Duncan stepped toward her and bent on one knee. “We be grateful to ya lass. Twould be our great privilege to see ya to yer destination. We will defend yer life and yer honor to our deaths.” His expression was quite serious.
Years of experience with cruel and harsh men, warned her not to trust the ones standing before her. “What do you know of my honor,” Aishlinn asked. Why they would make such a pledge?
Duncan studied her for a moment. “Ye killed the Earl of Penrith, did ye not?” It was statement, not a question.
“Aye, I did,” she answered attempting to sound stronger than she actually felt at the moment.
“Then lass,” Duncan said, “I owe ye a lifetime debt of gratitude for what ye’ve done.” He could tell she was quite perplexed. He raised an eyebrow, then with a wry smile and a wink he said, “Ya see, lass, ya saved me from havin’ to kill the whoreson meself!”
******
The fire burned steadily as they all huddled around it. Aishlinn was wrapped in several plaids and Duncan sat uncomfortably close to her. The tears had stopped, but the shivers and doubt running through her had not. She was still very leery of these men.
The day was growing darker and the fire cast flickering shadows upon them. They had sat for some time in quiet reverie, each of them lost in his own thoughts. It was Manghus’ deep voice that finally broke the silence. Quietly he began to explain why they were so glad to hear of the untimely passing of the Earl of Penrith. Duncan remained quiet, absentmindedly poked a long stick at the fire.
Manghus explained that some ten and seven years ago the Earl of Penrith had ordered the destruction of a village. The Earl had been convinced that someone in that village had stolen several pigs from his lands. Instead of searching out the reivers individually, the bastard had ordered the destruction of the entire village. The earl meant it a lesson to anyone who would steal from him or would offer refuge to those who hid from him.
“Duncan was just a lad at the time,” Manghus told her, his voice laced with sadness. “Only eight when it happened.” He paused for a moment as he stared blankly at the fire. Aishlinn wondered if he wasn’t staring at something from his own past. “Twas Duncan’s village. Only three lads survived it. Duncan be one of them.”
From the looks on the faces of the men around her she knew the story had to be true. No one could have feigned the pain, sadness and regret she saw in their eyes. Her heart broke for the men. She knew their pain well. An odd sense of relief washed over her for now she could understand why they had made their pledge to protect her.
“Aye,” Duncan said, growing disgusted at the flood of memories. Angrily he tossed the stick into the fire. “And Findley and Richard be the others.” He was done reliving it. Not a day had passed since the murders of his family and friends that he did not think of killing the man responsible. Many nights he had lain awake thinking of all the different ways he could kill the Earl of Penrith. Although he was glad to hear of the earl’s death a very large part of him wished it had been at his own hands.
He looked at Aishlinn and tried to guess her age. She looked to be around ten and five or six at the most. He could not get over how wee and tiny she appeared. Yet she had somehow managed to kill the man who had left him an orphan so many years ago. He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards her as well as a bit of admiration.
He wondered what else the earl had done to her besides the severe beating. Knowing the earl’s reputation, Duncan was certain the bastard had raped her. He imagined it would take a very long time for her to recover from such a thing, if recovery were even possible.
Huddled under the several plaids they had wrapped her in she still shivered. Duncan could see she fought against sleep for every few moments her head would list to the side before she would jerk and try to right herself. He knew she must be terrified and why shouldn’t she be? She had been through a hellish ordeal and was now alone in the forest with six strange men. He wondered how long it would be before she could trust anyone again.
He slapped his forehead with his hand as it dawned on him that she was still in her wet clothes! She would certainly catch her death of cold.
“Lass! Me apologies for being a thoughtless man.” He went to his pack and pulled out tunic, trews and wool leggings and brought them to her. “Ye be still wearin’ yer wet things. Let me help ya get out of them and into somethin’ dry.”
How dare he suggest such a thing! Moirra was right. Highlanders may have a strong sense of honor, but they were beastly men just the same.
Sensing her mortification, Duncan did his best not to laugh out loud. “Lass! I be promisin’ I’ll not take advantage of the situation. I mean only to help ye. Me intentions be honorable.”
It took some convincing and only after each man took an oath to impale himself on his own sword should he so much as think of catching a glimpse at her whilst she changed, she finally relented. Duncan carried her to a large pine tree where he took great care in setting her upon her feet. He promised to stand guard, not to peek, and not to abandon her.
With aching muscles she slowly removed her wet dress and shift. They were soaked and landed on the ground with a wet thud. The cool early evening air instantly brought chill bumps to her bare skin. She wished she could move more quickly, but her aching bones and unrelenting shivers made moving at anything other than a snail’s pace nearly impossible.
She donned the linen tunic, its hem landing just past her knees. She knew she looked ridiculous. The course linen scratched at the welts and cuts on her back but at least it was dry clothing. The trews were just as enormous! The legs were far too long even after rolling them up a few times. She imagined she could have fit both her legs into just one of the legs of the trews. And they would not stay put! Frustrated she huffed and grabbed the waist of the trews with both hands. With the leggings in one hand she stepped from behind the tree, kicking her wet clothing with her bare toes.
The laugh escaped Duncan’s mouth before he had a chance to stifle it. “Ya’ve been swallowed whole by a beast made of cloth!”
Honorable men, my foot! Aishlinn thought to herself. An honorable man would not laugh at a young woman in her distress! Had she not been so tired and cold and had not every inch of her body hurt beyond measure she most assuredly would have kicked him in his knee.
Still laughing he apologized for he knew he had embarrassed her but he could not help it. He carried her back to the fire and shot a look at his men that warned them not to laugh as he did his best to stifle another chuckle.
Rather gently he put her down and bade her stand still while he went to his pack and drew out a belt. She teetered and struggled not to keel over. Before she realized it, Rowan stood next to her and offered his hands for support so that she would not fall. She was in the process of thanking him when she caught sight of the belt in Duncan’s hands. Duncan could see the fear rising up in her as she lowered her head and began to shrink away.
“Tis only to hold the trews up lass, nothing more.” He spoke softly and was sorry that he had frightened her. He carefully drew the belt around her small waist and cinched it as taught as he could. ‘Twasn’t perfect and the trews did slip a bit, but at least it kept them from falling off completely. Quietly she thanked him as he and Rowan led her back to the fire.
After settling her in and covering her with plaids, they shared their evening meal with her. She was famished but her stomach felt uneasy and she was able to eat only a little. The oatcakes were nearly as chewy as the dried beef, but she was very grateful to have something in her stomach.
The exhaustion was overwhelming, and her eyelids grew heavier. Unable to fight the weariness any longer, she lay down upon the plaid. With no strength left to cover her own tired and cold body, she kept still as Duncan pulled the plaids over her shoulders. His lips curved into a warm smile as he tucked the blankets under her chin. “Are ya warm lass?” She could hear the genuine concern in his voice and it surprised her. Not since her mother and Moirra had passed ha
d anyone shown her any kind of concern, save for Baltair who had helped her escape. She was used to harsh words and criticisms, not kind gestures. She nodded her head and closed her eyes.
Her body wanted desperately to sleep but her mind would not surrender to it. Soft quiet tears came again. She could do nothing to stop them any more than the memories that brought them. She did not want the men to think her weak or foolish so she pulled the plaid over her head to cry unnoticed.
She tried to unfurl her fingers to wipe away the tears, but they seemed frozen now after riding for Heaven-only-knew how many days with a death grip upon the reins of her mare. The cuts in her back stung, her face and eyes throbbed obstinately. She tried to taking in a deep breath, but the action caused pain to shoot through her ribs and down her spine.
She longed for her mum, for Moirra and for a quiet, simple life. She wanted a home of her own where she would always be and feel safe. Why could she not be more like her mum, strong and beautiful? Perhaps if she had been either of those things her life would have been so different.
Shivering, she thought back to the day the brothers had told her she would be going to work in Castle Firth. They had not allowed her to take anything with her save for the clothes on her back and the blanket her mother had made for her when she was born. Had she not been so relieved to leave her brothers, she would have protested more adamantly about taking more of her mother’s things with her. The blanket had been the only thing from her childhood she had left to remind of her mother. Now it was gone forever, tucked under the pallet at Castle Firth.
Aishlinn had learned a few short days after arriving at Firth that her brothers had traded her to work there. They had traded her for two sheep. That was all she had been worth to them. The thought pricked at her heart now, though she should not have been surprised by it. They had never been fond of her to begin with. Still, it stung at her pride to think she was of so little value to them. Would anyone ever think her worth more than two sheep?
Pulling the plaid tighter, she tried to will her mind to stop wandering. What made her think she had worth or value? Hadn’t she nearly been born out of wedlock? She had never learned the true identity of the man who had fathered her. Had her mother loved him and did he love her? Was he a good man? And what had caused his death?
Had Broc not married the pregnant Laiden who knows how Aishlinn’s life could have turned out? Would it have been possible to be worse than it was?
Aishlinn knew that Broc had loved her mother, had loved her dearly. But looking back, she knew that although her mother had been warm towards Broc, it was more likely than not out of a sense of gratitude. She didn’t think it possible that her mum could have truly loved the cold and distant man.
She had another go at taking a deep breath, a bit more slowly this time. Another jolt of pain shot through her ribs. Perhaps if she quit breathing all together the pain would eventually subside. At the rate she was going, she thought she might have to be dead a good sinnight or two before the pain would ever leave her body.
She tried to focus on something other than the agony and tried to concentrate of the few good memories she had left of her mum and her childhood. She vividly remembered having laughed often as a child. Never in the presence of Broc or her brothers however, for it was quite evident that none of them enjoyed laughter. Unless it was at Aishlinn’s expense. Nay, the laughter never subsided then!
Was there a chance that she could leave her past behind and start anew? If she could find an inner strength, find some part of her mother inside her soul, then maybe she could. Perhaps she could be strong and take control of her own life from this point forward. She was, after all, Laiden’s daughter.
Six
They waited for the lass to fall asleep before Duncan, Rowan and Findley broke away from the fire. They left the others behind to watch over the lass. They had much to discuss amongst themselves and did not want her to overhear their conversation. Duncan grabbed Aishlinn’s dress and shift that had been drying on a branch near the fire and they walked back towards the stream. Not one man spoke until they were certain their voices would not carry.
“Why,” Rowan began, slipping back into the Gaelic. “Why would the earl skelp a wee lass so?” He had a good idea as to why, but did not want to say it aloud.
“We ken the earl well Rowan. Evil needs no reason to skelp or to kill,” Duncan told him. None of them doubted the Earl’s cruelty as they had witnessed it themselves at very young ages.
Rowan took the dress from Duncan and studied it. “Tis been cut clean from top to bottom.” Duncan thought of it and an image of the earl standing over a terrified Aishlinn came to his mind. As clearly as he stood there now, he could see the earl draw the dagger and cut her dress. How terrified she must have been! He did his best to quash the anger and disgust that swelled in his stomach.
Aishlinn was no kin to him, as complete a stranger as any, but that mattered naught. He could not think of one thing that would cause a lass or a woman to deserve such treatment. He thought of Aishlinn and how light her body had felt when he pulled her from the water. He could not imagine a man going after one so young and the thought sickened him.
“Do ya really believe that wee lass could have killed the earl?” Findley asked, motioning his head back in the direction of their camp.
“Aye, I do,” Duncan said. One look at her battered body was all he needed to be convinced she had done it and that it had been self-defense. He imagined he would have done the same had he been in her position.
“Her dress be thread bare and worn,” Rowan said. “Many a time its been patched and sewn together.” He paused for a moment. “And no shoes upon her feet!” He was appalled.
The same thoughts bothered Duncan as well. Another wave of anger began to wash over him as he stood with his men trying to sort it all out.
“And her hair!” Findley said. “Tis cut short!” He shook his head, disgusted with the notion.
Duncan knew plenty a Highlander woman who would rather have her eyes pulled clean from their sockets by ravens than to have her hair cut. Aishlinn’s blonde locks barely went past her shoulders. It was difficult for him to shake the images of her battered body from his mind. She was defending herself, he was certain, but the English did not put much stock in self-defense. And apparently, they had also gotten to the point of savagery where they cared not about beating and raping a small young girl.
“If she did kill him,” Rowan began, “then surely the English will be after her.” He looked at Duncan. “They probably be no’ far behind.”
They had to agree with him. If the lass spoke the truth, then the English would definitely be looking for her. They would want to bring her back to Penrith to mete out unthinkable punishments. Duncan vowed he would not let that happen. Kin or not, stranger or no, this lass had suffered enough. No matter who she was, he knew two things: they could not leave her here, and they would not allow her to be captured by the English.
Duncan looked into the faces of the men standing before him. They had pledged their fealty to her for killing the man who had haunted each of them for so many years. They would die before they’d allow the English to get their hands on her.
“We take her back with us. The reivers can have the cattle,” Duncan said, pulling himself straight and tall. The lass was worth far more than the thirty cattle. He found himself suddenly thankful for the thieves. Had they not stolen the cattle then Duncan and his men would not have been here this day and Aishlinn most certainly would have drowned in the stream. He knew as well that if by some miracle she had managed to survive her fall she would either die from starvation or at the hands of the English when they caught up with her.
“The English will not get their hands on the lass. The Earl deserved what he received,” Duncan said. ‘Twas settled and they made plans on what to do next. Duncan would send Findley, Tall Gowan and Richard back in the direction the lass had come to scout for any soldiers that may be looking for her. Duncan and the others w
ould take the lass the fastest route possible back to Dunshire, to Castle Gregor.
With no idea how many soldiers might be looking for her, they thought it best to return as quickly as possible. They would be safe within the walls of their home surrounded by hundreds of able-bodied warriors. Duncan had great faith in his men, knowing that if there were soldiers out looking for the lass, they would be able to assess the situation quickly and return unscathed.
If it were just Duncan and his men, they could make it to the safety of their castle within four days, five if the weather turned against them. He knew the lass needed rest and proper attention for her injuries, but what she needed most was the safety his home offered. They would allow her to rest for a short while before heading out to Dunshire.
They returned to the fire some time later and Rowan filled the others in on their decision. As expected, the men readily agreed. No more harm would befall this lass, not while they still had a breath left in them. Each man was certain as well that once they arrived safely at Castle Gregor, their clansmen would show her nothing but kindness.
The men let Aishlinn sleep while they hurried to pack the camp. It would be a long and arduous ride back to Dunshire. Duncan prayed it would be an uneventful trip for the lass’s sake.
When they were ready and dared not wait any longer, Duncan gently touched Aishlinn’s shoulder. She woke with a jolt and sat up, disoriented, afraid and in a good deal of pain. “Haud yer wheest!” he whispered to her. “Tis me, Duncan.” He gave her a moment to wake more fully before he spoke again. “We need to away this place, lass.”
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