Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance

by Kenna Kendrick

  Sean offered up more silent prayers as the body burned to ashes. Day turned to night as the last of the fire burned, and knowing that time was short; he began following the hoof prints that led away from the clearing and got down on one knee. His animalistic instincts kicked in, sniffing the air and squinting with an analytical gaze as he watched the hoof prints track left and lead into a valley. They certainly headed east, he thought. They rode fast and hard. They went through the valley. No doubt they are a half-day’s ride ahead of me.

  Sean wasted no more time. Seeing that the fire was now just ash, he nodded his respect to where Kelly once lay, kicked at the sides of his horse, and followed the hoof prints. Sean rode for a half mile before he made his way into the valley, and once he was there, he saw that the prints led to a small town about 200 feet away. Caution, Sean…Be cautious…

  Sean dismounted his horse, doing it carefully and quietly and keeping a close eye on his surroundings to make sure that there were no English in the area. He took a few steps forward, looking at the village and seeing that there were no fleet of horses, no other men than a few Highlanders meandering about through the grounds. They must have gone by now, he thought. There were at least two-dozen men that rode away from where they took Kelly.

  He debated for a moment, worried that the whole thing was a set up to lure him in. But he knew that he needed to find out where Rose went, and the English that had took her, Lord Marcus, specifically, had no doubt traipsed through this area not long before.

  Sean mounted his horse once more, riding into the village and being greeted by several of the villagers. But Sean did not acknowledge their presence—he had far more time-sensitive and pressing matters to tend to.

  Sean followed the collective hoof prints that had come through the village and arrived outside a tavern, the hoof prints huddled together and having turned a small patch of dirt into mud. They were just here. They were certainly just here.

  Sean hopped off his saddle, tethered his steed to a post, and walked inside the tavern. It was filled to the brim with Highlanders, all of them looking up with concern at the newcomer. They worry so, he thought. They are still on edge from Lord Marcus having come through here. That means they know without a doubt which direction he had fled in.

  Sean tried to keep himself as calm as possible as he walked up to the counter, a polished, maple-colored counter where a burly man with blotted skin tended to the customers. He leered at Sean as he approached, and Sean knew right away that it was going to take some coercing to get the man to tell him what he needed to know.

  “What do ye want?” the burly man said.

  “A drink,” Sean replied.

  “Tell me what kind or quit wasting my time.”

  Sean nodded to the shelves behind the man. “Whiskey,” he said.

  The burly man fetched a bottle and a glass and poured a shot’s worth into it. He slid it over, Sean then reaching into his pocket, producing a coin, and flipping it with his thumb. The tavern owner caught it with one hand, scowling as he did so.

  “Yer not from here,” the burly man said.

  Sean shook his head. “No. I am not.”

  “Then why are ye here? Just passing through? Because ye are not wanted here if ye are not a local.”

  Sean shrugged. “But the legion of English that came through here are welcome?”

  A few people turned their heads and glanced at Sean with terrified expressions. The burly man sneered at Sean as the words came out of his mouth.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what ye are talking about, Highlander,” the burly man said. “Perhaps it’s best if ye leave here. Now.”

  Sean smirked. Shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not until I found out where our friends went.”

  The burly man braced the sides of the counter and leaned in, his breath reeking of booze that wafted in Sean’s face as he spoke. But it did not bother Sean. He was much too enraged by what had transpired to be bothered by the man in front of him.

  “As I said,” the burly man stated, “no one has come through here recently, save for ye. Now leave…before I make ye leave…”

  Sean held the whiskey up to the light, examining it for a moment before placing it back down on the countertop. “We both know that’s not true. I saw the tracks leading into town. There were over two-dozen men here, and all of them English. They took a dear friend of mine, and I plan on getting her back.”

  The burly man shrugged. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

  “No…” Sean leaned in. “It’s yers, as well.”

  “That’s not the way I see it. Now, this is the last time I will say it: leave.”

  Sean saw the conviction in the man’s eye, the unwavering commitment. He was a large man, about two sizes bigger than Sean. But it did not sway Sean in the slightest—he was on a warpath, and no one, no one, was going to stop him.

  Sean picked up his glass once again, held it up in a toast, and said: “So, be it,” before tossing the liquid straight into the burly man’s eyes.

  The burly man recoiled, bringing his hands to his face and grunting as he winced in pain. Sean then grabbed the man by the back of the head, gripped it tight, and slammed it down onto the counter.

  As Sean was going about bruising up the burly man’s face, he spotted two Highlanders quickly rising from the table behind him and attempting to intercede. As soon as the burly man had been knocked onto his back, Sean spun on his heel, raised it, and kicked the man on his right clear in the sternum. The man fell, the wind knocked out of him and a sickly gasp being emitted before he fell onto the ground into a fetal position.

  The man on the left approached his right hand extended and his left reaching for the dagger stuffed into his belt. Sean, the quicker draw, took out his sword, raised it, and pointed it at the man’s throat. The man stopped dead in his tracks, holding his hands up in surrender as the tip of Sean’s steel tickled the flesh on his neck.

  The whole tavern was at a stand still, all those in attendance holding their breath as an eerie silence settled over the scene.

  “I will ask this once,” Sean hollered out, “and then I will start taking heads. I know that a group of English riders came through here, and I want to know where they are. They took a friend of mine, someone I care about very dearly…and if I don’t find her in time…she dies.”

  Everyone remained still. Sean could tell that their protests where only because of the fear they were experiencing in that very moment.

  “Ye have no loyalty to these people,” Sean said. “They have destroyed our homes and our very lives. Don’t give yer loyalty to them because of whatever threats that have been made. Tell me where they went. Help me save one of our own.”

  The man in front of Sean, the tip of the sword still pressed delicately against his neck, swallowed and cleared his throat. “They went north,” he said. “An English stronghold rests there. I’m certain that’s where they went.”

  Sean jutted his chin. “North, ye say?”

  The man nodded, doing it carefully so that the blade did not scrape his skin. “Aye,” he said. “North. I am certain of it.”

  Sean waited for a moment, looking deep into the man’s eyes to make sure that he was telling the truth. Satisfied, he withdrew his sword, placed it in its sheath, and then fished around in his pockets. He produced three coins, tossing them over his shoulder on the counter as the burly man slowly rose from the ground and grunted.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Sean said as he stormed out of the bar, the burly man grunting in defeat as he snatched up the coins and Sean slammed the door on his way out.

  Sean quickly mounted is horse and turned it north, drawing a deep breath and readying himself for what he was certain would be the fight of his life. I’m coming, Rose, he thought. I’m coming.

  He slapped the reins, riding hard and fast to the north as the day officially turned to night, and the scent of blood began to ominously linger in the air.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight
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br />   Rose felt the cold steel of the bars pressing against her flesh. She was seated on a stone floor, in the cold and the dark, three stories underground inside an English stronghold. She had no clue what it looked like, a bag having been placed over her head after Lord Marcus had taken her captive and knocked her unconscious.

  She was curled up, hugging her knees as she glanced around the cell she was locked inside. Everything from floor to ceiling consisted of cobblestones, and only the dull glow of a torch in the corner offered any kind of illumination. I’m going to die, she thought. I’m going to die here. I’ve come to the end of the journey. There is nothing left I can do…No, that cannot be. I refuse to see my life end this way. I will not have this be the last place that I ever see. But what can I do? Where can I go? Oh, Sean. Please tell me yer out there. Please tell me ye returned to where ye left us. Please tell me that ye picked up the trail and are on yer way to rescue me.

  But it felt so fruitless to Rose to offer up such protests. She knew that it would be near impossible—no, impossible—for Sean to be able to take on the horde of Lord Marcus’ men. There were far too many of them, and even though Sean was the most capable fighter she had ever met, the odds were just not in his favor, plain and simple.

  Rose stood, feeling her legs cramping from having been curled up in a ball for an extended period of time. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die standing. I’m going to die being defiant until the very end. I will not give Lord Marcus any satisfaction. This man will not best me. I will struggle, and fight, and scream, and holler until the very end. I will make them wish that he had never taken my life, for I will make him suffer as he has made so many others on my journey to the end of the line.

  And then thoughts of Kelly entered her mind, making Rose’s eyes well up and forcing her to bury her head in her hands. “I am sorry, my friend,” she whispered. “I am so sorry for what has happened.”

  She already missed Kelly, and blamed herself for not leaving sooner. If we only left earlier, she thought. We could have beaten them. We could have run far and away, and they never would have caught up to us. Oh, my dear friend. I hope ye have found yer salvation. I hope ye are with God and the angels and are finally free of yer strife and pain.

  Rose heard a key inserted into the lock of the large wooden door to her left, the metal frame creaking and reverberating throughout the room with a spine-chilling click. She crossed her arms, jutting her chin to showcase her defiance as the door slowly swung open. Compose yerself, she thought. Stand tall. Stand proud. Do not give them an inch.

  She waited, the door opening and an English knight walking inside. He held a torch in his hand, looking at Rose with an uninterested gaze as he stood aside and motioned for the man behind him to enter—it was Lord Marcus, thumbs stuffed into his belt as he casually entered the room and showcased a tight-lipped smile.

  “Hello, Ms. MacGillis,” he said. “I trust ye are comfortable?”

  Rose cocked her head to the side. “A litany of insults enter my mind when ye enter a room, Lord Marcus…but I will not stoop myself down to yer level.”

  Lord Marcus laughed. “I admire your spirit, my dear. I trust that you will attempt to keep it before you are executed in the morning.”

  “I find it odd that ye would tell me that,” Rose said. “I figured ye would toy with me until the very end just for yer own sick satisfaction.”

  Lord Marcus shook his head. “I do not relish such methods. No, I will not lie to you and offer you up false hope. You will die in the morning, but the method of how you will be disposed can be swift or elongated. It’s just a matter of how quickly and honestly you answer my questions.”

  Rose squinted. “Swift or elongated?”

  Lord Marcus nodded. “Indeed. You see…you can either die by a swift scythe of the sword…” He took a step forward. “Or I can have you tortured to your very limits, make you suffer until your very last breath. Trust me, the methods that have been developed by my countrymen are unrivaled. I have seen even the strongest men break from the most ghastly things you can ever imagine.”

  Rose clenched her fists. She would not be toyed with. She would not allow herself to let this man know of the fear that was swirling inside of her. “Ye do not scare me, Lord Marcus,” she said. “Yer pithy threats mean nothing to me.”

  “And your willful defiance,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “does not impress me in the slightest.” He waved his hand dismissively through the air. “But enough of this. We should get down to the matters at hand and dispense with the taunts and retorts.” He turned to the knight. “Leave us.”

  The knight bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Rose alone with Lord Marcus. Lord Marcus moved to the corner, fetching a wooden stool and positioning it in front of Rose’s cell. He sat, folding his hands in front of him and looking at her with a curious expression.

  Rose approached the bars, uncrossing her arms and gripping onto them until the whites of her knuckles showed.

  “Look at you,” Lord Marcus marveled. “You would try to kill me with your bare hands if I let you out of this cell…wouldn’t you?”

  Rose nodded—slowly. “Oh, aye,” she replied. “Without a second’s hesitation.”

  Lord Marcus held up his finger, wagging it from side-to-side. “And I have no doubt that you would be able to do it. You’re a formidable opponent, Rose MacGillis, but you are no match for the English army. Did you really think that you would be able to kill the King’s nephew and get away with it?”

  Rose gritted her teeth. “I had no idea who he was. What happened was an accident.”

  “Do not play coy with me. Even if you possessed the knowledge that he was kin of the King, it would not have stopped you. Admit it. Tell me that this is not the case.”

  Rose held her head high. “Yer right. I would have disposed of him just as quickly as I did if I had known who he was.”

  Lord Marcus held out his hands, leaning back in his chair and smiling with satisfaction. “You see—you cannot talk your way out this. What’s done is done. You committed a crime, and now you will pay for that crime.”

  Rose stepped away from the bars, shaking her head and clenching her fists. “I grow weary of this interrogation, Lord Marcus. There is no point for us to speak.”

  “Oh, but there is. You see, I have you in custody now, but I still seek the location of the other Scots. I want to know where they are. They are just as responsible for this fiasco as you are.”

  Rose shrugged. “I have no clue of their whereabouts. They Scots disbanded just a few days ago. They fled somewhere in the Highlands. I have no idea where.”

  Lord Marcus pouted his lower lip. “You’ll understand if I don’t believe you.”

  Rose turned and faced Lord Marcus once again. “I don’t care if ye believe me. It is the truth. I do not know what else to tell ye past that.”

  Lord Marcus stood up, walking slowly towards the cell and gripping onto the bars. “You say that they disbanded, yes? I’ll entertain this statement—why did they?”

  Rose closed her eyes. Because I am a poor leader, she thought. Because I allowed several of them to die. I led them into harm’s way, and they knew, without a shred of a doubt, that I was no longer capable of being their leader. But Rose did not want to confess this to Lord Marcus. She didn’t owe him anything.

  “They had their reasons,” she said. “And that’s all I wish to say on the matter.”

  Lord Marcus laughed. “You and your people are no longer capable of fleeing from the Crown. Your time has come. This pithy rebellion that you Highlanders have engaged in is over. You, and your friends, will be made examples of. You will serve as a statement to the rest of the Scots in these lands that undermining your masters will result in severe penalties.”

  Rose drew a breath. She had no qualms that what Lord Marcus was speaking the truth. But she was starting to see through him. She looked into his eyes and sensed a man who had suffered as much as she had. She may no
t have liked him or respected him—but she knew that he was just as human as she was.

  “Tell me,” Rose said. “What happened to ye?”

  Lord Marcus cocked his head to the side. “As in?”

  “As in, what have ye lost during this campaign that the English have embarked in? I look into yer eyes and sense that ye are doing the exact same thing that the rest of us have.”

  Lord Marcus rolled his eyes. “What are you blabbing on about?”

  Rose came closer to the bars. “Ye are covering pain with anger, with vengeance. I know, because I have done the same thing my entire life. Ye have a glint in yer eye that I myself have sported…tell me, what was it? A brother? A father? A wife? What is it that ye lost that ye still find yerself trying to get over?”