Highlander's Choice

by Annis, Dawn

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Cook said she took a bag o’ food with her. Thea claimed she was goin’ for an early ride yesterday. Destiny rode in without her this morn. No one has seen her since.”

  Callum’s gut clenched. “Dinna anyone miss her?”

  “Nay, ’twas thought she made her way here and stayed overnight. She has done so before.”

  Callum stared at his mother who huddled in her shawl. She shook her head. “The MacNichol sent a runner early to see if she arrived. I sent word she hadna.”

  “We have searched a wide area o’ our land. We found this, and the grass was trampled by many a horse.” Anthol handed a MacNichol tartan to Callum. He paced the hall, scratching his beard. “I sent my lads to search the land agin. Michael and I came here.”

  “I told my da, and I will tell yerself. Thea came to me night before last with talk she had overheard. It upset her, and I will be buggered I dinna listen more seriously.” Michael related his conversation with Thea regarding John Fendrel. “I will blame m’self ’til hell’s hounds catch me.”

  “Were MacLeod men involved?” Callum placed his hands on his hips.

  “She dinna say.”

  “I believe ’tis clear we must ride to the MacDonald seat,” Callum stated. “They may have her.”

  Anthol studied his hands for a moment. He raised his head and said, “Michael, send out to yer brothers. We will all go.”

  “Nay,” Callum cautioned. “Too big a force will be seen as a threat. Ye ken the dame as I do. Anthol, ye will go with Hadrian. Yer diplomatic ways will calm a potential misunderstandin’. We canna accuse the Dame Flora o’ a thing. Ye are simply searchin’ for yer daughter. Michael, go back and tell yer brothers dinna go into MacDonald territory.”

  Anthol ran through the hall doors with Michael in his wake.

  Fiona stomped in with a frightened maid in tow. “The lass may have a thing or two to say. Cook brought her to me. She was wailin’ about Fendrel.” She shoved the young woman into a chair.

  Callum turned to his mother, puzzled.

  Fiona stood over her. “Say what ye mean to.”

  “I dinna mean to cause harm. Liam said he would go to the MacDonald with John Fendrel and help the Bonnie Prince. I dinna ken about Thea,” the maid sobbed. “I ken John pines for her, much as it breaks my own heart.”

  “If John Fendrel ran into Thea while on her ride, he may have taken her,” Callum said. “My gut is sayin’ so.”

  He saw the same question on his mother’s face he had in his own mind. Would Fendrel hurt her?

  From what others said about Fendrel, he doubted the man would be satisfied with marching into Culloden with Dame Flora and Charlie. His desire would be singular glory. A man like Fendrel would go his own way.

  Callum dismissed her and turned to his mother. “I am headed to Culloden.”

  “Are ye daft? Ye canna go alone. Wait for the MacNichol and his lads,” Fiona begged, her worry on her brow.

  “Nay. I believe he has her and ’tis mayhap where he has gone. The lads have already left, and I dinna wish to waste a moment.”

  Callum hugged his mother and hurried out the door. He saddled and loaded his horse. He wrapped his tartan around him. As far as he could determine, he was a day behind Fendrel. He leaned into his horse, urging the animal to move. A war horse, not made for speed but for a battle. His only consolation was Fendrel and his men would be on the same. Possibly one carrying the weight of two, if Thea was with them. If she was with him, it was against her will. He had to find her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thea’s heart raced as they neared Culloden. She focused on her surroundings, hoping for an opportunity to escape. She wrapped her arms around herself. There was nothing she could do, nothing whatsoever. Men from different clans gathered on the road, becoming a force. Prince Charles Stuart had his army.

  John and his men stopped for the night, surrounded by other clans.

  “Move over to the edge, Liam,” John instructed. “As much as I will fight amongst these men, it does no mean I trust them.”

  Liam MacLeod picked a spot at the outskirts of the clans and unsaddled his horse. John’s men followed suit.

  John dismounted and hauled Thea to the ground.

  “John, will ye untie me?” Thea pleaded. “I have to go to the bushes for a bit.”

  “I will, but ye mind me, dinna be long, or I will send a man in to get ye, ready or no.”

  Thea scanned the area around her. She picked her way through the small camp the men were constructing. When she had tromped through the scrub oak far enough, she ran. She didn’t dare look back. She ran until her lungs burned. Scared to death, she ran.

  Someone yanked her braid. Her head burned white hot. Her eyes stung. John swung her around by the hair and brought her against him, his arm crushing the breath from her lungs.

  “I warned ye, lass,” John hissed. “Ye are with me. As it should be. As it always should have been.”

  Thea wiggled, trying to release his grip. She fought to suck in much needed air.

  “Nay, ye wee bitch. Yer mine.”

  “John, I canna breathe. Let me loose a titch. I will stay with ye. I will fight with ye. I will marry ye,” Thea bargained.

  “How can I trust ye after ye run from me?”

  John let her go but wrapped her long braid around his wrist and grabbed her arm in a punishing grip. He marched her toward camp.

  “Please, John. I will no be any more trouble.”

  “‘Tis the verra truth.”

  They strode at John’s pace with Thea stumbling next to him. With each lurch, her braid tightened against her skull. Tears streamed down her face as much from the pain as from being caught and dragged back into his clutches. Thea struggled to swallow around the heavy lump in her throat.

  Once they arrived at the camp, John flung her to the ground near a tree at the camp’s edge.

  Thea wiped her face with the hem of her shirt and rubbed her abused scalp. Her stomach heaved at the smell of food cooking.

  John returned with two long pieces of coarse rope and the sack she had so long ago taken from Cook.

  “Sit yerself up agin the tree,” he said quietly.

  “John, ye dinna have to tie me. I told ye I wouldna leave. I told ye I would stay.”

  “Thea, I have to lead men into battle and victory. I canna be worryin’ what ye will be up to next. If only ye would be a good lass.”

  “I will, John. I give ye my word.” Thea put her hand to her heart.

  “I canna. Yer a liar.”

  Thea slumped at the base of the tree. She tried to catch John’s eye and stay his hands as he tied her bonds, but he refused to be dissuaded. Fear crawled up her back and, with spiny tentacles, made its home at the back of her throat.

  She angled her wrists apart a small amount, hoping when she relaxed them the rope would have a bit of give.

  “Nay, put yer hands and feet together, or I will tie them so ye canna feel them at all.”

  Thea did as she was told. He threw the sack over her head and snugged it over her shoulders.

  “John, I canna breathe,” Thea begged.

  “’Tis a shame, ye liar.” He paused, then tramped back to the fire. “I canna have the MacNichol lass seen.”

  Through the loosely weaved hood, she saw him look back once with fury.

  After hours of laughter and bawdy jokes, the men bedded down, and the fires burned to low embers.

  Thea wrestled with her bindings once more. Her stomach gnawed. Cold, wet, and hungry, she dropped her chin to her chest. She should have told Callum what she had heard. At the very least tried harder with her father. She had not trusted Michael and now could not find fault with him.

  She though
t about breaking free from John’s group since she hadn’t been tied to the tree but decided against it. How far would she get bound as she was? Hopeless, she curled up on her side and quivered. When he finished with the “Butcher” Cumberland, John would be finished with her.

  Chapter 10

  Trees and scrub oak stood near Culloden Moor next to fields of slick, wet grass high as a man’s knees. Freezing sleet fell from the gray sky, stinging bare flesh. A hard day for battle.

  Prince Charles had amassed a Scottish army to Callum’s astonishment. Why would so may lairds put their clans in such danger? To have a man like Charlie rule over Scotland?

  They only needed to send a man to France to discover his ilk. His reputation as a spoiled, self-indulgent and ill-educated man was well known in the aristocratic society o’ Paris.

  Callum wanted to see the outcome of the battle. Would Scotland win the day? The Clan MacLeod and its septs depended on knowing. Better here than waiting days for word to reach them, so garbled with half-truths and legend.

  Beyond his responsibility, he had a priority. He must find Thea.

  Not wanting to be recognized, he shed his tartan, rolled and stuffed it behind his side bag. With his breeks underneath his kilt, he took a blanket from his saddle and threw it around his shoulders. The blinking of campfires lay ahead of him. Staying on his mount, he picked his way through the camps. Callum passed men, dirty, grunting through their meal with weapons next to them, ready for the fight. Unchallenged, he searched for Thea.

  He rode to the edge of the gathering and dismounted. A man whom Callum recognized from the MacNichol clan sauntered toward him. He was within feet of Callum when he made his way into the trees, lifted his plaid, and pissed. Callum came up behind him and held his knife to the man’s throat.

  “Call out, lad, and I will cut yer throat.”

  “Nay, MacLeod. I will no call out,” the man said. “I am done with the nonsense. Just tryin’ to think o’ a way to get home.”

  “What changed yer mind?” Callum let go of the man.

  “Kidnappin’ the MacNichol lassie. I want no part o’ it,” the man swore, readjusting his clothing. He turned to face Callum. “Fendrel is mad, and to follow him is madness still.”

  “Ye will follow me.”

  “I will.” The MacNichol clansman agreed.

  “Ye go back to yer laird and beg on yer knees he will take ye back. Tell him ye found me. I will soon follow.”

  “Ye will no make it without runnin’ into the Clan MacDonald. Jacobite troops are arrivin’ any time now.”

  “Ye best be gone then,” Callum snapped.

  The men were loosely camped according to clan. They sat at their sites, preparing for the battle ahead.

  “The bastard Cumberland will die this day,” one man roared.

  “Aye, and his Sassenach scum with him,” another threatened.

  “Long live the Stuarts,” his friend cheered. Clans bantered with neighboring clans. While the men took the fight ahead seriously, they used the Scots humor to brag and boast. Callum listened to the posturing and proclamations of the men surrounding him, their plaids wet, their breath visible with each word.

  Callum squatted and watched from the scrub oak. The wet forest floor with its earthy smell could not cover the stench of the unwashed men near him. He observed men sharpening their dirks and axes. Others were loading guns. Too few by Callum’s estimation. The commanders strode from camp to camp, issuing orders, trying to gain some control as the clansmen started to move toward the moor. The bagpipes played, preparing the men for war.

  Scanning the area, he searched for Thea. He could see nothing with the smoke from the fires and the mists spreading through the camp. Passing through the men as though he belonged, he drew his sword. Striding from camp to camp, he hefted the weapon, checking its murderous range. Greeted here and there, he gave non-committal grunts in return. He avoided the MacDonald clan on the east side of the clearing, unsure if he’d be recognized by the few who were waiting for their kinsmen. They would know he didn’t belong. His own clansmen, traitors that they were, would be among them. He couldn’t take the risk.

  He spied another vantage point as a group of men passed. He strode over and hunkered down.

  Would Thea be swept onto the battlefield with the tide of men? Where in the mass could she hide?

  The prince’s advisors arranged the rabble on a stretch of open land enclosed between a ridgeline to the north and an ancient cliff to the south. The Highlanders formed columns by clans, each boasting to the next of their fighting abilities. The din of men and weapons stirred Callum’s resolve.

  Commanders on their horses positioned themselves behind the lines. The sound of bagpipes resounded as the clans stretched from one side of the moor to the other. Callum could see the Cameron clan with their red and green tartans, the Stewarts of Affin, tartans of muted brown with blue, and the Frasiers, their gray and muted green. The MacDonald among others. In the middle of the fray, John Fendrel, wearing the MacDonald colors of muted green and blue crossed with black, beat his shield with his sword and shouted. Callum couldn’t hear his words, but the man obviously urged the MacDonald clan onward.

  “They have boxed themselves in.” Callum shook his head in disgust as he watched the troop movements. “There will be no escape.”

  As more troops moved out of the trees, he moved parallel with them to a large boulder. It gave him enough cover, so he could stand. Frustrated, Callum scanned the area from his new vantage point.

  Christ’s blood. Where the hell is she?

  Horses pulled in the cannons. Exhausted. Foam dripped from their necks and mouths, heads drooped, their bodies steaming. The rusted weapons could easily explode in the faces of the men firing them instead of creating any real damage to the English. The Highlanders lined the same horses up for cavalry behind the commanders.

  Too much more o’ this brutality and the horses will fall from beneath them.

  Within shouting distance of the warriors, Callum thought for a brief moment to try and stop the debacle, only one man against thousands.

  They believe they are on the right o’ it. What I say will no have bearin’. They will kill me where I stand.

  His stomach tightened with disgust. He spit to get the taste of known defeat out of his mouth.

  The Scottish army cheered as men with Bonnie Prince Charlie’s banner rode onto the field. They moved from the southeast edge of the clans to the northwest. At each pass, the clansmen beat their swords against their shields and cursed the Sassenach. They boasted and argued with one another about how many of the invading rabble each would kill, their voices carrying across the field.

  The prince made his appearance. He wore the tam with its feather. He rode from one side of the battlefield to the other and back again, waving his tiny sword. He appeared ridiculous. The clans shouted. They cheered, the frenzy contagious.

  Torn, Callum turned his mind to Thea, and he knew where he belonged. Not here on a battlefield but in her arms, holding her safe from harm on any front.

  From the northeast, the ground thundered and shook. Callum heard the sound of marching, orders shouted, and men responding in unison. All seemingly in tune with the heavy beat of the drums. It was unmistakable. An army moved toward them.

  “Ballocks,” Callum swore.

  Clearly outnumbering the Highlanders, thousands of troops marched onto the field in perfect synchronization with their coats red and pants a pristine white, a slow dance of destruction.

  The front lines formed; cannons lined up. The archers followed with cavalry behind them. The “Butcher” Cumberland had arrived.

  The Jacobite’s war with the English had begun.

  “Sweet Lord, the devil may take us this day.” Callum shook his head side to side, and his chin touched his chest. “�
�Tis ludicrous.”

  Here was a storm he must ride though and hope he wouldn’t be discovered by either side. He knew in his heart change lay upon them. Callum scanned the area around him for immediate danger and Thea. Did he dare shout for her? Would she hear over the thunder of men lining up to kill and be killed?

  An additional English regiment formed a flanking position to the left. An army untouched by fear or the elements.

  The two armies stood for a moment. The silence on the moor dragged. Each moment longer than the next.

  “Fire,” someone yelled.

  The mouths of Cumberland’s cannons blazed. Time slowed. The clansmen shouted. Callum moved to avoid the blasts. His shouts went unheard over the noise of the cannons. Time halted.

  Thrown back by the explosion, Callum struggled to sit as the balls rushed to inevitable destruction. Shattered men screamed.

  The wind caught the smoke from the burned powder and blew it into the Highlander lines, blinding them. Volley after volley tore at the clansmen.

  Callum coughed, tears streaming down his face. His eyes burned.

  He heard a woman scream.

  Thea.

  Callum wiped at his eyes and scrambled out from behind the boulder. He stood silent, listening.

  Another volley of cannon fire rent the air. The explosion knocked Callum off his feet.

  There, again, screams and a woman sobbing as if her heart was being torn out of her chest.

  Callum crawled to his feet and raced across the forest floor toward the sound, hoping she didn’t stop before he could get to her. Shouts sounded from the field below, the tones fierce.