by Barbara Bard
The man to his right, Gregor, then said: “The Baird Clan also caused quite a disturbance. Our altercation with them most likely allowed the clan we were pursuing to gain a day’s worth of traction.”
“We will make up for it. We outnumber them ten-to-one.”
A nod. “Be that as it may, it appears that another bad piece of news has come to light.”
Lord Henry faced Gregor, and irked glint in his eye as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Do tell…”
Gregor cleared his throat. “Our men,” he said, “the ones that were pursuing the Baird Clan returned from their journey no more than an hour ago.”
“And?”
A guilt-saturated tilt of Gregor’s head. “And, it appears that one of the members of the Baird Clan has…escaped.” Gregor held his pose. Without a doubt he was stronger and more able-bodied than Lord Henry—but he still feared the power and might that surround Lord Henry at the behest of his father Simon.
Lord Henry took a moment to absorb the information. And then he began to laugh. “Did I not order you to obliterate all the members of the Baird Clan?”
Gregor bowed his head solemnly. “Indeed, my Lord.”
A moment passed. Then Lord Henry gestured to the opening of his tent. “Come, Gregor,” he said. “I wish to meet the men that failed to follow my commands.”
Gregor nodded once more and lead the way.
The drunken noblemen were still singing by the fire and retelling the tale of how they slaughtered the Baird clan in a song-like fashion, swaying to and fro, as Lord Henry approached with his hands stretch out in a messianic fashion. He smiled, but it was a forced expression, coated with a sarcastic glaze, like a court jester putting on a show for sake of entertainment. “My, my,” Lord Henry said. “What a joyous affair this is.”
The drunken noblemen stood at attention, each one doing their best to pretend that they were more sober than they actually were.
“Oh, please!” Lord Henry said, hands now held up in submission. “You men work hard to do the King’s bidding from the moment the sun rises to the time it sets each day. I would not be able to classify myself as a benevolent ruler if I did not allow you to indulge in the pleasures that life has to offer.”
The noblemen exchanged timid looks as they waited for the other to speak.
“Have you nothing to say?” Lord Henry inquired. “Are none of you going to offer your Lord a drink?”
Two of the men scrambled to fetch a freshly poured glass of ale for their master, shouting, barking, and demanding that “the coldest mug” be handed over “at once!” A fresh mug of ale was then provided and offered over to Lord Henry like a precious ruby. “Here you are, my Lord,” the nobleman handing over the mug said.
Lord Henry took his mug, raised it in a toast, and sipped. “Ah,” he said with a sigh. “If ever a richer brew was crafted, I have yet to experience it.”
“Only the finest for you, my Lord!” The noblemen then nudged the man next to him. “Come! Raise your drinks!” Everyone held up their mugs. “To Lord Henry!”
Cheers and clinking of mugs were exchanged as Lord Henry stared on at the noblemen in front of him. He took a beat, examining each one of his men with a scrutinizing gaze. “What is your name, squire?” he asked the man in front of him.
The nobleman stood at attention. “Matthew, my Lord.”
“Sir Matthew,” Lord Henry repeated. “I must say that you have a knack for offering up the most gracious of toasts.”
“Only for you, my Lord. Your leadership inspires more than whatever pithy words I may implement to describe them.”
“Oh, you are being modest.” He came alongside the man and hooked his arm around his neck in a friendly fashion. “In fact, I believe it to be suitable that you, Sir Matthew, should be the one who offers up the first toast when I marry my bride-to-be Isla.”
Sir Matthew was elated. “But of course, my Lord! Nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”
Lord Henry uncoiled his arm and set about adjusting the neckline on Sir Matthew’s tunic. “Indeed, I believe it would,” he said through his crooked, yellow teeth, his face like a ghoul when lit up by the massive fire a few feet away. “But there is just one problem with that prospect...”
Sir Matthew furled his brow and waited for the rest.
Lord Henry held up a single finger. “I cannot be married to my dear Isla if my own men hinder my desire to do so.”
Sir Matthew perked up, one hand resting on the grip of his sword and prepared to jump into action. “Tell me, my Lord. Tell me who is preventing you in achieving this and I will deal with him or them in the swiftest of manners.”
“Oh, my dear Matthew. Your conviction to serving the throne is unparalleled.”
“I will always live to serve you and the King, my Lord, until my very last breath.”
Lord Henry took a beat as he gently took the man’s face in his hands, stared into his eyes, and then said: “I believe you. I do.” He leaned in close, as if he were preparing to tell the man a secret. “However…your worthless methods in executing this loyalty have cost me time.”
Sir Matthew’s face took on a pale complexion; swallowing and feeling a tremble overcome his body. Lord Henry squeezed Sir Matthew’s face with a tight pressure as he shook his head.
“You have cost me time,” Lord Henry repeated, “men, wealth, and most importantly of all: my patience.”
“I-I,” Sir Matthew stammered. “My Lord, I—”
“Failed to kill the Baird clan.”
“W-we…We killed m-most of them, my Lord.”
“Yet my orders were to kill them all. Were these not the instructions that were relayed to you?”
A nod from Sir Matthew.
“So, this means you failed me,” Lord Henry continued, his grip still on Sir Matthew’s face. Sir Matthew had nothing to say, still shaking and feeling as if he were on the verge of passing out. Lord Henry then released his grip, stood back, and sighed. “Fret not, my dear man,” he said, a little more relaxed. “What transpired cannot be undone, though my orders to hunt down the remaining member of the Baird clan still stands.”
A dutiful nod from Sir Matthew, his breathing a little easier as he stood at attention and said: “It will happen immediately, my Lord. I promise you we will not fail this time.”
“You won’t,” Lord Henry said. “Because you are no longer in charge.”
In a quick flash, Lord Henry produced a blade two inches long, swiped it left to right in front of him, and slit open Sir Matthew’s throat. As Sir Matthew bled and the men around him scattered, Lord Henry lifted the heel of his boot, planted it into Sir Matthew’s chest, and kicked him into the fire behind him. As every inch of Sir Matthew was ignited and a primal and horrific scream evacuated from his lungs, Lord Henry cleaned his knife, placed it back in its sheath, and turned to face Gregor. “Gregor?”
Gregor, staring on at the burning nobleman writhing on the fire, looked at Lord Henry with a somewhat neutral gaze. “Yes, my Lord?”
“Find that member of the Baird clan. And my future bride.” He nodded over his shoulder and the burning nobleman. “Otherwise—you can join Sir Matthew in the fire as you bleed out. Understood?”
Gregor puffed his chest. “Of course, my Lord. Consider it done.”
Without saying another word, Lord Henry retreated to his tent and dwelled on repulsive and illicit thoughts of Isla. His men, still drinking, watched Sir Matthew burn to death on the fire while a pungent and overwhelming stench of burnt human flesh filled the air around them.
Chapter 6
Finlay checked the bandages covering his still-healing wounds as the morning sun warmed the back of his neck, his strength and his senses returning to their normal pique levels—he felt sharp, awakened, operating with his normal brute strength and mental tact that had been passed down through several generations of his clan. Finlay felt his heart weigh heavy as the thought then crept into his mind that he was the last one of the Baird clan stil
l left standing. They will pay, he thought, almost like a prayer to his fallen brethren. Every Sassenach bastard responsible will pay.
Finlay secured the saddle on the steed loaned to him by Isla, patting the horse’s mane in a bid for the steed to become accustomed to his touch as he felt a presence approaching from behind him. “Finlay,” the voice of Denholm called out.
Finlay turned and let his eyes meet the emerald green hues of Denholm’s. “Denholm,” he replied.
Denholm hooked his fingers in his belt as he scanned around the encampment, every member of the clan in the final throes of packing every item, parcel of food, and piece of parchment around them. Finlay could sense the tension in the air and finally said to Denholm: “Is there a thought lingering on yer mind?”
A nod from Denholm. “A tad, aye.”
“Would I be safe in coming to the conclusion that it pertains to myself?”
Another nod from Denholm. “I was searching through the history in me head, and I came to the profound realization that ye and I have crossed paths once before.”
Finlay turned around to face Denholm. “Aye?”
“Aye. Two summers ago. Not far fae here.”
“I hope that it was a cordial encounter.”
“It was. I…met your brothers, Lachlan and Alex.”
Finlay felt the weight in his heart double in size. He had no words to follow the feelings.
Denholm took a step forward. “I just wanted to say…” he sighed, “that I’m sorry fer yer loss. They were good men. The Baird clan was well revered by me father. He considered yer brethren to be friends of ours.”
“And who was yer father?”
“William. His name was William.”
Finlay recalled the name, but only fragments of the stories about William that he overheard from his brothers. Nodding, he extended his hand, Denholm then grabbed onto his forearm and embraced in a shake as the two men found themselves holding more respect for the other than they did when they first met. As they finished their moment of bonding, Isla, dressed in a woolen jacket to stave off the Scotland chill, gestured toward the caravan forming behind her.
“It is time to move, gentleman.”
Half a day had passed since the caravan began its trek through the highlands. The noon sun was high in the sky, casting a heavenly glow across the wind-licked grass beneath their feet. A solid formation of people moving in twos-and-threes on horseback trotted through a sprawling terrain ripe with the greenest scenery that God could paint, a pleasant and serene quality surrounding them like the inevitable calm before the storm.
In the lead, Finlay rode alongside Isla, Denholm not far behind with Gavina on his saddle as people began stretching and adjusting their weight from their burdensome journey.
“Would ye like some water, my Lady?” Finlay asked as he produced a leather flask Denholm had provided to him before they disembarked.
Isla shook her head. “Naw. Thank ye.”
Finlay smirked. “Yer lips looked parched, my Lady.”
“I am quite capable of knowing when I need a drink, Finlay.”
He shrugged. Pocketed the flask. “As ye wish, my Lady.”
“I dae wish ye would stop calling me by that title.”
“It is yer title though. Is it nae?”
She turned her head and met his gaze. “Are ye attempting to humor me, Finlay Baird?”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Well, I’m finding it a little difficult to find solace in your jests. It’s been an endless barrage of turmoil for me clan and I for some time. I find that most humor is lost on me at this point.”
“I dinnae believe that tae be true. Ye have a rough exterior, aye. But as hardened as a woman as ye have become I can still sense that part of ye yearns to live a life filled with humor and good memories.”
“And why is that?”
Finlay gestured behind him to everyone in the clan. “Because all of us are. Every Scotsmen from shore to shore looks forward to the day when we can live lives free from turmoil, guilt, and oppression. We have had to fight for some time, aye. But the spirit of the Scotsman is one founded on good graces and good memories. We all want to find our home. We all want to start new lives filled to the brim with pleasant memories.”
Isla’s mind wandered as she absorbed Finlay’s words. She could more than empathize. Her life was one that had been filled with grief and countless sour memories to fill several lifetimes. “Part of our pride comes from our spirit tae fight, our drive to do better. The fighting spirit is what defines the Scottish, Finlay Baird.”
He shook his head. “It shouldn’t be. Life contains turmoil, aye. But there is more tae it than drawing the sword and having to purge our lands and our lives of the evils that have tainted it.”
“We fight so that the next kin in our generation can be free.”
His eyes meet hers. “I have yet tae see this freedom that ye speak of...And neither did me wife.”
Isla’s heart skipped a beat as she looked at Finlay’s forlorn expression, his haunted past flooding into his eyes and teetering on the cusp of overflowing. Once again, she could empathize with his words—she herself had been the victim of a fallen lover.
She took a moment, clearing her throat before asking: “When did she fall?”
A crooked and weary smile crept into the corner of Finlay’s mouth. “So much time has passed that I seem tae have forgotten. As ye said, so much fighting has passed that it seems nearly impossible to discern what day it is. Time itself seems to have become an endless day with no sign of the sunset on the horizon.”
Isla debated internally whether or not she wanted to divulge her own history to Finlay. But, as before, there was some kind of draw to him, something in his character that touched some tender part of her soul, awakening it and beckoning her to submit. “The same happened to me,” she said.
“What dae ye mean?”
“I lost my husband. Well, the man I was tae wed, to be more accurate.”
Finlay shook his head. Do the Sassenach know no mercy? “I am sorry,” he replied. “It is a wound that seems tae take its time tae heal.”
A nod. “Indeed. It was more recent than your loss though, I think. Nae that I am stating that my suffering is more burdensome that yers.”
Finlay held up his hand. “I take no offense, me Lady…Dae ye know who is responsible for the death of yer loved one?”
Another nod. “Earl Simon.”
“Bastard.”
“The same words have slipped my tongue on more than one occasion.”
Silence held sway as the two continued their trek on horseback, the wind licking at the exposed parts of their skin and leaving a pleasant chill. Had it not been for the caravan or the notion that they were fleeing from the oppression of the Sassenach, one might have thought they were on a pleasant stroll through the Scottish Highlands.
“How old are ye?” Finlay finally asked.
Isla laughed. “Is that a question one should ask a lady?”
A shrug. “Ye don’t have to answer if ye don’t want to.”
Isla took a moment to ponder. “28,” she said. “And ye?”
“29,” he replied. “Though I feel much older.”
Isla examined Finlay’s features and noted the subtle scar above his left eyebrow, and the angular jawline hiding underneath the scruffy beard he was a few days late on tending to. He’s handsome, she thought. But I can never let him know that. “I knew of yer clan,” she said, switching subjects. “The Bairds. Ye were friends with my father, William.”
“Denholm mentioned the same. I myself did not have the pleasure of knowing him. I was the youngest of my brothers.”
Isla forked a thumb over her shoulder. “Denholm and Gavina are the only siblings I have left. I lost my oldest sister tae sickness when I was a child.”
“Same. The only sister we had fell tae a fever a long time ago…I must ask...How is it that a woman has become the leader of a clan? Not that I disagree or find offe
nse in the notion.”
Isla smiled. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. The decisions that my father made always eluded his children. But whatever choices he did make tended to play out in everyone’s best interests in the end.”
“I understand why he chose ye. Ye have a strength unmatched by any other woman I’ve met before, me own mother included.”
“She must have been quite the warrior.”
“Aye. She was.” He laughed. “Once, me brother, who had this habit for pinching people’s ears, kept doing it to me mother. She warned him tae stop. Alas, he dinnae, and me mother struck him with the back of her hand so hard that Alex saw the nighttime stars swirling in his vision. Keep in mind that Alex was a big man. Mother was able tae dispense of him with the upmost ease.”