Highland Trails of Love

by Barbara Bard

  Sir Renly’s eyes went wide. “I’ll be damned…”

  “As will he.” Sir Jessup gritted his teeth. “That bastard has lied to me, the king, and the entire kingdom. Tell me, how long have we been fighting this campaign?”

  “Longer than I care to admit.”

  “As do I. So, I am nonetheless furious at the fact that Lord Torstein is singlehandedly responsible for dragging this war out as long as he can.”

  “Should I fetch him? Should we learn of the location of the Highlanders and then inform the king?”

  Sir Jessup shook his head. “No,” he said. “I believe there is a better method to go about handling this. Lord Torstein has told me that he has made contact with the Bairds and has arranged a meeting for them in a nearby village to discuss peace negotiations.”

  Sir Renly flexed his brow. “Is that the course of action we will take, Sir Jessup?”

  Sir Jessup shook his head. “Quite the opposite, my good man. I do want Lord Torstein and the Bairds to believe that I wish to discuss peace.” He clenched his fist. “But I will do the opposite.”

  “How is that?”

  “We shall go to this location. I am supposed to ride with only myself, Lord Torstein, and his errand boy Christian to the proceedings. However, I want you to organize a brigade of men to follow not far behind us, because we shall overwhelm the Bairds at this meeting, take them, learn the location of their village, and burn it to the ground.”

  Sir Renly smiled. “A splendid plan, Sir Jessup.”

  A nod. “I agree. But we must keep this silent. And I do not wish to inform the king until the time comes that the Bairds are in our possession.”

  He moved back to the window, huffing and puffing, his anger welling and all the animosity toward Lord Torstein practically secreted out of him.

  “That bastard,” he seethed. “That bastard Lord Torstein. He thinks he can make a fool of me. He thinks that he can lie to me, the king, and the kingdom. Well we will show him what the king’s justice looks like. Once we have taken the Bairds and their village, I will force Lord Torstein to watch as we burn it down to the ground…” he looked at Sir Renly. “And then I will slit his and that errand boy’s throat in front of each other before I send their severed heads to the king…Tell me, Sir Renly—how does this proposal sound to you?”

  Sir Renly stood, showcased a smile, and nodded approvingly. “I think it is a splendid plan, Sir Jessup. An absolutely splendid plan.”

  Sir Jessup placed his hand on Sir Renly’s massive shoulders the size of boulders and said: “You and I will end this war,” he said. “Together. And then we shall soak in the glory that will be bestowed upon us at the behest of the king.”

  “A glorious notion, Sir Jessup.”

  Sir Jessup returned to the window and watched as his denizens set about training with swords, bows and arrows, and hand-to-hand combat.

  “War is coming,” he said, more to himself than for Sir Renly’s benefit. “And it will finally bring an end to the madness that Lord Torstein has brought upon us all.” He faced Sir Renly. “Our time has come, Sir Renly. Our moment of glory has finally arrived.”

  Sir Renly smiled. “I cannot wait, Sir Jessup…I cannot wait.”

  Click on the link below to find out how the story continues!

  http://barbarabard.com/Amb08

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  Prologue

  The Scottish Highlands

  Some time ago…

  The mist that saturated the sprawling emerald green of the Highlands was like the breath of God; a thick veneer of grey enveloping the valleys, creeks, and rivers with a breathtaking, yet foreboding, quality in the wee hours of the morning. A pine martin, small and compact with a body of fur matching the tone of the fog, timidly approached the crystal-clear waters of a creek bed. The waters softly churned and trickled with a peaceful and serene rhythm, as the pine martin dipped its paws into the water and rubbed the condensation on its petite, furred ears. The serenity of the early morning dew and the calm of the surrounding wildlife, in all shapes and forms, felt free of tension, violence, or fear.

  It was a perfect morning—And then the sounds of thunder began to accumulate in a thick cacophony, an approaching thunder that started to make the Earth tremble and quake.

  Four Scotsmen, brothers, strong and sinewy and clad in fur and kilts, rode their massive, virile steeds with a hectic and furious charge through the valley. The ground now shaking underneath the paws of the pine martin and forcing him to retreat to his family, hidden somewhere amongst the brush. The four brothers on horseback, all of them sporting long auburn hair and thick facial manes to match, shouted and turned east toward a dip in the terrain.

  They were covered with thick beads of sweat, with two of them sporting wounds on their hands, and cheeks flowing with ribbons of ruby-red blood from the scuffle they had engaged in with the seven English noblemen pursuing them from fifty yards away. “Stop!” one of the chainmail-clad noblemen shouted after them. “All of you!”

  The brothers grit their teeth and kick at the sides of their steeds as they charged toward an outcropping that ascended upwards toward a derelict castle that was burned down by a pair of their fellow countrymen, not more than a year ago.

  The largest brother, a man by the name of Lachlan, grabbed the youngest brother, Finlay, by his collar and pulled him in close. “We cannae outrun them,” he said with a huff. The noblemen now closing in on them from thirty yards out, one of them drawing a bow and arrow and preparing to take aim. “Gae!” he said to Finlay. “Take our brothers. I will buy ye some time.”

  Finlay’s eyes were wide, his dashing and rugged features contorted with fear as he shouted out “Lachlan!” to his brother in protest. “There is another way!”

  “Gae noo, Finlay! Take our brothers! Heed for the spot we chose! Gae far and away as ye can!” Lachlan pushed his brother away, withdrew his sword, and turned his steed around in a one-hundred-eighty-degree spin, as the nobleman archer unleashed his bow and landed it squarely into Lachlan's left pectoral muscle.

  Lachlan wobbled on his horse, but he was a powerful man that required more than just one pithy arrow to knock him off his mount. He corrected himself, bucked his steed, and took off toward the West; drawing away three of the seven pursuing noblemen as Finlay lead his older brothers Alec and Glenn into the East.

  “Damn fool!” Alex shouted after Lachlan. “He cannae fight them on his own!”

  “Ride!” Finlay commanded, the youngest of the Boyd clan, but by far the most brilliant of the four, crooking his finger past the direction of the derelict castle toward a peak far off in the distance. “Lachlan is on his own now…” The words were like a steel spike being driven into his heart—but Finlay knew that they held nothing but the truth.

  The four noblemen behind them continued to holler and curse, all of them looking to seek vengeance against the Boyd's after they had slaughtered six of their own back, at the Boyd’s encampment. Their breath, and that of their horses, huffed and panted and cut through the fog with hot and thick billowing like hounds from hell. The noblemen’s faces were pensive. The teeth were yellow and gritting. Their eyes were filled with nothing but murderous intent.

  Lachlan, far from his brothers now, exchanged several scything blows from his sword with the three noblemen that now flanked him on either side. He parried. Blocked. Struck. He fended off the noblemen well for several moments before his horse whinnied, and bucked, and kicked as the noblemen, clad with white tunics sporting red trim, laughed and converged on Lachlan before striking him several times in his arms and torso.

  The cold steel of the noblemen’s blades ripped at his clothes and lacerated his body as Lachlan used every last breath in his body to make his final stand. He swiped, spit, screamed, with all his might as the archer, backing up several feet and lining up his bow, buried a final arrow into Lachlan’s back.

  Lachlan outstretched his arms in a messianic pose, before falling to the e
arth and mud. The noblemen trampled over his body and put down his horse for good measure.

  Not seeing that their brother had fallen, Finlay, Alex, and Glenn threw looks over their shoulders at the four men pursuing them from nearly thirty yards away. Alex, his mouth agape and ready to suggest they head for a ravine just off to the West, lurched forward as a small stream of blood began trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

  Finlay, his arm reaching out to the right to steady his brother, saw the arrow protruding from Alex’s back, when the archer that had caught up with other four noblemen, smiled with joyful elation.

  “Glenn!” Finlay shouted, the words rasping his throat like the kick of harsh liquor.

  Glenn, his blood boiling and causing the veins in his head to protrude, withdrew his sword with his left hand, a hatchet stuffed in his belt with his right, and looked at Finlay with a grave and lethal glint in his eye, one that Finlay knew all too well.

  “Dinnae, Alex!” Finlay shouted. “Stop!”

  But Alex was committed. “Flee, Finlay,” he said. “Go far away from here.” He then turned his horse and rode toward the North, two of the five noblemen breaking off ,with three left behind to now pursue Finlay.

  “Bastards,” Finlay gritted through his teeth. “Ye all shall pay…All of ye.”

  Alex, raising the hatchet high over his head, squared his focus on the archer as the archer prepared to shoot an arrow in Finlay’s neck. As the archer drew back the bow and prepared to tenderly release his grip on the arrow, Alex threw the hatchet square into the man’s skull, knocking him off of his horse.

  Two of the noblemen on either side of him broke off and drew their swords as Alex raised his own to strike—but he was cut down from a strike to his sternum that ended his life in the quickest of moments.

  Finlay witnessed his last surviving brother fall as the final nobleman, bearing down on Finlay, began swinging a flail around in a circle above his head. Finlay knew that the spike balls tethered to a wooden handle would surely split his in two if he didn't do something quick.

  As the nobleman crept up alongside him, Finlay leaped off of his horse, knocked the nobleman from his own, and corrected his posture before taking control of the horse's reins. Finlay had impressed even himself as the nobleman with the flail tumbled along the ground and broke several of his bones in the process.

  "Gae! Gae!" Finlay ordered the beast as its hooves trampled and tore up the grass and dirt of the Highlands in thick chunks.

  He cast a look over his shoulder and saw that none of the other noblemen were pursuing, assuming now that he was far from their sights as he headed toward the coastline his brothers had picked out on the map. He was mourning them already, although the primal pounding of his heartbeat was coating his senses with a slight feeling of numbness. Finlay was too overwhelmed to properly digest what was happening.

  The noise of the chase was now dying down, nothing but the sound of Finlay's stolen steed grunting and puffing as Finlay clutched tightly onto the reins and headed for another decline in the terrain. Even though the fog was still thick throughout the entirety of the surroundings, Finlay was more than sure he was headed toward a creek bed.

  He felt his senses calming now, confident that he was out of harm's way—and then an arrow pierced him from behind, jutting out through the right side of his abdomen with a quick and wet thunk.

  Finlay’s horse pivoted and whined, standing on its hind legs and then bucking as Finlay was thrown from the saddle and straight over the edge a cliff. The world spun, and a sickly sensation overcame his stomach, as Finlay felt his back making contact with the earth, quickly evacuating the wind from his lungs. He then rolled over himself, everything around him like a blur as Finlay fell head over feet and back over belly down a forty-foot drop that ended in a churning river that cut through the valley.

  With a splash and a cold sensation now chilling his skin, Finlay came to rest in the water and felt himself being pulled in the current downstream.

  The chill of the water quickly shook Finlay out of his haze. He spit the water that was choking him out of his mouth and brushed his hair back with his fingers as the sounds of the noblemen became audible off to the right. Desperate, Finlay searched for something in the river to hide behind as the speed of his flow through it began to hasten.

  On his left, Finlay spotted a cluster of blackhorns grouped together. He shot out his hand, waited for the current to pull him closer, and then clutched onto with a tight handful of the shrubbery.

  “This way!” a nobleman shouted off in the distance as Finlay pulled himself from the river, threw the clothing covering the upper parts of his body into the river, and half-ran, half-stumbled his way toward an opening of a cave. As Finlay quickly ducked inside, the noblemen appeared on their horses at the edge of the cliff. They scanned around the area for any signs of Finlay.

  One of them pointed, “Look! Over there!”

  Finlay saw the men pointing at the cluster of clothing he had thrown into the river, far enough from the noblemen from the current’s pull that it would be easy for any man to mistake it for an actual living person.

  “This way!” The archer yelled, guiding the men as he charged away from the river and informed them that they could “cut the bastard off!” at the other side of the valley. Finlay waited for several moments until the sounds of the hoofs pounding the earth had dissipated, stuck his head out, and wearily made his way further into the tunnel.

  Finlay walked four feet before collapsing to the ground, his gaze quickly falling to the arrow that had pierced his right side—both ends of the arrow had broken off, and now only the mid-section was lodged into his abdomen as the wound then started to profusely bleed.

  Crawling hand-over-hand, Finlay descending further into the dank and murky tunnel, the smell of mildew all around him as the light and even sound began to slowly evacuate from the enclosed space. Naw…Naw, he protested inside his head. Ye shall live, lad…Ye shall live…Keep going…Keep going…

  Finlay continued chanting inside his head, his mind and body so wrought with fatigue that even he was unaware of where he was headed. His hands slapped the smooth rocks of the cave, echoing slightly as his vision blurred, his energy became depleted, and his body collapsed onto the floor of the cave.

  Finlay's last thoughts were that he was now dying, no longer a member of the living. He then hoped to meet his wife on the other side and prayed that God would welcome him and his now dead brothers into the warmth of paradise with an abundance of love and relief.

  Chapter 1

  “Ye’re just as beautiful as yer mother,” William said, his weak pasted, and weathered hand gently caressing the cheek of his daughter Isla as he felt the last breaths of his life being pulled into his lungs. “Ye also have her strength. By God, I am so proud of ye, my dear Isla. Only ye can lead our people tae salvation.”

  Isla’s full and vibrant lips formed into the wriest of smiles. She was proud that her father was pleased, a sense of elation filling her traced with sadness that came as a result of the knowledge that he was not long for this world. Her father was dying. These were the last few moments of his life, one well-lived and serving as an inspiration for their clan, all gathered on the outside of his tent and offering up silent prayers for God to ease his transition into the next life.

  Isla gently placed a kiss on her father’s hand, caressing it as she reached forward and stroked her fingers through his wiry and thinning grey hair. “Rest now, father,” she said. “Ye have done mair than ye know fer our clan.”

  “The fight is nae over yet. The English will not stop until they have driven all of our people oot of Scotland.”

  Isla shook her head defiantly, thoughts of the English nobles who killed her mother and burned her people’s village to the ground still burned vibrantly in her mind. “I will not fail our people, father. I will lead them. I will guide them.”

  William smiled, his eyelids fluttering as he planted two fingers to his lips, kissed them,
and stroked the side of his eldest daughter’s cheek with a fond and gentle demonstration of his love. It was a simple moment, a subtle passing of the torch to his eldest daughter. Though tradition stated that it would be a male heir to William the Laird’s leadership, those in the clan knew, without a shred of doubt, that Isla was the proper heir to the throne. Her beauty was her mother’s—but her drive and headstrong sense of leadership was a direct inheritance from her father.

  A tear slid slowly down the side of Isla’s smooth, silky cheek, hints of red on her cheeks from the pride and sorrow as she said to William: “Rest now, father. Be at peace…”

  William then drew a final breath, his chest expanding as he rested comfortably back into the mound of fur that cushioned him. With the slightest of smiles, William exhaled his last breath slowly, closed his eyes, and passed away into the unknown. Isla held onto her father’s hand for a full minute, clutching desperately onto their final moments as a family before resting his arms across his chest and turning solemnly out of the tent.