“All superstition, my darling Izzy,” Alan said. “You know how those friends of yours love a spot of gossip. These roads are routinely patrolled and I promise you they are completely safe.”
“Of course. I don't doubt you, not in the slightest.”
“Good,” Alan said, and flashed Izzy that smile that she loved so much.
“How far are we, exactly?” she asked.
“No more than two hours, perhaps less. We're making quite good time.”
“I can hardly wait,” Izzy said. “Have you seen the house?”
“You'll love it,” Alan replied. “It's not quite so large as the estate, but it's a good size for such a small village, right by the market as well. It has a sturdy feel to it. And, like I said, it's only temporary.”
Izzy smiled. She was excited, although under it she did feel terribly homesick. The village they were headed was a little place called Longtown, in Cumbria, that sat just south of the Scottish border and on the banks of the River Esk. Izzy had never been farther north than Chester, and only on one occasion, but Alan said it was a quiet, quaint place, home to mostly sheep farmers, and near to a two-hundred year old battle site. She knew little else, but she thought maybe there was something to be said about a quiet life away from the city, especially for a couple as new as her and her husband. They had been married barely a month before Alan received his new posting and decided it would be best for the both of them if Izzy went north with him. After all, he had argued, the English had held the town for almost two hundred years, and it seemed very unlikely that the Scots were interested in reclaiming it again, despite its closeness to the border.
Izzy shifted her weight in the saddle. Her rear was starting to ache from having sat so long, despite the softness of the leather. Another two hours was likely the most she could handle without needing a stop to stretch her legs, so thank God they were close to the village. There was really nothing Izzy wanted more than to properly start her new life with her husband. Their honeymoon had been spent down at the shore in a rented house, but the weeks following were in the company of Alan's family at the estate; not exactly the most comfortable situation for two people freshly married and in love.
One of the horses in front suddenly startled, and had to be wrestled back in line by his rider. He grumbled something under his breath that must have been inappropriate to say in the presence of a lady, for the man next to him flashed him a look even as he looked up into the trees rising up on either side of them.
“Probably just a fox,” Alan said, despite Izzy not having expressed any concern. “Or a deer. That horse is young still, startles easily. Don't you fret.”
“I didn't think it was anything else,” Izzy replied. “I am not a coward, husband. I do believe that's one of the reasons you married me.”
Alan grinned, revealing straight, white teeth. “Indeed it is.”
Two hours, Izzy thought, and then she would be at her new home.
A loud crack made all the horses break formation, ears flickering back. Five voices rose in surprise, and Alan began to shout orders. Izzy managed to keep her beast under control, at least until there was another boom and the unmistakeable scent of gunpowder filled the air. Izzy's horse whinnied and reared up so suddenly that Izzy couldn't keep her balance and toppled to the ground. Terror seized in her throat. In the dirt and mud she was vulnerable to the sharp, heavy hooves of the beasts around her. She tried to scramble for safety in the brambles along the side of the road. Sharp twigs and tiny thorns pricked at her exposed skin and tugged at her clothes. One of their escort was dead, his eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky, a bloom of dark red spreading across the front of his shirt. Izzy clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming and pushed herself back into the bushes.
The men burst from the trees, screaming like devils, their ammo spent, and drew swords to engage the soldiers in a frantic melee. Izzy fought to control her frantic breathing as her eyes sought out Alan in the press of men and horses. She finally saw him, dueling with a man a good head taller than he was, with russet colored hair and a well-trimmed beard along the edge of his jaw. Bodies lay at their feet, English and Scot both. Izzy wanted to cry out a warning to Alan, but fear of being discovered kept her silent. Until, that was, the Scot knocked Alan's hand aside and thrust his sword through Alan's gut. Izzy screamed so loudly it made her throat ache, and tears sprung to her eyes. The Scot looked right up at her as he pulled his blade free and let Alan's body crumple to the ground.
The English were outnumbered and outmatched. The Scots had surprise on their side, and they had used it to their full advantage. Not a single man was left alive. They were searched, valuables taken, the horses that remained ignored. Izzy scrambled back further into the brush, looking for a way to escape, but the man who had slain Alan had already seen her and strode through the massacre to grab her by the arm and haul her from the bush before she could so much as scream.
“Let me go!” she shouted, pulling uselessly at the strong fingers that gripped her. “You great beast let go of me right now!” Her voice cracked, and that combined with the ineffectiveness of her attacks made her feel as harmless as a kitten. The Scot easily hauled her back towards his companions, a stern look on his face, her struggle appearing more of an annoyance than any actual threat.
“Ye can't bring her along like tha',” one of the men said. “She'll bring th' 'ole town down on us.”
Izzy's captor glanced down at her. “I don' feel righ' tying up a lady,” he said in a deep, rumbling brogue.
“Give 'er 'ere, then,” the same man said, and reached for Izzy's other arm. She jerked away from his first touch, but then he backhanded her across the face so hard her ears rang and pulled her in so he could tie her hands behind her back and stuff a gag in her mouth. Trussed up like a pig for slaughter and her head still spinning from the blow, Izzy was escorted to where the men's horses waited, grazing peacefully as if there hadn't just been a slaughter a hundred yards away. The Scot's grip around her arm almost made her wish for her husband's murderer to be holding her instead. At least he seemed to have some qualms about taking an innocent woman captive.
Luckily, if she could call it luck, it was he she would be riding with to... wherever it was these vile men made their home. She expected to simply be thrown over the saddle, but instead the Scot took care to lift her properly onto the horse's back before swinging up behind her and enclosing her body with his arms as he reached to grab the reins. He fell into line with his companions, of whom an older man was clearly the leader.
Izzy closed her eyes and forced away the tears that threatened to choke her. It was difficult enough for her to breathe with the gag in her mouth, and there was no reason for her to further her discomfort. Instead, she used her unique vantage point to look for any possible means of escape. She couldn't twist her wrists around without attracting the attention of the man behind her, but it was merely rope. If she could get far enough away to find a sharp stone to rub it against...
They were travelling west, away from Longtown rather than towards it, of that much Izzy was certain. They were taking her back over the border, to do God knows what to her. If these men were the only ones in their little group, then she would stand a chance. If there were more... Likely they planned to ransom her. Hopefully her family could come up with whatever sum they demanded, and it was bound to be exorbitant. Izzy had little choice but to bide her time. She tried to find something, anything, to focus on that would stop her from replaying Alan's death over and over again every time she so much as blinked. It was his murderer that her mind settled on.
He smelled like the dirt after a good rain, and Izzy hated that she found it so pleasant. His arms were strong, she could tell that despite them being covered by his shirt sleeves, and circled her just tightly enough to keep her from bouncing around too badly with the horse's gait, but not so much that she felt suffocated by him. His hands were rough and dirty. They must have been travelling for some time. He didn't speak a
word to her, and Izzy didn't dare try to twist round to face him. The aching in her head, at least, was fading, leaving behind only a faint sting where her captor's friend had left a mark on her cheek. The flesh was swollen and warm, but otherwise only a mild annoyance, far eclipsed by the numbness in her chest. They had barely started their life together, and now... now... She felt her throat tighten and her eyes sting, and sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, willing herself to calm. She would not show weakness in front of these men. Not even a touch of it.
They rode for what seemed like a very long time, in a loose formation, determined more by who each individual wished to ride by than any actual order. Izzy and her captor were more towards the back of the line, and no one was speaking to them, probably because they didn't want Izzy to catch wind of any of their plans. It gave her an odd sort of pleasure that they were seemingly wary of her escaping and informing the nearest garrison of everything that had happened, for that was exactly what Izzy planned to do. She had no intention of remaining prisoner to a group of barbarians.
They were still travelling when the sun began to sink below the horizon. Izzy was growing cold, her cloak left back in her horse's bags, wherever the beast was now. The sleeves of her dress had been ripped almost to shreds by the bushes, and the skin beneath was riddled with small scratches under a layer of goose pimples. She was begrudgingly grateful for the warmth of her captor's body behind her, and even more-so when it appeared they were making camp for the night.
The russet-haired Scot slipped off the back of his horse and lifted Izzy into his arms as easily as if she weighed nothing more than a child. She struggled, briefly, but barely had time to move before he put her down on her feet again. She quickly looked around in the rapidly encroaching darkness. They were in a small clearing, sheltered on one side by a high outcropping of rocks. One of the men of the party was digging a hole for a fire near it.
Suddenly there were hands moving towards her face. Izzy jerked her head away and glared at her captor. He stopped.
“I only wish to remove tha' gag, if ye promise me ye willna' scream.”
Izzy worked her jaw, but there was little she could do with her hands bound as they were, and she had little wish to taste the back of someone's hand again. She nodded, and her captor slowly lifted his hands again and tugged the gag out of her mouth. Izzy licked dry lips, then shut them tightly, glaring at the tall man in front of her. She only just came up to his shoulder, and had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. In the dying light they looked almost silver.
“What're ye called?”
“You will call me Lady Wharton,” Izzy said in as strong a voice as she could muster. “And you will tell me who you are and untie me.”
He chuckled. “I'll tell ye who I am, but I cannae let ye loose. I'm sorry.”
“What is your name then?” Izzy asked.
“Owen Chester.” And he did untie her, but only to bind her hands in front of her and lead her over to where the small fire was being coaxed to life.
“Chester is an English name,” Izzy said.
“Aye,” Owen replied, “and I'll thank ye not to remind me o' that.”
Izzy had no wish to risk his ire, and so she sat on a low stone and edged as close to the fire as she could. Owen lowered himself down next to her and from his pack procured rations, which he split with Izzy. She felt like a fool eating with her hands tied so, but there was no other choice. The food was bland and hard and nothing like the feast Izzy had been expecting when she and Alan arrived at their home, but it was better than nothing, and her stomach was happy for it.
The men around the fire looked at her, then turned their backs and began conversing in low tones. Izzy strained to hear them, but what little she could make out was in a language she wasn't familiar with. Beside her, Owen leaned back against the rocks and gaily ate his own dinner, his easy posture speaking volumes about his confidence that Izzy wouldn't try to run.
And he was right, at least for now. Izzy wasn't stupid enough to think she could run away in the pitch black from a group of armed men who clearly knew the lay of the land better than she did.
“Here,” Owen said, and held out another biscuit to her. Izzy was tempted to turn it aside, but her hunger was too great, surprising considering her trauma. She accepted it reluctantly and nibbled on the edge.
Soon she could see no farther than the edge of the campfire's glow, and with the night came the cold. Izzy wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to draw attention to the fact that she was shivering. The men around her all had their cloaks and their kilts and tall boots, and they were crowded around the fire. All save for Owen, who remained sitting at her side, and looked considerably warmer than Izzy was despite it. The rock she was sitting on was uncomfortable and her tears were still threatening to overwhelm her.
She should be in her new home. It didn't matter that it was so far north it was practically in Scotland. It was supposed to be hers, and Alan's, and the start of their new life together. And instead she was here, cold and hungry, surrounded by men who planned on doing God knows what with her. She hugged herself tighter and sucked in a breath of chilly air through her teeth.
Next to her Owen stirred. The light from the fire brought out streaks of gold and bronze in his hair and turned his eyes from grey to black. Izzy turned her head away from him and stared at a spot on the ground. She heard the rustle of clothing, and then felt a heavy cloak drape over her shoulders. Her head shot up, eyes locking directly onto Owen's.
“Be a long night if ye're cold,” he said. “My clothes are warm enough.” He touched her chin with the side of his finger and pad of his thumb. His hands were rough but his touch was anything but and she looked away.
Izzy bit back on the thank you that automatically landed on the tip of her tongue, but she was far too cold to reject the gift she'd been given. Owen's hand fell away. She gripped the edges of the cloak and pulled them tighter around her body. It reeked of Owen, but it was thick and warm and Izzy found her shivering soon stopped.
A few of the men settled down to sleep, wrapped up in their cloaks and using their packs as pillows. One stood and wandered off into the dark. When he didn't return, Izzy assumed he was the one set to keep watch. Owen was still awake as well. No doubt to watch her.
She wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable way to sit, and eventually settled for curling up on the cold ground, as tucked into herself as she could get. At least with the cloak she was warm enough to sleep, even if her mind was still running long after the men around the fire began to snore.
*****
Sleep came, but it was spotty and restless, and in her dreams she saw Alan's body fall over and over again. She was woken by Owen in the grey of early dawn. His mates were already up and moving about, scuffing out their fire and readying the horses for the next leg of the journey. There wasn't a part of Izzy's body that didn't ache from spending the night on the ground. Owen's hands were gentle as he helped her to her feet, but she shrugged them off as soon as she was able.
He made no move to take the cloak from her and didn't touch her again until it was time to mount up. Izzy prepared to have him lift her into the saddle, but instead he drew his dirk from its sheath at his belt and sliced through the rope that bound her wrists. He crouched and made a cup with his hands, looking up at her through long lashes and a fringe of red hair.
Izzy grabbed the saddle and used his hands to boost herself up into it. Owen swung up behind her and wrapped her in his arms. Once the rest of the band had mounted up they started on their way.
Izzy rubbed at the skin of her wrists. The bonds hadn't been tight, but her struggles and her movement during the night had made the rope chafe against them, and her flesh was pink and raw. She wondered why Owen had seen fit to untie her. Not that she was complaining, far from it, but it seemed like his companions would rather she be bound and silent. Her aching cheek reminded her of what insolence had gotten her.
The men clearly knew w
here they were going, but Izzy couldn't see any clearly marked path. Perhaps it was some overgrown hunting or game trail. Alan had said there were many of those in the area, for the deer population was strong and healthy. If these lands had once belonged to the Scots, then it made sense that some would still possess knowledge of how they lay, especially if bands of insurgents had been operating in the area. Izzy was right to wait and play along with her captors' desires, no matter how much she railed against them. She would be lost in moments if she tried to navigate these woods, even if she could get the start of a bearing from the sun. The men would track her down and then she would find herself trussed up and thrown over a saddle.
She tried not to lean back into Owen, even when her spine began to hurt from sitting so straight. The less she touched him the better. He had the blood of her husband on his hands, and there was no forgiving something like that. Alan had been innocent, all of those men had been innocent. What had they ever done to hurt these men? Nothing, save wear the wrong color uniform. Izzy hastily brushed away a stray tear, then gripped the saddle horn to hide how her hands trembled. For another day it was much of the same; trees and, at time, stretches of mercifully open fields. Perhaps it was too much for Izzy to hope that they would stumble upon a Regular patrol. At least she had Owen's cloak to keep her warm at night.
At some time around midday the next day on the trees thinned and parted, and for a time it was nothing but green fields until the land began to rise into the steep hills and cliffs of the famous Scottish Highlands. The band fell into line along a rocky road that wound up into the hills.
Izzy pulled her borrowed cloak closer. At least in the forest the trees had been a buffer against the wind. Out in the open it was fierce and cold and seemed to sneak into every gap in Izzy's clothing. She prayed that their destination was close, and that it would mean a house at the very least, and a bed. Surely these men wouldn't be so cruel as to force her to sleep on the ground again.
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