by Alisa Adams
Tristan heard Cenna’s voice as she called out to the huge bear of a man on the uncommonly small horse who held the lead rope to her horse. She was asking him to slow down as she was having trouble with her hands being tied to keep her seat over all the logs and rocks.
Tristan smiled.
She was up to something.
Tristan knew that if anyone could keep their seat without needing to hold their saddle or their horse’s mane hair, or even the reins, it was Cenna. Tristan had seen her fight in battle. He had to admit she was a superior rider, able to use her legs and seat to control the horse while her hands were free to twirl her lochaber axe or throw her dirks.
He watched as Cenna and the man leading her slowed down. They dropped back as the other men who were walking and those that were mounted on horses moved past them until there was only one man left, walking behind them.
Tristan watched quietly, a small smile still on his face.
He saw Cenna glance left and right, saw her look at a dense growth of bushes growing amid some large boulders. She wasted no time but turned in her saddle at the same instance that she pulled a dirk out of her belt and flung it at the man behind her. Her aim was true and the man tumbled off the path down into the brush and was gone, out of sight. The giant bear of a man who had been leading her did not seem to hear anything amiss; he remained steadfastly looking ahead down the trail.
He nudged Bluebell into a walk, keeping his eyes on Cenna. She passed two other men who wore Red Munroe’s colors. He saw her look around, probably for another area for them to disappear into. Tristan thought he may have just the answer, for he had dirks too. And a longbow. This bow had been hanging on the weaponry wall in the great hall back at Castle Conall. It was a favorite of his for hunting in the mountains. He smiled grimly. He was very happy he had kept it attached to Bluebell’s saddle as well as a quiver of arrows. He was an excellent archer. He had often thought Scotsmen needed to practice as much as the English did at raising bows. But archery was becoming archaic now. Only used for hunting, not for war. At least not in the last two hundred or so years.
Tristan nocked an arrow and pulled back his bow string, waiting for an opening in the trees. When he had a good shot, he let fly his arrow. It flew swiftly and quietly and the second man dropped to the ground without a sound. The first man dropped immediately after. For just as he had turned to see the man behind him, Tristan’s dirk had landed in his chest.
He watched as Cenna turned to see the men hit the ground. Tristan knew she saw the arrow in the man’s chest, for she looked all around, scanning the woods looking for where it had come from.
Tristan heard the big man on the small horse say something to Cenna, his voice coming like a deep rumble. Cenna quickly turned back around to answer him. He was offering her some bread and she nudged her horse forward to take it from him.
Tristan watched silently. He was grateful that this huge man was offering food to Cenna. Tristan watched, blinking his eyes in confusion. Had the man just put a small piece of bread in his mouth or had his eyes deceived him, for it looked like the man was taking small bits of bread and putting it in his beard. He also appeared to be taking even tinier pieces of the same bread and was putting these into his pocket. The huge man must be a bit of a bampot perhaps, Tristan thought to himself. He certainly appeared to be not quite right in the head. If he was going to hoard food why hoard what amounted to crumbs for such a giant of a man?
Tristan watched as Cenna leaned over as if she was looking in the big man’s pocket. The man leaned away from her quickly, putting his hand on top of his pocket. Tristan could not hear what Cenna asked him, but the man shook his head at her and nudged his uncommonly small horse back in front of her.
Tristan followed them for the rest of the day. He did not see another opportunity to use his bow. Though he did witness Cenna use her foot as she passed another man who was walking. She shoved him mightily up against a rock she was passing, knocking the man out. He collapsed to the ground and was left behind, like the other two men.
Tristan waited, and then tied that man up as he had the others, dragging him off the trail into the thick bushes.
When the group made camp that night in an open meadow surrounded by thick evergreens, Tristan got in position and waited for his chance.
13
Cenna was tired. Friseal was directed by Red Munroe to tie her to a tree again. Cenna was not as unhappy this time, however. Since the meadow was open, the only trees available were at its edge. She was more than happy to be far off to the side, away from Red Munroe.
Cenna knew Tristan was nearby. That had been his arrow in the Munroe soldier. He was one of the few Scottish Highland warriors that still used the old longbows, and he was an excellent archer. When her brother-in-law Laird Gordon MacDonell had said that his brother Tristan was a deadly assassin and as skilled with weapons as she, Cenna grudgingly knew it to be true. The man was indeed stealthy and deadly, as well as fast in battle.
Friseal puttered about, seeing to Frightful, his horse. Then he lowered his tremendous bulk down onto the ground not too far from her to keep watch over her as he had been ordered to. Cenna watched as he snuck a crumb into his pocket again, as he had out on the trail as they had come down the mountain. Her eyes followed his every move as he opened the pocket wide and lowered a crumb very gently down inside the pocket. She thought she heard the tiniest of peeps and wondered if he had a baby bird in the pocket, but then his beard bounced and jiggled and her eyes and her attention flew to his beard. She swore she saw the tiniest, little paw reach out from the red, bushy beard. She heard a low rumble from Friseal as he gently pushed a small breadcrumb into his beard.
“Friseal,” Cenna said softly, “what have you there?”
The huge man jumped, his eyes wide as he looked at Cenna, his hand going still in his pocket.
“Nothing,” was all he said. His bushy eyebrows were quivering as if they were alive as he stared at her, wide-eyed and guilty-looking.
Cenna thought his mouth looked to be set in a firm, stubborn line. What Cenna could see of his mouth looked firm and stubborn anyway, surrounded by the bushy, long beard as it was. He was a very large, very hairy man, she thought.
“Come now Friseal, I saw you putting crumbs down in yer pocket on the trail and again, just now. What have ye got there?” Cenna gently cajoled the giant.
Friseal looked doubtfully around, his eyes finding Red Munroe in the center of the clearing talking to some of his men. His eyes narrowed on him. He turned back to Cenna.
“If I tell ye, ye must promise not to say a word aboot it. The Munroe will take the wee ones from me, I know it,” he said in a gruff, deep whisper as he leaned towards her conspiratorially.
“I shan’t, I dinnae like that man, ye must know that. Why would I be telling him anythin’?” she said in the same secretive tone as he had.
Friseal swallowed and hesitated but Cenna waited calmly and patiently. The man had said wee ones. So there was more than one small creature in his pocket? But what of his beard? There was something in there as well.
Cenna watched as the huge man put his giant hand ever so gently into his pocket. He slowly took his hand out, and opened his fingers just enough for her to see.
He had three tiny baby birds held as gently as thistledown in his huge hand. They were tiny little things, with their feathers just starting to come. Their bright, little yellow beaks were open, even as their eyes were closed. Cenna watched as Friseal dropped a bread crumb into each of their mouths.
“Oh, they are lovely,” Cenna whispered as she leaned as close as the rope binding her to the tree would allow.
“They are not yet fledglings. A storm knocked their nest out of a tree. I found them on the road outside me village. They would have been trampled by the Munroe and his men.” He sounded indignant and angry at the thought. Friseal was using the tip of his finger to softly and delicately stroke the sleepy little birds’ heads.
Cenna watched him.
She was in awe of this giant man who could so lightly, delicately, and compassionately take care of these small babies. Then she noticed his beard quivering again.
“Friseal? What is in yer beard? More wee creatures?”
Friseal opened his mouth, hesitating to answer her, when a disturbance came from the group around Red Munroe.
“It was her!” a man yelled, pointing his finger towards Cenna.
Cenna looked at the man, her face going ashen. He was one of the men from the cliff trail. He was disheveled, his clothing torn, his face cut up and bruised. He cradled his arm in his other hand as he looked at her accusingly.
“Oh dear,” Cenna whispered under her breath, thinking as an after-thought that she sounded like her sister Flori.
Friseal stood up, looking between Cenna and the man staring with such hostility at her.
“I should have checked to be sure he was dead,” Cenna said resignedly to herself in a hushed voice.
Friseal heard her. He looked back at her with narrowed eyes. His eyebrows were especially volatile in their movement as he stared at her. His beard seemed to agree, as it bounced; once, wildly, before he gently placed his hand on the mass of bushy red hair.
Cenna stared up at the red-haired giant, gulping a great breath as she looked into his eyes. Friseal nodded almost imperceptibly to her and turned back around.
Cenna heard his voice as it rumbled deep and low. “Ye should always check those things,” he said.
Red Munroe and some of his men came stalking over to her. The injured man was hot on their heels, hurrying behind them as best he could go with all his injuries.
“Move, Fizzel,” Red Munroe commanded as he kept walking towards them. He spoke in a condescending, arrogant voice to the giant who stood in front of Cenna where she was tied to a tree.
“Me name is Friseal,” he said calmly.
Red stopped. “What did you say to me?” he hissed softly.
Friseal shrugged his shoulders. “I said me name is Friseal. Not Fizzel.”
Red stared at him with anger in his narrowed eyes. Then he strode forward, putting his hand on the giant’s shoulder to shove him aside. It was like trying to move the very mountain they had just come down from. Red stared at him again. He patted him on that same shoulder. “Now I remember you. Aye, you’ll do. You’ll do vera well.” He walked past him and looked down at Cenna.
Friseal turned as Red walked around him. “I’ll do well at what?” he asked him.
Red stopped again and turned to him. “Why, at anything I ask of you, of course!” Red started to turn back around to Cenna.
“Like what?” Friseal said innocently.
Red stopped, turning slowly around this time. Trying to hold a smile on his face as he stared up at the giant. He hissed again, slowing his words as if talking to a child. “Anything I ask you to do. You. Will. Do. It,” Red said, emphasizing each word as he glared up at Friseal.
Friseal looked behind Red to Cenna. She was standing up now. Her hands were untied. Friseal looked at the man beside her. This was the man Friseal had seen shadowing them on the trail. Friseal looked back at Red and smiled.
“I just wanted to be sure of what ye were asking of me,” he said with a polite smile.
Red patted him on the shoulder again. “Tis good you understand now,” Red said in a condescending voice once more.
Friseal nodded and moved away.
When the giant of a man moved, Red saw Cenna, and then he realized there was a man standing beside her.
“What is this?” Red raged. “Why is she untied? Who told you to untie her? You are supposed to be guarding her!” he bellowed at Tristan. “What is yer name soldier?” he demanded of Tristan.
“I am Tristan—” Tristan started to say, but was cut off abruptly by Red.
“What did you say? Stan? Very well then, do yer job!” Red raged at Tristan.
Before Tristan could respond, the injured man started screaming and raging about being pushed off his horse and falling down the mountain as he pointed at Cenna.
Red turned to the man and the two began shouting at one another, neither waiting for the other to finish a sentence so they could be heard.
Cenna nudged Tristan. “Where’s the men? We must take them now!” she whispered urgently.
Tristan shushed her. “I left before them. I am not sure how far behind me they are.”
“Can they follow your tracks?” Cenna asked with worry.
Friseal turned slightly toward them. “I should think so, he left a trail of men tied up behind us,” he said quietly with a look at Tristan and a small nod.
Tristan stared hard at him, then a small smile grew on his mouth. “Aye, and thank ye for watching out for her,” he said, his voice low.
Friseal nodded imperceptibly and turned back to the two shouting men.
Cenna nudged him again, harder this time. “Ye know Friseal?” she whispered with surprise.
“No, just met him,” Tristan said in a short, clipped tone. “Hush Cenna. Go along with whatever I say or do. No arguing!”
“I niver argue!” she hissed back at him.
Tristan looked at her with one eyebrow raised and a crooked grin on his lips.
“Och! Fine!” she mouthed to him.
Tristan and Cenna both turned their attention to Red and the injured man. He was indeed Fearghus. The man who she had shoved off his horse and over the side of the mountain.
Red was shouting into Fearghus’ face. “That wee womon couldnae have kicked ye off yer horse and off the cliff! Ye were probably drinking again Fearghus!”
“I swear she did! She is strong I tell ye! Kicked me and sent me right over the side!” Fearghus whined back to him loudly.
Red sneered. “Ye mean to tell me that a wee womon, who was tied mind ye, was able to get ye off yer horse and over the side of the cliff in one swift kick?”
The men who had gathered around started murmuring and laughing. Fearghus looked around at them in embarrassment.
“She did I tell ye!” he railed at them.
One of the men who was able to control his laughter enough to speak said, “Ye were kicked over a cliff by a womon who was tied up?” He bent over at the waist and howled with laughter.
Red looked at the men and then back at Fearghus. “Ye shame us. Admit ye were drinking. Tis more plausible than being beaten by a womon!”
Fearghus fussed and shouted and whined at the men.
Cenna leaned in to Tristan. “Tis true, it only took me one kick and he was off his horse, and tumbling down the cliff,” she whispered.
Tristan leaned toward her but did not turn to her. He said out of the side of his mouth, “But he survived. I see a problem there, in fact I see that very problem standing before us. Alive.”
“Och!” Cenna whispered under her breath at him. “Weel, I got the others.”
“Ye sure aboot that?” Tristan growled in a low tone, again without looking at her.
Tristan was keeping his eyes on Red and his men. This had not unfolded as he wished. He had hoped to slip in and take Cenna. The giant Friseal had even kept Red occupied while he had hastily untied her. But then Fearghus had showed up. It was advantageous that Red did not recognize Tristan and thought that Tristan was one of his own men. Now, he thought to himself, how to use this to help Cenna and himself until his men arrived. Without getting them both killed.
Just then Red bellowed at his men, “Enough of this! I have had enough! Git back to what ye were doing. We leave in the morning! See to yerselves and yer horses!” At that, he spun around to Tristan and Cenna. Friseal stood silently off to the side.
Cenna thought for such a giant of a man, Friseal had an unusual talent for disappearing into the background.
“You, Stan!” Red raged at Tristan. “Tie her up now! And dinnae let her out of yer sight or I swear I’ll kill ye myself!”
Tristan nodded to him and turned to Cenna with the rope that he had taken from her wrists. He moved to tie her back up. Cenna
glared at him angrily and backed away.
Tristan narrowed his eyes at her and then shouted overly loud, for Red’s benefit. “Hold still womon or I’ll make ye sorry!” he said, showing her his fist.
Cenna reared her head back in shock. “Ye just try!” she said furiously back to him.
Tristan glared angrily at her, growling low in his throat. Then he said loudly once again, “Hold still womon!” Tristan raised his hand again, higher, pretending he would strike her. His heart froze when he saw the shock and hurt in her eyes.
“Dinnae lay a hand on her, man! I want her pretty face. Guard her close. Do not let her out of your sight. I have plans for her,” Red let out a single hoarse laugh, and with that he strode away from them.
Tristan lowered his hand. Staring into Cenna’s beautiful, bright green eyes. He quickly tied her wrists, trying to be gentle. He bent over as if inspecting the knot, and whispered to her, “I would never hurt ye mo graidh. Play along sweetling, I pray ye,” he finished huskily as he dared a glance to make sure Red was away from them and could not hear what he was saying. His men were following him too. Like a bunch of lap dogs, Tristan thought with disgust.
Tristan’s chest hurt when Cenna bent her head down to hide the single tear that fell down her graceful cheek. Tristan’s eyes darted to Red’s men once again and lifted her wrists to his lips, placing a quick, soft kiss there, then he gently used his thumb to wipe the tear trickling down her cheek. Cupping the area where that soldier had struck her.
Cenna pulled her face abruptly away from him. “Dinnae touch me Tristan!” she railed under her breath. “How could ye? How could ye?” she whispered brokenly. Her voice was full of hurt and anger and shock.
“I wasnae going to strike ye!” Tristan said with agony in his voice. ”Ye must know I would niver, ever strike ye. I was doing it for Red’s benefit!” he said in a low, insistent tone.
“How can I believe ye?” Cenna said as she stared angrily at him.