by Barbara Bard
He jutted his chin. “Where did father choose fer our people tae go?”
Isla traced her finger along the map and ended up on a spot in the east, hidden in a valley and surrounded on all sides by the mountains. It was a miniscule spot on the map, but it measured to about eight square miles in person, according to the information from their late father. “Mother and father met there,” she said fondly. “Some time ago. It is hidden. Secluded. Far from the rule of the English. Father was under the impression that it is a part of land ruled by clans such as our own. While we may encounter an instance that requires negotiation with other clans, it is still a place that will welcome us all with open arms. The same cannae be said about the Sassenach.”
Denholm took a moment to study the map, plotting the course in his head and deducing how the caravan would be organized to reach said location. “It appears tae be about a week’s ride,” he said.
Isla nodded. “Father claimed the same.”
“There is only so far we can scout ahead, however. The Sassenach might be awaiting us somewhere along the trail.”
“It is a risk that we must take. If we stay here—we are as good as dead.”
Denholm exhaled, counting the number of able-bodied fighters in his mind and tallying that they had about twenty men in total that could wield a blade and fight. “So be it,” he said, accepting his sister’s plan. “I shall make sure the men are ready.”
Before Isla could offer up a reply, Ella entered the tent with an eager demeanor. “He is awake,” she said. “The strong one.”
***
Isla entered the tent and saw the ruffian sitting up, nursing a cup of water with herbs that assisted with his healing as she took note of the scaring and bruising along his tattered but still very much developed and sinewy build. He was a large man, but Isla could sense a gentle quality about him. What is it? she thought. What is it that is so compelling about this man?
Isla slowly approached the ruffian, his eyes meeting hers as the two of them shared the silence for a brief couple of moments. “I am Lady Isla,” she finally greeted. “I am the leader of the clan that has taken ye under our watch.”
The ruffian nodded, resting his cup on the edge of a table and taking note of the soreness he had accumulated over the past couple of days. “My name is Finlay,” he finally replied. “I am the youngest of my clan, the Bairds.”
Isla, her hands folded in front of her and mustering the regalest pose she could, approached his cot. “Ye were on the verge of death. Ye were fortunate to be found.”
Finlay said nothing—he was mesmerized by every curve and smooth feature that Isla sported—and there were quite a few.
“What happened?” Isla asked. “It is more than apparent that ye were in a skirmish with someone.”
A nod. “The Sassenach,” he said. “A ruthless man by the name of Lord Henry Enticknap of Sanford slaughtered my people.” The past then crept into his mind, playing back in vivid images as he once again witnessed his brothers being slaughtered by the hands of the noblemen. “All of them.”
“When?”
“How long have I been in a slumber?”
“Two nights and two days. Ye were discovered near a river not far fae here.”
Finlay sat completely upright, his pectoral muscles now jutting out like a pair of thick and sculpted stones resting above a cut and smooth abdomen. Isla could not help but draw a breath as she looked upon his God-like build—even a woman of her strength and constitution was privy to the more…primal urges that life brought forth.
“Can ye tell me,” Isla said, “where ye came fae?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters because I am responsible fae me people, and I shall not let any person or clan, or King get in the way of making certain that I ensure their survival.” She took a step forward. “All of them.”
Finlay took a moment to soak in the women’s words, conviction behind every syllable she spoke. He had only seen such gusto in the men that he knew and had known. This woman, he thought, whoever she is, and her stunning beauty is superseded by a will that no man can extinguish.
Finlay wanted to stand, but he was not yet well enough to do so. “My brothers were all killed,” he said, his focus now on the ground in front of him. “All of them. Nae more than two days ago.”
Isla could empathize, her past a shadowy reflection of Finlay’s. “I am sorry,” she said, all the sincerity in the world behind her words.
“There is a man,” Finlay continued. “His name is Lord Henry, son of Earl Simon Enticknap of Sanford.”
Isla’s heart sank, though she kept her composure—a King with the same title had killed her mother and fiancé. “Earl Simon of what?” she asked, hoping but knowing that the truth was inevitable.
“I do nae bother tae dignify the man by giving him his full title,” Finlay said, the rage began to build inside him, boiling to the point that the pain of his wounds had briefly subsided. “His men have slain my brother. My mother. My father.”
Isla was on the verge of trembling, wringing her fingers as she strode in a swift manner up to Finlay’s cot. “Aye,” she said. “I know him well. More than well. He…murdered my family tae.”
Finlay huffed. “He seems to have repeated the pattern for countless Scotsmen. And women.”
Isla shut her eyelids, the past playing out against the black. “He…has a vested interest in me.”
“In what regard?”
“In the regard that he plans on marrying me or raping me. Anything that occurs in the company of the man could probably be classified as the second.”
Finlay was not surprised—the beauty and the will that Isla possessed was an attractive quality to any level-minded man.
Isla shook her head and diverted her gaze to the flap of the tent. “He’s letting nothing stand in the way. Lord Henry made that a point when he murdered the man I was ta wed.”
Lord Henry, Finlay thought. A vile and repulsive bastard, ye are…
“Then ye cannot stay here for much longer,” Finlay said. “He will be looking for ye.”
“Which is why I need ye to depart as soon as the sun rises. I cannae have me people put in danger because of yer presence.”
Finlay laughed, “If ye’re worried about me bringing down the wrath of Lord Henry, it sounds like ye’re doing a fine a job of it on yer own.”
Isla jutted her chin. She knew that there was some kind of attraction to this man. But be that as it was, she could not risk, at least in her mind, focusing on frivolous attractions in a time like this—her and her people’s survival were at stake. “Even so,” she said, “I dae nae know ye, therefore I cannae trust ye.”
“I am of no threat to yer people.”
“I have no doubts of yer plight against Lord Henry. But yer presence here still lends a certain risk that I cannot gamble.”
Finlay shook his head. He knew there was no place for him to go. He knew that there was only so far that he and Isla’s people could flee before the wrath of the English caught up to them.
He began to stand, slowly, his overall state still fatigued but nonetheless drawing strength from Finlay’s unquenchable spirit that still glowed as bright as it did since the day he was born. He was a fighter—and he would do so until the day he drew his final breath, no matter how far he had fallen or how much the world had kicked him around.
“What are ye doing?” Isla inquired.
Finlay gestured toward the outside of the tent. “I want to see yer people,” he said. “I want to see what kind of numbers ye’re working with.”
***
Finlay followed behind Isla as she walked him through the encampment. Most of the clan was organizing or packing away supplies as Denholm coordinated with Eamon. A few looks were tossed Finlay’s way—the men leered, the women stared on in amazement at his broad shoulders and thick arms that were taught and firm from years of hard labor.
“There were over one hundred of us,” Isla said. “Before
Lord Henry slaughtered about half of us, that is. We haven’t stayed in one area for more than a few days before we’ve been forced to resettle.”
Finlay scanned around and saw a weary but still strong composure to everyone in the clan. These people, like him, had endured more than their fair share of hardships. He huffed. We are all one and the same, he thought.
Gavina, half-skipping her way up to Isla, wrapped herself around her older sister’s legs and stared up at Finlay with an inquisitive gaze—deducing, judging, seeing if the large and rugged man in front of her was worth her time. “The strong one is awake,” she said to Isla, more like a statement of fact than out of enthusiasm.
Finlay looked to Isla. “Strong one?”
She shrugged. “We did not know yer name,” she said. “We had to call ye by the first name that came to mind.”
“What is yer name?” Gavina asked, no fear in her tone as she took a stern step forward toward Finlay.
Finlay smirked. He could sense already, even without the resemblance to Isla, that this young lass was part of her lineage. “My name is Finlay,” he said. “I am of the Baird clan.”
Gavina crossed her arms defensively. “Are ye a murderer?”
Isla squeezed her shoulder. “Gavina.”
Finlay brushed his hand in the air like he was moving away the slight. “It’s quite all right,” he said. “My appearance is no doubt a factor in her coming to such conclusions.”
Gavina shook her head. “Naw,” she said. “Ye are not a murderer. Murderers don’t talk like that.”
“I am not, little one. I can assure you.” He got down on one knee. “What is yer name, young one?”
Gavina tilted her head up and gazed at Isla, awaiting her approval. Isla nodded and her younger sister then said: “Gavina. My name is Gavina.”
“A pleasure to meet ye, Gavina.”
“Are ye staying for long?”
Finlay opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Isla. “Naw,” she said. “Finlay Baird cannot stay here. He has a long trek ahead of him.”
Gavina squinted her confusion. “But look at him! He is strong. He could help us.”
Finlay looked to Isla. “She is not wrong, Isla.”
“Lady Isla,” Gavina said, crooking a finger. “She is royalty now!”
Finlay and Isla couldn’t help themselves from cracking the subtlest of smiles at young Gavina’s tenacity. “Me apologies,” Finlay said. “Lady Isla.”
Gavina gave a quick nod of her head. “Much better, Finlay Baird.”
“Run along now,” Isla said, patting her sister on the back. “Go and help the others.”
Gavina, with a pep in her step, turned and fled in the direction of a few of the women in the clan who were going about tallying the food rations the clan had on hand.
Finlay stood. “She is nonetheless correct,” he said. “Looking around, it is apparent that ye do not have strong enough numbers to properly protect the members of yer clan.”
“He’s right,” the voice of Denholm chimed in from behind Finlay, his chest puffed and taking on a defensive posture at the sight of Finlay’s brawn. “After the last encounter with Lord Henry our numbers have greatly dwindled.”
Isla held up her hand. “I am aware, Denholm.”
“Our paths have crossed for a reason, Lady Isla,” Finlay said. “I see our meeting as nothing shy of fortuitous.”
She shook her head. “Allowing ye to stay would greatly affect our food and water rations. We have no spare tents, no extra clothing or supplies to assist in making sure ye are taken care of.”
“I am more than capable of being left to my own devices.”
Isla took a step forward. “I am responsible for these people. All of them. I do not need to keep reiterating that notion.”
“Then use me,” Finlay said, hands together in a pleading manner as he gestured around the camp. “Look. Look at where we are. Lord Henry intends to slaughter all of us. Separating me from this clan would serve as a disadvantage to us both. We need to work together. This is about survival. This is about staying alive…”
Finlay and Denholm awaited Isla’s decision, as she crossed her arms and let her gaze wander. She was uncertain, both of the notion of allowing Finlay to stay and the odd attraction she felt toward him. What is occurring? she thought. Has fate sent this man my way? Is this a blessing from God being laid right at my feet?
After a few more moments of pondering, she turned her attention back to Denholm. “If he stays,” she said, “I hold ye accountable.” She pointed to Finlay. “If at any point ye find this man’s actions or intentions questionable…” She arched her brow, not needing to say the rest.
Denholm turned and stood toe-to-toe with Finlay. “I have no qualms with that, me Lady,” he said to his sister as he stared fire at Finlay.
A nod from Isla. “Both of ye go about rounding up the able-bodied men,” she said. “Formulate a plan and a route. I want us on the move at dawn.”
“Me Lady,” Finlay said as she turned away and left. As he watched her leave, Denholm cozied up alongside him. “Quite the woman,” Finlay said, his thoughts then wandering to the obvious. “Is she…is she taken?”
Denholm squeezed his shoulder. “That is nae something ye should ask her brother about.”
Closing his eyes as Denholm patted him somewhat threateningly on the shoulder, Finlay couldn’t help but laugh for a brief moment at the absurd fatefulness of the whole situation. And so, the journey begins, he thought as he followed after Denholm.
Chapter 5
The regal and oversized banquets tent that belonged to Lord Henry was filled to the brim with a collection of his noblemen, all of them clad in chainmail and crème-colored tunics, the red crucifix insignia with the crest of Lord Henry’s royal lineage adorned across the front. All of them were half-drunk, cackling, and slapping each other on the back as a roaring fire burned in the center of the tent currently serving as a banquet hall. Night had fallen. Their full camp was lost in festive celebration for two days’ worth of killing and plumage they had undertaken throughout the stolen land of Scotland.
Two men, their arms hooked around each other’s necks as they sang an English song, motioned to a group of fellow noblemen gathered around the fire to join them. “Raise your drinks, gentleman!” one of them yelled with a drunken inflection. “To our country and to the righteous salvation of the Scottish people!” Laughing at his jest, the other noblemen clinked their glasses together and downed the half-warm ale swirling around in their mugs. These were uncaring men, men who lived and died by the will of a ruthless and vile man hunched over a map not far from the banquet hall in his plush and comfortable dwelling filled with all the finest furniture and trimmings that his father, the great Earl of Sanford, had ordered other men to bend over backwards to acquire.
Lord Henry was a tall man, thinner than the broom handles used by his wards to clean his tent on an hourly basis. His teeth were more crooked than his morals, and a pair of beady eyes sunken far into the almond-shape skull of his head stared on lecherously at the great map of Scotland in front of him.
“My Lord,” the man to his right began, a strapping and lean nobleman with a litany of kills under his belt and desire to accumulate more. “Our men have charted our route to catch up with the villagers we encountered several weeks prior. However, our scouts are still searching the area to get a sense of their exact whereabouts.”
Lord Henry, always sporting some taste of a crooked smile on his thin, liver-colored lips, parted them with a smack and said: “Because those rat brains of theirs are starting to catch on,” he said, always viewing the Scotsmen of the land like some kind of less-evolved animal to that of the English. “They are starting to learn our movements.”
“Laird William of Isla’s clan looked not long for this world after our last encounter.”
A smile from Lord Henry. “I would not be surprised if the wretched old bastard has already departed from his mortal coil. It was foolish of hi
m to not give me what I wanted when I asked for it.” Lord Henry’s smile then curved into a frown as he thought of Isla—He desired her. He wanted her. His entire life, Lord Henry never experienced an instance where he was not catered to, where his every desire and whim was indulged by his father even when it called for the execution of other men, for instances like a subtle verbal slight in the courtyards of his castle in England—and then he met William, the Laird of Isla’s clan, a man who refused him even upon death threats of his people and his daughter. But Lord Henry, not one to take “nae” for an answer, set about slaughtering as many members of the clan as possible after William shunned his offer of land, riches, and titles that would be honored by the King for a lifetime to come. The foolish bastard, Lord Henry thought. He brought this all on himself…