by Alisa Adams
As he took a turn he heard voices ahead of him on the trail. He slowed his pace even more, realizing he had caught up to Red and his men. As he came around another sharp corner of rock he saw two figures walking carefully along the trail. He nudged Bluebell up against the rock face so that he was as close to the cliff wall as possible and far from the edge. He kicked the horse into a fast trot, slamming the horse into the soldiers and knocking their heads together. Tristan grimaced as he heard their shout of pain and then the silence. No sound came from ahead. They must have been lagging behind the others. Tristan quickly tied them up and left them for his men. He knew they could not be far behind him. Tristan resumed his slow pace, just in case.
As he came around another turn he saw a single man, walking along. He was paying close attention to the ground, his hand never leaving the wall of the mountain. Here the fog was indeed dense and the man followed the wall like a blind man. Tristan rode up behind him. Bluebell’s feet making a dull thud. The man turned to look at the muffled sound. His eyes widened, startled to see the shape of a massive horse form out of the swirling fog with a huge man riding it.
Tristan let out a deep, slow growl. The soldier squeaked a scream and turned to run, losing his footing and going over the side of the cliff in his haste to get away from the wraith he was seeing in the fog. Tristan jumped off Bluebell. He saw the man clinging to the edge. His face white and stark with fear. This was not one of the soldiers he had seen at the Macallan village. Nor were the last two he had tied up. He would not be as evil as Red Munroe and his men. He did not know this man and would not be his judge. He reached down and pulled him up onto the path. He tied the terrified man, adding a gag so that he could not call out, and left him there as he had the others.
Tristan listened for the sound of more men or riders up ahead. Not hearing anything, he mounted Bluebell once again and moved on.
The clouds began to burn off in the warming of the rising morning sun. Tristan could finally look over the side of the path and see down the steep hillside that was dotted with evergreens and large boulders, and even steeper drop-offs. Tristan knew they would have had to travel single file along this entire path, giving Cenna no way to turn around and try to escape. The path continued to turn and twist, following closely to the cliff face. There were turns that were very tight. Tristan saw the hoofprints that had sent dirt and stone scattering over the edge. He slowed Bluebell, peering over the edge where the dirt was particularly dug up. It looked like a horse had gone over, for the very edge of the path had given way. He peered down the steep slope, looking into the trees and at the base of the large boulders. He saw the marks from a horse, and another which could have been a man (or a woman—Cenna?) tumbling down the hill. He looked frantically about. Then he sat up straighter, smiling grimly. His muscles unclenching. He saw a man partway down the slope under the boughs of a pine tree, laying on his stomach. There was a dirk protruding out of his back.
Tristan wanted to cry out with a joyful cheer. Cenna! Cenna had done this!
He put his heels into Bluebell’s sides and continued on, keeping his eyes open for more signs. Was she trying to waylay more of Red’s men? If she was, and he thought for sure that she would try at any chance she could, he found himself smiling in pride. This woman—this was the one for him. She was fierce through and through.
Tristan pushed Bluebell on to a faster pace. His eyes looking back and forth from the trail to over the sides of the trail, looking for any sign of a scuffle or even a disturbance at the edge.
Finally, his vigilance paid off. For there, on a portion of the trail that was just around a sharp bend in the cliff face, he looked down the slope. A man was lying against a rock. From the looks of the hillside, he had taken quite a tumble. It was the rock that had stopped his fall. And very probably ended his life, so still he lay.
Two.
Cenna had taken care of two men.
How many more?
Tristan gathered up Bluebell’s reins and continued on. He felt better knowing she was fighting back. She wouldn’t give up. Cenna would always find a way.
It took him the remainder of the morning to get off the mountain. He found where they had stopped on the hillside, perhaps to rest or eat. Saw where the hoofprints led on again. He stayed on their trail, ever vigilant for any sign of Cenna.
Tristan would get her back. He was keeping her. She just didn’t know it yet.
11
Cenna kept a close eye on Red Munroe. He had assigned a new man to guard her and lead the horse she was mounted on. Red had checked the ropes at her wrists, roughly tugging on them to make sure they were snug and she couldn’t move her hands.
Cenna had smiled at Red. Tying her wrists had not stopped her from sending Cormage or Fearghus over the side of the mountain. Seeing her smile, Red had growled at her, giving her wrists one last particularly vicious yank as he tightened the ropes. Cenna did not falter. She kept her smile pasted on her face and would not let him see that he had hurt her. When he rode on ahead, Cenna turned her attention to the man holding her horse’s lead rope.
“What is yer name?” Cenna asked the large, barrel-chested, red-haired man with the big, bushy red beard as he kicked his horse into a walk and yanked on her lead rope. Cenna’s horse began walking as well. She was prepared to tell him she wanted his name for his grave marker, as she had Cormage and Fearghus. It was her favorite threat that she had heard her Da say one time. But this man didn’t ask why she wanted to know as the others had, so her plan of that threat was ruined. Cenna frowned.
“I am Friseal. And I am not interested in women’s chatter,” he said gruffly to her. He hadn’t looked at her. He stared straight ahead, now and then looking at the scenery of the forest they were winding through as they started to go down the mountain.
Cenna heard a whizzing sound in the air and looked behind her just in time to see a man go flailing off the trail as if something had hit him, hard enough to knock him off his feet and send him flying into the bushes. She frowned, looking around but seeing nothing. She spun back in her saddle, not wanting to call attention to what she had seen just as more men were coming around the bend in the trail behind her.
Cenna stared hard at the back of the man’s overly large head, who was leading her horse as they walked along. She lightly bit her bottom lip, deep in thought. She stared at the man’s horse. Then she stared at the back of the man again. He was large, maybe even larger than Tristan or the Highland warriors. He may be a giant, in fact. Then she looked at the horse carrying him again. It was uncommonly small to be carrying such a large man as he. If Tristan was out there trying to help, she needed to do her part. She looked at the large man again. She would have to take care of this man.
“Guid gear comes in sma’ bulk,” Cenna said lightly.
“Me mither used to say that,” Friseal said without thinking. Then he twisted around in his saddle to stare furiously at her. “Jist what do yer mean by sich a thing? I’m no small!”
“No, no you are not. I dinnae mean that. I meant your horse. He is uncommonly small to carry such a large man as yerself. He must be vera strong. Vera strong indeed.” Cenna nodded her head towards his little horse. How were its legs not bowing under its rider’s weight?
Friseal shrugged his shoulders. “Frightful is a good horse,” he said as he patted Frightful’s neck.
“Frightful is he?” Cenna asked, her lips twitching at this big man with a tiny horse named Frightful.
“Aye, he is vera frightful,” Friseal said curtly.
“How very curious,” Cenna murmured. “He is frightened of things? What types of things?” Cenna was thinking fast. Could she spook his horse and make Friseal fall off?
“Stoopid womon. People are frightened of him,” Friseal said proudly.
Cenna scoffed, loudly and dramatically. “Och I dinnae believe that. Not for a moment. He looks to be sich a sweet little horse. Now my horse—”
“No horse is more terrifying than mine. Frightful
is the fiercest horse there is,” Friseal said staunchly as he looked ahead down the path of this next mountain they were winding their way down from.
“Dinnae ye see me horse? At the last village you tried to clear?” she said, barely holding her emotions in. But then she realized he was not one of the soldiers that had tried to clear out the villagers. She would have remembered this man. She did not know whether to laugh at the ridiculousness of this man and horse or be outraged that he thought his horse was fiercer than the Clydesdales she and her sisters all rode.
“Naw, I wasnae there. I came along with the Munroes later. Frightful doesnae care for a fast pace,” he said nonchalantly, patting his horse again and muttering soothing words about ignoring the womon’s insults to him.
“I see,” Cenna said as her lips twitched uncontrollably at the sight of the giant man petting and soothing the hurt feelings of his tiny horse. She thought that the small horse could not go at any speed other than a snail’s; be it walk, trot, canter, or gallop, carrying the giant man. “He seems a good wee horse.”
Friseal spun around. His mouth was open in astonishment as he looked at Cenna. “He’s not a wee horse!”
Cenna put her hands up, tied together at the wrist, as if to deflect his anger from her. “Aye, aye!” she said with a friendly smile. “Perhaps he just seems like such a wee mickle compared to such a giant muckle of a man as ye?”
Cenna smiled at him again, flashing her white teeth.
When he just stared at her with a frown that went up to his eyes—including his red, giant, bushy eyebrows arching like a springtime hairy caterpillar over each eye—she batted her eyelashes at him as casually as she could. She realized that now that she had noticed those huge, hairy eyebrows, she could not un-see them. She tried to look him in the eye, but with every twitch of his mouth not only did his beard move—as if some creature was nestling around in it—but his eyebrows quivered and quaked. The long red hairs over each eye stood up, curling here and there, moving with the breeze. Cenna abruptly closed her mouth. She knew she had been staring overly long.
“Friseal? Ye must be of Highland blood are ye not?” Cenna asked him as she tried not to stare at his beard (there must be something living in there) or at his enormously, hairy eyebrows.
“Why de ye ask?” Friseal said.
Cenna smiled again. Friseal was giving his attention to her, not turning away now. In fact, he had slowed Frightful down to walk beside her. Although this did add to her distraction—facing that beard, and those brows.
“Oh, because of your large size, and...and your...immense muscles,” she paused, looking at his portly belly.
The huge man shrugged his shoulders. “The Munroe found me in a village, and aye, twas in the Highlands, where I be from. I was looking for a dress for me mither, and a present for me wife.” He paused, lowering his voice. “I dinnae have enough coin with me. The Munroe paid for the dress and promised me more coin if I would accompany him.” Friseal reached into one of the packs tied behind his saddle and pulled out a dress of dark green.
The dress was the most enormous one Cenna had ever seen. She thought it may just as well fit Friseal as his mother. His mother must be as giant as he was.
“I see,” she said. “Tis a lovely dress ye have selected for yer mither. I am sure she will be most pleased with it!” Cenna stopped, for his beard had moved again. She narrowed her eyes at it, watching closely. She knew she had seen something! Goodness, was there a rodent living in his beard? The beard was certainly large enough, for it touched his big belly. Could he not feel whatever it was moving around? She leaned closer to look but Friseal saw where she was staring and put his heels into Frightful’s sides as he shoved the dress back into the pack. He moved back in front of her horse, leading her once again.
Cenna frowned and quickly called to him. “Did ye find a present fer yer wife then?”
Friseal did not turn around. Cenna watched as he lightly stroked his beard. “Aye,” he called back without looking at her.
Cenna spent the journey studying the giant of a man. In particular, watching his beard. It twitched and moved now and then and even seemed to bounce off his chest for no particular reason. She was fascinated.
She was deep in thought when something occurred to her. “Friseal?” she said, hurrying her horse to come up beside the big man. She lowered her voice. “If ye are from the Highlands how do ye feel aboot the Clearances? That is what the Munroe is doing, dinnae ye know?”
Friseal looked at her from under his bushy brows. He stared and stared, thinking hard. His eyes quickly darted to the men in front of them, and then behind them.
“The Clearances are bad,” he said firmly under his breath.
“Aye, vera bad,” Cenna said whispered back. “At the last village, where these men met me, they killed a woman by trying to drive the entire village over a cliff. After burning their homes,” she said, her voice dropping lower.
Friseal looked away from her, gently stroking his beard again. “That is wrong.”
“Do ye have children?” Cenna asked him.
“Me wife is expecting our first.” He hesitated and added quietly, “I need the coin the Munroe has promised me.”
“The woman who went over the cliff and died? Her wee little daughter saw it. She screamed and screamed like I have niver heard before, nor hope to ever hear again. She cried in my arms as I held her.” Cenna looked at Friseal. His eyes were locked on her face, his mouth slightly open. Sards, his beard just twitched again, she thought. She shook her head, coming back to her retelling. “Of course, that was after I had saved the little girl from going over the cliff as well, and the rest of the villagers.”
“Ye saved the little girl? And all the villagers?” he asked curiously.
“Aye, me horse is huge, and I wield a lochaber axe. But still the Munroe’s men burned me hand, for they used torches to drive the villagers out and away to the cliffs.” Cenna looked down at the tattered remains of a bandage on her one hand.
Friseal’s face went grim. He turned and looked straight ahead, his face set in a stony frown.
“Friseal—” Cenna started to say more but the soldier behind them rode up to her, slamming his horse into hers.
“Be quiet woman!” he barked into her face. “Friseal doesnae want to hear of yer puny efforts to help those people!”
Cenna turned in her saddle to face him as she moved her horse away from his. “Me puny efforts helped save those people from you vile men and yer evil Clearances! Ye know those people were not Jacobites! They are good, innocent people and ye just want their land!”
The soldier kicked his horse sideways and came back next to her. He did not say a word but swung his hand, slapping her across her cheek and sending her head reeling backwards from the strength of the blow. “Quite yer blethering,” he hissed into her face. “Or I’ll fling ye over a cliff as I did that village woman!”
Cenna stared at him with cold, crystal green eyes. “What is yer name?” she asked him in a monotone, low voice. She would not flinch, would not raise her bound hands to her cheek, which pounded with pain.
“I am Murchadh and dinnae ye forget it!” he hissed at her again, his spittle flying in the air between them.
Cenna looked at him hard. Noting his dark, roughly chopped hair. His scrubby, short beard, his brown shirt and black breeches. She nodded her head slightly. She had memorized him.
“Och,” she hissed quietly back at him, “I willnae forget yer name. Trust me, I willnae.”
“What do I care anyway!” he laughed. “In truth I dinnae care if ye forget me name.”
“Och, I’ll remember ye and yer name.” Cenna’s voice was soft, and full of threat if the man had not been so full of himself to recognize it.
“Why?” he shouted at her, leaning in to her face with a laugh.
“I’ll be needing it fer yer grave marker,” she said quietly but firmly as she leaned in to his face and looked him right in the eye. She liked this threat that
her Da had used—it was one she had decided worked well and got a good reaction. Besides, she felt strong when she used it against these bullies.
The man called Murchadh reeled back in shock. He turned and spat at the ground as he spurred his horse forward ahead of them.
Friseal looked back at Cenna, noting the blood on her cheek. “Murchadh cracked yer cheek open,” he said in a low tone; there was concern apparent in his voice.
“I am fine Friseal. What is it with these men who would strike an unarmed, bound woman?”
“A woman who stopped them from clearing out a village and running the people off a cliff? Seems to me they fear ye,” he said with a wink and turned around.
Cenna sighed. That did it. She could not kill Friseal. She liked him. Plus, she had to find out what was in his beard.
But Murchadh? Yes, she would be taking care of him.
12
Tristan clenched his jaw and both fists. The man had hit Cenna. Slapped her beautiful face. He could see a trickle of blood on her cheek from where he sat, deep in the trees and brush of the hillside.
When the horse she was on started walking again, he touched Bluebell’s sides with his heels and walked slowly along as well. He kept an eye on Cenna as well as the forest floor. He needed to keep Bluebell in the heavily treed area for cover but also because the ground was thick and dense with pine needles to dampen the sound of Bluebell’s hooves. He kept well up the hill from them. His height gave him a superior vantage point, for Red Munroe and his men were too intent on the downhill path they were following. The trees were growing in thicker and thicker clusters as they descended and there was more scrub brush and bushes. Fallen logs lay rotting on the forest floor here and there, and jagged rocks stuck up out of the ground at odd angles making for an arduous path down for the horses.