Finn was on his feet instantly. “Nay, don’t sleep. Ye have to get up now. We have to get ye out of here.”
“What? Why, what’s happening?”
“I don’t have time to explain, but they plan to kill ye. Get up!”
Kill him? Surely the lad was mistaken. Hostages were only killed if ransoms weren’t paid. His heart sank. That must be it. He’d been right. His father had abandoned him. Even in his feverish state, Eoin knew if that was the case, this might be his only opportunity to escape. Still he was weak, and Finn had to half drag him out of the cell and down the dark passage. They passed through the entrance to the dungeon, where Padraig lay unconscious. Eoin didn’t have the energy to ask why. Finn led him down one dark passage after another. It felt as if they walked for miles through the dank musty bowels of the castle. Finally, after passing through yet another doorway, Eoin realized they had left the castle and entered a cave. It was a bolt hole. A fresh breeze whispered around them and he could see faint moonlight at the narrow opening.
When they emerged into the cold night, Eoin leaned against the rocky face of the cave.
Finn ordered, “Wait here.”
Eoin nodded. He didn’t think he could take another step anyway. He started to lower himself to the ground.
“No. Don’t sit down. I’ll never get ye up again. Just lean against the rocks. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the trees nearby and returned almost immediately, leading the horse, Eoin had ridden during the raid.
With supreme effort, Eoin mounted, slumping forward over the beast’s neck and nearly falling off the other side. Finn steadied him before wrapping a thick plaid around his shoulders and climbing up behind him. “What are ye doing lad?”
“Ye aren’t fit to ride a horse; ye can barely sit upright. I’ll go with ye, at least until ye’re off MacNicol land.” Eoin knew the lad was right and didn’t argue.
They rode in silence until they were well away from Castle MacNicol. Eoin finally asked, “Why do ye believe they were going to kill me?”
“Because they were.”
“I suppose my father refused to pay?” He finally put voice to the thing that had worried him from the beginning. He knew his actions must have disappointed and shamed his father. Even so, Eoin never imagined his father would let him languish and die, imprisoned by the MacNicols, though it was exactly what he deserved.
“Apparently, yer father didn’t even know ye were there. He never sent an inquiry and a ransom was never demanded.”
“What are ye talking about? Why not?”
“I don’t know. Did yer da not know ye were going raiding?”
“Well, now that ye mention it, nay. But what I meant was, why did yer laird not demand a ransom? Has he no honor?”
“My laird? The real laird is only a lad himself.” Finn made a huffing sound. “Bhaltair rules in his stead for now. For some reason he wants ye dead, and aye, I wouldn’t have thought him capable of sinking to this, but honor has not guided his actions of late. If yer da had sent for word of ye, he planned to say ye died of yer injuries. But no word came. Tonight I overheard him say ye weren’t dying fast enough, and he intended to take matters into his own hands.”
“Why did ye help me escape?”
“Because…because…just because. What he planned was foul. It is as ye said—to let ye die or even kill ye without even seeking a ransom—I can’t think of anything more shameful. It would have dishonored the MacNicols beyond repair. I didn’t want that.”
“Ye’re but a wee lad. Why do ye care so?”
Finn looked exasperated. “Stop asking so many questions. Do ye want to go back?”
Eoin chuckled at the little imp in spite of himself. “Nay, lad, I’ll be eternally grateful to ye.” Still, it seemed odd that this ragged lad of no import would risk Bhaltair’s wrath simply for clan honor. Eoin wracked his fever-addled brain. Angus MacNicol—the old laird—had two sons. The oldest had been killed with him at Dupplin Moor. Could this unkempt lad be his second son?
“I don’t need yer gratitude. I just need ye to mind yer own business. Ye should try to rest for a bit or ye’ll never make it all the way home.
Eoin’s energy was nearly spent. Finn was right; he would never make it all the way to Naomh-dùn, the MacKay stronghold, if he didn’t rest for a bit now. Even so, it pricked his pride to sleep in the saddle, held on by the scrawny wee lad behind him, but he managed.
~ * ~
For the second time that night, he awoke to Finn’s voice. “Do ye hear me? Ye have to wake up now.”
Eoin tried to rouse himself. The cold night air was bracing, but he was weak and dulled with fever. “Where are we?”
“We have crossed onto MacKay land. Just keep riding to the northeast.”
“Aye, northeast.”
“Eoin, ye have to stay awake. Maybe yer mount can get ye home, but if ye fall off, ye’re doomed.” Once again, the lad was right. He had to summon his strength and make it back home, but something nagged at him. “How will ye get home?”
“I’ll walk.”
“It will take ye the rest of the night to walk back, and if they find ye helped me, ye’ll suffer for it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Nay, Finn, after all ye’ve done, I can’t let ye risk it.” He offered his hand to the lad. “Come with me. We’ll send word that I forced ye to help me escape. Ye have a bruise on yer face from where I accidentally struck ye earlier. We’ll even ask a wee ransom to make them believe.”
Finn looked him directly in the eye for a moment. He looked almost wistful, but then shook his head and snorted. “Forced me? Every guard to lay eyes on ye believed ye were delirious and close to death. Only a daft fool would believe ye could force yer way to the door of yer cell, much less out of the castle. Bhaltair MacNicol is no fool. Nay, it’s best for me to get back before anyone notices I am gone.” With that he slapped the rump of Eoin’s horse before taking off at a run back towards MacNicol lands.
~ * ~
Eoin awoke. The pain in his thigh was fierce, but he knew the fever was finally gone.
He remembered sliding off his horse with barely the strength left to break his fall. Cold, exhausted, burning with fever and in pain, he had stared up at the stars, visible through the bare branches. The Highland wind blew mercilessly, sweeping the dead leaves from the forest floor and partially covering Eoin’s body. His last conscious thought was that the wind knew he was dying and had already started to bury him.
He was no longer on the forest floor though. Neither was he in the dungeon at Castle MacNicol. He was tucked into a warm comfortable bed. He opened his eyes gingerly, sighed and closed them again. He was home.
“Aye, Eoin MacKay, ye’re home. I don’t know what angel saved yer sorry hide, but sure tis only by the grace of God that ye’re alive.”
He never understood how the old healer knew what people were thinking. “It wasn’t an angel, Grizel. It was a MacNicol lad. He helped me get back to MacKay lands, but I remember falling from my horse. How did I get here?”
“Ah. Honored guest of the MacNicol were ye? Well, yer Da has had men scouring these woods since ye disappeared, but the more important question is how ye went missing in the first place.”
The pain and shame of all he had done over the last few weeks flooded him. How could he tell this gentle old woman about it? She would be so disappointed in him. Grizel had always been like a grandmother. She cared for Eoin after his mother died bringing him into the world. His father remarried after a couple of years and his second wife, Sulwin, was as loving a mother as any child could hope for. Sadly her time on earth was short as well. She died giving birth to Eoin’s sister, Anna. Once again Grizel stepped in to take care of Anna, five-year-old Tasgall and eight-year-old Aiden. At eleven he didn’t need a nursemaid, but his heart ached with loss. Grizel understood.
Yes, Grizel understood. Now here she sat, quietly waiting for Eoin to unburden himself. He had to face what he had
done. He told her the whole story. She listened without interrupting. When he reached the end of his pathetic tale, he couldn’t meet her gaze. “Grizel, I am sorry. It was my utter foolishness that got them killed.”
“Nonsense,” she barked.
He stared at her. “Grizel, don’t ye understand what I’ve told ye?”
“Of course I do. I haven’t taken leave of my senses in the last few days, and I’m not going to deny that ye were beyond foolish. Honestly, Eoin, going on a secret raid with three other green lads was absolute idiocy. Ye only proved yer Da right. He never doubted yer skill, but yer wisdom and judgment are still woefully lacking. Even so, ye didn’t get the others killed. Ye all entered into this folly willingly and each of ye bear yer own responsibility in the outcome. The others paid with their lives. Sadly, Eoin, yer price is greater.”
“I’m alive, Grizel. There isn’t a price greater than death.”
“Unfortunately, lad, there is. Ye will bear the guilt of living forever.”
Eoin frowned.
“Aye tis true. Even though they were each responsible for their own part in this, ye will never believe that. It will shape who ye become and the decisions ye make from now on. If not, their deaths were truly in vain.”
“I’ll avenge them, Grizel. I will not rest until the MacNicols have paid this debt.”
“That’s not what I mean, lad. Ye will remember that sometimes the decisions ye make will unavoidably result in death. Ye must not take that lightly ever again.”
“Nay, I won’t. But I will have my revenge too.”
Grizel shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Revenge. Why are men more prone to revenge injury than to requite kindness? It was a MacNicol who risked his life to save ye, lad.”
“But he wouldn’t have had to if Bhaltair had treated me fairly.”
“And good Saint Peter said, ‘Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this ye were called so that ye may inherit a blessing.’ Always look up lad. Ye will find yer blessing and salvation there, not in revenge.”
Eoin took her hand but said nothing. She was a woman. She couldn’t possibly understand.
As if she had heard him, she said, “Aye, I’m a woman, but mark my words. If ye follow this road of revenge, ye will live to regret it. The pain ye cause will not be just yer own.”
Three
A half-day’s ride from Castle MacNicol, May 1340
Fiona grew more uneasy as they rode. Morag, her dappled mare, whickered and tossed her head. She was not normally a skittish mount. Perhaps she sensed something amiss or was spooked by her rider’s nervousness. In fairness, Fiona hadn’t been herself for days. She had been on edge ever since Uncle Bhaltair announced her betrothal to Laird Sutherland’s heir, Bram, two weeks ago. She remembered her utter shock when he told her she was to foster with the Sutherlands for a time before the wedding.
“Fiona, dear, this will give ye time to get to know them better, and Lady Sutherland will teach ye what ye need to know to be a laird’s wife one day.”
Perhaps he meant well, but she hated the thought of leaving home. Arguing with her uncle was nearly always a mistake, but she had tried. “I understand, Uncle, I just…well, this is my home. I don’t want to leave it.”
“Fiona, it’s time ye marry. Ye know I have been trying to make a good match for ye for ages now.”
That was true, and she knew she must wed, but she didn’t want Uncle Bhaltair choosing her husband. Her parents had been dead for eight years now. After her father and oldest brother were killed at Dupplin Moor, her mother fell ill with a terrible fever and died barely a month later. Fiona herself had nearly died with the same illness.
Sixteen at the time, her brother Alec was too young to assume leadership, and was still in training with Laird Munro. Before taking men to join the Earl of Mar in defending Scottish independence, their father had left Uncle Bhaltair, his second in command, in charge. Bhaltair continued to lead the clan, but it was only temporary, until Alec was older and more seasoned. He would be coming home soon to become Laird MacNicol. He had promised Fiona he would consider her wishes in selecting a husband. He told her when the time came, he would try to arrange a marriage that allowed her to stay at Castle MacNicol.
She had tried one last time to reason with her uncle. “I know, but I told ye, Alec said—”
“Alec made ye a rash promise, lass, but he is too young to know what is best. I thought ye would be happy. Many a lass meets her groom on her wedding day. Ye will have the opportunity to get to know him well before the wedding.”
“But Alec—”
“Enough, Fiona. Ye will be marrying Laird Sutherland’s heir. Ye will become Lady Sutherland someday. Alec may well have wished for ye to stay here, but the Sutherlands will be strong allies. This is not only in yer best interest, it is in our clan’s best interest as well. Yer brother will be a good laird someday, but he isn’t ready yet. His promise to ye was well meant, but it was the naïve choice of a loving brother rather than the wise choice of a strong leader. Ye want what’s best for yer clan, don’t ye?”
But was it for the best? “Aye, I do, but couldn’t we wait a bit? Alec will be coming home soon. If, after speaking with ye, he thinks this is the soundest choice, I won’t argue.”
She knew in an instant she had pushed too hard. Rage had enveloped her uncle, as it so often did after one wrong word. He had flung the tankard he held across the room. Spilling ale in its wake, it splintered against the stone wall. He roared, “Ye won’t argue anymore!”
Nay she wouldn’t. Seasoned warriors knew to avoid Bhaltair MacNicol when he was in a temper; she wasn’t about to cross him further.
Plans were set in motion that day for her aunt and uncle to escort her to the Sutherland holding. Fiona hadn’t challenged him again until yesterday morning. Aunt Sorcha had fallen ill with a stomach ailment. Fiona had seized the opportunity to try to delay the inevitable. “With Aunt Sorcha ill, she will need help running the keep for a few days. Perhaps we should delay the journey until she is better.”
“Nonsense, she isn’t gravely ill and she has Kara to help her.”
Her cousin Kara was a sweet lass, but at barely ten and two, was hardly able to manage a household the size of Castle MacNicol. Furthermore, if her aunt wasn’t gravely ill, why did Uncle Bhaltair insist on staying at her side, rather than escorting his niece? Just as she had the night he announced her betrothal, she tried to reason with him. Nothing she said changed her uncle’s mind. Finally she tossed her pride aside and tried begging. “Please, Uncle, I don’t want to go alone.”
“I have had enough of yer willfulness, Fiona. Ye aren’t a bairn and it’s barely a day’s ride. Ye will be well escorted and ye don’t need me or yer aunt leading yer pony.”
“But if we wait just a few weeks, Alec will be home. He can escort me.”
“Do ye think me addled, Fiona? Do ye think I don’t see through this? If Alec returns before ye leave, ye will talk him out of it, no matter how important the alliance is for the MacNicol clan. It shames me to see how thoughtless and self-centered ye have grown. Yer parents would be so disappointed in ye.”
Would her parents have been disappointed? Honor, loyalty and duty had been important to them; they were important to her now. Uncle Bhaltair’s words had their desired effect. Sufficiently embarrassed, Fiona had argued no more. She packed her things and, early this morning, had ridden out of Castle MacNicol with a small contingent of MacNicol guardsmen, prepared, however unwillingly, to meet her betrothed. Surely it was fear of the unknown that was making her so uneasy now. As she tried to talk herself out of her nervousness, she heard the rumble of hoof beats. In a moment warriors surrounded her small group with weapons drawn. Her guardsmen encircled her and tried to hold the attackers off, but they were badly outnumbered. Fiona spun her mount, surveying the battle around her. Her men were losing. There was nothing she could do. If they continued to fight, her clansmen would al
l be killed.
Parlan, the captain of her uncle’s guard who had stayed at her side, spoke urgently under his breath. “I have to end this, but maybe ye can escape capture. When I call for the surrender, as they lower their weapons, turn and ride hard to the south.”
“Parlan, I can’t abandon—”
“Don’t argue. Do it.”
She didn’t want to leave them but, likewise, she couldn’t bear the thought of being taken captive. As Parlan called for surrender, she tamped down her panic, sought an opening and spurred her mare to a run.
~ * ~
Eoin MacKay and some of his men had been hunting near their southern border. He was oddly thrilled when one of the men he had sent ahead to track their prey sighted MacNicol warriors crossing onto MacKay land. The MacKays and the MacNicols had not been on good terms in years. Eoin himself would never forgive them for how he’d been treated when taken captive eight years ago. Perhaps he would finally have the opportunity to return the hospitality.
They had shadowed the MacNicol party for several miles. Eoin could not fathom what they were about. It wasn’t a raiding party: far from it. Although well-armed, the eight men appeared to be escorting a woman. There was no telling what their destination was, but they were fools to have entered MacKay land on their journey. At his signal, his men attacked, surrounding the small party. Clearly outnumbered, the MacNicols fought to defend themselves, but the battle was won before it was entered. While he didn’t mind sending the MacNicols to their graves, taking them captive would also be sweet revenge. The more of them who lived, the greater the ransom, and the woman, whoever she was, would surely be a valuable prize.
As Eoin hoped, the leader of the MacNicol party surrendered when the futility of their situation became clear. However, just as the battle ceased, the woman bolted.
“Stop her!” There was a moment of confusion as the MacNicols renewed the fight for a moment, aiding her escape. Finally, two of his men were able to separate themselves and give chase. Eoin relieved the MacNicols of their weapons and had his men bind the captives. He addressed the leader. “Ye had no business entering MacKay land.”
Highland Revenge (Fated Hearts Book 1) Page 2