by Barbara Bard
Inside his tent, arms draped over the oak chair bejeweled with stolen rubies and gems from slaughtered Scotsmen, Lord Henry’s face slackened as he pulled up the bottle of rum gripped in his hand and took a long and hard swig that would make most men cough from the harsh kick.
“My Lord,” he heard Gregor call out from just outside the tent.
Lord Henry grunted and strived through his drunken stupor to lean forward and hunch over in his chair. “Yes, my good man, Gregor,” he said with a bite. “By all means—regale me with your presence.”
Gregor, a hesitancy in his step as he bowed his head and entered, said: “Your…woman has arrived.”
Lord Henry showcased his yellow teeth. “Send her in, my good man.”
Gregor bowed, left the tent, and moments later a fair-haired girl with a half-forced smile stepped inside, dressed down in a plain set of crème-colored commoners clothing as she stood before Lord Henry with her fingers entwined. “My Lord,” she said with a sheepish bow.
Lord Henry leaned back in his chair, his head resting sluggishly against the backing as he took a long moment to analyze the woman in front of him. He once more brought the bottle of whiskey to his lips, swigged, wiped it with the back of his hand and said: “Name.”
The woman tucked a loose stand of hair behind her ear. “Caitlyn,” she said.
Lord Henry pouted his lip. “How old are you?”
“19.”
He shook his head. “I said for my man to bring me a person who possessed youth—not the ability to lie...”
Caitlyn swallowed the lump in her throat. “I am 21, my Lord.”
Lord Henry cocked his head and perched forward. “You are English,” he said. “I don’t sense that detestable Scottish accent in your words.”
“I am, my Lord.”
“Where from?”
“Oxford, my Lord.”
“And how is it you managed to end up hear in the retched Highlands?”
She drew a breath. “I was to be wed to a nobleman. He brought me here to stake his claim in an area of the Highlands.”
“Who was your husband-to-be?”
“Lord Edgar of Somervale.” She hung her head. “He was murdered by a Highlander not long after our arrival.”
Lord Henry’s smile melted into a frown, that frown then turned into a scowl, and then after a moment his drunken haze once again overcame him, and Lord Henry let out a laugh that nearly shook the flaps of the tent.
Caitlyn squinted her confusion, biting her lip and feel dismayed at Lord Henry’s amusement at the death of her loved one.
“Lord Edgar of Somervale,” Lord Henry said. “I knew of him. Not much of a fighter. The man had quite a reputation for, how should I put it, never knowing how to keep his tip up in a fight. Ha!” The laughter continued as Caitlyn said nothing, her revulsion to Lord Henry of Sanford now increasing with each word he spoke.
Lord Henry sat up straight, his chin held high as he took on his regal persona. “Turn around,” he said.
Caitlyn, slowly, turned around in a circle as Lord Henry noted her every curve and feature. She came in a full circle, stopped, and once more looked him in the eyes.
“How is it,” Lord Henry said, “that a woman meant to be wed by an English Lord ends up a whore?”
Caitlyn’s history made her eyes well. She did not want to confess her past to him—but she knew the worst would come to her if she didn’t. “I…” she began, stammering through her words. “Lord Edgar of Somervale’s father, Earl Kingsley of Somervale…” she nearly broke into tears, “blamed me for the death of his son. He made me an outcast. He made sure that I did not return to England. I was stripped of everything. I had not a coin to my name or the ability to survive on my own.”
Lord Henry shrugged, not feeling the slightest bit of sympathy. “So, you whored yourself to survive. Yes? You move from one Englishman’s bed to another for the sake of having a full stomach. A bed. A way to live…No?”
Caitlyn said nothing. But it was a confirmation of everything.
Lord Henry then stood from his chair, finished of the remnants of the bottle, and smashed it against the wood. He moved step-over-step, a drunken skip in his walk as he stood in front of Caitlyn and stared down at her with a judgmental gaze.
Caitlyn wanted to recoil. The stench of alcohol on the Lord’s breath was enough to make her feel as if she were going to pass out. But she stood tall; doing what needed to be done to further live a life she had never planned on living.
Lord Henry smiled, his hand reaching up to cusp the left side of her face and drawing her in close with a gentle a careful pull. The pull then became somewhat violent as the hand then grabbed a fistful of her hair and cocked her head to the side. “Do you really think,” he seethed, Caitlyn’s eyes watering and trying not to showcase her displeasure, “that I would bed some common English no-name who’s spread her legs open for more men than a gaggle of the King’s dancers?”
“My Lord—” she offered up in a gasping protest.
“Enough. I tire of you. I want nothing that you have to offer.” He shoved her away, Caitlyn stumbling and falling to the ground. “Get out of here,” he bid her with a dismissive gesture. “Find another one of the men to help pay for your meals, whore.”
Caitlyn retreated from the tent, stifling tears and cries with the back of her hand as Lord Henry moved to the polished cabinet near his bed and produced another bottle of expensive rum he had stored amongst a collection.
Gregor entered the room as Lord Henry bit the cork with his teeth and spit it to the ground. “My Lord—”
Lord Henry held up a ring-covered finger to cut his man off. “Next time I ask for company,” he said, “better your standards for what that company looks like.”
A nod. “Apologies, my Lord. But it…it appears we have another problem.”
“Naturally. Solving crises seems to be the only things that occupy my time…What is it this time?”
“Our scout, Jory, did not return from his ride.”
“And?”
“He is our best scout, my Lord. It is uncharacteristic of him to not be prompt. I worry that perhaps he has been captured by the Highlanders, perhaps worse.”
Lord Henry took a moment as he pulled another long swig from the bottle. A few more pulls and he would undoubtedly fall asleep with a throbbing head awaiting him in the morning.
Lord Henry looked at Gregor with an irked set of eyes. “How sure are you? I do not seek to cause an uproar over nothing more than your bad feelings.”
“I sent another man to see if he could catch up with Jory. He just returned, and with this…” Gregor then produced a small bundle of leathers. “This was from Jory’s saddle. It was found on top of a cliff. Our man said that the place he found it in was looking down on an area that had recently been occupied.”
Lord Henry, gritting his teeth to the point that they felt they might crack, approached Gregor and took the bits of saddle from his hand. He gripped it tight, the leather crunching and twisting in his fist before Lord Henry threw it to the ground. “Bring him here,” he ordered as he turned around.
“The scout, my Lord?”
“Yes, you bloody fool!”
Gregor retreated quickly and returned with the scout, a bearded man with a relaxed expression, back into the tent. “This is the man, my Lord,” Gregor stated.
Lord Henry looked upon the man with an inquisitive gaze. “What is your name?”
“Stephen, my Lord.”
“Well, Stephen. Tell me about what you find.”
Stephen gestured to Gregor. “Same as I told Gregor, my Lord. I rode for several hours to try and pick up the whereabouts of Jory. I found bits of his saddle on a cliff that overlooked an area that had been trampled and used by a strong number of individuals, over 50 in my count from my deductions, my Lord.”
Lord Henry shook his head and held onto his bottle of rum with both hands. “Enough is enough,” he said. “These bloody Scotsmen are sniffing us ou
t…We must move, with all of our numbers in full force.” He looked to Stephen. “Can you track them? You tilt your head with the arrogance of man who possesses that kind of skill, do you not?”
Stephen shifted his weight cockily and smirked. “Yes, my Lord. I do possess said skills.”
“Good. Then gather the men. We will track them all down and end this once and for all.”
Gregor took a step forward in protest. “My Lord, your father will be here soon. He has given us specific orders to not move from this area.”
“To hell with my father…”
Gregor felt his skin turning hot. He had known Lord Henry for quite some time. He had been the only one who was able to occasionally get through to him when the man wasn’t sporting a level mindset. And now, in that very moment, he knew that between Lord Henry of Sanford’s lust and greed and gluttony that he was on the cusp of making choices that might endanger them all.
“Might I have a moment alone in your council, my Lord?” he requested with a nod and the politest of tones.
Lord Henry pondered for a brief moment—he nodded.
Gregor dismissed Stephen from the tent and waited for a few moments to pass before moving with intention toward Lord Henry. “My Lord,” he said. “I must confess my honesty.”
Lord Henry took another swig of his rum and plopped back down in his chair. “If you are known for one thing it is speaking your mind, my dear man.”
“Then I hope that you do not find me to be disrespectful when I say that you are not seeing the situation with a clear set of eyes.”
Lord Henry smiled. “My, my, my…Do you really think so?”
“I do, my Lord. But it is not because you are a fool—”
“Thank you for that sentiment.”
“—it is because the stress of this campaign has begun to wear on you. You have been fighting and travelling and commanding for a relentless amount of time. The Earl will be here soon, and we must convince him that your appointment to take over these lands was not a foolish one.” Lord Henry felt the sting as he squeezed the neck of his bottle with a vice-like grip as Gregor held his hands together like he was praying. “Henry,” Gregor said like a friend. “Just rest now. Allow me to send out a search party for that clan. We will find them, have no doubt, but if you do not take a brief respite, I fear that it may leave you worse off.”
Lord Henry said nothing for some time as he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. His face then went slack, a depleted quality in his eyes as he nodded his head and stood up. Somewhat bashful, he walked up to Gregor and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are wise, my friend,” he said, sincerity in his tone. “You have always challenged me when you felt I needed it the most.”
A nod from Gregor. “I serve you, my Lord. You are my closest ally, and dare I say friend.”
Lord Henry smirked. “Good man.” He squinted, his tone an octave higher now. “But may I be honest about one thing?”
“Always, my Lord.”
Lord Henry leaned into his friend’s ear. “I hate it when my friends try to challenge my authority.” He then smashed the bottle against the left side of Gregor’s skull, the alcohol dousing them both and discombobulating Gregor as Lord Henry took a broken shard from the floor, gripped it until it cut his hand, and then he set about slicing Gregor’s throat. Gregor then fell and bled on the ground, staring up in wide-eyed incredulity as his Lord stepped over him and called out: “Stephen.”
Stephen entered as Lord Henry dabbed at the cut in his hand with a piece of Gregor’s tunic that he ripped away at the waist. “My Lord?” Stephen said, not moved by the sight of the man dying in front of him.
“Tell me,” Lord Henry said, gesturing to the writhing and bleeding Gregor, “how would you react if I told you that I sliced the throat of the man that is dying in front of you because he said something truthful?”
Stephen thought about it and shrugged. “It does not bother me in the slightest, my Lord—you are the one who is in command.”
Lord Henry sighed. “Well, that is all and well and the exact kind of quality I want in my right-hand man, so consider yourself as such.”
Stephen bowed. “It’s an honor, my Lord.”
“Splendid. A wonderful day it must be for you,” he nodded toward Gregor. “Dispose of that, and then gather ten of your best swordsmen.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Stephen bid before grabbing the almost deceased Gregor by his arms and dragged him out of the tent.
Lord Henry sipped on the last of his whiskey as Gregor’s body left a smeared trail of blood in the grass as he was dragged out, the sight of his pale skin, panic-stricken eyes, and broken heart not bothering or unnerving him. Not in the slightest.
A few minutes later and Stephen reentered the tent with ten of the brawniest and most lethal men he had at his disposal, each one standing tall and proud and dutiful like mastiffs waiting for their master to give them a command.
“All of you,” Lord Henry began, not looking at anyone directly in the eye, “will hunt down the party that killed Jory. They will have a woman with them who goes by the name of Isla. She is, and I must stress this, the only one who will survive. I want the rest killed and burned until their ashes are carried by the wind into nothingness…Do you understand?”
Nods and yes replies were exchanged.
“Then go,” Lord Henry said. “Find my bride and come back…or don’t come back at all.”
Chapter 14
Isla didn’t know the last time the air had smelled so sweet. She knew that it had partly to do with her time with Finlay. Something about their relationship had brought back feelings that she hadn’t experienced since she lost her love so long ago. She felt revitalized, hopeful, perhaps. Between the physical love they shared together and the support he had brought to their clan, she felt as if maybe, just maybe, they had a fighting chance at survival.
Leading the caravan of her clan with Finlay riding beside her, Isla did her best to hide the smile that seemed to be with her since the wee hours of the morning. It was near midday, the sun high in the sky and a cool breeze licking at her skin as the caravan descended down a green terrain covered with a light peppering of clouds overhead.
Finlay, hiding his own beam, nodded to Isla. “Something seems tae be keeping ye in good spirits today, me Lady.”
She shrugged. “Aye. I believe it tae be the weather. It smiles down on the clan this day.”
“Aye. The weather. That must be it...”
The two exchanged a quick glance before Gavina called out from atop the wheel wagon behind them being driven by Denholm. “Isla!” she said. “When can I ride a horse? I tire of being in the wagon with the rest of the children!”
“Because ye are a child, Gavina,” Isla called back tenderly. “Once ye have a few more inches on ye, we shall consider giving you a horse.”
“What kind of shite is that?”
Denholm laughed. Finlay laughed. Isla shook her head. “That be the last time ye speak in such tones, Gavina.”
“Just give me a pair of Denholm’ boots! That shall make me tall enough tae ride a horse.”
“That’s enough, Gavina.”
Gavina slumped back against the wagon. Finlay then slowed his horse in response, double backed, and rode alongside her. “Have ye not ridden before, love?”
Gavina pouted her lip and shook her head.
Finlay looked ahead to Isla, nodded to Gavina, and waited for her permission. Isla nodded back in reply.
Finlay reached out to Gavina. “Come, child. Ride with me.” Gavina descended the wagon with glee and slid in front of Finlay on the saddle. “All right,” Finlay continued, “grab the reins like so.” He showed her how to hold a grip on the leather before passing them over to Gavina.
Gavina gripped on tight with her small pink hands the size of a small apple and smiled with wide-eyed delight. “Look, Isla, look!” she cried. “I am riding!”
Isla cast a look over her shoulder and smirked. “Aye,
lass. Ye are a natural.”
“Watch! I will one day be the fastest rider in all of the Highlands!”
Finlay playfully nudged the child. “I believe this tae be true, my dear…”
In the rear of the caravan, as Finlay went about teaching Gavina the finer points of riding, Sean, keep a watchful eye on the terrain, perked up on his saddle as he heard a gathering noise behind him. He halted his steed, turned around, and held a hand over his eyes as he looked back on the area the caravan had just cut through.
