“Do no’ call out, or I’ll slit ye throat, I swear it Maggy.” She could feel his hot breath as he spoke into her ear and she was sure she recognized the voice.
“That’s a good lass,” the man whispered again.
’Twas then that she knew who held the blade to her throat, but it could not be! He had died in battle more than four years ago! “Traig?” she whispered. “I thought ye dead! We were told ye died in battle,” she whispered as she grabbed the arm holding the dagger. She knew this man and many years ago, had called him friend. Much like Maggy, he was back from the dead. But why was he holding a blade to her throat?
“Dead? Nay, lass, but I have been to hell,” he spoke again, his voice nearly drowned out by the wagons. “I warn ye to remain quiet and I’ll no’ harm ye.” He began to pull her down the street.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” she stammered as he lifted her up higher so that her feet no longer touched the ground. She knew it would be no use to struggle or fight with him for he was much taller and stronger.
“Why, to yer betrothed, where else?” he chuckled, but it wasn’t the same warm, soft chuckle she remembered from years ago. Nay, this was the laugh of a mad man.
“Me betrothed? I have no’ been betrothed to anyone, Traig!” she was confused as well as frightened.
“Well then ye best be tellin’ Malcolm Buchannan that, fer he’s offered a reward fer yer safe return.”
~~~
Anger, fear, trepidation, loss, fury and grief flooded over him in the span of one heartbeat. I’ve lost her again!
Findley still knelt next to Patrick who was struggling to stay conscious. Patrick felt a wave of nausea roil up in his belly, as the pain in his head seemed to get worse.
“Did ye see them, Patrick? How many were there?” Findley struggled between needing information and needing help for his friend.
“One, but I didna see his face,” Patrick answered as he struggled for air. “But I dunna think he a Buchannan,” he said suddenly growing quite cold.
Findley looked at his friend with confusion and worry etched on his face.
“She knew him, Findley,” Patrick said as he tried in vain to steady his breathing. “She called him Traig. I heard her say she thought he’d died in battle.” The world around Patrick began to spin and he suddenly felt like he was on ship at sea. There was a terrible and violent storm taking place all around him. He was cold, sick and in a tremendous amount of pain.
“Patrick, are ye sure?” Findley asked as he held his friend’s hand. He tried to hide the worry on his face; the worry that said Patrick was not long for this world.
To nod his head would have caused him more pain. He could only whisper yes, he was certain. I’m goin’ to die soon, but I must help Maggy.
“Findley,” Patrick said as he struggled to remain awake. He had to tell Findley what he knew before he could submit to the sweet release of sleep or death.
“He’s takin’ her to Malcolm,” he sputtered out. “I heard him say he was takin’ her to Malcolm,” he took a few more deep breaths and tried to hold on. “She was scared, Findley and I couldna help her.” His mouth was horribly dry, and his tongue felt swollen and thick.
“I couldna help her,” were Patrick’s last words.
~~~
Findley’s heart ached for the death of his good friend as much as it ached for Maggy. Malcolm Buchannan was as good as dead; he just didn’t know it yet. And so was the man who had killed Patrick and taken Maggy.
Findley had raced back to the stables as fast as he could with two little boys in tow. Wee William had most of the horses saddled and ready by the time Findley reached him.
Telling Wee William that Patrick lay dead on the street corner was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. The grief in Wee William’s face was too much to bear. Wee William remained silent, his anger masked behind a stony expression. He saddled up the last horse and raced down the street to retrieve his friend’s body.
The sun was just beginning to break when he reached Patrick. As he knelt on the ground and cradled the lifeless form in his arms, he made a silent vow to kill the man responsible.
“Ye take the lads to Duncan. I’ll see to Patrick,” Wee William said as he lifted his friend in his arms. “I’ll catch up with ye verra soon.”
Findley looked up at Wee William, the man’s eyes filled with sadness and grief. “William,” he began, not sure what he could say that would make either of them feel any better.
“Go, Findley! Take the boys and hurry. We’re wastin’ time, lad, we’ve got whoresons and bastards to kill!” The deep timbre of Wee William’s voice broke through the quiet morning. Findley knew he was right, that the longer they stood and mourned the loss of their friend, the greater the distance between them and Maggy.
With a nod of his head, Findley grabbed the reins of their horses and hurried the boys to Duncan and Aishlinn.
Wee William looked down to Patrick and spoke softly. “As God is me witness, lad, I’ll avenge yer death if it’s the last thing I do.”
~~~
As soon as he had settled the boys in with Aishlinn and Duncan, Findley met up with Richard and Wee William. Richard had been keeping a close eye on the Buchannans. Shocked and sadden by the loss of their friend, Richard also made a silent vow to avenge the death of his friend.
Wee William had left Patrick’s body with the local healer, gave him five and twenty groats and the promise that he’d return in a month’s time to take the young man’s body back to his parents.
They rode like banshees from hell toward Aberdeen, pushing themselves and their horses to near exhaustion. There was much on their minds and they worried over Robert and Andrew as well as Maggy. They could only hope that they’d catch up with the boys before the Buchannans did. Findley was so angry with the two of them, that he worried he’d be unable to control his temper and not beat the lads senseless once they caught up with them.
They figured the lads were heading to Aberdeen in some brazen attempt to rescue Ian alone. Wee William had found the lads’ horses and saddles missing earlier and knew there could be no other explanation.
Dozens of tracks from horses, oxen, and wagons led out of town, making it next to impossible to track anyone. Findley wasn’t sure if he hoped the boys’ sense of direction had improved since last spring or not. If it remained as bad as it had been, then they were likely roaming the countryside and God only knew how long it would take to find them. If it had improved, then the fools might make it to Aberdeen before they did. Neither thought was comforting.
The fog had finally lifted near midday but the day brought very little relief or warmth. It was a cold day in late autumn and the skies threatened rain.
They headed north over hills and through valleys without speaking, each man was lost in his own thoughts. Richard and Wee William prayed that Angus would send enough men to help and hoped they’d be waiting for them in Aberdeen.
Wee William worried over Patrick’s parents. He and Patrick had been very good friends for many years and Wee William knew his parents well. The pain it brought to his heart when he thought of how he would have to tell them that their son was dead, was insufferable. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of avenging his friend’s death. Aye, whoever this Traig man was, there’d be nothing left of his body to send to his family when this was over.
Findley’s heartache over Maggy’s kidnapping threatened to tear him apart. This feeling was worse than when he’d come across their burned home those many days ago. ’Twas far worse now, because he knew he loved her. Just as importantly, she loved him. They were planning a future together and now she was gone. Anger burned at his insides.
He rolled Patrick’s last words over and over in his mind. She was scared. I couldn’t help her. She was scared. She hadn’t gone willingly, he knew it in his heart. She’d been taken by one mad man who apparently wanted to give her to another. The thought tore at his heart, at his soul, and burned through his sto
mach. He had to get to her before she was turned over to Malcolm Buchannan.
Whoever this Traig was, Findley was completely prepared to hunt him to the ends of the earth. He’d kill the man with his bare hands if he laid a hand on Maggy.
Earlier, Findley’s only concern had been trying to find a way for him and Maggy and the boys to be a family. Now he was forced to worry over Robert and Andrew as well as getting Maggy back. And now this Traig was thrown into the pot.
Fate had stuck its nasty hand in to interfere again. Either that, or God was testing his mettle and courage. Either way it didn’t matter for he’d get them back and come hell or high water, they’d be a family. No matter what happened, he’d have his Maggy.
Please, God, let her be safe.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Robert, I’m c-cold! Are ye sure we c-can’t start just a w-wee fire?” Andrew’s teeth were chattering. The rain had started more than an hour ago and now the two boys were soaked to the bone. They had taken refuge under a small clump of trees but the nearly bare branches did little to keep out the rain or the cold.
“Nay,” Robert told him through his own chattering teeth. “I told ye, a f-fire will draw attention.” A fire, even if he could find wood dry enough to burn, might draw unwanted attention and that was the last thing they needed at the moment.
“How long d-do ye think th-the rain will last?” Andrew asked. He hadn’t thought about rain or hunger last night when Robert came to him with his plan. All he had thought about was the adventure, and rescuing his little brother. This afternoon however, he was beginning to question his decision.
Robert was growing frustrated with him. They were on a mission, a mission to rescue Ian. If they let a little rain dampen their spirits then what kind of warriors would they make? “I dunnae, Andrew,” he told him. “But w-warriors never c-complain of the rain or c-cold or hunger.”
Andrew pulled his cloak a bit tighter around his body. He had always looked up to Robert. Robert was always the brave one, the serious one and took his duty as eldest brother very seriously.
Andrew suddenly wondered how Robert knew so much about great clans and warriors? They’d lost their families more than three years ago. Robert was only nine or ten at the time. They’d lived in relative seclusion ever since. Maybe all of Robert’s stories were just that; stories he had made up in order to keep his younger brothers in check.
Someday we’ll have a clan of our own. One filled with many fighters, warriors. We’ll be the biggest and most honourable clan in all of Scotland. We’ll live in a grand keep, with plenty of land to grow food to feed our people. We’ll have the best and fastest horses, the best weapons, and the best men. We’ll fight for those who are less fortunate as well as our freedom. How many times had he heard Robert say those things?
Andrew knew it wasn’t greed that pushed Robert. Nay, ’twas honour. It was some deep seeded sense of wanting to provide and protect his mum and brothers that drove him.
Once Andrew thought it through, he realized it didn’t matter if Robert’s stories were true or not. What mattered was that Robert would do everything and anything he could to make their dream of someday having a great clan, and enough to eat, a reality.
That realization did little, however, to warm his cold fingers or toes.
“How mad do ye think mum will be?” Andrew asked quietly.
Robert looked over at his brother and shuddered before a small smile slowly appeared on his face. “I think we need to fear her more than the Buchannans.”
Andrew couldn’t help but laugh. “Aye,” he said. “But think how proud she’ll be of us when we rescue Ian.”
Robert nodded his head in agreement. Aye, their mum would be angry as well as proud. And very relieved to have their Ian back. They’d prove to her once and for all that they were men, not just wee boys. They’d prove that they could take care of their own.
“We might want to take whatever armour we can from the Buchannans we’ll slay,” Andrew chuckled. “We’ll need it.”
Robert’s eyebrows knitted together. “I’ll no’ wear any Buchannan cast offs,” he said. The thought of wearing anything had touched a Buchannan was revolting. “Someday we’ll be rich enough to purchase our own armour.”
“Nay, not fer future battles,” Andrew said with a serious and thoughtful tone. “We’ll need it now to protect us from the skelpin’ mum’s goin’ to give us!”
The ever-serious Robert couldn’t help but laugh! Aye, the battle they’d face with their mum was going to be far worse than any battle with the Buchannans. Somehow, fighting against the whoresons that took his brother seemed far less perilous than when they’d be forced to face their mum.
Robert estimated the rain had kept them in the trees for at least three hours. Once it had finally let up, he and Andrew climbed their horses and trudged on.
They could not go as fast as they would have liked, the ground was too sodden and muddy. He cursed the rain, the mud, and the cold. He cursed Malcolm Buchannan and the whoresons that followed him. Why men chose to follow someone evil instead of doing what was right, he could not fathom. Mayhap it was fear that forced them to follow or mayhap there were far more evil men in this world than he cared to admit.
When he was older, he’d inspire his men by always being valiant, honest, and strong. He’d have very strict rules in his clan; there would be no beating of wives or children for starters. There’d be no lying, no cheating, or stealing.
They were covered with mud from head to toe. Their clothes were soaked and clung to their bodies. Robert couldn’t remember a time he’d been this wet or this cold. He could remember however, being this hungry. He had taken enough bread and cheese to last them at least a week. Guilt from having stolen it chewed at his conscience.
When he had taken it from the kitchen of the inn, he had reasoned that he was taking it for a good reason. He would need his strength to for the journey to Aberdeen. Leaving a note for the innkeeper, with his vow to return someday very soon to repay him, made taking the bread and cheese feel a lot less like stealing and more like borrowing.
It amazed him what the fear of starvation would get a person to do. Robert knew that when all was said and done, he was an honest person. Someday, he told himself, he would never have to steal again in order to survive.
They rode for another hour or two before darkness began to descend upon them. He had learned that past summer not to travel after dark in unfamiliar territory. That had been a huge mistake and that was how they had ended up so many days from their home and on MacDougall lands.
Not wanting to risk ending up on lands belonging to people far less kind that Findley and his men, Robert searched for a place to make camp. They settled into a small dense forest, tied their horses to low hanging branches and removed the saddles and tack.
Weary, exhausted and soaked to the bone, they each ate a slice of bread and a hunk of cheese before lying down and succumbing to sleep. As he drifted off, Robert prayed for God’s speed and mercy to help in getting Ian back. He knew he couldn’t do it alone.
~~~
They had been pulled from their cold slumber by hands grabbing their clothes and pulling them to their feet. Fear enveloped each boy and they felt it clear to their toes.
“Ye little shites!” Wee William’s voice boomed through the early morning air. He was holding Robert up by the scruff of his tunic, anger ablaze in his eyes.
Richard held onto Andrew, who shook and trembled with fear. Findley stood in front of them, his hands balled into fists, his anger quite evident in his scowl and piercing eyes.
“Do ye realize how badly ye scared yer mum?” Wee William boomed at Robert before turning to the still trembling Andrew.
The boys remained mute. While Andrew was visibly frightened, Robert kept his cool demeanour. He’d not show fear, no matter what the consequences.
Findley remained where he was. He knew if he took one step closer to them he would be sorely tempted to skin their idiotic hides.<
br />
“Mum was goin’ to send us hidin’ like cowards!” Robert said through gritted teeth. “We’re no’ cowards!”
“Nay! Yer worse than cowards!” Findley finally spoke. “Yer fools.”
Robert turned to look at him. “Nay!” he shot back. “We’re men and we take care of our own!”
In three strides Findley was standing in front of him, his face just inches from the lad’s. “Nay, yer not men, yer boys. Boys who aren’t smart enough to realize they canna fight a hundred plus men with only a sgian dubh and a handful of rocks! And yer fools if ye think differently!” He was doing his best to not knock the boy’s head off his shoulders.
Robert’s eyes darted from one man to the other, before realizing his mum and Patrick weren’t there. Had she sent the men to deal with them? To give them a good skelping before handing them over to Duncan and forcing them to go hide like frightened children?
It was Richard who spoke next. “Lads, we ken ye wanted to help, but ye were foolish to run off like that,” his voice was calm and belied the anger he truly felt.
“What are ye goin’ to do to us?” Andrew squeaked, still trembling.
Findley eyed both boys for a moment before shaking his head. “Ye’ll be punished, that much I ken. But we’ve no time fer it now,” he said calmly. He’d let them worry over it for a time, let them stew in their own juices. Once he got them back to Gregor, they’d be cleaning privies for the next six months.
“Mount up,” Findley told them as he walked toward his own steed.
Richard and Wee William let loose the boys and walked toward their own horses. Robert and Andrew looked warily at each other. Robert was sure it must be some kind of trick to get them to let down their defences. He shook the rain from his cloak. Andrew followed him as they walked toward their horses.
“Where is mum?” Andrew whispered as they saddled their horses.
Findley's Lass Page 24