Findley's Lass Read online

  It was early afternoon when they crested the small hill near the River Clyde that Maggy’s clan called home. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  Death lingered in the air. He and his men caught the distinct odour and instantly drew their broadswords. As they pulled rein and stopped the horses, their eyes scanned the sight before them. Findley’s heart pounded with fear and dread as he threw on the wagon brake and leapt down from his seat. Destruction and death lay before them.

  Nothing remained of the hut where the auld had at one time slept save for the charred wooden frame and three bodies burned beyond recognition. Bile rose in the back of Findley's throat as the anger simmered.

  Wee William stood beside him, shaking his head while Richard and Patrick searched through the remains.

  “I’d say it happened at least two days ago. Maybe three,” Wee William said in a hushed, reverent tone.

  Findley could only nod his head as his mind raced and stared at the dead bodies at his feet. He could only pray that they wouldn't find Maggy or her boys among the dead.

  Patrick and Richard walked toward the river and found two more of the auld lying dead along the bank. Findley and Wee William soon joined them. The final death toll was put at seven. There was no sign of Maggy or her boys anywhere.

  It was Richard who finally asked the question that Findley couldn’t. “Where be Maggy and the lads?”

  Findley couldn’t respond, his heart wouldn’t allow him to go there, to think of the possibilities of where Maggy and the lads could be. He bent and studied the tracks left in the mud and judged there had been at least ten on horseback. The tracks led in from the east and apparently left in the same direction they had arrived.

  “Who ye think coulda done this?” Wee William asked to no one in particular.

  Just then, a gust of wind swept down from the hills, scattering bits of dust and leaves. A small scrap of cloth landed on Wee William’s foot. It was as if God Himself had answered the question. Wee William picked up the cloth and studied it closely for a moment. His jaw set as anger filled his eyes for he’d recognize that bit of plaid anywhere. He handed it to Findley for his inspection. It took only a moment for him to come to the same conclusion.

  “Buchannans.” A chill slid down his spine at saying the name.

  Chapter Two

  “Only sons of whores would kill the auld and leave the bodies for the wolves and scavengers.” It was Wee William’s gravelly voice, lined with contempt, that broke through the silence.

  Findley McKenna gripped the piece of bloodied plaid until his knuckles turned white. Time seemed to suspend interminably before his heart beat again. ’Twas even longer before he could draw a breath. Rage as hot as a blacksmith’s forge pounded through his veins. His eyes turned to dark slits as he surveyed the death and destruction that surrounded him.

  Findley drew his lips into a thin, hard line and fought to speak over the knot that had formed in his throat. “Aye,” he muttered.

  While his feelings for Maggy Boyle had been unspoken, his men had well surmised that he had more than a strong affection for the auburn-haired beauty. They had not travelled these many days just to bring supplies and an offer to foster the five young lads she called her sons. Maggy had inexplicably won Findley’s heart.

  “Search again,” he ordered his men. While each man was certain a second search would yield the same results as the first, they searched without question. His men would follow him through the bowels of hell if he asked them to.

  Findley tore through the blackened tents and the charred remains of Maggy’s hut. He lifted the trestle table and tossed it aside as if it weighed no more than the bloodied fabric clenched between his fingers. With unrestrained rage, he ripped through the carnage in search of her.

  As a warrior, Findley had fought in too many battles to number. Never in all the times that he had come close to death, had he felt this kind of fear. It clawed and slashed at his soul, shredding it into inestimable pieces. Please, he prayed, dunna let me find her. No’ here, no’ like this.

  “Findley.” The sound of Richard’s voice broke through the madness that was tearing at his mind.

  Findley stopped and turned toward his younger brother. Drenched in sweat and with his heart filled with dread, he dared ask the question. “Have ye found her?”

  He was afraid he would not survive beyond the next minute if Richard answered in the affirmative.

  “Nay,” Richard answered. “They be not here, Findley.”

  “The Buchannans have her.” Wee William was the only one brave enough to put to voice what the rest of them knew without question.

  The reality of the situation tore through Findley’s heart with as much force as an enemy sword. Maggy was alive, but she was in the hands of a man he was certain had no soul. More likely than not, the man had imprisoned her for his own purposes. Or worse yet, he was taking her to the slave traders in the high north. He could not shake the image of Maggy being stripped, thrown into chains and put on display to be sold to the man with the most coin.

  A pox had wiped out nearly every member of Maggy’s clan. For three years she had managed to hold the small clan together. Maggy, a handful of auld people and five young boys were all that remained of a once proud and growing clan. While she had birthed only one of the five boys who called her mum, she loved them all with a fierceness and maturity that belied her young age.

  She had survived all the hard and lean years only to be taken by a coldblooded killer.

  Findley studied the faces of the three men who had taken this journey with him. He hadn’t planned on finding the auld dead and Maggy and her boys missing. Nor had he planned for battle. The Buchannan clan’s numbers had been rapidly increasing of late and latest estimates put them at well over a hundred. Logic dictated the four of them could not lay siege to more than a hundred men. His heart however, did not give a damn about what logic might have to say on the matter.

  He turned his attention to the bit of plaid still clenched in his hand. Its crimson, green and goldenrod colours were now soaked with the blood of innocents. He took a slow breath in before stuffing the cloth into the folds of his tunic.

  “Unhitch the wagons. We be goin’ after Maggy and her boys.”

  His voice was as cold as the steel blade of a broadsword and just as deadly. It warned each of the men who surrounded him that there would be no discussion on the matter. He turned and headed toward the wagons. His younger brother Richard followed after him.

  “Findley,” Richard said, “do no’ let yer heart cloud yer good judgment.” If any other man had spoken those words to Findley, he would have gutted him without any thought to the matter.

  “Maggy and the boys are out there somewhere, Richard,” Findley tossed over his shoulder. “With or without ye, I’ll get them back.”

  “I never said ye’d be doin’ it without me, brother,” Richard told him as they approached one of the wagons. “I simply be askin’ ye to think through the matter for a moment. We’ll be needin’ the supplies on these wagons, Findley.” He made no attempt to help his older brother who was angrily working the chains and tethers of the harnesses.

  “We’ll travel faster without them!” Findley was angry. Any patience he may have owned was left in the rubble of what remained of Maggy’s home.

  “Aye, we could,” Richard answered as he rubbed a hand across his bearded face. “Renfrew be but a day’s ride from here, with the wagons. We can be there in time for the midday meal on the morrow. The Buchannan keep be at least a sennight from here.”

  Findley stopped abruptly and looked at his brother curiously. “And what be yer point?”

  “I say we take the wagons to Renfrew. Trade them in for fresh horses and purchase the aid of a few men. Then we head for the Buchannan keep.”

  Findley blinked, as he ran the idea through his mind. He did not want to waste precious time trading wagons or trying to purchase the fealty of other men. His only concern was to get to Maggy. Who knew what ha
rm might already have been done to her, or what might yet come.

  “Think of it brother,” Richard went on. “There be only four of us. While yer thirst for revenge may be strong at the moment, and there be not another man I’d want on the fields of battle with me, we canna go against a hundred men with just the four of us. Let us go to Renfrew, sell the wagons, buy a few men, men good with a sword. We can send a messenger back to Dunshire and beg Angus for more help.”

  His brother was right, as much as he hated admitting to it. Wee William and Patrick were now standing with them and by the solemn expressions they wore on their faces, they appeared to agree with the idea.

  Hatred and anger had seized control of his heart, which made thinking clearly next to impossible. He knew Richard’s idea made good sense. No matter how much bloodlust ran through Findley’s veins, nor how badly his heart burned with wanting to rescue Maggy, they did need more men to go against the Buchannan clan.

  “To Renfrew then,” Findley said through clenched teeth as he began to reattach the harness. “But the first time it appears the wagons slow us, I’ll not think twice of leaving you to them.”

  ~~~

  They had ridden until long after the sun had set. With no moon to help guide them, it was far too risky to proceed through the pitch-black night pulling heavy wagons.

  Findley slept restlessly, unable to clear his mind of the worry over where Maggy might be and what she might be going through. While she was a strong woman who had managed to keep her small clan together, it was an altogether different matter to be held as prisoner or slave. He swore by all that was holy, truthful and right that he would kill any man who brought her harm.

  He tried to make sense of why the Buchannan had attacked Maggy’s home. Aye, Malcolm Buchannan was at tetched as they came. By anyone’s standards the man was insane. His reputation was the thing ghost stories were made of and that reputation had cast a pall across all of Scotland.

  Findley had never met the man but he did know a few who had. If the current stories floating around the Highlands were true, Malcolm Buchannan never acted unless there was something to be gained from it.

  What could he possibly gain from Maggy Boyle?

  He rose before the first light of day, rolling from under the wagon where he had tossed and turned most of the night. With a heavy heart and racing mind he grabbed water from the back of the wagon and splashed it across his face and neck. His trews and tunic were filthy and travel worn, but that was of no import at the time. He doubted Maggy would give one whit what he might look like as long as he was able to save her from the Buchannans.

  Trying to push thoughts of Maggy from his mind was as easy as pushing a boulder up a mountain. He took the bit of plaid from his tunic and stared at it for a long time. He could only pray that the blood that soaked it did not belong to Maggy or any of her boys. As he stood in the dawn of early morning, running his thumb over the small bit of fabric, his emotions ran from despair to anger and back again. He had to find her. No matter what had happened to her, no matter what tortures Malcolm Buchannan might thrust upon her, Findley knew that he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to her.

  Most people, he thought, would not understand the guilt that battered at his heart, the guilt that often kept him awake at night. Just as he had let his family down year ago, he had let Maggy and her family down as well. He had done it by not arriving sooner. He had let them all down by not being there to defend them against the Buchannans.

  Irritably, he tucked the plaid back into his shirt and looked toward the horizon. Maggy was out there, somewhere, and God only knew what was happening to her now.

  Anger would be his catalyst for moving forward, revenge the thing that kept him from falling apart all together. He would not rest until he found her.

  One by one his men began to wake. After breaking their fast over bannocks and dried beef they headed toward Renfrew just as the sun began to break. The beautiful morning with its purple and azure sky was in direct contrast to the bleakness lying heavy in his heart. Findley doubted he would ever enjoy another sunrise until he had Maggy safely in his arms.

  Had they not been low on coin, he would have deserted the wagons the day before and set out on horseback. The battle taking place between what his heart said -- leave the wagons and ride fast -- and what his mind said -- he needed more men than he currently had at his disposal -- was causing his head to throb incessantly.

  They travelled in silence and as fast as the rough terrain would allow. They’d ridden for only a few hours when a wheel on one of the wagons became lodged between two large rocks. An hour of daylight was lost when they had to unhitch horses from the other wagons to help dislodge it. Findley set forth with a burst of heated blasphemies, growing angrier with each wasted moment that passed. His men quickly caught on to his foul mood and left him alone with it.

  Later in the morning, Patrick asked for a brief respite to stretch his legs and empty his bladder. Findley unhappily agreed to the small respite.

  As he stood behind a tree answering nature’s call, Patrick heard a slight rustling of leaves coming from his left. He pretended not to hear it as he strained his ears to listen. He was certain neither Findley nor Wee William had followed him in to the woods.

  As he laced up his trews, he began to whistle softly while surreptitiously scanning the woods. He heard the faint sound again. Whoever was hiding nearby was doing a terrible job at being quiet.

  Patrick feigned a yawn, stretched his arms out wide and began to walk in the direction of the noise. He had taken but a few short steps when he heard the blood curdling sound of a battle cry, which was quickly followed by something quite hard hitting him in the side of his head!

  He let out a loud curse as stars began to explode in front of his eyes and an intense jolt of pain shot down the side of his head to his elbow. Momentarily stunned, Patrick reached for his dirk and through a dizzying amount of pain he began to look around for the person who had hit him. His vision had blurred and before he could get a good grip on the situation at hand he heard a voice yell out, “Go to hell ye dirty bastard!”

  Patrick couldn’t have sworn to it at that moment, what with his ringing ears, blurred vision, and the goose egg throbbing on his temple, but he thought the voice sounded rather young.

  He whirled around toward the source of the voice only to be hit in the chest with another stone, this one the size of a chicken egg. Before he knew it, all manner of rocks were being thrown his way and a litany of curses and blasphemies were being shouted at him. In a matter of moments he was besieged and felled to the ground by stones and rocks and was quickly surrounded by a band of lads who began kicking at him while they cursed.

  “Bloody Buchannan!” the smallest of the lads shouted as he landed a kick to the side of Patrick’s stomach.

  Another boy, not much older than the first, spat at him and yelled, “Ya can burn in hell ye whoreson!” The boy evidently felt it quite necessary then to kick Patrick in his ribs.

  The largest of the four boys had a look of anger that Patrick had seen before only in the eyes of a warrior. The lad held a rather ominous- looking rock, a small boulder really, in both his hands and had raised it over his head, fully prepared to send it crashing into Patrick’s skull.

  Funny, but Patrick had always thought that he would die on the battlefield in some fiery, brave, final act of heroism. He’d never imagined himself being pummelled to death with rocks thrown by a group of small boys.

  Just as the lad was ready to send his small boulder crashing down, a much larger hand swooped in and grabbed it from behind whilst another grabbed the back of his tunic and jerked him violently away from Patrick. As the lad let loose with curses, more men and hands appeared and began pulling the boys off Patrick.

  “Filthy rotten Buchannans!” The boys were cursing and screaming in protest.

  Wee William’s voice boomed through the forest, sending birds to flight and other animals scurrying to safety. “Set
tle yer arses down now, ye heathens!” he shouted.

  Flailing arms and legs stopped mid flail, mouths hung open, and all eyes turned to the giant before them. Patrick was certain that had he been any one of those boys at whom Wee William had just yelled, more likely than not he would have pissed his pants.

  “Weel have no more of it, ye beasties!” William added for good measure, giving each of the boys an angry glare as he tossed the large rock over his shoulder. It landed with a dull thud on the ground behind him.

  Apparently there was not much on this earth that frightened the oldest of the boys for he returned Wee William’s glare with one of his own. “Shove it up yer arse ye filthy dog of a Buchannan scum!”

  Patrick had known Wee William for most of his life and never in all that time had he ever seen the man blink when an insult had been hurled his way. But Wee William did just that.

  Truth be told, what had surprised William the most was that he had never met someone who had not been intimidated by his size or the mere sound of his deep, gravelly voice. It threw him completely off guard, but only for a fleeting moment.

  “Haud yer wheest ye little shite! I be no more a Buchannan than ye are!” William’s response seemed to surprise the boy into a momentary bout of silence. The lad began to look about at the men before him. He could not hide his relief when he recognized Richard and Findley.

  “Aye,” Findley said when he saw the flicker of recognition in the lad’s eyes. Findley was holding a young boy under one arm and another by the scruff of his tunic. “’Tis me, Findley, and me brother Richard. ye remember us, don’t ye lads?”

  The lad’s jaw set to stone as he nodded his head. “Aye.” His face was awash with distrust and anger.

  “Might I ask why ye felt the need to attack me man, Patrick, here?” Findley asked as he eyed each of the boys. Patrick lay still on the ground trying to catch his breath. The boy Findley held under his arm began to wriggle as he spoke. “We thought ye was Buchannans.”