Rose thought quickly. Her people outnumbered these men. They just needed to attack from the right angle. She darted her gaze to a Scot by the name of Delilah. Rose whistled through her teeth, Delilah nodded and perching down on one knee as she removed a bow and arrow. Delilah lined up the shot, aiming it in the Redcoats’ direction and releasing. The arrow zipped through the air and made contact in Lord Marcus’ arm. He recoiled, raising his sword as Delilah took another shot and sliced the incoming arrow in half.
Rose and Sean then charged toward Lord Marcus as his two men broke off, overwhelmed as the Scots took jabs at their horses. The horses bucked, nearly throwing off the Redcoats from their saddles as they began to retreat.
Sean, charging forward with the tip of his steel, prepared himself to bury the blade in the small of Lord Marcus’ back. Lord Marcus spun around, striking Sean’s weapon away. Rose attempted the same but was met with a similar resistance that caused her to be knocked clear on her backside.
Lord Marcus growled, glancing quickly at the arrow in his arm as he gritted his teeth with defeat and followed after his men who took off back in the direction they had arrived in, the Scots giving chase but stopping after Lord Marcus and his men fled from sight.
Rose looked over at Sean, collecting his weapon off the ground. “Are you okay?”
Sean nodded. “Aye. Ye?”
Rose returned the nod. Kelly then came up alongside her, panting and heaving. “This is not good,” she said. “Redcoats are crawling all over these lands.”
Rose knew that they couldn’t waste any time. She gestured to the other Scots. “Gather yer belongings. We need to leave. Now.” She turned to Sean. “This route of yer is no good, Wanderer. I’m starting to think this arrangement is not working.”
Sean pointed his sword in the direction Lord Marcus had fled in. “The situation is unprecedented,” he said. “Ye have raised hell all throughout the Highlands after ye killed the King’s nephew. This journey is going to see us encounter significant resistance.”
“And it’s yer job,” Rose pointed a finger, “to make sure that we avoid as much of it as humanly possible. So, tell me, do ye have a better route than this one around the castle, or has this exchange of our reached an end?”
Sean huffed, blowing air out of his nostrils as he took a glance around. He nodded over Rose’s shoulder. “See there?” he said.
Rose turned around and saw towering mountains reaching into the sky from several miles away, the green of the slopes growing ever more resplendent the further they stretched into the heavens.
“The mountains,” Sean said. “If we cut through straight the forest, we’ll arrive at the base in less than a few hours.”
“Your saying we go over the mountains?”
“Aye. It will cut our time in half.”
Rose closed her eyes, already piecing together the problem with the new route based on Sean’s tone. “Ye didn’t suggest it before,” she said, “because I assume there is some element of resistance for us on the journey up.”
Sean nodded. “There’s a group of rogues that live up there. Thieves whatever ye wish to call them. They have lived up there for quite some time.”
“How dangerous are they?”
Sean shrugged. “They aren’t individuals privy to negotiating, putting it delicately.”
Rose shook her head, watching as the Scots gathered up the last of their supplies and horses. “Well,” she said, “I’m not taking my people past the castle. They are already sending out sentries to look for us.”
“That was no sentry,” Sean said. “That was Lord Marcus himself.”
Rose’s eyes went wide. “I was too distracted to notice…”
“It was a bold move for him to attack like that. Perhaps it was his ego. Nonetheless, it just further supports the fact that all of the Redcoats in the land are looking for us.”
Rose felt the severity of the situation overwhelming her. It made her feel somewhat fatigued, her mind constantly racing to stay a step ahead of their enemies. How has this happened? she pondered. We seem to pull ourselves out of one hole to just fall into another…
“We need to move,” Sean said. “We cannot waste any time.”
Rose walked over to her horse and untethered the reins from the tree it was posted to. “How dangerous is this mountain?” she asked.
“As I said,” Sean began, mounting his own horse, “these men I speak of are not prone to any kind of negotiation. They are more animal than man at this point.”
Rose slapped the reins of her saddle. “Well,” she said, “I guess that’s a risk we’re going to have to take.” She turned to the other Scots. “We ride south,” she hollered. “We’re taking the mountain.”
Rose could see the looks of skepticism being passed her around her people as she took the lead, Sean following close behind her as gray cloud began to gather over the peaks of the mountains in the distance.
Lord Marcus clutched at the arrow in his arm, a small ribbon of red flowing from the wound. Him and his men arrived outside the gates of Lord Brumwald’s castle, Lord Marcus shouting out: “Open up!” to the guards that were standing guard outside.
The gate open, Lord Marcus charging in with his men lagging behind. He dismounted his horse before it came to a full settle, hollering out: “Fetch me someone to deal with this wound!” as he stormed his way into the quarters on the second level of the castle.
Lord Marcus was seating himself in his chair with a woman in a poppyseed yellow dress entered and bowed her head, clutching a bowl filled with a few rags and some ointments. “My name is Grace. I have been sent to assist you, my Lord,”: she said.
Lord Marcus huffed. “Well, stop talking about it and set about doing it.”
Grace kept her head bowed and her gaze diverted as she came up alongside Lord Marcus and began gingerly but quickly removing the contents from the bowl, delicate with her touch yet swift with the time she took.
“If you could remove your hand, please,” she said to Lord Marcus, nodding toward the wound.
Lord Marcus took away his hand, looking at his palm coated with crimson. “Do you have anything I can use to rinse my hand?”
Grace hand him a wet rag, clean and folded and chill to the touch. “Here you go, my Lord.”
Lord Marcus wiped his hand clean, the process taking a little bit of time due to the blood that was stuck in the crevices and wrinkles of his flesh. Weathered hands. Hands that had seen far too much war.
Grace delicately touched at the arrow in Lord Marcus’ arm. Squinting. Deducing. Taking her time. “It is not in deep,” she said. “I will be able to pull it out with minimal damage.”
Lord Marcus nodded. “Fine. Hand me a drink.”
“Something for the pain?”
Lord Marcus shook his head. “No. I just need a drink.”
Grace stood and moved over to an end table resting near Lord Marcus’ bed, one of the chambermaids having left a tray with a bottle of wine and a glass per request of Lord Brumwald. She poured Lord Marcus a hefty drink, moving just as quickly as she did while sorting her rags and ointments.
Lord Marcus took the glass from Grace, swigging it all back as she grabbed onto the arrow.
“Should I count?” Grace asked.
“No,” Lord Marcus said. “Just do it.”
Grace replied by pulling the arrow, Lord Marcus grunting as she quickly dabbed a bottle of ointment in a wrap and pressed it firmly against his wound. “I shall wrap it tight,” she said. “It should heal fine without stitching.”
Lord Marcus, somewhat taken off balance by the wine, looked at the young maiden. She seemed unflinching, strong and with a sense of courage that radiated off her in the way she walked, spoke, and worked. It reminded Lord Marcus much of his wife—and then he had to look away once he realized that fact.
“What is it, my Lord?” Grace inquired, sincerity in her tone.
Lord Marcus waved her away. “Go. Leave me. I can tend to the rest myself.”
“I said I am fine,” Lord Marcus said.
“My dear man,” the voice of Lord Brumwald cooed softly from the doorway, “that is not the tale I have been told.”
Lord Marcus turned around, straightening up as Lord Brumwald walked into the room. “Lord Brumwald,” he said. “Apologies for the tone.”
Lord Brumwald held up a hand. “No apologies necessary. I just heard about the ruckus and came to check on you.”
Lord Marcus gestured to the wound in his arm. “Manageable. It can be dealt with.”
“I see.” Lord Brumwald took a step forward. “And all because you deemed it necessary to act like a hotheaded fool and try to take these Scots with just you and two other men at your disposal.”
Lord Marcus sensed the condescending tone tracing Lord Brumwald’s word, the voice of a man speaking down to someone younger in an almost paternal and rearing-like way. “Lord Brumwald—” Lord Marcus began to protest.
But Lord Brumwald held up his hand. “Do not speak,” he said. “You are supposedly the most capable of the English in all of the land. Men rely on you to lead the charge. You are supposed to be the one who doesn’t make mistakes, yet you have already made one while in my presence.” Lord Brumwald gestured to Lord Marcus’ depleted glass of wine. “Do you know what that says to me?”
Lord Marcus muttered nothing, knowing full well that the question was rhetorical.
“That,” Lord Brumwald said, “is the sign of a man losing himself to the drink. I could sense it when you were in my chambers, the way you took drink after drink with no hesitation or sense of reserve. You had the Scots right in your sights, and you let them go. Plain and simple.”
Lord Marcus remained still as Lord Brumwald took a step closer, fearful, feeling his methods and basic competency being called into question.
“I’ll keep this simple,” Lord Brumwald said, “get a handle on yourself. Rally your men in full and go after these savages that are dwelling right in our midst. I do not want to have to report you, the one man the King is trusting with the vengeance of his nephew to be carried out swiftly, is failing at his attempts to do so because he cannot help but religiously indulge in his vices.”
Lord Marcus nodded, standing up with a dutiful expression stretched across his face. “Yes, my Lord,” he said with his head held high, holding his gaze with all the intention in the world to do as he said he would do.
Lord Brumwald said nothing more and left the room. Standing outside was one of his own men, posted up and awaiting his orders like the true and steadfast servant he was. “Come with me, Cutler,” Lord Brumwald said, saying it in a hushed tone so Lord Marcus would not hear.
Lord Brumwald waited until he had rounded the corner at the end of the hall, pulling his man Cutler in close and whispering into his ear. “I am sending you to follow after Lord Marcus. You will ride with his men as they seek out these…Scots, or whatever they call themselves. I want you to make sure he doesn’t act the fool and attempt anything other than completed his assignment, that includes partaking in the drink.”
The man named Cutler nodded. “Will do, my Lord. And if he does?”
Lord Brumwald looked down the hall from where they had walked through, his focus on the door leading into Lord Marcus’ chambers. “Kill him,” he said. “Immediately. Then lead the charge. You are the most competent man in my employ. If there is anyone that I trust to do this, it’s you.”
Cutler nodded again. “Consider it done, my Lord,” he said before doubling back to Lord Marcus’ room, knocking twice on the door before entering. “Lord Marcus,” he said. “I have been assigned to escort you on your mission.”
Lord Marcus looked away, a smirk forming with his lips as he shook his head and said: “Of course you are.”
Cutler folded his hands behind his back. “I shall inform your men and tell them we are about to make way.” Cutler then left the room, Lord Marcus immediately knowing that Lord Brumwald had been the one to attach this man to his hip. He sensed, without question, that Cutler was sent to kill him if he did not complete the campaign.
With his wound full dressed, Lord Marcus stood, set about dressing himself in fresh garb, and returned outside where his men waited upon horseback for him. “We ride south,” he said. “The Highlanders we seek are near. We will take them with full force without failure.”
Lord Marcus slapped at his reigns, leading the charge out of the castle with his men following in tow as they broke left and rode hard in the direction that he had last saw the Scots. Lord Marcus made it a point to toss a glance in Cutler’s way, waiting in the rear, his sights level on Lord Marcus and unflinching. Lord Marcus knew without a doubt that he was going to have to dispose of the man post haste.
Chapter Fifteen
Sean could make out the spiraling spoke rising just off in the distance up to the left. He squinted, perching forward on his saddle to get a closer look.
Rose could see Sean perking up out of his peripherals, asking him: “What is it?” as she tried to make out herself whatever it was he was looking at.
Sean pointed to the smoke. “There. Up ahead. I think there’s a village.” He nodded toward the mountains. “They camp near the base of the mountain. We are not far off from reaching it.”
“Can we stop?” Rose said. “We need to eat. It has been quite some time. Unless, we cannot spare the time.”
Sean glanced over his shoulder, judging how long it had been since they had last made contact with the Redcoats and calculating the distance to the castle inside of his head. “We have maybe three hours on them,” he said. “Plus, there are several different areas they could have assume we fled to. There is no guarantee that they will follow the same path we did.”
“But there is a chance, aye?”
Sean tilted his head and shrugged. “If we stay only under an hour at this village, I imagine we’ll be fine, either way.”
Rose passed word to Kelly riding alongside her that they were stopping off at the village, Kelly spreading the word quick to the other riders who approached in a collective huddle toward the outskirts of the village.
The village was small. There were only a couple of cottages, and a small place that looked like some kind of dining hall. The materials and resources used to construct the buildings was simply, relying on brick, cobblestone and hay for its structure. All of the village was gathered in a kind of half-circle, with a giant and roaring firepit resting in the center where most of the villagers seemed to have gathered around.
Sean looked at each one of the faces as they approached, all of them looking at Sean and the Scots with more inquisitive expressions than those of concern. They are elderly, Sean thought. There is not a fresh face among this entire group.
A man with a thick beard and thinning hair approach. The subtlest of smiles crept into his face as he folded his hands behind his back. Sean and the others came to a stop as the man bowed and said: “Hello. My name is Richard. How can I be of service to ye?”
Sean nodded. “My friends and are were looking to rest for just a short period of time. We are taking the mountain. We simply need a brief respite to replenish ourselves before making the trek.”
Richard glanced over his shoulder at the mountain, the terrain tall and foreboding and only growing in size the closer that Sean, Rose, and the others came to it. “Ye plan on taking the mountain?” he said. “Not an easy feat. Most try to avoid the trouble that brews up there.”
“Trouble,” Rose said, “brews for us down here, as well. We do not wish to inconvenience ye. We merely seek a moment’s rest. But we will happily move on if this will bring ye more strife than it is worth.”
Richard held up a hand, his smiling growing. “We have been free of trouble here for some time. It is of no bother to us. Come, tether yer horses and gather around the fire. We were just indulging in an after
noon meal. Please. Partake with us.”
The Scots dismounted and tethered their horses to trees, posts, and stumps peppered in a small grouping just outside of the village’s limits. With weary legs and minds and hearts, they drifted toward the fire and began greeting the others in the village as bowls of stew and chunks of fresh bread were passed around.
Sean lingered close to Rose, the two of them speaking with Richard as he gave them a brief tour of the village. “We are a small community,” he said. “Not many know about us. We settled here over two decades ago.”
Rose gestured to the villagers. “Forgive me for saying, but I do not see anyone past a certain age among ye.”
Richard nodded. “This is deliberate. We all agreed long ago the burden of bringing children into the world would have added nothing but strain. Things have been quieter that way. Less mouths to feed.”
Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 13