The Clan MacDougall Series (4 page)

He and his men were stopped near a wide stream as they allowed their horses to drink and rest before heading out again to points uncertain. ’Twas growing late in the day and the sun shone brightly as it cast dappled shadows across their bare chests and the cold ground. ’Twas early spring now and he was glad the days were growing longer and warmer.

Duncan was dressed only in his leather trews and boots with his sword hanging at his side and his broadsword strapped to his back. ’Twas warm for this time of year and he knew all too well the weather could change quickly and without notice.

He thought back to something his father had been fond of saying: “Welcome to Scotland lads. Don’t like the weather? Wait a few minutes fer it will surely change.”

His father had been such a good and honorable man and his death, even after these many years, still tore at Duncan’s heart. Someday Duncan hoped to exact his vengeance on the man who had killed every man and woman, and nearly every child from his village.

Duncan looked around at the six men he traveled with. On or off the battlefield, these were men he could depend on. Hellions, aye, but fierce, loyal and honorable warriors each.

He smiled as his cousin Rowan entertained them with the stories of lasses he had conquered. They’d all heard the same stories before, many more than once. A few of the events they had personally witnessed or had been a party to. But after these many days away from the clan and their families any story was better than none.

Rowan was going on about one particular lass he had had the fine pleasure of knowing in Inverness last fall.

“Aye!” he said with a mischievous grin. “She appeared to be a very fine bar wench! Her hair as soft as a new bairn’s bottom and her eyes the brightest blue I’d ever seen!”

Findley and Richard McKenna tried to hide their knowing smiles. Though three years separated them in age they looked very much like twins with their matching brown hair and eyes. They were of the same height and build, and whether frowning or smiling, it was often difficult to tell them apart. Though not quite as tall as Duncan or Rowan, what they lacked in height they well made up for in strength and agility.

They had been with Rowan in Inverness and knew the story he now told very well. However, Tall Thomas, Gowan and Manghus had not taken that particular trip. They had been at home with their wives.

The two brothers let Rowan ramble on for a while longer about the pleasures the woman had brought him that night. Finally, Richard broke in. “Aye, Rowan! She did show ye a few things that night!” he said, trying to stifle his laughter.

“Aye!” Findley chuckled. “You were certain she be the love of yer life. If memory serves me, ye demanded someone find a priest so ye could marry the fine lass that night!”

Rowan was not happy about being interrupted. Before he could tell the brothers to shove sticks up their arses, Richard said, “But when ye woke the next day, no longer so into yer cups ye could no’ find yer arse with both hands, ye let out a bloody yell!” He could no longer contain his laughter. “Ran like yer arse was on fire! Out of the inn half naked! Ye swore that God had somehow replaced yer fine maiden with a very plump auld woman missing most of her teeth!”

“And she had more hair upon her face than Rowan!” Findley was laughing so hard that tears formed and filled his eyes.

Everyone laughed, save for Rowan. He glared angrily at each of them. While his fierce scowl would make most men back down, his friends knew him too well to be worried. “I was getting to that part, Findley!”

Duncan laughed with his men, as Rowan’s face had turned crimson. Duncan wasn’t sure if Rowan was more embarrassed than angry. Laughing, he left his friends to needle each other while he went back to study the tracks that had led them to their current location.

Something had been gnawing at Duncan’s thoughts throughout much of the day. These tracks they followed and the direction in which they led were troublesome. He could not imagine why reivers would travel so far to steal cattle. Duncan’s own clan MacDougall held decent enough relations with most of the neighboring clans. Still, there were others who they had been feuding with for as long as anyone could remember. However none of those feuding clans were this far to the east.

Who would travel this far to steal their cattle? They had traveled by several glens filled with cattle that were more easily taken than Clan MacDougall cattle. Were they being led on a wild goose chase for some unknown reason?

He pondered the many possibilities for several minutes before sharing his opinion with the others. “Rowan,” he began. “Do ye think it odd we’ve ridden after the reivers for these many days now?”

Rowan was working the knots out of his back and neck. He stretched his arms out wide and yawned before answering. “Aye, Duncan, I do.”

Duncan’s eyes scanned their surroundings. The land before them was thick with trees and brush. Rocks and pebbles lined both sides of a wide, meandering stream. It made no sense to him why the reivers brought the cattle this way. “It be an odd route to bring cattle through, do ye no’ think?”

Gowan agreed. “Who do ye suppose traveled so far to reive cattle?”

Duncan could see the wheels turning in the minds of his men. Their faces told him that none of them thought they were dealing with simple-minded reivers. Something more was afoot but exactly what they were not certain.

“Mayhap it be a trap by the English to draw us into battle,” Gowan said. “Or, things are far worse to the southeast than we ken.”

Neither option was good. Both meant trouble.

A
ishlinn could not begin to guess how far she had traveled, only that she had been riding nearly non-stop for two days. Or had it been three? She had no clear idea.

She had remained hidden in the forests and trees, just as Baltair had told her to do. Occasionally she would be forced to travel across open fields and wide streams for there had been no alternative. Thus far, the only signs of life she had seen were birds, deer and the occasional tree frog. Had she a weapon with which to hunt she would have killed any one of them in order to eat.

In the wee hours of yestermorn she had come quite close to a small cottage. Not knowing if she was still on dreaded English soil or that of Scotland, she had been too afraid to stop and ask for help. Hungry, tired and in an ungodly amount of pain this day, she was beginning to regret that decision.

The land before her had turned greener and more lush the further north and west she traveled. It was far different than the browns and grays of the English soil she had grown up on. Having never traveled more than a few miles from her home before, she knew not what to look for. She searched her memory for any description of Scottish lands that Moirra might have mentioned but none came to mind. All of Moirra’s stories had been about the Highlanders, not the Highlands.

She wondered if she would she even recognize a Highlander if she saw one. Her only frame of reference on the matter came from Moirra’s faerie tales. According to Moirra, they were all big, tall and quite hairy. She was not sure if she should risk her freedom or her life based on the stories told by an auld woman.

Sometime late yesterday her saddle had become loose and fallen from the mare’s back, taking Aishlinn along with it. In too much pain, and exhausted from lack of sleep, she hadn’t the strength to lift it let alone enough to return it to the mare’s back. She abandoned it and now rode bareback.

She had dismounted only long enough to relieve her bladder. Fearful that if she remained on foot too long the horse would wander away she stayed upon the mare as much as possible. The thought of having to walk to wherever the good Lord was taking her was far too frightening.

When the exhaustion became too much to bear, she slept slumped over with her head resting upon the mare’s neck. If ever she were forced again to make a decision between saving her own life and traveling alone, with no weapons, blankets or the means to start a fire, she might be tempted to choose death. The longer and further she rode, death became the more amiable option.

It was too late now to change her mind. Nay, death from exposure was more desirable than death at the hands of the earl’s soldiers. She trusted that Baltair would be able to buy her some amount of time, but how much she did not know. As exhausted, cold and hungry as she was, she could not give up. If the guards ever found her it would be a most certain and painful death.

She was thankful that her stepfather had taught her to hunt and fish and to find her way about. Growing up she had resented the man for not allowing her to be like the other young girls in their nearby village. Many a time he had told her she was plain and no husband lay in her future so he taught her to take care of herself. Now that she was far from the only home she had ever known and in very unfamiliar territory, she was glad for what he had taught her.

As she coaxed her mare along, images of her family kept flashing through her mind. Her mother had been gone so long that Aishlinn no longer remembered what she looked like. She could however, remember her mother’s gentle strength. Often she would hear Laiden’s voice as it offered words of encouragement that urged her on and begged her to not give up.

She would catch glimpses of Moirra’s smiling auld face as well. Her heart ached from missing both women. There were a few times when she could have sworn she saw the two women riding along with her. It was those images from which she drew the strength to continue.

More often than not however it would be images of her father’s face that would come crashing in. He always looked so disappointed. Aishlinn felt as though she had somehow let the man down. It was true that Broc had never been much of a father to her. Aishlinn was certain her mother had married him only to save her from being born a bastard.

The man had not one redeeming quality that Aishlinn had ever witnessed. Cold and hard, he never had a kind word to say to her. Why he had chosen to keep and raise her, Aishlinn supposed would always be a mystery. He had made it abundantly clear over the years that she had not been wanted.

Visions of her brothers would come to visit her as well. Just as in real life, her visions were filled with them taunting and laughing at her. They had never been particularly kind to her growing up. And their contempt of her grew even greater after Broc’s death. It had gotten to the point where Aishlinn could do nothing right. No matter how hard she worked in the fields or in the home it was never good enough. They would always find something to chastise her for.

Then nearly a month ago they came to her and informed her that she would leave that day for Castle Firth. Horace, the oldest brother, was going to marry a young woman from the village. He wanted the cottage they had grown up in for his own. He felt the home not big enough for all of them, especially two women. So it was done; Aishlinn was sent to Castle Firth.

Admittedly, Aishlinn had felt a great sense of relief at the news. She would be away from her cruel brothers forever. Certainly life as a scullery maid or chambermaid had to be better than the life she had been enduring. Had she known then what fate had in store for her, she would have fled to London the moment they told her the news.

She fought hard to push their faces and voices from her mind and tried instead to focus on freedom and her future. She would daydream of a cottage by the sea. Maybe she would marry a decent man who would not beat her or insult her. Maybe God would bless her with many children. She would plant gardens and learn to weave. Her home would be filled with much love and laughter. But she had better chances of sprouting wings and flying to the moon than someday having a husband and children of her own.

Her mind wandered back and forth from future to present making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Now was the time for focus, not silly daydreams. She had to keep her mind and wits sharp about her.

Aishlinn had slowed her mare to walking pace again. It would do no good to have the mare collapse dead from exhaustion and leave her stranded on foot.

As her thoughts turned to a soft pallet and a warm meal, she thought she heard the sound of voices. She pulled the mare to a stop in a band of tall trees and strained her ears to listen. It was men’s voices she heard coming from behind her.

Fearful that the voices belonged to English soldiers sent to find her, her mind raced while her heart pounded. For a fleeting moment she thought of simply giving herself over to them. But the thought of being hung, disemboweled and tortured to death was far too terrifying.

She grabbed tightly onto the reins, kicked the mare’s flanks and flew into a full run. As she went crashing through the trees, the branches and limbs re-opened the cuts that had only begun to heal. As fast as the mare ran, Aishlinn prayed.

Had God merely been tempting her with freedom? Was He now ready to punish her for taking a man’s life? Surely He had not let her come this far simply to have her caught now. She kicked the horse again and held tightly to the reins.

The moment she caught sight of the men standing in the clearing she knew it was over. The soldiers were not behind her but in front of her. Instinct told her to run and to run quickly. She kicked at her horse again and prayed that the mare would somehow sprout wings and fly her away to safety.