by Alisa Adams
“Aunt,” Flori said quietly, “you are not helping,” she said as she eyed Ina, clapping her hands together with anticipation of the newest saying to add to all her others.
“Och Flori, you are far too serious! Ina just wants to learn the old language and Cenna here already has good use of it! So proud of my nieces I am!”
Tristan laughed softly. “It seems all they know is insults and foul language, though, Hextilda.”
“Dinnae be such a wee clipe, Tristan,” Aunt Hexy said as she reached up to pat his cheek as she sailed past him. “Noo then, what have I missed here?”
“Me sisters want to join me on the journey back to Fionnaghall. And Gordon is insisting on Tristan accompanying me as well,” Cenna said with a mutinous frown at Tristan.
“Tsk, tsk my dear,” Aunt Hexy pointed her finger at Cenna. “You will need him and two of your sisters.” At the other sisters’ chorus of objections, the old lady stuck her hand up in the air; her grey hair shook as more wisps of hair spun out in all directions from her bun. “Yes, only two sisters; Flori and Ina are to go with Cenna. Godet must be the exception. Of course she cannae go in her condition, and Gordon must stay with her,” she proclaimed. “But Tristan must go Cenna. Dinnae ye understand?”
“I understand that we defeated Mungan Munroe and chased him out of Fionnaghall. What more is there that we need a mon along on the journey home?” Cenna asked.
Gordon and Tristan looked at one another. Gordon gave a subtle nod of his head to Tristan.
“Red Munroe is back,” Tristan said, his voice low, serious. “He has been duly pronounced as sheriff for our highland region by an Act of the Court of Session in Edinburgh. He is carrying out the Clearance directives.” Tristan’s voice was deep, ominous.
Cenna stared at him, taking it all in. “But our clans are not Jacobites, we shouldnae be falling under the Clearance Act. We were niver supporters of the Young Pretender—that Bonnie Prince Charlie,” she said with disdain. “We are and have always been loyal to King George the Second! Besides, Mungan cleared almost all our crofters out of Fionnaghall when he burned their homes. Some have returned, but not all.” She paused as panic tried to set in. “He cannae do that again, can he?” she asked angrily.
“Oh, these last few months have been so peaceful,” Flori moaned.
“Fionnaghall by all rights should be safe now. Mungan Munroe is gone,” Tristan hurried to reassure her. “The MacDonells and now the Ross’s are part of the Black Watch Army. It is our duty to keep peace in the highlands. If Red Munroe tries to repeat what Mungan started, by taking over Fionnaghall, this time in the name of the Clearance Act, we shall be there to stop him,” Tristan vowed. “However, only those in the army may wear the tartan,” he added, looking meaningfully at them.
The sisters all started talking at once, not listening to his attempts to reassure him.
None were too concerned that they couldn’t wear their plaids. They had done as they liked so far.
“Godet is married to Gordon now,” Cenna said, speaking above her sisters’ chatter. “Surely Red Munroe will have no means to say Fionnaghall is his? As the oldest and the heir, Godet is no longer available,” Cenna said, smacking her fist into her hand as she became deep in thought. “He’ll have no grounds to take Fionnaghall by forcing a marriage.”
“Aye, Godet is now Lady MacDonell,” Flori said quietly. “But it does leave Fionnaghall open, I fear. We must return and we must have a laird.”
“Flori,” Cenna said in a rush, “you are next in line. Where is Loughlin? He must protect ye or I swear I will not hesitate to send that butcher Red Munroe over the cliff like his uncle if he tries anything!”
“Oh dear,” Flori whispered.
“The bodies will be piling up at the cliff base I think,” Ina murmured. “First there was one,” she said in a dramatic low voice, “now...maybe another? Handy having a sea cliff. Mony a mickle maks a muckle.”
Flori’s eyes widened at her little sister’s words. She hurriedly looked around. “Loughlin is here somewhere, he is always near. He keeps saying he must return to his own holding, to take his place as laird there as his father has asked him too.”
“Loughlin!” Tristan shouted.
A huge man, even larger than Gordon and Tristan (and they were not small men themselves), came into the great hall from the kitchen area at the back. He had a piece of bread in his hand. He was a blond giant, with hair to his shoulders, and his face and body scarred from many battles.
“Ye shouted?” he said quietly, his deep voice reverberating throughout the hall as he walked up to stand next to Flori.
Cenna looked up at him with grave concern. “Ye know of Red Munroe I presume?”
When the giant silently shook his head, Cenna continued. “Ye must protect Flori. She is determined to accompany me back to Fionnaghall but I fear Red will try to take her as she is next in line to be Lady of Fionnaghall,” Cenna said urgently.
Loughlin tilted his head curiously at Cenna. “Take her?” he asked quietly. He shook his head and a small smile appeared on his face. “Nay, he cannae. She is mine,” he said simply, looking down at Flori. She looked back up at him with a hint of something in her eyes; hope, or was it fear or even anger? “They tried before,” he said without taking his eyes off of Flori. “They didnae succeed. They can try all they want. They will never keep her. I am keeping her.”
Flori frowned at him and crossed her arms across her chest. “Ye cannae keep someone, Loughlin. Havenae I told ye this before?” she scolded him.
“Aye, and I told ye I am keeping ye. Ye just have to accept it, is all,” he said quietly back to her, as he took a huge bite of the forgotten piece of bread in his hand. He offered her half of it and when she shooed it away he said, “Ye dinnae eat enough. Ye must eat.” He ignored her frown, grabbing her hand and putting the bread in it. “Tis only bread, not brain cakes or haggis, I swear to ye.”
“Loughlin?” Flori looked up at him. “Are ye ready to try puffin?”
He stared quizzically back at her. “Sea birds?” He shook his head. “I know you said you eat them at Fionnaghall and if you like the taste of them, then I will too.” He turned away from her and looked at Tristan with a disgusted frown.
Tristan gave a short laugh. “Well, it looks like you will have that chance Loughlin, for it looks like you and Lady Flori are coming along. You will have to postpone your return to your holding.”
“And me too, dinnae forget me Tristan!” Ina said gaily. “If Flori is going home and Cenna is going home then I am too!”
Tristan moaned dramatically. He looked at Gordon with a withering expression.
Gordon shrugged his shoulders. “Take them home,” he said simply. “Fionnaghall must be occupied once again. That may be your best defense. Leaving her with only a partial garrison is asking for trouble.”
“Liam and Robbie?” Tristan said under his breath to Gordon. The two men—one was Loughlin’s younger brother, the other was a guard from Fionnaghall—were besotted with Ina and were fighting over her. Though Gordon had warned them that she was too young and they must leave her alone, still they seemed to be wherever she was.
“I fear ye’ll have no choice on them. They’ll be with ye, in the Black Watch Guard,” Gordon said with a teasing grin at his brother.
“And ye must take Bluebell Tristan,” Godet said. “He needs to be in work. I cannae ride him in my condition. You will be happy to be riding such a stallion, I swear to ye,” Godet said forcefully.
Tristan nodded his head. His own horse was lame and he would need a mount. But riding a huge, giant, draft horse stallion named Bluebell made him cringe. Draft horses were for pulling wagons. These sisters each had their own draft horse, however, bred at Fionnaghall. Each named after flowers of all things; even the stallions and geldings, not just the mares. But the giant horses had proven to be powerful battering rams in battles and he had to admit he was curious to ride one.
“Sich a shame that yer poor wee ho
rse Wally cannae be coming with us Tristan,” Cenna said with a demure smile.
“William Wallace, not Wally,” he growled at her.
“Och, Sir William Wallace! I dinnae bow when I said his name, shame on me,” she said with a teasing laugh.
“He is lame,” he answered her, ignoring her jest. “I will have one of the men bring him when he is sound. I would not risk his leg on the journey.” He raised his eyebrow at her. “Nor would you risk any of your horses in the same instance, so dinnae tease me, Cenna. I know what you are doing.”
Cenna looked away, her face blushing red. He was right. It was wrong of her to tease him about his horse’s lameness. At times, his too-pretty face overwhelmed her. The man was too handsome for her liking. But when he looked at her so seriously as he just had, she could not fight it. It was staggering, how it would sweep through her so suddenly at times. She got that feeling in her stomach again.
“Two days,” Tristan commanded the sisters. “Ye have two days to pack all yer things.”
And with that last command, Tristan strode from the hall with Cenna staring after him and a confused look on her face, her arms wrapped around her waist as if she had a stomach pain.
3
Two days later, a carefully selected group of Black Watch soldiers, in their navy and black tartans, waited as three of the Ross sisters said a tearful farewell to their sister Godet. The three sisters promised to return for a visit before the baby was born. Tristan had to keep urging them along, saying it was well past time to leave. The Black Watch sat on their horses silently waiting, admiring the four women they knew to be great horsewomen and true warriors. Loughlin was at their front, his eyes on only one sister. Flori was particularly weepy, not wanting to leave Godet now that it was actually time to go. Cenna was threatening to leave her there. Loughlin would not allow that, of course.
“Flori, we must leave,” Cenna said in exasperation for the fourth time. “Your horse Heather has been saddled for ye. If ye dinnae mount up now I will leave without ye, do ye ken?”
When Flori continued to be weepy, hugging Godet, Loughlin got off his horse, strode over to her, picked her up, and began walking away with her.
“Loughlin!” Flori shrieked. “How many times have I told you to ask first, you cannae just take something, particularly a person!”
“We are leaving now. You are mine,” Loughlin stated matter of factly. “We are going back to your home so that I may try these puffins.” He placed her gently up on her horse’s back.
Flori started to fuss and weep about going back into possible danger, but Cenna stopped her.
“Flori, I need you to be strong. Godet is fine. You asked to come. You know we need to have the Ross family back in Fionnaghall. We can handle anything that may come.”
Cenna stared at her sister, watching the play of emotions cross her face. Cenna was aware of Flori’s fears, for Flori had watched Mungan murder her betrothed on the eve of their wedding many months before they had come to the MacDonell clan for protection from the vile Mungan. Cenna knew that Flori was still finding her courage and getting better, thanks to Loughlin.
“Loughlin is with us, Flori,” Cenna added gently. “Show me the sister of steel who welded her sword in the meadow beyond Fionnaghall that day.”
Cenna smiled at Flori, encouraging her to remember how strong she could be. She had been like a furie in that battle. Cenna had been wide-eyed at her older sister’s fierceness, for Flori had always been the gentlest of the sisters. But her anger and vengeance at the Munroe men who had taken over Fionnaghall came forth.
“I dinnae want to be the Lady of Fionnaghall, Cenna. Ye know this. It was never meant to be me,” she whispered urgently.
“But ye want to go home, dinnae ye?” Cenna asked her in confusion.
“Aye, I do. But it has bad memories for me. I want to make sure it stays in Ross hands, that is all. Just not mine,” she finished quietly.
Cenna stared hard at Flori. She understood. Too much had happened at Fionnaghall, in particular to Flori. Cenna looked to Loughlin, who stood beside Flori, looking up at her on her huge draft horse. He lightly patted Flori’s hand, then he mounted up on Avens, one of the Clydesdale geldings they had brought with them.
“Finally,” Loughlin said with a smile, “I have a horse who is just the right size for me!” He patted Avens’ neck.
Flori managed a quivering smile at Loughlin’s comment and Cenna breathed a sigh of relief.
Tristan looked back at Loughlin from where he sat on the Clydesdale stallion that Godet had named Bluebell. He too was adjusting to the giant horse and felt that it suited his size well.
“Aye Loughlin, if only these big boys were not named after flowers though!”
Loughlin’s face fell. “He is named Avens? Avens is a flower?”
“Oh aye,” Ina’s lilting, melodious voice came as she walked her horse forward to them. “Tis a lovely, little, white and yellow flower that grows near our home, by the limestone cliffs overlooking the sea. It’s a dainty, petite, pretty flower,” she said, smiling brightly. “All our Clydesdales are named for flowers.”
Loughlin growled and shook his head. “This horse needs a different name,” he grumbled.
“Give it up Loughlin, the sisters will not change their minds on this,” Tristan pointed to his stallion’s head. “Poor Bluebell is proof of that.” At the sound of his name, Bluebell threw his head up in the air and let out a sound that could only be agreement. Tristan laughed and patted his neck, and set him into an easy trot to begin their journey.
“Wait! Wait!” came a shout.
Tristan whirled Bluebell around to see two small figures trotting towards them at a very fast pace. He recognized the highland ponies and groaned out loud.
“Hextilda, you dinnae need to come!” Tristan all but growled at the sisters’ aunt as she came riding up on her small pony.
The small old lady looked defiantly back at him. “King Bobby and I are coming and there will be no argument. And you must call me Aunt Hexy, young man. I am going home as well, or did you forget that Fionnaghall is my home too?” She reached up and patted his boot where it rested in the stirrup. She could not reach any higher on small King Bobby.
“Aunt Burunild—you too?” Tristan tried not to sound as exasperated as he was. He looked sternly at his great aunt. Burnie and Hexy were great friends and it seemed they had become inseparable.
“Hexy has invited me to her home. I have accepted,” she said, looking up at him from under her white hair. Its thinning short strands stuck out of her balding head in random chaos. “But we must be wary of those flowers that can kill men,” she said, looking down at the ground and searching for killer flowers.
“Aunt Burnie,” Cenna said loudly, “we told ye it twas our horses. They are named after flowers, remember? We trained our horses to rear up or kick a man in battle. And they did just that to the men who attacked us on the way to yer castle when we first arrived, remember?” Cenna said, waiting to see if Aunt Burnie comprehended.
“Yer horses are killers?” Aunt Burnie turned to Aunt Hexy. “Dear, we must keep your King Bobby and my sweet Countess Winnifred away from them!” She clutched the mane of her pony, whispering, ”Sweet little Winnifred…”
Aunt Hexy patted her friend’s hand. “Tis fine dear, my nieces have trained their horses well. They will only kill those evil men that the girls command them to. Our dear ponies—my King Bobby and your sweet Countess Winnifred—are safe.” She started trotting forward with Aunt Burnie following.
Aunt Burnie looked at Hexy in confusion. “Horses and flowers killing men. How very odd. Very odd,” she said, as her balding head shook with consternation. The little shoots of white hair shaking this way and that like the last lingering stalks of grass clinging onto a barren hilltop.
Tristan listened to the two old ladies and shook his head. They were trotting off in front of him and the Black Watch.
“Do they mean to lead the way?” he asked no one i
n particular.
Cenna came up beside him. “I believe they do,” she said as she watched the two old aunts bouncing along on their little ponies. The ponies’ legs were moving at a very quick speed. “But I dinnae think they will last long at the rate those ponies are trotting. Aye, I believe their poor backs and bums will be painfully sore.”
“The ponies’ or the aunts’?” Tristan said in a droll voice.
“Och, tis a good question,” Cenna said.
Tristan nudged his horse forward once again as he looked over at Cenna and then at her sisters. They wore their plaid skirts and linen blouses with wide leather corset belts containing their dirks. Their tartan was thrown over one shoulder, ready to be used as a shawl or cloak when needed.
“What are ye staring at me for, Tristan?” Cenna said suspiciously. “Stop it. I dinnae like it.”
“We have a problem,” Tristan stated firmly, ignoring her order to him to stop staring.
“What is the problem? I see nothing amiss.” She moved her horse, Whins, over to trot beside him.
“The aunts,” he said succinctly, “and to be precise, the names of their ponies.”
Cenna started to laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
Tristan glared at her. “Dinnae ye know who Countess Winnifred was? And of course ye know Robert the Bruce!”
Cenna stopped laughing and looked at Tristan’s harsh face.
“And,” he added curtly, “ye are all wearing tartan for sard’s sake!”
“Och, dinnae fash yerself aboot that!” Cenna said lightly.
Tristan pulled Bluebell to a halt and grabbed Cenna’s reins to stop her horse as well. He let the other horses trot past them. Cenna tried to grab her reins back but Tristan would not let go. He leaned in close to her face; his eyes serious, holding hers.
“Cenna!” he whispered hoarsely, “we dinnae know what we will find once we near Fionnaghall! Think, woman! Think like the warrior I know ye to be. We must be ready for anything, and riding into territory that was so recently under dispute, wearing Jacobite garb, is asking for trouble,” he said, shoving her reins back into her hands.