In the wee hours of yestermorn she had come quite close to a small cottage. Not knowing if she was still on dreaded English soil or that of Scotland, she had been too afraid to stop and ask for help. Hungry, tired and in an ungodly amount of pain this day, she was beginning to regret that decision.
The land before her had turned greener and more lush the further north and west she traveled. It was far different than the browns and grays of the English soil she had grown up on. Having never traveled more than a few miles from her home before, she knew not what to look for. She searched her memory for any description of Scottish lands that Moirra might have mentioned but none came to mind. All of Moirra’s stories had been about the Highlanders, not the Highlands.
She wondered if she would she even recognize a Highlander if she saw one. Her only frame of reference on the matter came from Moirra’s faerie tales. According to Moirra, they were all big, tall and quite hairy. She was not sure if she should risk her freedom or her life based on the stories told by an auld woman.
Sometime late yesterday her saddle had become loose and fallen from the mare’s back, taking Aishlinn along with it. In too much pain, and exhausted from lack of sleep, she hadn’t the strength to lift it let alone enough to return it to the mare’s back. She abandoned it and now rode bareback.
She had dismounted only long enough to relieve her bladder. Fearful that if she remained on foot too long the horse would wander away she stayed upon the mare as much as possible. The thought of having to walk to wherever the good Lord was taking her was far too frightening.
When the exhaustion became too much to bear, she slept slumped over with her head resting upon the mare’s neck. If ever she were forced again to make a decision between saving her own life and traveling alone, with no weapons, blankets or the means to start a fire, she might be tempted to choose death. The longer and further she rode, death became the more amiable option.
It was too late now to change her mind. Nay, death from exposure was more desirable than death at the hands of the earl’s soldiers. She trusted that Baltair would be able to buy her some amount of time, but how much she did not know. As exhausted, cold and hungry as she was, she could not give up. If the guards ever found her it would be a most certain and painful death.
She was thankful that her stepfather had taught her to hunt and fish and to find her way about. Growing up she had resented the man for not allowing her to be like the other young girls in their nearby village. Many a time he had told her she was plain and no husband lay in her future so he taught her to take care of herself. Now that she was far from the only home she had ever known and in very unfamiliar territory, she was glad for what he had taught her.
As she coaxed her mare along, images of her family kept flashing through her mind. Her mother had been gone so long that Aishlinn no longer remembered what she looked like. She could however, remember her mother’s gentle strength. Often she would hear Laiden’s voice as it offered words of encouragement that urged her on and begged her to not give up.
She would catch glimpses of Moirra’s smiling auld face as well. Her heart ached from missing both women. There were a few times when she could have sworn she saw the two women riding along with her. It was those images from which she drew the strength to continue.
More often than not however it would be images of her father’s face that would come crashing in. He always looked so disappointed. Aishlinn felt as though she had somehow let the man down. It was true that Broc had never been much of a father to her. Aishlinn was certain her mother had married him only to save her from being born a bastard.
The man had not one redeeming quality that Aishlinn had ever witnessed. Cold and hard, he never had a kind word to say to her. Why he had chosen to keep and raise her, Aishlinn supposed would always be a mystery. He had made it abundantly clear over the years that she had not been wanted.
Visions of her brothers would come to visit her as well. Just as in real life, her visions were filled with them taunting and laughing at her. They had never been particularly kind to her growing up. And their contempt of her grew even greater after Broc’s death. It had gotten to the point where Aishlinn could do nothing right. No matter how hard she worked in the fields or in the home it was never good enough. They would always find something to chastise her for.
Then nearly a month ago they came to her and informed her that she would leave that day for Castle Firth. Horace, the oldest brother, was going to marry a young woman from the village. He wanted the cottage they had grown up in for his own. He felt the home not big enough for all of them, especially two women. So it was done; Aishlinn was sent to Castle Firth.
Admittedly, Aishlinn had felt a great sense of relief at the news. She would be away from her cruel brothers forever. Certainly life as a scullery maid or chambermaid had to be better than the life she had been enduring. Had she known then what fate had in store for her, she would have fled to London the moment they told her the news.
She fought hard to push their faces and voices from her mind and tried instead to focus on freedom and her future. She would daydream of a cottage by the sea. Maybe she would marry a decent man who would not beat her or insult her. Maybe God would bless her with many children. She would plant gardens and learn to weave. Her home would be filled with much love and laughter. But she had better chances of sprouting wings and flying to the moon than someday having a husband and children of her own.
Her mind wandered back and forth from future to present making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Now was the time for focus, not silly daydreams. She had to keep her mind and wits sharp about her.
Aishlinn had slowed her mare to walking pace again. It would do no good to have the mare collapse dead from exhaustion and leave her stranded on foot.
As her thoughts turned to a soft pallet and a warm meal, she thought she heard the sound of voices. She pulled the mare to a stop in a band of tall trees and strained her ears to listen. It was men’s voices she heard coming from behind her.
Fearful that the voices belonged to English soldiers sent to find her, her mind raced while her heart pounded. For a fleeting moment she thought of simply giving herself over to them. But the thought of being hung, disemboweled and tortured to death was far too terrifying.
She grabbed tightly onto the reins, kicked the mare’s flanks and flew into a full run. As she went crashing through the trees, the branches and limbs re-opened the cuts that had only begun to heal. As fast as the mare ran, Aishlinn prayed.
Had God merely been tempting her with freedom? Was He now ready to punish her for taking a man’s life? Surely He had not let her come this far simply to have her caught now. She kicked the horse again and held tightly to the reins.
The moment she caught sight of the men standing in the clearing she knew it was over. The soldiers were not behind her but in front of her. Instinct told her to run and to run quickly. She kicked at her horse again and prayed that the mare would somehow sprout wings and fly her away to safety.
She had paid no attention to the ground under the horse’s feet. Her only thought was of escape. She was horrified when she felt the horse stumble, and then rear its head. Unsuccessfully she tried to settle the mare, holding on as long as she could. When the horse reared again, Aishlinn knew instantly that all was lost. She was sent flying from the horse’s back. Agonizing pain enveloped her the moment she hit the ground and bright dots of light flickered in front of her eyes before everything went black.
* * *
Duncan and his men had heard the rider coming toward them at a full run. They barely had time to draw swords and step out of the way before the rider came crashing through the trees. They caught only a glimpse of a lass atop a gray horse as she raced toward them.
Before Duncan could warn her that she was running too fast on the rocks, the mare stumbled and reared. He could see the lass was holding on for dear life as she tried to settle the spooked animal. Before she could gain control, the horse reared a s
econd time, pitching its rider. The lass fell and fell hard. Momentum worked against her as she rolled a few times before coming to a stop face down in the frigid water of the stream.
Duncan reached the stream first and hurried in after the lass. The icy water rose above his ankles. He scooped her limp body into his arms and was surprised at how slight she felt. As he carried her to a small clearing, Tall Thomas and Rowan pulled plaids from their packs. The men moved on instinct for there was no time to do much thinking on the matter. Duncan held the lass in his arms while his men covered her with the plaids and blankets.
Her clothes were soaked and clung to her skin and her hair was plastered to her face. When Duncan brushed aside her hair, each man gasped with surprise. Swollen black eyes and bruises covered most of her face and there were many small cuts on her swollen cheeks and lips. Duncan wondered who could have done such a thing to someone so young and small. It set his teeth on edge as anger and disgust blended together deep in his gut. He’d seen soldiers wounded in battle that had looked better than this wee lass lying limp in his arms.
* * *
Aishlinn dreamt she was covered in deep snow, hiding from the earl and her brothers. She could not remember ever being so cold or frightened. The earl cursed while he made promises that once he found her he would have what he had wanted. Then he would kill her. Her brothers urged him on, cursing, mocking, and making threats of their own.
The cold snow and fear of the earl brought violent shivers to her body. She wished her mum and Moirra would come and take her away to somewhere safe and warm. Her heart broke when they did not answer her pleas for help.
Suddenly there were hundreds of soldiers surrounding her. They pulled her from her hiding place. She tried to explain to them that she had only been defending herself; she had not meant to kill the earl, only to frighten him. Her pleas went unanswered as they lifted her from the snow and began stabbing her with their swords. The earl and her brothers were laughing. The more the soldiers stabbed her, the more they laughed. Bile rose in her stomach but she could not retch; she could only beg and plead for mercy.
* * *
Duncan gently rubbed her arms and legs in an attempt to warm the battered young girl while he looked for signs of broken bones. After several long and tense moments, her small body began to shiver fiercely. He could not make out the mumbled words that were coming through her chattering teeth and was relieved that she wasn’t dead. He heard Tall Thomas say he would start a fire.
With her head resting upon Duncan’s shoulder, she slowly began to move her arms as if fending off something only she could see. Duncan began to whisper soothingly to her that all was well, that she was safe, and no more harm would come to her.
Tears flowed from her swollen eyes and she looked such a sad sight that it nearly made the Highlander want to cry. “Ye be fine now, lass,” he whispered to her.
Her eyes began to flutter open. Through small slits she stared at him blankly, still foggy, not yet seeing. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly.
“She be English, Duncan,” Findley said in his native Gaelic. “Try the English.”
Duncan nodded and began speaking to her in English. “Sorry for what, lass?”
Mumbling through chattering teeth, she answered him. “I did n-not mean to kill him.”
Duncan smiled at her, certain it was the fall and bump on her head talking. “’Tis all right lass, ye be safe now.” He knew not what else to say.
Chapter Five
Something was pulling her from her dream. Low, muffled voices that she could not understand. As the heavy fog began to lift, she slowly became aware that she was not alone. She tried to focus her eyes as well as her mind, both requiring a good deal more energy than she had. Where was she and who was speaking to her? Why was she so cold and wet? It was then that the memories came flooding through and fear took its ugly hold again.
The soldiers had found her! Terrified, she tried to move, to stand and run, but every muscle in her body ached and her ribs screamed at her to remain still. Her arms and legs felt as though they were made of lead and no matter how hard she wished it, she simply could not move.
Someone was holding her, speaking to her. Her eyes began to focus and a man’s face began to come into focus. He had long brown hair and blue eyes and he was smiling at her. Her heart sank and her stomach reeled with the realization that she would not be getting away. She had been captured and knew that very soon she would be back in Penrith. Her life was over.
The cuts stung from the tears that streamed down her face. She pleaded aloud for mercy, not certain she recognized the sound of her own voice; it sounded so weak and dry. She heard another man’s voice but she could not understand what he was saying.
“Please,” she begged him, “I meant not to kill him.”
Duncan looked up at his men. They appeared as befuddled as he was. “Now what be this about killin’ someone?” he asked as he tried to keep his voice soft and reassuring.
Still struggling to move, she said, “The earl,” She muttered. “I m-meant only t-to f-frighten him.” She took a deep breath, still shaking. “He would not s-stop and it h-hurt so m-much.”
From the bruises and cuts Duncan and his men could surmise she had taken one hell of a skelping. Could what she was telling them be true? Could something so small as the lass before them have taken someone’s life?
“Please. Let me g-go. I p-promise not to t-tell you found m-me.”
“I’m afraid we canna do that, lass.” Duncan knew she was afraid of something, but the possibility of leaving such a young girl alone out here was not an option.
“Please, I beg of you. Leave me.” More tears fell as she continued to plead with them. She would rather die here alone and freezing than to be returned to Penrith.
Duncan and his men exchanged confused glances. There was no way they would leave her here. He tried to lighten the moment by saying, “But lass, some of us have mothers.”
Aishlinn was dumbfounded for she could not imagine what having a mother had to do with anything. Her head was pounding and she could not make sense of what he was trying to tell her.
Duncan smiled to his men. They knew what he meant and knowing smiles formed on their own faces. “Our mothers would skin us alive if we left a distressed lass stranded and alone out here in the middle of nowhere,” Duncan told her.
Rowan added, “Aye. Me own mum would skin me, then reattach me skin so she could do it again.” The men nodded their heads in agreement. Rowan’s mum was a fierce woman and it would have mattered not who this lass was nor the circumstances surrounding why she was here. Had the men left her and anyone found out, it would be a most certain death for each of them.
Aishlinn was too tired and cold to care if these men had mothers or not. Visions of what they were going to do to her raced through her mind. “P-please do n-not take me back.”
“Back where lass?” Duncan asked.
Aishlinn looked at the men who surrounded her. Perhaps they were cruel men, wanting only to toy with her before they would shackle her and take her back to Penrith.
“Are you not K-king Edward’s s-soldiers?” Aishlinn asked breathlessly. It was near agony to speak. She wanted only to sleep and to be warm and to be away from them.
The men looked insulted by her question. “Och!” they protested in unison, apparently quite appalled by such an accusation.
A wry smile formed on Duncan’s mouth. “Now lass, do we look like the king’s soldiers?”
She stared at each of them for several long moments. They certainly did not wear the uniforms of soldiers. Bare-chested each of them was, with scabbards at their sides and long flowing hair and braids on either side of their temples. Nay, the English did not dress in such a manner. As she lay there terrified and freezing, she searched the cloudy regions of her mind for a few moments before it finally dawned on her. These men were Scots!
But that meant little to her at the moment. She could not be certain as to their intention
s. They could be mercenaries hired by the king or the earl’s own men sent to find her.
“Nay,” she said. “Ye d-do n-not.”
They seemed quite pleased with her answer as a broad, proud smile came to each of them.
“I be Duncan McEwan,” the one whose bare shoulder her head rested upon said. “And that be me cousin, Rowan Graham and that be Richard and Findley McKenna, and that be Manghus Williams.” Each man bowed at the waist in acknowledgement of his name.
“Tall Thomas be buildin’ us a nice fire.” Duncan gave Aishlinn’s arm a gentle pat. “Now,” he began. “Tell us what be yer name lass?”
Wanting nothing more at the moment than to be free and warm, she gave up attempting to make sense of anything or to fight. Perhaps, if they were mercenaries, she could buy herself some time and escape the moment the opportunity arose. Weakly she answered him. “Aishlinn.”
Duncan thought it a fine name and repeated it. “Aishlinn. We be pleased to make yer acquaintance.” Her body still shook from cold and he knew he needed to get her to the fire quickly. He held her tighter and stood.
He had moved so quickly that it frightened her. Afraid he was going to toss her to the ground, she reflexively wrapped an arm around his neck. Her body tensed from fear and the pain in her ribs intensified. The doubt and despair were overwhelming.
Standing still for a moment, Duncan smiled and said, “Now let’s see how Tall Thomas be doin’ with that fire.”
With his men following, Duncan carried the lass to a spot by the fire. He held her close to his chest as he sat down upon a plaid. Aishlinn remained fearful but was glad for the warmth his body was providing. She wondered if she would ever be warm again. Her wet shift and dress clung to her body and chilled her to the bone. Someone gave Duncan another plaid and he carefully wrapped it around her.
Timeless Tales of Honor Page 3