Enraptured by the Highlander

Donnan winced just as the bushes aside them rustle and Artur came through, bearing three mountain hares and wildfowl. “What this about slop?”

“Donnan’s punishment for runnin’ his mouth off,” Rogan grinned. “Need help?”

After they got a fire going and the meat, already drained of blood, skinned, speared and roasted, they ate. It reminded Caelan of those many long nights on the plains, before battles, and after long campaigns. They were so long, dreary and the only thing that he was able to look forward to was going home. Now, he had another sense of what home meant—home was Adelaine.

It felt so juvenile of him to be so set on this woman. He felt thrown back over two decades, when he had his first set his eyes on a girl. That thirteen-year-old had disappeared; he had matured with the wisdom and insight of a man.

Artur was right, the Earl was going to come for his head and the only thing he could do to come out victorious was to fight on his terms and using the advantages of his land. He ate the last morsel and flung the stick away. “Time to go.”

Back on the road, they sped toward the Highlands. Caelan hungered to see his home, to see his mother, to taste the cool air, to touch the cold water of his loch and to see his people. They were near to Selkirk and when they were passing through the Ettrick and Yarrow Valley, chaos erupted.

From the wooded forest on the hills, men on foot, followed by those on horses descended on them with war cries and raised swords. Yanking the horse back, Caelan did not even flinch when his horse’s hooves slammed into the chest of a man who ran at him. The sickening crunch of breaking bones was drowned out by the roars of the other men.

Not even pausing to think, he grabbed his sword from his side and began to slash left and right. Old training came back to him in the blink of an eye. He guided his horse with one hand while he dueled with swords in the other.

When a rider came on him with a raised sword, he met the blow quickly but even more quickly, made sure he’d win. After his parry, Caelan swung his sword low and slashed the man’s gut, ripping him open from one side to the other side. When the man keeled over, he fell off the back of the horse and instantly got trampled by the horse’s back feet.

Caelan would have spared a moment to say a prayer for him but two more riders descended on him. He had to be crafty with wielding his sword. First, he struck one in the chest and ducked a decapitating blow by mere seconds. He used the man’s clumsy swing to aim as his chest, sticking him dead. Plucking the sword out, he met the second man’s blow with a heavy clang of metal. Blood from the man he had just killed flew into his face but he could not stop fighting.

This man had more strength than the rest, and he had to let go of the reins, and use his knees to guide the horse. Trapped in a deadlock with the man, Caelan could feel his strength flagging and his arms threatening to give out.

“Who are ye?” he growled into the man’s hateful dark eyes.

“A man who’s going to get that sack of gold from that English Earl, that’s who I am,” the scoundrel spat nastily.

The Earl!

Caelan dug deep, to the depths of his depleted reserves, broke the deadlock and swung. The man ducked but the warrior was ready for him and as the man came back up, Caelan used the hilt to knock the man in the head hard enough that blood burst from his forehead and he fell off his mount.

He spun to see Rogan pulling his sword from the belly of the last man who then toppled to the ground. His nostrils flared at the scent of blood but his heart ached when he saw who had attacked them. These were not men— at best they were boys, mere boys. No wonder their blows were so sloppy. They had not even a lick of training in them. A few of the dead bodies had scruff on their cheek and others were smooth-faced.

Boys…the Earl sent boys…children to their deaths for a single sack of gold.

“What the devil was that?” Rogan snarled. “Where the hell did these men come from?”

“The Earl,” Caelan replied wearily. “That one there told me they were fighting on behalf of the English Earl, which means Daffield got to them somehow. My best guess is that he sent a messenger bird to the borders, telling them to look out for me. Perhaps he thought I would be alone as no one kens that Adelaine had gotten yer letter and sent ye to meet me. They kent it would be an easy capture. And that’s why that scum got these boys into this mix, most likely promising them a few gold coins from the payout.”

While stepping over a few bodies, Gregor asked, “So, where do we go from here?”

“We proceed with caution,” Caelan said while his eyes dipped to the bodies strewn on the rocky ground. “We avoid towns and settlements.”

As Artur gave Caelan a rag to wipe his face off, Donnan got back on his horse and grasped the reins. He asked, “And when will the Earl attack again?”

“It might take time for him to get word about this failure,” Rogan put in. “We will have to take that time, short as it can be, to get home and prepare for his next attempt.”

Rogan’s words were sound but Caelan felt a strange sensation— instinct really—tingle at the back of his mind. He knew the Earl had more cards up his sleeve that a single attempt of interception and capture, but he was too tired to think it through.

“Let’s find a place to rest, and pray it is over for tonight,” he said while turning his horse toward the end of the valley. “We’ll start fresh at dawn.”

They managed to find a good spot to sleep on the banks of a deep loch. He managed a quick dip to wash his body, ridding himself of sweat and blood. He rinsed his old, dirty nearly-blackened kilt. He had no problem sleeping in his braies and after putting the wet kilt to dry on a rock, he only had the strength to lay on his blanket. In moments, he was almost dead to the world, but the lingering fear that he had not seen the last of the Earl yet still lingered heavy on his chest.

Something is coming…I can feel it…but what?

Chapter 27

Staring up at the stained glass of Christ’s tortured face, blood dripping from the cruel thorns sunk into his head, Adelaine silently prayed. The chapel’s wooden cross sat right under the stained glass, the wood was chipped and looked ragged, like parts of her soul were.

It was not a rare occasion for her to be in the chapel as after her mother had died, these hallowed four walls were where she had found solace. Now, she was mourning her lost love. Caelan was gone back to Scotland to his freedom and with him there she would never see him again. If her father did get him back—for execution—she would never see him again, forever.