The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  Enya closed her eyes and relaxed into the warmth of the laird’s arm. She was exhausted. The world seemed like a whirlwind of uncertainty, and she was spinning out of control within it.

  Caw.

  Griffon perched atop the center mast.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Bran hoped he would hear Enya’s voice call to him from the tiny window at the top of the cell. Though he’d told her to run, he thanked everything holy he saw her in that fleeting moment. He swallowed against his parched throat. If only he could hold her in his arms one last time and say goodbye, his mind would find peace. But that was not going to happen. Enya must to return to Renfrewshire and forget him—marry Claud Hamilton or some other noble.

  He hung his head. She was there when they called him a traitor and passed the worst death sentence imaginable—gibbeted in a cage and left to die, sitting in his own shite. It would take three days or longer for a man to succumb to thirst. The only positive thing about his miserable treatment in the tolbooth was he was already thirsty and half starved. With any luck, he’d die in a day or two, before the birds started pecking away his flesh.

  Bran slumped down the stony wall. This would be his last night in this hellhole. The light from the window faded. He’d be shrouded in complete darkness soon—along with his cellmates and the resident rats.

  His belly growled, long since empty from his single meal of porridge mixed with lard that morn. He’d refuse his meal on the morrow. The miserable fare would only serve to postpone his death.

  The rims of his eyes stung. He’d had so many plans for his life and now he would see none fulfilled. He would never wed a woman or hold a bairn in his arms. His tongue swiped across his arid lips. He’d never wed Enya. He closed his eyes and tried to block the memories.

  The cell had gone dark and the rats rustled across the dirt floor, scurrying between the sleeping forms of the condemned. Bran pulled his knees to his chest. He’d kill the next vermin that gnawed on his toes—they’d already eaten through his boots. Dropping into a stupor between sleep and awake, Bran tried to force his mind to blank, but all he could see was Enya’s stricken face.

  Feet shuffled in the corridor beyond the cell. Had they come for them already? The tower clock had struck twelve bells only moments ago.

  The prisoners stirred as the door opened with a flood of torchlight. Bran shaded his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

  “Merciful God,” a prisoner cried, crawling for the passageway.

  A large man stood over him with a raised battleax, the light glowing behind him. Bran could not see his face. “Spread yer legs.”

  Recognizing the deep voice, Bran did as asked. “Calum?”

  “Aye. A fine lot ye’ve got us into.”

  “How did ye ken?”

  Calum swung the blade and the chains smashed apart. “Rewan brought word right after Langside. If he’d have been a day later we wouldna made it.”

  Bran spread his hands against the dirt floor. “Praise Jesus ye did.”

  Calum busted his chains and offered him a hand. “Can ye swing a sword?”

  “Was I born a MacLeod?”

  Calum held up a claymore. Bran snatched it. “We must hurry. This place is swarming with the enemy.”

  Bran took a few wobbling steps to the door and nodded at Rewan and John, who stood guard in the corridor. He inclined his head back to Malcolm. “Release him too.”

  John shook his head. “We canna have any others slow us down.”

  “Give him a chance.”

  John made quick work of releasing Malcolm’s chains. The older man held up his hands. “I’ll not forget this. My sword now belongs to the MacLeod.”

  “Ye think ye can make it to the galley?” John asked.

  Bran inhaled. “I can run back to Raasay without stopping. Let’s go.”

  Stumbling over a body in the passageway, Bran hesitated. He recognized the face. The bastard who had stolen his dirk lay dead, eyes gaping as if frozen in shock. Without breaking his stride, Bran reached down and reclaimed his father’s dirk.

  ***

  On the platform, Enya crouched beside the support post of the Glasgow gallows. A place no person would intentionally hide. An eerie calm blanketed her nerves. The gallows was erected on the shore of the tidal river to hang thieves at low tide and watch them drown while the tide rose. After dark, Calum had moored his galley directly beneath it. The tower clock had just knelled twelve bells, and yet horse hooves still clamored over the bridge, bringing travelers to and from the Scottish town.

  A musket blasted in the distance. Voices rose in indiscernible shouts and echoed off the stone buildings. Enya snatched an arrow from her borrowed quiver and loaded the bow, her eyes trained up Saltmarket Street, where the tower of the tolbooth loomed in the moonlight.

  Her mind flashed with an image of the Gypsies who’d attacked her in the forest. She’d killed them to survive. She could do it again.

  The shouting voices neared, and she saw movement through the shadows. Musket fire cracked from the cathedral’s barmkin walls.

  Men ran toward her. She couldn’t make them out at first, but as they neared, she spotted Bran. A tad taller than the others, he limped. Enya couldn’t think about that now. Right on their heels, soldiers made chase across the cobblestones. If only Bran and the men would round the corner to give her a clear shot. She pulled back the string and held her breath. Her view cleared.

  Without hesitation, Enya clenched her teeth and released. The arrow skimmed the air and silently hit its target. No one noticed as her victim fell to the ground. She whipped her arm back. Number two. Another arrow. Number three.

  Grunts came from below. The Highlanders were caught up in a clash of swords, as iron clanged with iron.

  “Pull the oars!” Calum bellowed.

  Enya snatched another arrow as the second onslaught approached on horseback. She had the man in her sights. Familiarity crept up her spine.

  Robert.

  “Climb aboard,” Calum roared over the clatter.

  Her gaze flashed to the man riding beside her brother—Father. Crouching on the gallows, Enya shifted her gaze to the galley. With the sail unfurled, it listed away from the pier as every man strained to pull their oars.

  Slinging the bow over her shoulder, she took a running leap and hurled herself through the air. Enya crashed into the deck just as the men pulled in the wooden gangway.

  “Fire the cannon!” Calum commanded.

  Enya covered her ears as the galley’s single cannon blasted a fiery lead ball into the onslaught. Muskets cracked from the shore. Musket balls slapped the water and the galley’s thick hull. The boat rocked beneath her. Enya sat upright, scanning the dark figures for Bran. Her heart thundered against her chest. He had his back to her. Her legs trembled as she stood. “Bran!”

  The wind picked up the sail and the galley lurched. He turned. A musket cracked. Something smacked Enya’s arm. It stung. Bran crossed the deck and caught her as she fell.

  “Enya!” Bran cradled her in his arms. “She’s been shot.”

  ***

  “Cease fire!” Ross shouted over the barrage of musket blasts. He had no doubt the woman’s scream came from his daughter. He surveyed the carnage. Dead and injured soldiers littered the dock.

  Robert rode in beside him. “She’s on the boat. I saw her.”

  “We must commandeer a ship. Come.”

  Ross pounded on the door of the magistrate’s rooms until answered by an ancient valet. “What business have you?”

  “I must speak to Mr. Fisher at once. Prisoners have escaped.”

  The valet looked from Lord Ross to Robert as if he was going to protest, but then he nodded. “Wait here.”

  Mr. Fisher appeared in his dressing gown and cap, carrying a candle. “Lord Ross? I thought I sent you back to Renfrewshire.”

  “Where I was quite happy to retire until my daughter went missing. Robert and I returned to Glasgow just as Laird Calum MacLeod led a raid on
your gaol.”

  “My word. Why has no one alerted me?”

  “The watch is most likely dead,” Robert said.

  “I must send word to Edinburgh.”

  Ross pointed in the direction of the Firth of Clyde. “We need a ship and men. They’ve absconded with my daughter.”

  “With hangings scheduled every day for the next week?” Fisher tugged on the sash around his waist. “I hardly have enough men to keep peace in the burgh of Glasgow. Near all our fighting men have made chase with the king’s army.”

  The tower pealed two knells. Ross jammed his finger into the magistrate’s sternum. “Have you lost your mind? I gave you Bran MacLeod. He’s the most notorious of all the condemned.”

  Fisher cocked one thick brow. “Have you forgotten, my lord, you could easily be substituted for the Highlander?”

  That was exactly why Ross would have preferred to remain in Renfrewshire. He gripped the hilt of his sword. “I have not, nor would I be here if the circumstances were not dire.”

  “I shall send word to the regent in the morning. Once the frenzy from the hangings has ebbed, we shall see about chasing this brigand. I suspect you know where to find him?”

  Ross pulled on his beard thoughtfully. “The Isle of Raasay.” They would hide in the protection of his fortress, and after a fortnight, their guard would wane. That would give Ross time to recruit new men for his own army. He mustn’t underestimate the Highlanders. Bran learned his fighting skills somewhere, and Ross had little doubt he’d meet a formidable force.

  Mr. Fisher reached for the door latch. “I suggest you find a bed, for I am certainly heading back to mine.”

  ***

  Bran cradled Enya in his arms and pressed his hand against the wound in her upper arm. Her precious blood streamed through his fingers.

  She nestled into him. “I cannot believe we’re together.”

  “Aye, lass, but we need to tend yer arm.”

  “Heather,” Enya called out weakly.

  At first Bran thought Enya was delirious, but then Heather tapped him on the shoulder. “Carry her down to the hold. ’Tis too windy out here to burn a lamp.”

  Bran stood with Enya in his arms, but had to lean against ship’s rail for a moment while his head cleared. The past few days had taken their toll. It didn’t matter. He was headed back to his beloved Raasay, and Enya Ross was in his arms. He could go without food for another week.

  He took her down the cramped hold. Calum had altered this galley to resemble a pinnace, with a small hold beneath a platform that held a single cannon. The chieftain preferred not to sail anywhere without guns.

  Heather had the ship’s parcel of remedies opened on the table. Friar Pat at Brochel Castle always ensured Calum sailed with a healer’s kit. But Bran assumed Heather would want her own. “Ye dunna have yer basket?”

  “We lost everything on the road to Glasgow last eve.”

  “What?”

  Heather pointed to a wooden chair. “Set her down. She needs to be tended first.”

  Bran did as asked but kept his hand pressed against Enya’s arm. “Tell me what happened.”

  Her face white, drained of blood, she still grinned. “I couldn’t stay locked away in my chamber during the trial.” She glanced at her maid. “Heather helped me escape.”

  “I need to see to that arm. You’ll have to go above decks, Bran.”

  Enya clasped her hand around his wrist. “No. I want him to stay.”

  Bran knelt beside her. “I’ll stay if that’s what Miss Enya wants.”

  “Bloody insolent children,” Heather said. “You can help if you do as I say. Remove her mantle, but only remove her kirtle from her shoulder. I’ll not have the young lady exposed, not until you’re married.”

  Bran grinned. He liked Heather’s train of thought. Enya stiffened as he slid the mantle from her wounded arm. “I dunna want to hurt ye.”

  “’Tis not too bad. I can move it a little.”

  “You’ll be right.” Bran carefully unlaced her kirtle and slid it from her shoulder. He glanced at the cache of herbs and bandages on the table. “Friar Pat is a good healer. Ye should find all ye need there.”

  “The problem is he’s made notations, but I cannot read.” Heather lifted a pot to her nose and sniffed. “I think this is a honey poultice.”

  Bran reached for it. “Let me have a look.”

  “You read?”

  “Aye.” He turned the stoppered clay pot in his hand. “Ye’re right. ’Tis honey poultice.”

  “Splendid.” Heather pushed the sleeve of Enya’s shift up to her shoulder and pressed a linen bandage against the wound. “Find me the witch hazel or peppermint water.”

  Bran held up a bottle. “Here’s the witch hazel.”

  “Dab it on a cloth and hand it to me. It’ll help stop the bleeding.”

  Enya hissed when Heather applied the remedy. “It stings.”

  Heather peeked under the compress. “It looks like your arm was grazed. I feel no musket shot inside.”

  A grand weight lifted from Bran’s shoulders. “’Tis good news. It’s a slow death when the lead ball is buried inside.”

  “Aye,” Heather agreed. “We would have had to remove it straight away.”

  Enya listed against him, even whiter now. “How did you learn to read?”

  “Calum’s wife, Lady Anne, saw to it when I was a lad.”

  “It seems she taught you a great deal.”

  “Aye, she did.”

  Heather reached for a rolled bandage. “Hold her arm up.”

  Enya grunted as he raised her delicate arm high enough for Heather to wrap it. Bran hated to see her in pain. If only he had been the one shot, she would not have to endure it.

  Heather tied off the bandage and patted Enya’s hand. “You need to find a corner where you can rest.”

  Bran held Enya’s hand. “I can care for her from here.”

  The older woman tipped her head to the side. “Sir Bran, I daresay you look a mite worse than Miss Enya, and smell…well, the only word for it is foul.”

  “Apologies. I’ve no’ had a chance to wash.” He turned to Enya. “Mayhap I should leave ye here with Mistress Heather.”

  “No.” She sat forward. “Heather, you must tend the wounds on his back. We can cleanse him with a cloth.”

  Heather shook her head. “But—”

  “I’ll be fine. You said it was but a graze.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “It won’t take but a moment.” Enya pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

  Bran looked from Enya to Heather. “There’s no use fighting.”

  Enya stood, but Heather eased her back into the chair. “I’ll tend him. You stay put.”

  “But I have one good arm.”

  Heather tapped her foot. “And your eyes are rolling back as if you’re about to swoon. Do as I say for once.”

  Bran removed his shirt and folded his arms on the table, resting his head atop them. Heather unwound the bandages that hadn’t been changed since he’d visited Enya in the abbey. She sniffed. “It’s foul.”

  “Mayhap ye should let it air.”

  She saturated a cloth with witch hazel. “’Tis a good idea, once it’s cleansed. We’ll reapply a honey poultice in the morn.”

  Bran tried not to grimace at the stinging pain. When Heather finished, she poured a tankard of whisky. “You both look like you could use this.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Enya spent what was left of the night nestled in Bran’s embrace. Though her arm throbbed, contentment washed over her body with the waves that carried the ship to sea. Their plight, the unpleasant smells that soured below decks—nothing mattered. She was in Bran’s arms, and naught would take her away from him this time.

  A ray of daylight glimmered from the hatch. Footsteps clomped down the wooden stairs.

  “Time to break our fast.” John searched inside a hemp bag and pulled out two parcels wrapped in gauze. �
��Mutton and oatcakes.”

  Bran stirred. “Sounds like a royal feast after sampling the fare in the tolbooth.”

  “I’ll take it up top. We left Glasgow with a fair bit more people aboard than we’d planned.”

  Enya and Bran followed the food up through the hold. Though hidden behind clouds, the sunlight glared. Enya rubbed her eyes and pulled her mantle close under her chin. A stiff breeze cut right through to her bones.

  “Ye have a good sleep, lass?” asked Calum, manning the rudder.

  “Aye. A mite bit better than the night before.”

  Heather moved out from under Malcolm’s blanket. “Where we were both knocked silly by thieves on Glasgow Road.”

  Enya couldn’t hide her grin. Malcolm and Heather? She never would have thought, but Heather deserved to be loved just as every soul.

  “Ye havena had a good time of it, have ye?” Calum handed Enya an oatcake. “And how is yer arm?”

  Enya flexed her fingers, which was about all the movement she could manage without sharp pain. “It aches a bit, but will be good as new in a few days.”

  Bran pointed to a castle looming in the distance. “That’s Dunvegan on the Isle of Skye. They’re MacLeod allies.”

  “We’re in the Highlands?”

  “Aye, the Hebrides, which are part of the Highland territories.”

  Enya’s eyes glazed with tears—partly caused by the chilling wind and partly because this was everything she’d dreamt of. She was on an adventure, and she would have none other along than the man standing beside her. Bran tore off a piece of mutton and popped it in Griffon’s beak. The bird flapped his wings and dug his claws into the roost. Aside from Enya’s musket wound to the arm, they’d come out of danger fairly well.

  Rewan handed Bran a satchel. “I found this at Langside. I reckon it fell off yer horse in the fighting.”

  “Thank ye.” Bran opened it and pulled out the panel. “I thought I’d lost it.”

  “’Tis very kind of you, Rewan.” Enya tapped her fingers to her mouth. “But I thought you and Bran weren’t the best of friends.”