Isla was tired of being left at home, and despite her father’s warning of danger, she knew she was ready. As the daughter of a laird, a border laird at that, Isla knew well how to handle a sword. She had done so ever since she was a child and knew just how to comport herself in battle. Even though she had never experienced such things firsthand, she could ride, shoot an arrow straight, and defeat even her father’s best men at arms in a sword fight.
Her plan was simple. She would wait until her father and his men had ridden out for the raid and follow on horseback. No one would stop her; she would simply tell anyone who asked that she was riding out for an afternoon on the moorland. No one would question her. After all, she was the Laird’s daughter.
“Ye will be careful, won’t ye, Father?” she said, as Alistair sheathed his sword and made ready to depart.
“Aye, lass, dinnae fash yerself, ‘tis a simple enough task. We shall be home before nightfall, I promise ye,” Alistair said, and nodding to her, he left the hall behind.
Isla waited a moment before crossing to the window and watching as her father made ready to depart below. His faithful dogs were whining for their master, and they came and placed their paws on the sill, barking at the sight of Alistair with the clansmen below.
Ten men were accompanying the Laird that day, and they had all mounted their horses, Alistair, on a black steed named Storm. Isla watched him rally the men, and she could hear their cries echoing from below as they rode away from the castle. Now, she wasted no time. Telling the dogs to sit, she clattered down the stairs from the hall toward the stables.
“If it be a horse ye are wantin’, lass, then the best of them have already gone,” the stable hand said.
“Who has taken Bolt?” she said, annoyed that her father had allowed another to ride the horse that had been hers since it had been a foal.
“One of the clansmen, lass. Yer father told me to saddle the best horses, and that is what I did. If it be a ride ye are seekin’, then ye best take this young un’ here,” the stable hand said, pointing to one of the younger horses, an excitable creature named Thunder.
“Aye, he will dae,” Isla said, patting the horse’s mane and shushing him as he whinnied with excitement.
“And where is it ye be wantin’ to ride to?” the stable hand said, eyeing Isla with suspicion, for he knew of her excitable temperament and disregard for the rules.
“Oh, just over the moor. I hear there are mushrooms growin’ in the woods at Dunbier, and I want to pick some,” she replied, the lie flowing smoothly off her tongue.
The stable hand shook his head and led the horse into the stable yard, Isla following behind. She had collected armor and a helmet before leaving the keep, and these were stowed in a bag by the door to the castle. There was a strong breeze, and the horse neighed once more, as though eager to get going in pursuit of its fellows. Isla picked up the sack of armor and slung herself on the horse. Isla turned the horse towards the track south, and not heeding the stable hand’s gentle reminder that Dunbier was to the north, she set off in pursuit of her father.
Chapter Seven
Isla knew where her father was going. She had walked that track many a time, even though she was forbidden to go further than the village at Lochrutton. Some days she would go as far as the border, being careful not to show herself, watching the English from afar.
They terrified yet fascinated her in equal measures, and she found herself often daring herself to go closer. Once, she had hidden in a thicket, close to where an English archer was conversing with a foot soldier. She was so close that she could hear their conversation as they breathed murderous threats against their northern neighbors
It had terrified her, and as soon as they had gone on their way, she had hurried home. But today was different. Today, Isla had resolved to follow her father to battle and prove to the clan that she was ready to be a leader of men and not just the daughter of the Laird.
She paused some way down the track, clambering down from the horse’s back and taking out the armor and helmet from her bag. The armor was heavy and ill-fitting, but somehow, she managed to get it on, placing the helmet squarely upon her head and climbing back on the horse, which stamped its hoof as if eager to follow its friends.
“Aye, lad, I hear ye,” Isla said, urging the horse on down the track, her armor clinking as she rode.
The track soon rose up from the moorland, passing through scrubby trees and the remnants of what had once been a much larger forest. Isla knew her father had gone that way; the path was freshly churned up with mud, and horses’ hoof prints could clearly be seen, heading onto the ridge above.
Now, she proceeded with more caution, not wishing to be seen by her father and the other clansmen if they had paused to rest above. The path was overhung by trees, the perfect place for an ambush, and despite her bravado, Isla looked around nervously for enemies. She had no desire to fight that day, only to prove to her father that she was more than capable of riding alongside him.
The tree line soon gave way to the ridge above, and Isla was glad that the trees no longer hemmed her in on either side. She looked on the village below, nestled in the glen and surrounded by the forest. It was a strange little community, one she had few dealings with, despite the proximity of Lochrutton to the castle.
The people there kept to themselves, and they had little contact with outsiders. She glanced down and could see little figures below, going this way and that about their business. She wondered if they knew or cared that her father was risking his life at this moment for their protection. It did not matter though; all that mattered was avenging her birth father and seeing Sir Percy Musgrave pay for the crimes he had committed in the past.
On she rode, across the ridge, looking ahead to where she fancied she would see her father and the clansmen paused at the border. Isla reined in the horse, dismounting and stepping behind a rocky outcrop on the ridge to hide herself. It was her father that she could see, flanked by several of his clansmen. They were also hiding next to some trees that Isla knew marked the border between England and Scotland, though one was never sure precisely where that border lay.
It was a wild country, and Isla knew she must keep her wits about her if this first foray after her father was not to end in disaster. She glanced along the track toward the village, but there was no sign of pursuit. Just the whistling of the wind and the ever-darkening skies above. Rain was imminent, and even as she pulled her cloak over the ill-fitting armor, the first drops began to fall.
Her father and his men were making ready to march onward now. Isla steadied her nerves and reminded herself that she was the daughter of a laird, a brave lass who could fight as well as any man. But despite having often walked this path in secret, today felt different. Today, she knew that she would be facing those loyal to Sir Percy Musgrave, Englishmen who had been responsible for her father’s death and for the numerous deaths of those she held dear.
“For them,” she whispered, and as her father and the clansmen disappeared over the hill down toward the English border, she rode after them in trepidation.
* * *
There was little to distinguish the frontier of England and Scotland from any of the surrounding countryside. Only a thin line of trees, which stretched down from the hill toward an isolated farm below. It was the last friendly house in England or the first hostile house across the border, depending upon your perspective.
The farm was well-fortified, built of stone, with a watchtower jutting above it. It was built in much the same way as the castle at Kirklinton, though to Isla, it was a foreboding place, and she shuddered as she looked down from the hill.
Her father and the other clansmen were nowhere to be seen. Presumably, they had ensured their approach was well-hidden so that they could take the enemy by surprise. The raid was not designed for conquest, only to cause havoc to the English, and Isla knew that her father would strike quickly, causing as much damage as possible before retreating across the border.
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She watched from the same vantage point that her father and the clansmen had done just a while ago. The English flag was flying above the farmhouse, and she could see several peasants milling about. She steadied the horse, which had begun to stamp its hoof, stroking its mane and watching for any sign of movement.
Isla was not sure why she had followed her father in this way; perhaps it was a foolish thing to do. Her whole body felt tense, and her mind was racing through everything her father had said. Within her, there was a grim determination to seek out vengeance for the Armstrongs, but today would not be such a day. Sir Percy Musgrave would be safely behind his castle walls and would only discover the raid had taken place later on. She was hardly going to save her father from his sword or perform some great deed of valor as she had always dreamed of.
Instead, she watched for any signs of her father’s charge toward the enemy, waiting for her chance to join them. She would ride over the border as fearlessly as her present disposition allowed. It would be enough for her father to see her, to see that she was brave enough even to defy his strict orders, brave enough to follow him into the heart of enemy territory and, if necessary, defend herself.
Her mind was racing with such thoughts when suddenly there sprung forth a charge of her father’s men from either side of the trees on the hillside below. They had taken shelter just above the farm and now took the peasants by surprise, charging toward the farmhouse, their swords drawn. Isla knew that her time had come, and mounting her horse, she galloped after them across the border.
Chapter Eight
The raid was poorly planned and poorly executed. It seemed that the actions of Alistair Elliott and his men were knee-jerk, at best. They had little plan of action, and as Isla rode down the hill, she could see the chaos and confusion into which her father had charged headlong and without a second thought.
From the trees beyond the brook that marked the disputed border, came the sound of hunting horns, and presently, there emerged a band of English soldiers, their swords drawn. This was not what Isla had expected to see. Her father had assured her that the enemy would be nowhere near the farm and that this would be a simple raid, revenge for the burning of an Elliott croft some months previously. But it seemed the English had been preparing for such a raid, and now the Scots were outnumbered two to one.
Isla reined in her horse, drawing him up and almost falling from his back as he arched on his hind legs. She was higher up than her father and the clansmen and had a better sight of the oncoming enemy. They were led by a young man in the uniform of an English officer who was charging headlong towards the farmhouse, his men following behind.
The Scots had just laid fire to one of the barns, and its thatched, wattle roof had caught instantly. A great cloud of black smoke was rising into the air, a beacon for any who would come rushing to the aid of their fellow Englishmen.
“Father, look out, will ye, across the brook,” Isla yelled, but it was too late.
On hearing her voice, Alistair Elliott turned in astonishment to where his daughter sat, some way back up the hill. Isla was urging him back, but before he could return her call with one of anger, the enemy was upon them.
Isla was helpless to assist, paralyzed with fear at the approaching English soldiers who had taken their enemies by surprise, like an eagle on its prey. She drew her sword, but there was nothing she could do as her father’s clansmen scattered this way and that. The clash of metal upon metal and the cries of men injured and falling on the field was too much for her to bear. She turned the horse and urged him back up the hill, looking desperately around and hoping that her father would be following.
The scene below was chaos, and Isla paused as she reached the brow of the hill, looking down through the smoke of the fires for any sign of her father. Several of the other farm buildings had caught fire now, and cattle and livestock were running loose, the peasants scattering for their lives. But this was no victory for Alistair Elliott and his men; instead, many of them lay dead and through the smoke now charged her father, his face set in grim anger as he reined in his horse next to hers.
“What are ye doin’ here, lass? Why are ye so foolish? It is madness for ye to be here, utter madness! Get you gone; the enemy is in pursuit!” he cried.
But even as he uttered these words, there appeared from the smoke the young soldier leading the English charge. Isla screamed as her father turned, holding up his shield as the other’s sword crashed down upon his own.
“Go, Isla, flee,” Alistair cried, as he drew his own sword and clashed with the young soldier, who had murder in his eyes.
All around her was confusion as the Scots fled towards the border, pursued by their English aggressors. It had been a trap, and Alistair Elliott had fallen for it.
As Isla turned to flee, a hand grabbed her leg from below, an English soldier attempting to drag her from her horse. As she turned, the surprised look upon his face caused him to let her go, the shock at seeing a lass upon the battlefield, giving her a moment to flee.
But Isla’s anger was kindled, and she kicked back at him, causing the man to fall with a cry.
“Isla, flee,” her father cried again, narrowly missing the sword of his English oppressor.
Now, Isla needed no further prompting, and she urged on the horse back across the border. She did not pause until she was safely across, standing on the Scottish side by the rocky outcrop where she had hidden just an hour or so before.
Across the border, she watched as her father’s men limped home. Some appeared badly injured, and her father himself had only just escaped with his life. The English soldiers stood with their banners raised, looking triumphantly at the retreating Scots. Isla could only shed a tear, embarrassed by her behavior and sorrowful for her part in that fateful battle.
Her father paid her no attention as he arrived on the ridge, and several of the clansmen simply shook their heads at her.
“Father, I am sorry,” she whispered, but he made no reply, simply ordering the men to return to the castle at Kirklinton immediately.
Isla watched as they rode off, a sad sight for such noble men, reduced to retreat. This was supposed to be a great victory, but instead, it had turned into a terrible defeat.
“Come on, boy,” Isla said, urging the horse to follow them.
But the horse stamped its hoof and neighed, shaking its mane as Isla urged it on.
“Let’s go home,” she said sternly, “on, boy,” but the horse wouldn’t move, and she jumped down from its back, stroking its mane and whispering in its ear.
The horse stomped its hoof again, and Isla looked down, instantly seeing the source of her problem. The poor horse was lame, or at least had lost its shoe, and there was no way that she could ride him all the way back to Kirklinton. Isla shook her head and patted the animal, looking down the track toward the last of her father’s men just disappearing over the horizon.
“Come on then, ‘tis as much as I deserve to walk home,” she said, and leading the animal gently on, they made their way back toward the village and the castle.
* * *
It took several hours to walk home, and Isla was tired by the time they came in sight of the castle. There was no sign of her father or the others as she and the horse limped into the stable yard, and the stableman came to meet her, shaking his head.
“Ye and I are both in trouble tonight, lass,” he said, taking the horse’s reins.
“Why are ye in trouble? It was I who took the horse out,” she replied, pointing to the horse’s foot as the stable man shook his head again.
“Aye, but the Laird says I shouldnae have let ye go out alone, and I certainly should have asked more questions of ye,” he replied.
“Aye, well, ‘tis done now, my father will only be angry for a while, Ye know what he is like,” she replied.
“Aye, and who is going to see to this horse and make sure it is tended to,” he said, looking down at the horse’s hoof.
“I will take him to the B
lacksmith’s shop at Lochrutton tomorrow,” she replied, “he’ll be alright.”
“Aye, well, nae more running off without explanation and nae more lies. If ye wish to deceive yer father, at least let me in on the secret,” the stableman said.
He had always had a soft spot for Isla, and as she thanked him, he smiled and reminded her that she had made a promise to take the horse to be shod, and she would be made to keep it. Isla smiled and nodded, patting the horse’s mane once more, and ran across the stable yard to the castle.
Inside, she found her father in a black mood, and he made no acknowledgment of her as she settled herself by the fire. Isla had no desire to admit that she had been in the wrong, but she felt sorry for her actions and wanted somehow to make amends. Even the dogs were ignoring her, clearly siding with her father against the poor decisions she had made that day.
A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 3