by Aileen Adams
She cast a quick glance up at him. His gaze was focused on the church, his expression resolute, not glancing down at her, not likely caring that she had been on her way to a convent, sent there because she had refused to marry a man chosen by her father.
Dalla had been prepared to take vows of chastity, had resolved to never finding love, having a family of her own, growing old with someone who knew her soul. He probably wouldn't care that she was terrified, that she didn't want to marry him, that all she wanted, more than anything in the world, was to go back home.
None of those things were going to happen. She had been kidnapped. Who was behind it, she didn't know, but it didn't much matter, did it? She was here, having crossed the sea to arrive in Scotland. She didn't even know where in Scotland. All she knew about Scotland was that it was a land of rugged landscape and uncouth, lawless, and warring clans.
She had seen one Scotsman in her life before arriving on the shores of this dirty little village, and the sight that had held her eyes had terrified her. The man had sported wild, tangled long hair, a bushy beard, and heavy, bushy eyebrows. His teeth rotten, he had spoken a harsh, unintelligible language, but his hatred had shown in his dark brown eyes as he showered his Norwegian captors with curses.
As they neared the door of the church, a priest wearing a long, dark brown robe tied with a piece of rope stepped from its entrance. He watched the two approaching, expressionless. He, a man of God, would certainly save her and offer her sanctuary. Wouldn't he?
His hand still firmly gripping her wrist, her captor stopped before the priest and offered a nod.
“You need to marry us.”
The priest glanced from the highlander to her, then back again, offering a brief nod.
Dalla's eyes widened in surprise. No questions? Nothing? Then again, if such occurrences happened frequently in this godforsaken village, what was she to expect?
Her captor tugged her inside the small confines of the church, its bare plank walls broken by two narrow windows. Overhead, the thatched roof looked dry and dusty. Four long benches occupied each side of the interior. With increasing dread, she walked down the aisle between them toward a small table bearing a small wooden cross. A far cry from the beautiful chapel on her family's estate—
“Name,” the priest asked her captor, reaching for a large book situated in a small cubbyhole in the wall. He then withdrew a small bottle of ink and a quill.
“Hugh McInnis,” he said, watching as the priest scribbled his name with a quill dipped into a small ink bottle and wrote the name in the book.
The priest looked at her. “Name?”
She didn't answer.
The priest looked at Hugh was a lifted eyebrow and sighed. “Does she speak English?”
He nodded. “She does.” He turned to her, frowning. “Give the man your name.”
She thought it best not to test him much further. “Dalla. Dalla Jorstad.”
The priest scribbled her name beside that of her captor, Hugh.
She tried to turn her mind away from what was happening; to picture her home, the lush green of the fjords, the image of her mother's portrait, smiling. She'd always pretended that her mother could see her through that portrait, and that she smiled down at her with encouragement.
Dalla tuned out the droning voice of the priest as he said the words of holy matrimony, her mouth growing dry, her heart pounding, her head spinning.
And then, in a matter of moments, it was over. The priest extended the quill pen toward Hugh and he wrote his name, large and bold, at the bottom of the marriage decree. He then handed the quill to her. She didn't reach for it. Signing her name to that document would seal her fate.
“If you can't write your name, simply make a mark,” the priest said.
Dalla gave him an angry glare, then quickly prayed for forgiveness. He was a priest. Still, what kind of a priest would marry two people without even asking if she was willing? Even in a harbor town and port cities such as this, with prisoners and slaves arriving, shouldn't he question demands for quick marriages? Shouldn't he have even asked her whether she was willing?
Her mind raced. Who had done this to her? And more importantly, how was she to ever find her way back home?
She watched Hugh bend forward, prepared to make a mark on the paper for her. She snatched it from his hand, scowling.
“I can write my own name,” she grumbled.
Angrily, she wrote her name on the paper, every stroke of the tip scratching against the parchment paper sending a toll of dread through her. She finished with a flourish, gave her new husband a glare, and tossed the quill onto the parchment. A blob of ink splattered the paper, marring a portion of her name.
It didn't matter. She had just lost her identity, her namesake, and her homeland. She was, in the eyes of God, regardless of the lack of tradition, irrevocably bound to the Scotsman named Hugh McInnis.
But if he thought she would acquiesce to this farce of a marriage without putting up a fight, he was sadly mistaken.
6
Hugh had lost track of how many times he asked himself what he was doing. Not only had he spent a good portion of his remaining coin to purchase Dalla—he shook his head at the thought, he had purchased a human being!—he had also spent a goodly part of what remained on an old mare that she could ride as they left the village and ventured back toward his temporary home. What he was going to do with her after that, he wasn't quite sure.
They'd been traveling since dawn, and the horses moved slowly up the base of the hill, the wind gusting gently through the long grasses and myriad of tall, rocky spires dotting the low valley they’d just left behind.
He missed the silhouette of the Grampian mountain peaks of his home, especially Ben Nevis, under whose shadow stood Duncan Manor. He didn't particularly care for this land of erratic dales and gullies, fields and bogs, the near constant rising of misty tendrils of fog, often bringing with it a smell of rotting vegetation and heather and other brackish plants, half-rotted in this damp, humid landscape.
In the distance, he heard a dull sound.
He paused his gelding as Dalla's halted beside his.
“It's only a red stag,” he explained. “It's coming to the end of their rutting season.”
He could understand her trepidation. The aggressive, moaning-like roar of the red stag was intimidating, especially on such a damp and miserable overcast day such as this.
The morning had started out fairly well, the gray and pink shreds of dawn oozing deeper red as the sun came up in the east. Before heading higher into the foothills, they had to cross the 'valley of mire', as he had named it on his way to the coast; a desolate area of marshy water, quagmires or bogs, many of them hidden by grassy meadows that look deceptively firm from the distance, but could disappear from beneath one's footing in the blink of an eye.
Occasionally, tors—in Scottish Gaelic known as tòrrs, or crags in the Welsh tongue, created of free-standing rock jutted upward some tall, others square and short. Some looked like man-made cairns while others jutted up from the landscape, creating lone peaks—tables of rock—that appeared out of nowhere in the middle of a plain.
“Keep your horse behind mine and don't veer away from my path,” he warned. “The ground is treacherous.”
He should have just stayed at home, back with the Duncans. Dealing with what was going on there was certainly not more difficult than the bit of trouble he'd just gotten himself into. What had he been thinking?
If only he had stayed at the hut. If only he hadn't ridden into the village that particular day. If only he hadn't seen the expression on Dalla's face when she'd been paraded out in front of the boisterous crowd. If only he hadn't felt a frisson of emotion, of compassion for her as she stood in front of that group of rowdy sailors and farmers, merchants.
If only…
But he couldn't stand by and watch her being sold to any of them. And what of the other women? If he had been able, he would've bought them all. If he
had been able, he would have sent them all back to where they came from.
But he hadn’t, and he couldn't. Not even with Dalla. There was something about Dalla Jorstad that had immediately attracted him to her. She was a petite little thing, but she had more spirit than any of the women standing beside her put together. Only she had stood straight and tall, her shoulders back, and her chin up. If her eyes had not been blindfolded, he was sure he would have seen them bright with fury and indignation.
7
A while later Hugh glanced at her, sitting quietly on the mare, for the moment at least, clinging tightly to her mane.
He held the tether of her horse, not trusting her ability to ride alone. She was either very inexperienced with riding, or she was afraid of the animal. She didn't offer any explanations, and he didn't ask.
For a moment, he thought she had fallen asleep, her body relaxed, her chin resting on her chest, her body swaying with the movement of the horse as the mare picked her way along the path of his own horse. But no, her eyes were open, and he caught her glancing his way, then quickly darting her gaze away, toward the woods in the distance.
He stifled a chuckle and shook his head.
They had left the village hours ago, and she had yet to utter a word. He knew she spoke English, or at least some but was obviously unwilling to communicate. For the moment, she wasn't trying to escape, but he had no doubt that she was thinking about it. If he'd been in her position, he would too. He didn't want to tie her up, but he would if he had to.
“Don't try to escape,” he spoke softly and slowly to ensure that she understood. “You will find no one to help you, and the forest is filled with dangers. You're safer with me.”
She said nothing, but once again, he saw her gaze dart his way. She didn't want to talk? Fine with him. He didn't want to talk either. What he wanted to do was go back to yesterday. He should have just gone hunting. If he had, he wouldn't be in this predicament. The more he thought about it, the more irritated he grew. With himself. With her. With everything. He sighed.
Maybe he would take her back with him to Duncan Manor, ask the laird, Phillip Duncan, and his wife Sarah, how he could go about returning her to her country.
There was no love lost between the Scots and the Norwegians, but she was one small woman. What could she do? He knew nothing of her background, her history, or how she'd ended up as a captive bound for Scotland. Until he knew more, she would be his problem and his problem alone.
The trail back to his makeshift hut grew rougher and steeper as the way took them ever higher into the foothills, interspersed with steep drop-offs, deep gullies, and an occasional precipice.
In between these hillocks were the damned bogs, some in plain view, others hidden beneath grasses and reeds.
Soon, her horse was forced to follow directly behind his, the trail narrowing as they rode up a steep slope. Single file, they made their way upward.
He glanced back occasionally and noticed her gaze riveted to the often-treacherous trail they followed, higher and higher, the fingers of her hands clutching the mare's mane so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
She was frightened, as anyone with any common sense would be, not only due to her situation, but the treacherous terrain.
All he knew about Norway were passing comments he'd heard from those who had been there: relatively flat except by the coastline, though toward its interior the land grew more rugged and mountainous. He'd heard it was a land of glaciers and fjords, the eastern part of the country filled with rolling hills and valleys and rich soil for farming. High mountain ranges scattered the north.
“Where are you from?” he asked over his shoulder, thinking to distract her from her fear as well as gain some information from her.
To his surprise, she mumbled an answer.
He turned in the saddle, eyebrow lifted. “What?”
She looked up at him, her features stiff, her eyebrows lowered. “Near Stavangar,” she muttered, then raised a defiant eyebrow. “You are familiar with my country?”
He shook his head.
Her sarcasm was not lost on him, and once again he couldn't help but admire her spirit, much as it annoyed him.
She might be a captive, but she certainly wasn't cowed. Not yet anyway. He said nothing more as he focused his attention on the trail, his mount slowly picking his way up the slope, the ground beneath loose with stones and soft soil.
Beneath him, he felt the gelding's muscles bunch as he struggled upward. He tightened his grip on the rope for the mare, and wrapped it around his hand.
The nag was much older than he'd preferred, but his choices had been few. He heard the mare struggling and resolved that when they reached the top of the slope, they would rest.
His horse slipped, and Hugh instantly prepared to leap off the gelding's back to facilitate the climb, but it proved unnecessary. He couldn't say the same for the mare. Not far from the top, the old broodmare stubbornly refused to continue.
In fact, the sudden balking of the mare nearly pulled Hugh from his own saddle. He quickly glanced behind him, glaring at his captive, but she was doing nothing more than hanging on.
Hugh took pity on the mare and gestured for Dalla to climb off. She stared at him in dismay, glancing at the steep slope on her left, the rather drastic precipice to her right.
“Off?” she asked, eyebrows lifted in dismay.
Hugh nodded and quickly dismounted, slapping the gelding's rump. The horse continued upslope.
His hand still grasping the lead rope to the mare, he lifted his free hand toward Dalla.
“Give me your hand.”
She hesitated for a moment. Then, with obvious reluctance, she released her grip on the horse's mane and reached for his hand.
He clasped hers tightly as she dismounted, trying to maintain her balance on the steep slope. He then released the mare's rope and slapped her on the rump. The mare followed his gelding upward, albeit more slowly, while Hugh and Dalla followed on foot.
The fine mist that had started to fall an hour ago grew heavier. The clouds grew grayer, thicker, and dropped closer to the ground. They wouldn't make it to his camp in the distant mountains for another day. He'd have to find shelter out of the coming rain for the night.
As if to buttress his belief, a flash of lightning brightened the sky, followed by a stunning crackle of thunder that rumbled and echoed its way over the landscape. The mare neighed softly and tossed her head in alarm. His gelding, used to loud, sudden noises, didn't react.
He turned to find Dalla struggling to keep up, her thin leather slippers struggling to find purchase on the now slick trail.
Hugh frowned.
She was ill-clothed for bad weather, or for travel for that matter. He shook his head, looking uphill, urging the horses forward. He breached the rise, barely winded as he turned to wait for Dalla to catch up. She'd been cooped up in a ship's hold for how long? Not given much to eat, certainly. He would need to remedy that, or he'd end up with a sick captive.
She scrambled upward, eyes riveted to the ground, as if determining where she would place each footstep before she did so. While he appreciated her caution, she was also moving much too slowly.
“Come, Dalla, you're almost there, and then we can find some shelter.”
She sent a glare his way as she reached for a stubby clump of brush on the side of the slope to aid her steep ascent. Her chest heaved with exertion, and her limbs trembled, but she bit her lips, and kept pushing on.
In a matter of moments, she also reached the crest, her breath escaping her chest in short, harsh gasps. She leaned forward and rested her hands above her knees.
“We'll find shelter before this mist turns into—”
Too late. The clouds burst, and a delusion of rain pelted down. Within seconds he was drenched, as was Dalla.
The rain felt icy cold, bringing with it the smell of white pine, damp loam, and a myriad of other scents of the lush, forested wilderness that opened before them. At l
east they had managed to traverse the flatlands and those dangerous bogs before the rain came down.
He inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of pine on the air as he quickly made his way through a stand of pine and birch trees, the ground soft beneath his feet. He followed a faint deer trail, hoping to find some thick shelter, or if they were lucky, a cave in which they could take shelter for the night.
The rain came down harder, pounding on his head and soaking them both, the raindrops fat and heavy. In minutes, tiny rivulets began to wind their way downhill through the trees, and in areas not covered by pine needles or leaves, the ground soon grew saturated and slippery.
The horses ducked their heads, but plodded steadily behind Hugh, holding both reins now. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder to find an increasingly angry-looking Dalla, her hair now plastered and hanging in dripping tendrils around her face, her pale blue gown darker in hue, hanging shapeless and heavy, the bottom hem dragging in the mud.
Her mouth was slightly open, her lips trembling with the growing chill in the air. He had to find shelter, and soon, or she would definitely fall ill, especially after—potentially—weeks of captivity and a rough sea crossing, and likely no more than watery broth and stale bread for sustenance.
He pushed forward, searching the landscape for an outcropping, anything that would provide—
A startled cry jerked his attention away from the landscape and back to her.
She had lost her footing, teetered for balance, arms swinging wildly as she tried to regain her footing.
He let go of the horses and stepped toward her, arms extended, trying to catch her before she fell, but he didn't get to her in time. She landed face down on the now muddy ground.
Hugh reached her a second later, but she was already scrambling to regain her footing. She shook off his helping hand, glaring up at him, tears shining in her eyes. Or maybe it was just the rain. Her jaw set, she growled low in her throat. The entire front of her gown was caked with mud, and so was most of her face.