blows the man was sure to take.
Searching for a way to take the man alive, Finlay’s attention momentarily fell to the grass and the peppering of small rocks and pebbles scattered throughout. Leaning to his right and gripping his thighs onto the saddle with all the strength he could muster, Finlay reached his hand out toward the ground, just mere inches away, scrambling to grip onto a piece of rock as his horse continued to charge forward. Eventually gripping onto a small and jagged piece of rock, Finlay scooped it up, held it high over his head, and took aim.
The scout, unsheathing his sword and preparing to strike at the man with the red beard coming in on his right, raised the sword high and prepared to take a scything swing—but he was pelted in the back of his head and knocked off his horse, tumbling over himself and becoming trampled by his steed as Finlay and the man with him came to a halt beside the fallen scout.
Finlay looked up to the man with him. “How did I do, Sean?”
Sean grinned, hopping off his saddle and moving toward the somewhat mangled scout who now sported a broken arm on top of his bruised ego. “Nae bad, Finlay Baird,” he replied, crouching down on one knee in front of the scout. “Poor bastard looks a tad worse fer the wear though…”
The scout, groaning and mumbling, turned on his back and looked at the brute and terrifying-looking men standing over him. “Please,” he said, out of breath and praying in his head that God would show mercy. “Please, don’t kill me…”
“We won’t,” Finlay replied. “At least not until Lady Isla says so…”
They then hauled the scout up to his feet, the scout hollering and wailing in pain as they restrained him and returned him to the camp.
Isla waited with Denholm and a small group of her clan back at the encampment, staring nothing but fire at the scout as he was laid at her feet. Seconds that felt like minutes passed as the man hung his head and Isla stood over him with the same presence that a giant might give off, scowling and resisting the urge to kick the man in the chin as she said: “Ye are one of Lord Henry’s men. Are ye nae?”
The scout didn’t answer. Isla got down on one knee and tilted up his chin with her finger. “Ye are in a pot of boiling water nae, me dear nobleman,” she said. “Let’s see what ye know before we turn up the heat.”
Nodding to her men, Sean and Finlay grabbed the man by the arms and hauled him into Isla’s tent. Denholm made it a point o grab rope to bind the man as he followed after him—along with a jagged dagger to help assist in getting the man to talk.
Chapter 11
Denholm struck the scout with such ferocity that it nearly threw the bound man onto his side. Then he shook the pain from his hand as he brought himself nose-to-nose with the scout and scowled with an intensity that one might associated with a mad dog. “I say that we kill the bastard before he has a chance tae breathe a single word,” he seethed. “He deserves nae a thing less…”
Isla, standing behind Denholm and flanked on either side by Finlay and Sean, held up her palm. “That’s enough, Denholm. We cannae learn anything if we kill this man before the proper questions are asked.”
“Calling him a man is a far stretch from the truth.”
“Denholm.”
Denholm stood back, rubbing the soreness from the hand that he used to strike the scout and allowed himself a few paces of space. “If ye see fit,” he said, “allow me tae be the one who purges this man’s putrid soul from the rancid slab of meat that is his body.”
“Outside, Denholm,” Isla ordered, her tone sounding more like the Lady of the clan than an empathetic sibling. “Eyes and ears are nae doubt attempting to pry into this conversation.”
Denholm left with a reluctant stomp in his step. He didn’t like Isla’s orders, but he would damn sure obey them. “Aye, me Lady….Aye.”
Isla cast a subtle look to Finlay, relaying to him that she would soon need his brawn to elicit the answers from the messengers bound in front of her. Finlay took a stern step forward, staring at the messenger like a wild beast waiting for his pack to give the order to kill.
Isla nodded to the messenger. “What is yer name?”
The messenger spit on the floor, his thick Sassenach accent saturating his words.
“Bloody whore. I don’t answer to whores.”
Finlay arched an eyebrow in Isla’s direction—May I?
Isla took a beat. And then she nodded. With all the force he could muster, Finlay planted a punch on the messenger’s jaw and made him think he was staring up at nighttime stars for the briefest of moments.
“I will ask ye again,” Isla said, not disturbed by the sight of violence in the slightest. “What is yer name?”
The messenger, his pride and his jaw bruised, took a moment, diverted his gaze and said: “Jory. Jory Lark.”
“Jory Lark,” Isla repeated. “My name is Lady Isla of clan Reilly. Ye have been caught trespassing on our lands.”
“This land belongs to the King,” Jory interjected. “The King, not you savages.”
Isla said nothing—but Finlay knew that it was his cue to act. He reached out, grabbed the messenger by the throat, and squeezed. “Ye are one squeeze fae having yer throat broken, lad. Answer my Lady’s questions, or I will kill ye where ye sit.”
Finlay released his grip on the messenger’s throat and stood back. The messenger coughed and drew a breath, his ego now fading as fear started to take a firm grip of his heart. “T-they,” he stammered. “—My people will be looking for me. They will not stop until they find me.”
“And who be they?” Isla inquired.
“Lord Enticknap of Sanford. His father is Earl Simon of Sanford.”
Isla and Finlay looked at one another, chagrined but not stunned at all by the messenger’s claim.
“Where is their encampment?” Finlay asked. “Tell us where it is.”
The messenger shook his head. “They will kill me.”
“I will kill ye…” Finlay let his hands fall to his sides so his tree root-sized arms would be on full display to the messenger. “And believe when I tell ye that the way I will kill ye will be far more ruthless and slow than those of your Sassenach masters.”
The messenger laughed. “Fool. Our forces outnumber yours by a great stretch. To try and think that you stand a chance is tantamount to nothing shy of a slaughter.”
“It is clear,” Isla said, “that ye do nae ken the will of the Scottish. We will defend ourselves and every last member of our clan with a might ye hae never seen. We will cause so much strife for your Lord that the entire collective of yer Sassenach army will never want to step foot in these lands again.”
The messenger squinted, looking at Isla like he was examining a painting. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said with a satisfied timbre. “The one that Lord Henry is after.”
Isla felt her gut turning into a knot; memories of her slain husband flooding her mind will full force.
“Yes,” the messenger seethed. “Lady Isla of clan Reilly. As I said, you do not know how desperate Lord Henry of Sanford is to make you his bride.”
She gritted her teeth. “I will never take that bastard’s hand in marriage. I wid rather die a thousand deaths and perish than stand by his side.”
“Believe me—the fate he has in store for you will be worse than the one you are proposing.” The messenger puffed his chest, leaning forward as his face turned a bitter shade of red. “He will burn these lands, ravage your people, kill every last man, woman, and child standing in his way to see that his will and his wants are fulfilled!
“You think that you can escape? You think that you can run and hide? There is nowhere that you can go, no place that you will find salvation from my Lord’s intentions. You can torture me. You can kill me. You can do everything you can to try and stop the inevitable, but nothing, nothing will change the fate that awaits ye. Nothing!”
Isla turned away, equally fearful as she was enraged by the sight of the messenger and the words that were spilling from his hateful mouth. She took a moment, Finlay offering up silent support with just his physical presence. She knew that he would do whatever she needed to help assist in her plight, and that of her people.
She turned back and faced the messenger. “I will ask ye one last time,” she said, calm and collected. “If ye continue to refuse me questions, Finlay Baird will see to it that ye live tae regret every one of these blasphemous insults ye have offered up here today.” She stepped closer, her face within inches of Jory’s. “I promise ye,” she said in a surreptitious tone, “ye have not seen suffering the likes of which I know that Finlay Baird can bestow upon ye…”
