by Bree Wolf
Doubts rushed back into Henrietta’s heart as she stared at the woman before her. Was Moira telling the truth? Had she seen such a future in her dreams? Had it been her obligation to act as she had to ensure that these things would come to pass?
Once again recalling Rhona’s words, Henrietta realised that her mother-in-law would have disagreed. Whatever my dreams are meant to do, I believe that you two were meant for each other.
Standing up straight, Henrietta squared her shoulders. “You have no right to shape the future, everyone’s future, based on your own wishes,” she said with determination, “for you cannot know what your dreams are meant to do. Who is to say that what you see is truly meant to happen? Maybe your dream was simply trying to sway you from a wrong path. Maybe it was simply a dream, revealing your heart’s desire. But nothing more.”
“Ye’re an outlander,” Moira hissed. “Ye know nothing of our customs, our history, our beliefs. Ye could never understand the gifts this land bestows on those who are worthy. The English have always taken what is not theirs, invading other countries and forcing them under their rule. Ye canna know what it’s like to have everything taken from ye that makes ye who ye are. One day, Scotland will rise again, but only with men like Connor leading us into a better future.”
As the hatred in Moira’s voice touched Henrietta’s heart, it answered with pity and regret while the words the young woman had spoken stirred a memory, and a vaguely familiar face began to form in Henrietta’s mind.
Angus.
Countless times, the old man had glared at her, the same hatred burning in his eyes that Henrietta now saw so clearly in Moira’s. He had despised her for being English, called her the enemy and…and Connor a traitor.
Instantly, Henrietta’s head snapped up and she strode toward Moira, her eyes hard as she met the young woman’s frantic gaze. “Is it Angus? Is he whom you’re waiting for?”
Moira’s eyes narrowed, then she nodded. “He will come as will those that follow him.”
“Those that follow him,” Henrietta mumbled, her eyes once again returning to her surroundings, searching for approaching riders, weapons readied in their hands.
Only there was nothing. No one. All remained still. Peaceful even.
Gripping Moira’s wrists, Henrietta snarled into her face. “You’re a fool! He’s not coming! He doesn’t want me! He wants Connor! He used you to get to him!”
Staring into Henrietta’s eyes, Moira’s mouth fell open, and the shock drained all colour from her face. “He w-wouldna,” she stammered. “Connor is our chief. Angus would never harm him. Ye’re the enemy. Ye’re English. Ye’re−”
“I may be the reason he is after Connor,” Henrietta snapped, “but Angus knows that killing me will not change the man who holds the clan’s future in his hands.” Shaking her head, Henrietta held Moira’s gaze as it slowly began to waver, the hatred in her deep blue eyes replaced by a dawning fear. “I am not the problem. I did not intentionally infiltrate your clan in order to overthrow your chief. Connor chose me. He brought me here, and Angus sees that as a betrayal, a weakness, and he can only ensure the clan’s future by eliminating the real threat.” Henrietta swallowed. “Connor.”
“No!” Moira gasped. “Ye’re wrong! He wouldna!”
“Then where is he?” Henrietta demanded, gesturing at the open land around them. “Do you see him? If so, point him out for I cannot detect another presence besides ours.”
With wide eyes, Moira turned her head from side to side, her eyes searching the four directions of the compass, only to come up empty.
“He is not coming!” Emphasising every word, Henrietta tightened her grip on Moira’s wrists. “He betrayed your trust. He knew that your hatred for me would blind you to his true purpose.” Holding Moira’s gaze, Henrietta waited for the first spark of understanding in her blue depths. “Where is Connor? Angus wouldn’t attack him at Greyston. You lured him away, didn’t you? Tell me where he is!”
Staring at her with unseeing eyes, Moira remained quiet as tears began to brim in her eyes.
“Now is not the time to weep, Moira!” Henrietta growled, shaking the trembling woman vigorously. “Angus will kill him! Are you truly that spiteful that you’d rather see him dead than married to me?” Staring into Moira’s eyes, Henrietta felt tears of her own threatening, but she forced them back down. If there had ever been a time when she had needed her strength, it was now.
“Moira!”
“He’s by the cliffs,” the wide-eyed woman whispered, “waiting for ye.”
A lump formed in Henrietta’s throat as she realised that if things came to pass, he would die thinking she had betrayed him. “The cliff top by the ruins?” Pushing all other thoughts aside, Henrietta forced herself to focus on the here and now. Connor was still alive. There was still a chance to save him.
Moira nodded.
“Listen!” Henrietta hissed into her face. “You may have a chance to make this right, but only if you do as I say.” When Moira hesitated, Henrietta snapped, “Do you want him dead? Tell me here and now!”
Moira swallowed. “No. I never meant for this to happen.”
Henrietta took a deep breath as hope gave her the strength she needed. “Then ride back to Greyston and tell Alistair what happened. If there is anyone we can trust to be loyal to Connor, it is him. You said so yourself.”
Slowly shaking off the trance that had come over her, Moira nodded.
“But make haste!” Henrietta commanded as they rushed back to their horses. “There won’t be much time!” Climbing onto Kerr’s back, Henrietta grabbed the reins as her mare pranced nervously.
“What will ye do?” Moira asked, pushing herself up and into the saddle.
“I’m his wife,” Henrietta said more to herself than the woman beside her. “I belong by his side.”
“They will kill ye!”
Sliding the small dagger back into her jacket, Henrietta met Moira’s eyes. “I won’t let them kill the man I love. Not without a fight!” As Kerr shot forward, chasing after the sun, Henrietta glanced back at Moira, who set off in the opposite direction.
The man I love.
The thought echoed in her head and heart as Henrietta leaned forward, flattening herself to Kerr’s back. She could only hope that she would get there in time, that she would not arrive too late.
“The man I love,” she whispered, and a smile came to her face.
Chapter Thirty-Five − Yer Own Kin
Gazing down at the sea as the waves crashed against the rocky shore, Connor inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, savouring the fresh scents carried inward by the winds.
This was truly a wonderful place, he thought, remembering how he had come upon his wife here not too long ago. That day he had thought she was about to jump off the cliffs, but he had been wrong. It had been a day of strong emotions, some painful, some liberating, but they had guided her away from the death drop and toward a future with him.
As his eyes swept over the ruins, foundation boulders of an ancient castle, Connor smiled. Time was fleeting and wasted in the blink of an eye. Trapped in a circle of fear and doubt, one could spend years waiting and hoping until one would come to realise that a lifetime had passed and one had not lived. Not at all. Not even a little.
Shaking his head with determination, Connor promised himself that he would not waste another day. He would be patient with his wife, but he would not waste another minute living in fear of the future. He would tell her how he felt and what he wanted.
With a smile on his face, Connor set down the small picnic basket he had brought and then began to unfasten the foils latched to the back of his saddle. In his mind, he pictured her face upon seeing the weapons, and his heart rejoiced at the thought of facing his wife in a playful battle.
In the distance, a horse whinnied, and Connor turned his head.
Like a terrace at the top of the world, the old castle ruins sat on a hill, locked in by the cliffs and the sea on one side and a thick
-growing forest on the other. Only a small stretch of even land, here and there dotted with trees and bushes, allowed for a farther view.
Turning in that direction, Connor spotted a rider approaching, and suspecting that it was Moira leading the way, he squinted his eyes, searching for his wife close by. As the riders came closer though, Connor realised that they were not women, but men, coming toward him at high speed.
At first, they rode in single-file, but then they fanned out, riding side by side.
Watching them, Connor frowned. He could not put his finger on it, but something about them made him uneasy. It was almost as though they had spread out to cut off his only escape route.
After a moment of hesitation, Connor mounted his gelding, disconcerted with the disadvantage of remaining on foot. Shifting his weight, he moved his hand backward, running it over the sheathed foils still latched to the back of his saddle.
As he watched the riders approach, Connor’s mind raced with the myriad of reasons he could gather for their unusual behaviour. Nothing made sense. This was a time of peace. War was long gone, and there hadn’t been a violent incident in these parts in years.
Out of the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention and Connor’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowed scanning the tree line.
At first, he only detected faint movements of leaves and branches that could have been caused by the wind. As he looked harder though, the shadows in the forest took on the shape of men on horseback.
Instantly, all doubt fell from him, and his mind screamed one word: trap!
Pulling up the reins, Connor searched his surroundings, trying to find a way out before he was completely surrounded by enemies he knew nothing about. Were they thieves lying in wait to rob wealthy travellers? If so, what were they doing so far off the main road? Had they known he would be here? After all, this was an isolated area.
Once the riders coming down the stretch of flat country had reached the outer borders of the ruins, more riders emerged from the forest, all together forming a half-circle completed by the cliff face in his back.
A military mind had planned this, Connor thought as he watched the riders approach. Clad in dark colours, they wore hooded cloaks, black masks covering the upper half of their faces, and here and there, Connor spied old broadswords hitched to their belts.
Frowning, he shook his head. After the massacre at Culloden, Scots had been forbidden to carry their most trusted weapons. Most had been confiscated. Many had been hidden throughout the land. His father’s still lay hidden at the bottom of a fake wine barrel in the cellar of Greyston. Years ago, Ewan Brunwood had instructed his young son in secret, but always returned the weapon to its hiding place as soon as their lesson had been over.
Once more eyeing their broadswords, Connor knew that things had taken a turn for the worse. Aside from the fact that he was severely outnumbered, his enemies’ weapons would chop his foils into kindling with a single strike.
Knowing that there was no chance for escape, Connor sat tall on his gelding that pranced nervously. He lifted his chin and slowly let his gaze wander over the half-circle of riders now slowing to a trot, trying to identify their leader. “I am Connor Brunwood,” he called, voice hard with authority, “chief of Clan Brunwood. State yer name and purpose on this land.”
Moments passed, and only silence answered him as the riders pulled to a stop at the remnants of the old outer wall of the ancient castle.
As Connor stared at their silent faces, Henrietta’s face flashed before his eyes, and he remembered why he was there in the first place. His gaze travelled up toward the horizon in the distance, but to his relief, he could not spot another approaching rider. Praying that his wife was safely back at Greyston, he returned his attention to the riders before him.
Although they all seemed rather stoic, barely moving a muscle, many had their heads slightly inclined to the right as though waiting for a signal to attack. Allowing his eyes to travel in the same direction, he glanced from rider to rider until he came upon one that bore the presence of a leader.
While he was clad in the same clothes, his posture was more set, wider and more dignified. In a strange way, he reminded Connor of his father.
Shaking off the unwelcome memory, Connor addressed the shrouded leader, “I demand to know who ye are and what intentions bring ye here.”
The leader inhaled deeply, and a conceited smile curled up the corners of his mouth. “Ye’ve no right to demand anything, Lad.”
“Allow me to remind ye that ye’re speaking to the chief of Clan Brunwood, and ye’re on my land.”
The leader snorted, “Ye’ve got no rightful claim to that title. Ye stole it like a mere thief, and we’ve come here today to right that wrong.”
As the leader’s hateful voice echoed in his ears, Connor’s mind conjured the memory of an old man, sitting by the fire as he spoke to a group of young lads, telling them stories of righteous battles and conceited enemies, of triumph and defeat, of justice and revenge.
For a moment, Connor closed his eyes and the man’s snarling face drifted to the front of his mind. “Angus,” he whispered before he opened his eyes once more and met the leader’s disdainful gaze. “Angus Brunwood,” he called across the stretch of land separating them. “Are ye mad, old man? With all yer stories of honour and valour, I never would have thought I’d live to see the day that ye betray yer own kin.”
Angus’ face darkened, and his eyes narrowed. “’Tis not I who is the traitor,” he spat. “‘Tis not I who turned away from my own kin and allowed the English to dictate the future of our clan. Ye,” his hand whipped out, and he pointed an accusing finger at Connor, “are the traitor!”
Filled with rage, the desire to throw himself at Connor plainly visible on his masked face, Angus leaned forward and almost slid off the horse when his limp leg failed to maintain his balance. Clenching his jaw, he curled his fingers into his gelding’s mane and bellowed, “Kill him!”
As adrenaline shot through his body, Connor watched the riders draw their swords and kick their horses’ flanks before they came galloping toward him.
Clenching his teeth with grim determination, Connor drew both foils, the only weapons at his disposal and prepared to meet them. If he was to die, he would not die without a fight!
A foil in each hand, he urged his gelding behind one of the taller boulders, his knees directing the horse while the reins lay slack on its mane. He heard the approaching riders, their horses’ hoof beats thundering on the ground, and glanced around the edge of the boulder.
As expected, the first rider reached the tall boulder just as Connor whipped out the foil and neatly slit his throat. The man tumbled to the ground, his hands futilely reaching up, and gasped for breath before he finally lay still.
Dodging other attackers, Connor retreated to the inner courtyard where tall walls remained, turning the area into a narrow maze. Like threading a needle through the small gaps in the walls, Connor dealt many a rider cuts on arms and torso with his slim foils, here and there severing a major artery, before he, too, felt a blade’s steel cut his skin.
A broadsword came out of nowhere, digging itself into his left shoulder.
Connor groaned in pain, and the foil fell from his hand. Clutching his shoulder, he urged his gelding on, flattening himself to the beast’s back as it shot past another attacker, the man’s sword slicing through the air a hair’s breadth above his head.
Holding on for dear life, Connor allowed his gelding to take the lead, trusting the beast’s survival instincts as it reared and kicked, dodged an attacker here and almost ran over another there. However, before long his opponents started to target his horse, and when the large gelding received a cut down its flank, Connor slid from the saddle and gave the mighty beast a slap, sending him off.
Watching the black gelding race off toward the forest, Connor raised himself on shaky legs, the remaining foil clutched in his right hand. As a group of riders approached, Connor slid down the
side of the castle’s old foundation, the rocks cutting into his back and legs, and stumbled along the narrow path between the edge of the cliff and the towering wall of the ruins.
Unable to follow him on horseback, most of the riders circled back while one slid out of the saddle and pursued him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, Connor dragged himself onward, his eyes focused on the tree line. If he could make it to the forest, maybe…
Lunging himself from above, an attacker tore Connor from his feet, and they rolled down the path, almost going over the edge.
Connor growled in pain and almost dropped his remaining weapon. He lay on his back, gasping for air, when he heard the soft crunch of shoes on gravel.
Bundling what was left of his strength, he rolled over and raised himself on his knees, the foil braced before him.
A pleased smile on his face, his attacker lifted his broadsword, which gleamed in the sun as though mocking the thin blade that was Connor’s only protection from the man approaching him with confidence in his step. “Ye were never worthy,” the man snarled and lifted his sword with both hands.
Knowing that his knees wouldn’t hold him, Connor raised his own blade as the sword came crashing down toward his head.
The second he heard the soft clink as his foil was cut in two, Connor lunged forward. He landed on his injured shoulder and almost blacked-out. His muscles clenched against the onslaught of pain, and he rolled over, once more evading the deadly swing of his opponent’s sword.
Laughing, the man sneered, “Ye canna escape me.” Then he lifted his sword once again, and this time, Connor had nothing to defend himself with as his foil lay broken beside him in the grass.
As the man stood above him, the sword pointed downward at Connor’s heart, Connor closed his eyes and whispered a silent goodbye to his wife.