A Highlander’s Terror_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story

by Emilia Ferguson

“I saw something,” she said, unsure. “I saw you would be killed if you go with the men. You must be careful. Let me repeat that. You are very likely to die if you commit to this venture. But it is not inevitable.”

  “Oh?” he frowned.

  “Now listen,” she said, finding the strength to sit up and turn to him, her hands on his wrists. “You will need to stay on the right of the field. There are going to be two columns. Stay in the right. You have a better sword-swing if you face enemies from the right. Moreover, it would be wise to take a long knife as well. Not just the broadsword.”

  He stared at her. He was clearly trying hard to digest this information. She had expected he would be cross with her for dictating, but as it happened he just listened.

  “I will do that, milady,” he said. He frowned. “You saw just that?” he asked.

  She nodded. Her mouth was dry and her belly sour. She always felt drained after the sight came through. She wasn't sure whether it was the hate she felt for it, or the dreadful anticipation as she saw things go a little out of the ordinary. As she knew a vision had entered her world and she had started to see. In any case, she was completely finished.

  “I saw that,” she said in a croaky voice. “I saw death. Much death. You can walk through, but only if you heed this...” she whispered. She shook her head and felt anger rise in her. How dare he? He'd almost sent her back to that nauseating, horrifying place of vision. She sighed.

  “My lady?”

  “Don't make me search,” she said testily. “I'll not revisit it.”

  “My lady, I wouldn't. I'd rather forgo the warning. Just have you.”

  She looked up at him. Her head stopped hurting, or at least in that moment she wasn't even aware o it vaguely.

  “Sir...I...”

  Whatever she had been planning to say, and she wasn't sure what that had been, was interrupted as his lips mingled with hers.

  She gasped and leaned back as he pushed her against the pillowed headboard, his firm, insistent lips needing hers, his tongue entering her mouth, his hands burying themselves in her hair or at her waist. She tried to push against him but she knew she wasn't really meaning to resist him. His fingers squeezed her waist and her body caught fire as she felt the firm grip of his fingers exploring her.

  I should not let him touch me like this, in this place, in that style.

  She did not want to heed that memory. She wanted to feel him, wanted to taste him, to feel that hard, lean body pressing against her, pushing her down against the headboard, that chest rubbing on her bust.

  “Sir,” she moaned as he moved away. “Please. No.”

  He jumped back instantly. His face was a picture of contrition.

  “Forgive me, please.”

  She sighed. “You have done nothing,” she said kindly. She meant it. Her body was throbbing all over and she would not wish him to stop, though she knew how vital it was that he did so. She sighed and leaned back.

  “I should...”

  “No,” Amabel said, reaching out for his fingers and holding them tight. “Yes, you must go,” she agreed gently. “But not now.”

  He swallowed. “I do not know...”

  “You will do no harm,” Amabel said, “if you simply stay to say goodbye first?”

  He smiled at her. “I do not think I can,” he said. His brown eyes were tentative, two uncertain wells.

  She frowned at him.

  “I do not wish to say goodbye, my lady,” he said in a tight voice. “Only that I will see you soon.”

  She stared at him. It felt as if someone had come into her heart and inflamed it. She drew in a shaky breath.

  “My lord,” she whispered.

  “We will meet again,” he said with a small smile. “I believe it.”

  “I do, too,” she said with conviction. She tried to resist the temptation to look, to see if the sight could show her anything, but it had almost left her – all she had was a sense of a tired, weary aliveness.

  If he stuck to the right-hand side, he would live.

  “I should leave you now,” he said with a tentative grin.

  She nodded. “Go, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of them moved. She tried to rise but as she did her head fell back into blackness and she blinked to clear her vision of the dark. She lay back.

  “I should go,” he said. He came to the bed and she felt his hand touch her finger. “My lady, stay well,” he said with a gentle voice. “I will see you when I return again.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. She did know that.

  Then he was gone.

  She heard his feet go down the hallway and she closed her eyes, relishing the memories of his kiss. It was much later that she sat up and tried again to stand. This time she was on her feet and groaning when she heard someone in the hallway.

  She dragged herself to the door and looked out. Who was it?

  When she returned and sat on the embroidery-covered chair by the dressing table, she saw the door open in the side where Glenna slept – the heavy cloth dividing the one part of the bigger chamber from hers was only thick enough to let light show where the door opened and closed, but still, she saw it.

  A moment later, Glenna appeared.

  “My lady! Oh...”

  “I collapsed,” Amabel said thinly. “Yes, it was a vision. Yes, I saw something. I am not going to discuss it. You know I won't.”

  Glenna nodded. “Yes, I understand. Yes.”

  “Well, then,” Amabel said grimly. She hated even having to mention the sight and all its implications. “Can you help me?”

  Glenna nodded. “I can fetch you something to drink, milady...some strawberry decoction, it helped last time. And you should lie down a while, with the curtains closed...”

  As she allowed Glenna to care for her, Amabel found herself thinking of the man who had cared for her so tenderly, with whom she had, now that she thought about it, shared more than she ever did of her visions. The memory of his kiss on her lips and the feel of his hands on her body would stay with her until he returned once again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IN BATTLE

  IN BATTLE

  The wind blew through the hair of Rufus' head where he rode, uncharacteristically, unprotected with his helmet. He had strapped it to the pommel of his saddle, preferring to have clear vision up ahead.

  “Come on, men,” he called as Shane rode slowly beside him.

  The man grunted. “You should put on a helmet,” he said. “See what it's like trying to ride when you can only see through a grate of keyholes.”

  Rufus pulled a face at him, knowing the man's vision was limited to in the front. On his side he was invisible. It was one of the reasons he wasn't wearing one. He might be vulnerable to archers, but he would be safe from people sneaking up.

  And she was insistent about that.

  He sighed. Why was he actually taking the word of someone whom he barely knew, the word of a vision that could have been confused, or outright false?

  I know Amabel. I trust her.

  Neither of those should have been true. He had danced with her a few times, seen her less times than he had replacement belt knives. Yet he was sure it was true. He could trust what she foresaw.

  In the recesses of his mind he seemed to recall that he had seen someone with the sight before, a relation who knew things just because she knew them. It was a woman – these things seemed more readily accessible to them. He didn't know why. Still, he believed her.

  I will do as she said.

  “Hey, hairy,” one of his friends from the morning called to him.

  “Why hairy?”

  Blanchard grinned and pulled his hair. He laughed.

  “I hate helmets,” he explained.

  “Me, too”, Blanchard nodded. He had his under his arm, riding with his knees and a single hand loosely holding the pommel. “But I hate being shot, also.”

  Rufus snorted.

  “So,” Blanchard continued
as he rode beside him. “We plan to ambush them, eh?”

  “No,” Rufus sighed. “We plan to demand surrender. I think so, anyways.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know. If they don't surrender, we'll have just announced our presence and taken away our advantage, but who am I? Not our commander, see.”

  Blanchard nodded.

  They rode grimly on. The countryside through the hills was green, dotted here and there with windswept trees. They rode on a plain, the hills rising on each side. Rufus watched from side to side as they rode. He could hear, somewhere, the keening of sea petrels and knew that the coast was not that far from them. Wherever these rebelling noblemen were, it was by the seaside.

  He breathed in the air, letting the sea salt breeze ruffle his hair. He felt strangely serene. He knew the feeling. It was a sense of resignation. A good one, though – he could die peaceful.

  I think if I died now I would be content in all but one fact.

  He would like to see Amabel.

  He sighed. He was not going to be morose. He was here, with the breeze blowing a scent of water. He was in the hills. He was with companions, and the sun shone down as the wind made clouds scud. It was enough for now.

  As they rode, he noted that the countryside began to change. The hills were close, but yet they rode on flat level moorland, the grass ruffling and growing more like marsh than moor as they headed forward. He blinked in surprise when the hill tower observing them came into view.

  He realized they were there.

  The place gave him the shivers. A field of rich, fresh-cropped grass, the tips drifting in the lightly blowing breeze. The trees were far distant lines on the sky. The tower faced them.

  It was the place she had foreseen. The place Amabel had described. Exactly.

  He knew this was the place.

  Thus, it was no surprise to him when, as their commander gave a signal, the parley force rode up.

  “Halt,” the men in front of them echoed back. Rufus was surprised to find himself near the back of the group, when he had thought he rode quite far ahead. He realized the force was divided in two units – one under Ivan and one, where he was, under another man he didn't know the name of.

  “So,” Blanchard nodded. “That's Shane's cousin,” he said, pointing out the man.

  “He is?” Rufus studied him carefully. With a heavy appearance and a muscle-corded throat, the man had a disagreeable face. He found he disliked him instantly.

  “Yes. Fellow called Stanner. Unpleasant sort.”

  “Mm.”

  “Stay out of his way,” his friend observed.

  Rufus watched the field and saw the small squadron of horsemen be met by their commander. Their own commanding officer, Stanner, stayed where he was. Rufus found himself studying him coldly. The man looked, he thought, like the kind of man who bullied his troops. He didn't like him. He had faced his kind before and seen how the men usually plotted against them. If they kept a loyal troop, it was usually because each of the men had planned to finish him in the thick of the fight unseen.

  I will keep an eye on him.

  He narrowed his eyes as the group spoke and then their commander turned to them.

  “Men, make two ranks.”

  The order was passed back for those who hadn't been close enough to hear or who had missed the signal from the standards at the front – two blue and white pennants on a long pole, held by the bearers, Bruce and Henry, on their horses.

  I saw that already.

  Rufus trotted his horse to the right compliantly. It was only when the move was complete that he realized something incredible. Two columns.

  It was her vision.

  He held onto the pommel there before him, his head swimming.

  He looked to his left, where Blanchard was.

  “On me,” he whispered. He wanted Blanchard closer, not to protect him, but so that Blanchard had no chance of being on the ill-fated left wing.

  Not that she said anything would happen to them, he thought, wonderingly.

  She had only warned him to remain right.

  He reached for his belt knife, content that he had recalled enough of her words to retrieve one. He was armed as she had told him to be and on the correct side of the field. He was as safe as anyone could make him.

  He sighed.

  I don't usually think about it. This was the first time he'd really worried about whether or not he would return from battle. Of course, the threat of death and pain was never pleasant, but this was the first time he could remember that he'd considered that he might not make it back to see someone. It was a new experience.

  He banished the thought from his mind and focused on the rider ahead.

  Whatever terms they had offered were clearly dissatisfying ones, for the gates opened and a line of men rode out, caparisoned, armed with spears, the two front men carrying pennants, like their own.

  He heard the call of trumpets and the ranks were joined by columns, each marching out, step by slow step. The enemy had fewer horses than they, but many foot soldiers, each armed with tall, wickedly tipped spears.

  He felt a strange calm inside of him even though his forehead was pulsing, a nerve twitching that told him his body was tense, waiting, ready to charge.

  “We wait for the signal,” the order came back. “Then move.”

  The wrongness was apparent to any man who had fought before. Rufus had seen action in the skirmishes in eastern lands. He knew that if horsemen charged, the pikes opposite would stop them, reducing their line of hardened swordsmen into mangled carcasses.

  That left them with the only option being to stay put. Wait for the enemy to charge. Then hope that they could close the gap before the sharpened stakes were useful. A long spear was only good if it was approached from a distance. Up close, it was just awkward. His men could cut down the foe easily.

  He hoped that their commander knew that.

  “Hold,” the order came back. He nodded. He was grinding his jaw, waiting for the charge to begin. If they stayed put, he decided numbly, maybe nothing would happen. The other soldiers would just sit and look at them and then turn away.

  He sat there, feeling restless. He felt his horse shiver and knew the horse was waiting to fight, too. He patted his neck.

  “Won't be too long before something happens,” he told the battle-stallion softly. “Not too long.”

  They charged.

  In the seconds it took him to bend down to reassure his horse, the front ranks opposite covered three yards of ground. He blinked, not sure if he had seen that. Were they moving? Yes. Slowly.

  He felt his hands tighten and breathed, striving for calm. Breathe, in. Out.

  He watched with numb impassiveness as the enemy approached slowly.

  Then the distance was gone and he was witnessing the battle unfold.

  He heard the war-cries and the shouts, the clashes and the screams of horses.

  “Charge!” he shouted. He couldn't help it. Now they had to move fast. The front ranks were through. Only if they closed the gap now could they use the advantage that had brought. They should get on foot, race to catch them up.

  He saw Stanner turn and look at him. He swallowed hard. He moved back, but the man was clearly enraged. He waited, desperate, as the man at the front decided he was seeing the same thing Rufus had predicted. He waved the flag for the dismount and the charge.

  Rufus swung his leg over and winced as the impact traced a painful hand up his legs and spine. He ran forward.

  Keep on the right. Keep to the right. The right hand.

  He was running, focusing on the prediction, dropping on his helmet and raising the grille, when he saw Stanner.

  He was not at the front of his ranks. He was turning back. He was running for him.

  “You challenged my command,” he said. He had a cold, detached voice. Even so, it carried across the snarl and insanity of battle.

  “No,” he contradicted.

  “You did,” Stanner
said, and his sword swung out in a hissing arc, aiming for his head. Rufus moved back. He watched in utter refusal to accept this fact as his own immediate commander tried to cut him.

  He moved back and it was only lifelong habit that saved him as the sword flashed down before his eyes. He was shocked, almost too shocked to react. He drew his own sword, desperate to block the swing. He did so and felt it crack his blade.

  He wanted to scream. He didn't need his own blade cracking just yet. He was the reserve rank in a battle where the front was steadily becoming a massacre. He had to fight.

  The battle rage made him roar as he launched himself ahead. He wasn't thinking as he drew his dagger and raked it up across the man's chest. His foe was wearing mail, like he did, but even so, there was a vulnerable spot. He drew blood and saw the man step back. It was all he needed.

  “Forward.”

  He said it as much as exhortation as reminder for himself as he lurched on, heading to the forefront.

  There, as he had suspected, the fighting was dire. He noted that all the men had dismounted now and grappled with the enemy on foot. He saw Ivan cleaving through them with his broadsword, making strokes like a man gathering hay, and felt a grudging admiration for the man blossom inside. He waded through the foe, stabbing with the dagger rather than the blade. He was in close quarters now, and any weapon longer than a leg joint was a worse liability than else.

  He reached Ivan and stood beside him.

  “How is it?”

  He had to roar above the noise and even so their voices barely reached each other.

  “Good.”

  He thought Ivan unrealistically cheerful, but turned to the left and proved the assessment accurate.

  The men who came for them were armed with spears and shields, and their skill with the stabbing swords they carried was less than that of the knights facing them. The numbers were about even and in these quarters where the pikes were hopeless, the odds were most favorable.

  He heard the sounds crescendo and realized that their men were being badly wounded, too. They would win, he thought as he lifted his knife and defended himself against a rush attack by a knife-wielding ex-spear-wielder, but not well.