by Alisa Adams
Cenna sat quietly, looking at him. She turned and looked at her sisters and her aunts.
“Only the military can wear the tartan?” she asked him quietly as she watched the Black Watch soldiers go by in their black and navy tartan plaid.
“Aye,” Tristan answered her gruffly.
“We are military,” she stated firmly, turning to look at him. There was a fierce look in her eyes.
“Ye are women,” Tristan said harshly, though not unkindly. “I know ye are warriors, soldiers even, but others willnae accept ye as soldiers! And certainly not two auld ladies in old tartan dress, and riding ponies with those names,” he added with a short laugh. “The Act of Proscription states to be caught wearing the tartan is six months in prison, a second offense will have you shipped off overseas...dinnae risk that,” he ground out. “I will not risk that, or you.”
“We are also not supposed to have any weapons per the Disarming Act,“ Cenna said defiantly with disgust. “But we do!” Then she paused, calming herself over the outlandish Acts put on Highlanders due to the Jacobite Rebellion. “Who was Countess Winnifred?” Cenna asked him curiously.
“Firstly, ye only carry the auld weapons, ye arnae allowed anything new or modern,” he replied firmly. Then he took a breath and continued. “Secondly, Countess Winnifred was the wife of one of the original Jacobite Rebels, a catholic nobleman who was captured and sentenced to death. Winnifred made it her mission to free her husband from prison before they could carry out his death sentence. She persuaded the guards to let her in to visit, found her husband, and dressed him in women’s dress and smuggled him out right under the guards’ noses.”
“Och, she sounds braw!”
“Cenna!” Tristan moaned.
Cenna smiled a huge, toothy grin.
“Cenna! Take this seriously!”
“I will, but still, she sounds braw!”
“Bi crivvens,” Tristan growled.
Ina rode up eagerly to them. She was beaming.
“I couldnae help overhearing your story! I had no idea Aunt Burnie had such relatives in her past! What a romantic story—to risk life and limb, to risk even yer very reputation by sneaking in to a horrible, dark, dirty prison full of the veriest of murderous criminals to save your dear, beloved husband! And Tristan, what does bi crivvens mean? I havnae heard that one!” she asked him with delighted anticipation.
Tristan smacked his forehead into his hand. “Ina!”
“Och Tristan! You dinnae say yer Aunt Burnie was related to this Countess Winnifred!” Cenna said enthusiastically.
“I didnae!” Tristan shouted in frustration.
“A family friend then?” Ina asked with excitement in her voice.
“I dinnae know! Neither are still living, it was long ago. I only know the silly story!” Tristan growled.
“Silly story?” Ina said sadly, then smiled brightly. “It is anything but that. She must have loved him more than life itself, more than the sun, more than the moon, more than anything in the entire world and—”
“Ina! It is a silly story. No one would risk such danger for love. Man or woman! I am sure there were other reasons, like money or politics. Certainly not love,” he said with contempt.
“Oh Tristan, surely you are wrong,” Ina said softly, her voice admonishing him in a lilting, melodious tone.
“Shame Tristan, you have crushed Ina’s fairy tale, very cruelly I might add,” Cenna said with an impish grin. “Though I heartily agree with you that it is a foolish thing to do for such a weak emotion as love, and—”
“Ladies!” Tristan boomed at the two of them. “Dinnae you see that they were rebels? We dinnae need that kind of trouble where we are going!”
Cenna tsked at him and looked at her youngest sister.
“Tristan is frightened that by us wearing our tartans, we could attract those men pushing the crofters and tenants off their lands with the excuse that they may be Jacobite rebels.” Cenna had a sweet smile on her face as she spoke. “And Ina, when he said bi crivvens he was asking Christ to defend him, or us. That could be taken as a Jacobite saying Tristan—”
“Cenna—ye are not taking this seriously! I am not frightened!” he growled, trying to control his anger and frustration with her teasing tone. “I am concerned! Concerned for you and yer sisters and the aunts’ safety!” He sighed dramatically, then narrowed his eyes at her. “Ye almost sound like a Jacobite sympathizer yerself,” he said accusingly.
Cenna glared back at him. “I am not, but I dinnae agree with pushing people off their land, burning their homes. Please tell me that ye dinnae agree with this either!”
Cenna’s crystalline green eyes pleaded with Tristan to be on the right side. Her side. She could not abide it if he thought this practice of the Clearances was an honest moral exercise. She knew calling people rebels, or Jacobites, was a way to “clear” the land for sheep, or other industries deemed more profitable and more important than the clansmen that had lived there for generations.
“No, I dinnae agree with it and I do agree that it is naught but an excuse,” Tristan replied. “An excuse to gain land, just as Mungan tried to do—” Tristan started to say more, but seeing the sadness in her eyes, he reached out to cup her cheek. He could not stand the hurt there. He knew she had been through the very thing she was speaking about. It was what had sent the four sisters to the MacDonell holding. “I agree with you, my warrior,” he whispered huskily to her. “But let me keep ye safe?”
Cenna stared into his too-perfect face.
His beautiful dark green eyes with impossibly dark and long eyelashes.
His brown wavy hair that fell in ripples and waves to his broad, muscular shoulders.
His square chin and full lips.
He needs a princess, she thought, for he looks like a prince.
Cenna stifled a sigh. He was too good-looking for the likes of her.
Her stomach started to feel that curious way again.
Cenna pushed his hand away from her face.
“I told ye Tristan, dinnae touch me,” she ground out as she put her heels into her horse’s sides to trot off.
She hoped he hadn’t heard the tremble in her voice.
* * *
They rode throughout the day with Cenna staying at the head of the column of riders, along with Tristan.
He was impressed that she had kept pace with him, for he had led a grueling one. Tristan had told Loughlin at the noon rest to let the others rest longer, but that he was going to push on. Cenna had jumped up from her meal to join him. He was well ahead of her but she had run to her horse Whins, leapt up on him from a rock, kicked her mare into a gallop, and was at Tristan’s side in only a few strides.
“Are we in a hurry then?” Cenna asked him with a teasing grin as she cantered beside him.
“Och no, I was just keen to get back on Bluebell,” he said with a crooked grin.
Cenna studied him silently. “You are teasing me.”
Tristan looked over at her. She rode astride, her long legs falling to either side of her horse’s sides. Her flowing skirts fell about her legs, outlining their shapeliness. The soft material falling gracefully over the curve of her calf, her thigh, cupping her buttocks. Tristan swallowed hard, his eyes caught by the rocking movement of her hips as they followed the horse’s canter.
“Yes,” he said huskily.
“For a warrior, you seem to joke quite a bit,” Cenna said, staring ahead.
“For a woman, you seem to be serious quite a bit. Unless I need you to be serious, then you are joking. Frustrating trait you have there.” Tristan stared straight ahead as well, looking at a bit of smoke he was seeing on the horizon.
He picked up the pace, staring at the smoke. He had a bad feeling.
“Smoke Tristan,” Cenna said quietly, urging Whins to keep Bluebell’s pace.
“Aye, I see it.” Tristan put Bluebell into a gallop with Cenna staying right at his side.
It wasn’t long that they heard the s
creams.
“Tristan!” Cenna said in a dire voice.
“I hear it,” he said gravely.
They came to the rise of a hill and stopped at the top, looking down at the scene before them.
There was a small village meandering along the top of a short cliff overlooking a firth. A winding path wound down a section of the rocky cliff to the beach below, where some colorful fishing boats were tied. There were fish traps and nets scattered about the beach. The fields around the tenants’ homes were green with healthy crops, but part of it had been burned, and more was burning. The villagers were being herded away from their village towards the edge of the cliff by a group of soldiers. More soldiers were setting torches to the crofters’ homes. The pretty little cottages’ thatched roofs were catching fire easily. Too easily.
“Whose land is this?” Tristan demanded.
“I believe it is part of the Macallan lands,” Cenna said tensely.
They both knew that without a leader, the Macallan lands and villages were open to chaos. Brigda needed to find her Warwick Macallan and hasten him to return to lead his clan, and soon.
Tristan looked behind them to see how far back the Black Watch Army was. Too far, he thought, as he watched them coming far off over the fields.
“Tristan, we must do something! Now!” Cenna said fiercely. “Now!” she reiterated urgently.
“I know Cenna,” he said quietly as he narrowed his eyes, watching the little village, looking for the best way to approach. He wanted the leader who was ordering the other soldiers to burn and herd the people out of the village. “I need to find the leader, he is the one I want.”
Cenna bit her lip, looking frantically over the village for the leader of the men. At a sharp, shrill scream, she turned just in time to see a soldier push a woman over the cliff, her young child watching, crying, screaming. More were being pushed towards the precipice by soldiers with torches.
“No!” she screamed as she kicked Whins into a gallop that took her flying down the hill at a breakneck speed into the village. She was screaming her battle cry as she pulled her long lochaber ax out of its scabbard. She flew through the village, on toward the cliff, Whin’s huge strides eating up the ground with a sound like thunder as each hoof hit the ground. She could hear Tristan behind her, and knew Bluebell was faster and more powerful than her mare. He passed her, charging into the soldiers, scattering them just as she charged Whins to the front of the soldiers. She spun her mare, putting herself between the soldiers and the frightened villagers along the cliff face.
“Stop!” she screamed at them as Tristan joined her.
Tristan spun Bluebell into place in front of one of the men he had determined was the leader. He cantered the huge horse back and forth, blocking the man from the people and Cenna. “By whose orders are you doing this?” he demanded of the man, in a roar.
The man stepped forward. He was a hulking, menacing-looking highlander.
“By the order of the sheriff of this region, Red Munroe! We are ordered to make clearances in this area. Who are you?” he bellowed with his head down like a bull.
“I am Tristan MacDonell, brother of Laird MacDonell! Friend of the Macallan clan. You will cease immediately!” Tristan bellowed back at the man.
Tristan’s eyes glanced to the hill above the village where he and Cenna had just been. He saw the Black Watch come over the hill. They had seen the smoke and must have galloped here, just as he and Cenna had, for they made good time.
The bull of a man just laughed and motioned to his men. They started pushing the villagers again, waving their torches at the terrified people. The small child screamed again, wailing pitifully as she was pushed back farther and farther towards the very edge of the cliff. Cenna screamed again and jumped off of Whins. She caught the child just before she could fall over the cliff. The terrified villagers pressed back against her as she struggled to hold the wailing child in one arm as the men with the torches continued to come forward. Cenna screamed for the villagers to hold their ground. She fought her way to the front with the child in one arm and her lochaber ax in the other. The men at the front saw her push her way forward. They leered evilly at her, swiping their burning torches to the left and right of her, while the others continued to push the villagers to the cliff.
“You will stop!” Tristan thundered again. “You will not kill innocent women and children!” he said urgently, his voice a threatening boom of warning.
“Ye cannae make us stop! Ye and yer wee woman!” the man hollered to Tristan.
Cenna screeched as one of the men got too close with his torch. She turned her body quickly, shielding the little girl in her arms. She spun her ax towards the men in front of her, not letting them or the torches they were waving get any closer to any of the people clinging to each other behind her. The little girl clung tightly to Cenna’s neck, her cries shrill between her wailing sobs.
Cenna called out, “Tristan, grab mane!” Cenna watched as Tristan quickly threw her a questioning glance but did as she had told him to. “Bluebell up!” Cenna shouted the command.
Tristan sat on the huge draft horse where he was positioned in front of the leader. Bluebell sat back on his massive hindquarters and slowly stood up, up, up. Towering high over the man’s head. Bluebell’s massive front hooves pawed at the air near his head as the man stared aghast at the giant horse looming over him. The man let out a high-pitched scream as one of Bluebell’s hooves grazed his head. The man fell to the ground, holding his hand to the side of his head. There was blood between his fingers. The sheriff’s other men instantly stopped, looking at their leader.
“Ye will not stop us, MacDonell!” the man bellowed from the ground where he sat, holding his head in one hand.
“Aye, I will. I am the commander of the Black Watch Army and they are right behind ye,” he bellowed back twice as loud. “What ye are doing is wrong! These people are not Jacobites! They are Macallans, loyal to our Scotland’s’ Hanoverian government and King George. They have not fought against our government, for they are not Jacobite followers of that new upstart, the Young Pretender Charles Eduard Stewart!” he sneered. “Now get off the Macallan land! Tis not part of the Clearance Act, as they are not Jacobites!” he roared, his voice taking on a mighty, deep tone that made all silent but his. He sat atop Bluebell like an avenging angel. When the man started to stand, Tristan brought Bluebell up into a rear again as he glared down at the man.
“Take your men and leave!” Tristan ordered in his deep, commanding voice.
Tristan motioned to two soldiers to assist their leader. The two men rushed to their fallen leader to help him up. Tristan made a jerking gesture with his hand to the men, and they hastily retreated back to the village and their horses.
The Black Watch Army had descended the hill and were lined up along the edge of the village. Several had dismounted and were hurrying back and forth from the village well with buckets, putting out the fires burning the crofters’ homes.
The sheriff’s men left, intimidated by the line of Black Watch soldiers in their dark navy and black tartan. The huge Highland soldiers of the Black Watch were known far and wide for their fierceness in battle. The sheriff’s small group of men had no desire to engage them.
Tristan turned to Cenna. The little girl in her arms was wailing pitifully, her tiny blonde head buried in Cenna’s long hair that was blowing wildly from the winds coming off the cliff. Cenna had dropped her weapon and was hugging the little girl tightly with her head buried in the tiny child’s neck. The little girl was clinging tightly to Cenna’s neck as she cried, sobbing for her mother. Tristan could see the little girl’s body shaking.
He got off of Bluebell and walked slowly over to Cenna. The villagers had gathered around her. All were silent, stricken into a reverent silence by this warrior woman who had singlehandedly stood between them and a group of soldiers with torches. They had lost one of their own. But no more. No more. Because of this Valkyrie, this fearsome and fearless w
oman, holding a child in one arm and swinging her weapon at their attackers in the other.
Cenna was oblivious to the crowd quietly gathered behind her. She heard only the little girl’s pitiful cries for her mother, heard in her head her mother’s scream as she went over the cliff and the child’s terrified wailing at the sight. She held the little girl tightly, whispering soothing words of nonsense to her as she too cried. She cried for the child’s lost mother, cried for the terror brought to these innocent people, cried in anger at the injustice done by these men. For she had fought men like these before. Men like this had killed her father, her own mother. She remembered it all too well.
At a touch on her shoulder she jumped, ready to fight again. But instead of the sheriff’s men and their torches, she looked up into Tristan’s gentle, green gaze, and instantly calmed.
“They are gone,” he whispered softly, his voice husky, coming from deep in his throat. “Give the little girl to her people,” he added gently.
Cenna looked up at him, frozen. Her eyes shining with tears. “They were herding the people over that cliff,” she said brokenly to Tristan. “How?” she said with an outraged sob. “How could they do such a thing?”
Another hand touched her arm. “Lady, we are grateful to ye. Ye saved us, ye did. Ye and yer lord,” an older woman said respectfully to her. The woman held her arms out for the little girl. Cenna hesitated but the tiny blonde head turned and saw her grandmother. She reached out her dimpled little baby arms, leaning away from Cenna. Cenna looked into the older woman’s eyes and sighed. The woman nodded her head at Cenna and gave her a tremulous smile. Cenna reluctantly let the little girl go. She gave the elderly woman a weak smile, trying to stifle her tears as she watched the little girl snuggle into the older woman’s arms, her sobs quieting to soft snuffles as she put her thumb in her mouth.
Cenna watched her a moment but then gasped and spun around to the cliff, running to its edge to look for the little girl’s mother. Could she have survived?