by Fiona Faris
* * *
Highlanders were built and trained to fight in the lands of their youth, and not made for town fighting. Lucas tried to plead with the chieftain to turn back, retreat. There was no way for the clansmen to get ahead in the fight. The roads and stone kept them at a disadvantage. His pleas fell on deaf ears. The Jacobite cause was renewed with vigor after recent wins, and the doubts of a single clansman would deter the cause.
In the heat of battle, his worst fears were coming to fruition, and they were losing. The dead and wounded could be found in every corner, moans and screams of pain punctuated with the crack of musket balls were the only sounds that found their way through the thick smoke of battle.
He preferred sword combat but was wise enough to know he couldn’t beat the English by bringing a metal to a fight with fire. When Lucas had run out of his own ammunition and had no choice but to resort to wielding his broadsword, he feared he too would be felled by the government forces. A cold rain began to fall, and Lucas moaned. They were truly at a disadvantage on this day. His powerful arms tired from swinging, and blocking, but he searched wildly for any sign of his father or Gavin. He had lost sight of them early in the battle when the Laird had rushed forward ahead of the line. His sword held high, and a terrifying battle cry on his lips that would strike fear in the heart of any man who got in his way. Gavin and Lucas both rushed in to follow and protect their Laird, but in the crush of bodies it was near impossible to keep together.
He rushed past a group of men laying in the crook where two stone walls connected. He moved fast and almost missed one of the men, Magnus MacGille. His cousin, friend, and able warrior, was lying on the road, injured. Lucas doubled back, leaning down to check the man. The usually large and jovial man was moaning, holding his side, and covered in soot and blood.
“Magnus, are ye hurt, man?” Lucas asked, shaking the man to keep him conscious. His eyes flashed open as he recognized Lucas.
“It’s only a scratch, I’ll be fine in nae time, Luc,” he said, flashing a toothless smile.
“Good to hear lad, hae ye seen yer laird or Gavin?” he asked.
“I saw them runnin' toward the kirk,” he said before falling back hard against the wall.
“Can ye move man? Can ye walk?” he asked Magnus.
“Och, aye,” he replied, trying to stand. “Got tae git back to th’ battle.”
“Forget th' battle, Magnus, get yerself tae safety, and any other men ye see on th’ way. That’s an order,” Lucas replied, he could not risk the loss of more good men in this fight. Magnus had a wife and a young son back home. How could he face the woman knowing he didn’t do everything in his power to save her husband?
Lucas was maybe a house or two away from the cathedral. It was where the fighting was the heaviest. He needed to get there, and quickly. He wouldn’t leave his brother and father to fight alone, but he couldn’t leave his clansman alone wounded and exposed.
“Aye,” the man said. “I will dae as ye say, Luc.”
“Thank ye,” he replied clapping the man on the back. Once he was confident Magnus would follow orders he headed in the way of the church.
The fighting was thickest the closer Lucas got closer to where the cathedral sat. It was hard to miss—everything around the area appeared to be on fire. Not for the first time since he’d left the keep, Lucas reflected on what a tragedy war was. The energy and resources that would be needed to rebuild all that was lost would surely put a strain on good people in the lowlands and highlands alike, and for what? It would be easy to hate the English, but he was not able to bring himself to judge a whole nation based on the acts of so few. He didn’t hate the English, but he did hate what the idea of English rule over Scotland represented.
He knew one day he would be laird of his clan, and as such he would be responsible to not only his family but all the clan. The job was large, and his father had been training him for it since he was less than knee high. He knew his responsibilities and he knew he would need to wed and produce an heir. But how could he find love and raise children in a world that could so easily lay waste to all that people worked so hard to build. And for no good reason other than God and the whims of man. It was such a waste.
The familiar battle cry of the MacGille clan pulled Lucas from his lonely thoughts. He rushed forward toward the noise. He was stopped short by a government soldier rushing toward him, musket up and aimed. Lucas ran with all his might and jumped, high, bringing his sword down swiftly upon the man’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground with a wound that would likely cause the loss of the soldier’s arm. He could think of nothing else but to get to his father.
There was no mistaking the shock of red hair he saw at the entrance of the cathedral, it was Angus MacGille locked in battle with what looked like a government soldier of rank, a commander or lieutenant-colonel. Lucas was too far away to make out exact features, but the dress of the man gave away his rank. He looked around, where was Gavin? His father was strong, but age gave him the disadvantage against his opponent who appeared younger than his father by a decade, maybe more. The fighting between the two was fierce and Lucas rushed to cross the distance between them and get to his father’s defense. Government soldiers closed in around him, but he did his best to cut through them. Determined to get to his father, and he would not allow anything to block his way.
A crack broke through the thick air, Lucas felt something tear through his right side. He let out a rush of breath. Warm liquid spread through his middle, but he pushed forward. He was closer to the cathedral entrance now, he pushed through the pain. His father needed him. The clank of metal against metal rang in his ears. He looked up to see his father lose his sword. Lucas let out a scream, and dropped to his knees, just as the commander’s sword felled his father, splitting his head in two. Adrenaline surged through Lucas and he charged toward the man. Turning to face his new opponent the commander looked spent and terrified as the giant, muscular highlander charged. He turned and fled into the cathedral, but not before Lucas was able to get a look at his small beady eyes. He would not rest until he saw the life leave those eyes, he swore it. Another crack broke through the air and he felt his leg give way. He dropped to his father’s body, ignoring his own pain, he checked for any hope of life. There was none. The Laird was dead.
* * *
Lucas opened his eyes, the rain felt cool on his face. He looked up, he was laying down? Where was he? He heard men moving above him. He was no longer in Dunkeld, that he knew by the soft, meadow grass that was underneath him. He groaned and tried to sit with no luck. Pain swirled through his body. There was a massive, hulking man standing above him covered in filth, dirt, and blood, but the man was familiar, a clansman. Was it Magnus?
“Dinnae fash yerself, Laird we hae a cart, we’re gettin' ye tae a safe place,” Magnus said quietly, running a cloth over Lucas’s face. Why was Magnus calling him laird? The memory of his father’s gruesome end came rushing back. His breathing became rushed, he had to get to the cathedral. He had to kill the commander. Where was Gavin?
“Gavin?” he croaked out, frantically grabbing Magnus’s arm. “Where’s Gavin?”
“I dinnae ken my laird. Th' lest he time he was seen he was runnin' intae th' kirk,” Magnus said apologetically.
“Magnus, I told ye tae retreat,” he whispered, pain shooting up his leg.
“An' allow my laird tae suffer a worse fate than his poor father? I dinnae think sae. Now hush man,” Magnus said. Lucas thought he was a fool to have come back for him. He wanted to suffer the same fate of his father. He failed him. He failed everyone. The only hope he had was that Gavin was able to find and murder the commander who killed their father. Revenge was the last thought on his mind before the blackness overtook him.
* * *
When Lucas woke again it was dark. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he knew it wasn’t night. He could see shafts of light peeking through holes along the walls. He was indoors. He hadn’t slept indoors
in months. The bed he was on was soft straw. The plaids and wools covering him made him warm, but he was too weak to move the coverings. He tried to sit up and failed.
He couldn’t see where he was, but he heard rustling. Why was he so tired? He felt like he could sleep through ages. What did he smell? Was it horses? No, not horses, but sheep. He smelled sheep and hay. He was not in the keep at Cadney. If he had been, he was confident he would not be in a barn but rather in his own bed chamber. So, where was he? His skin felt hot. He tried to move but found he was too weak to even lift an arm. His mouth was dryer than the bottom of a stew pan left to smolder and crust. He wanted water, but he couldn’t speak. Pain caused him to groan.
“Hush now, tak' some water,” an elderly man was leaning over him gently holding a cup filled with fresh water. A cool cloth came down on his forehead. Relief washed over him as he faded into blackness once again.
Chapter Three
“Whatever shall we do without you?” Amelia said. She was crying as she held tightly to their maid Gwen. Standing in the dirt path leading up to the front of Carlisle Castle’s main gate the three women were sobbing uncontrollably as Richard, their father’s most trusted footman, packed Ella’s trunks onto the coach carriage her father had hired to take her to her doom at Dunkeld.
“Shush now Amelia, it’ll be alright.” She was trying her best to reassure her sister. But Amelia had no way of knowing Ella planned to escape long before reaching the Commander’s garrison. And while her plan did nothing to soothe the ache in her heart at leaving her sister’s side. Once she was able to secure a new identity and solid work, she would send for her. Maybe she could even secure enough coin to give her sister a decent shot at a happy marriage. Or if Amelia wished, they could live quite well together and keep hidden from their father and those would cause them harm, deep in the Scottish countryside.
Ella wiped her own tears away, determined not to give her father the pleasure of seeing her cry. Although, she doubted he very much would bother himself to come down and say a proper goodbye to his eldest daughter. Nor was Ella sure she wanted to see him at all. As far as she was concerned, she had no father. Ella was content to live the rest of her days as an orphan. No true father would gamble with his daughter’s future the way he had.
“Come Ella, we musn’t keep the carriage waiting.” Tilting her head upward she gave Richard a regal glare, daring him to come between her and her sister as they said their goodbyes.
“Of course Richard,” she replied, in as stately a voice as she could muster. Richard had come into her father’s employ some three years prior. Ella had never trusted, nor liked the man. He was tall and thin; his complexion was ghostly white. With arms and legs that were too long for his torso, and the personality of a tit mouse, she couldn’t stand being anywhere around the man. All his appendages, from his nose to his fingers, looked sharp—as if they had been honed on a whetstone before being placed on his body. He too often looked at her with an emotion behind his eyes that she couldn’t name, yet it made her stomach turn. Ella and Amelia made it their mission to avoid the man at all costs. She knew he would do anything her father asked of him without a single thought of his own.
Ever since her father had forced this marriage on her, Richard’s contempt for her had only grown. He had begun behaving less and less like the hired servant he was, and more like the heir apparent to the Pearson title. Reminding her at every turn over the last week that her time in Carlisle Castle and with her sister was coming to a close. She was certain he looked upon delivering her to her doom as an enjoyable task. God, how she hated the sniveling man.
Before turning back to her sister, she thought to add, “And, I expect you will be most comfortable along the ride, up top with the carriage driver?” The shocked look on his face told Ella it was just as she thought. The ridiculous man thought he would be riding in the carriage with her all the way to Dunkeld. Ha, absolutely not! She didn’t plan on being in the carriage that long, as she was certain her opportunity to escape would come sooner rather than later, but anytime at all she spent traveling to Scotland would not be in the company of her father’s paid buffoon. Richard recovered quickly, answering her with a brusque, “Yes, miss.” She gave him a curt nod before focusing her attention on Amelia once more.
“Please, Amelia don’t fret. Stay out of father’s way. Be good and focus on your studies. Listen to Gwen. I will write to you, as often as I can.” She wanted to cram all of the sisterly advice she could into these last moments with Amelia. She was a strong girl, but Ella was also strong and look what happened to her. Ella felt a rush of love fill her as she hugged Amelia tightly.
“I will Ella. I promise, I will be good. I will look for your letters and write you in return,” she said, hugging Ella back.
“And Gwen, please take care of Amelia and yourself,” directing her gaze over her sister’s shoulder at the maid. “I shall write to you as well, and Amelia will read my letters to you.”
“Yes, Miss,” Gwen answered, then lowering her voice so only the three of them would hear. “Miss Amy’s been teaching me my letters and numbers. Mayhap, I’ll be able to write ye as well.”
Ella smiled. First at the maid’s affectionate use of her sister’s nickname, Amy, and then with the realization that of course, her sister would try and teach their maid to read. Amelia wasn’t one sit idly by and sew or play music when she could be using her precious time to elevate the status of others. Another wave of emotion came over her as she took them both into another embrace. A fresh wave of sobs washed over her, at not knowing when she would see their lovely faces again.
“Ladies, I fear if we keep on this eternal goodbye, we shall never get to Scotland,” Richard said from the top of the carriage. This time earning a scowl from all three, as each fought to suppress a giggle at how ridiculous he looked perched on high. “Scowl all you like, but if we tarry too long your father will not be pleased.”
* * *
On her third travel day Ella had had enough. She’d been tussled and tossed all over the Scottish countryside. Her thoughts wandered to the rumors she’s heard earlier in Carlisle about the fierceness of the Jacobites and how they were planning an uprising throughout Scotland. Ella didn’t make a habit of listening to battle talk, or the gossip of politics. But with the town being overrun with military garrisons preparing to take their leave to fight for the crown, she’d found the talk was everywhere and impossible to avoid. If anyone had asked her then she would have proudly replied that she supported, the English in their fight. Now, however after three days staring at the landscape, she thought she could see why the people here loved their land enough to fight for it. It was beautiful country side. With lush green rolling hills dotted with wildflowers and grazing sheep and enormous cows.
For the most part the days in the carriage were long and boring. The two nights so far on the road were no better. They had spent them in horrible roadside inns with bawdy serving women who only paid attention to Richard because he put on airs like he had coin; their flirting and carrying on made Ella nauseous. So much so that she was barely able to eat the terrible stews. She forced herself to eat knowing she would need her energy for her escape. But she certainly didn’t enjoy it.
Her backside was sore, and she was travel weary to be sure, but she hadn’t wanted to make her attempt to flee so early in the journey. For one, she was keen on learning the habits of their driver and the needs of the horses. She watched for when and how he watered the horses as well as when he changed the poor beasts out for new. Figuring her best chance of escape would be when the two men were busy seeing to their needs, when they stopped for the horses, or when they stopped for the night. Not being familiar enough with the lay of the Scottish countryside, Ella figured her highest chance of success would come during the mid-day when they stopped to water the horses.
She helped time in the carriage pass by reading the few books she’d brought along and writing a series of letters to Amelia. The letters were calculated o
n her part. She asked after their father and Gwen, detailed the beauty of the Scottish landscape, and wrote benign thoughts regarding her upcoming nuptials. She had purposefully made it seem that she’d come around the marriage. Amelia of course, would never believe it, but she also didn’t intend for the letters to actually make it back to England. They were simply another tool by which to assist her escape. By leaving the letters out when they stopped, Richard, whom she was sure was spying on her in the name of her father, would find nothing odd or amiss in Ella’s correspondence. If she were truly lucky, when she did find the right moment to make her escape, her letters may buy her more time. She knew if she played the docile, content bride-to-be, when the time came Richard would be caught off guard, giving her a much better chance of success.
She had worked out a plan of escape, figuring that more daylight would help her navigate the foreign terrain, she would wait until they stopped the horses for their first watering. If her figuring was correct it would be close to the noon hour. Being the third day of their journey, she hoped they were far enough from both Dunkeld and Carlisle that she would run less of a risk of getting caught.
