Timeless Tales of Honor Page 4

  Embarrassed, humiliated and terrified, she remained rigid, ready for whatever onslaught, abuse or treachery these men might inflict upon her. She wondered if she would ever be able to get free and make it to her mother’s clan.

  Duncan sat holding Aishlinn close to his chest as the others helped collect more wood for the fire. Aishlinn was afraid to speak and could not find the strength to ask what they planned on doing with her.

  It did not take long before a blazing fire flickered before them. Tall flames crackled and licked up towards the sky, the heat a welcome relief from the bone-chilling cold.

  It was Rowan who finally broke the long silence. His low deep voice startled her. “Lass,” he began. “Who did this to ye?” He was sitting very near her and stared at her face. Humiliated at what the earl had done she cast her eyes to the ground. Aishlinn hoped that if she were honest with them, then they might show her some kind of mercy. “’Twas the earl.”

  “Was that why ye killed him?” asked Duncan, not looking at her but at the fire before them. She noticed that his nose appeared to have been broken at least once. But it did not look ghastly or out of place on his bearded face.

  Swallowing hard she nodded slightly. She did not want to think back to that night in the earl’s chambers. She wanted to forget how it felt when she plunged the dagger into his back. The memories brought an instant wave of nausea to her stomach.

  Looking up at the man called Duncan, she searched his face for some sign that would tell her what his intentions might be. She could see the muscles in his jaws clench and what appeared to be anger in his eyes. The intensity of it alarmed her.

  “I meant not to do it.” She was deathly afraid of these men. “He was hurting me and I felt the dagger in my hand…” her voice trailed off as she thought back to that moment.

  “I can’t say that I blame ye,” Duncan said through clenched teeth. Knowing any man could do this to such a small girl brought forth much anger.

  “What be the earl’s name?” Gowan asked.

  Aishlinn swallowed hard again and braced her body for the beating she was sure would come with her confession. “The Earl of Penrith,” she whispered.

  Instantly all eyes were upon her as bewildered expressions came to each of their faces.

  “Ye killed the Earl of Penrith?” Rowan asked, astonished by the notion. Aishlinn tensed more and began to pray that God would grant her enough strength to run, though she knew it would be impossible to defend herself against seven men.

  “Aye, I did,” she answered warily.

  She noticed then that the men stared at Duncan. He had not taken his eyes from the fire and he was working his jaw back and forth. Ever so gently he sat her on the ground and stood while his men gathered around him.

  She wanted to crawl backward and run away, but the fear that filled her to her marrow froze her in place. She knew it would not be long now; she had confessed. She wondered if they would kill her here or take her back to Penrith. It mattered not anymore.

  After several long moments of silence, Duncan turned back to her. His piercing blue eyes seemed to search hers for something. “Yer certain ye killed the Earl of Penrith?” he asked.

  Unable to find her voice she nodded her head.

  Suddenly, an odd and curious smile came to his face. Why were they toying with her? Why didn’t they just pull their swords from their scabbards and kill her and be done with it?

  “Then lass,” Duncan began, “We be forever in yer debt.”

  Aishlinn stared at him in stunned silence. She had anticipated a beating or torture. Not a smile and certainly not gratitude.

  “’Twould be our honor to see ye to safe lands, to see ye to yer people and yer family,” he said.

  Perhaps she had injured her head when she fell. Perhaps she was hallucinating from lack of sleep and food. Or perhaps she had lost her mind. This was a very confusing turn and it was probably too much to hope that he was not lying to her. Confused and leery she asked him, “You’ll not take me back to Penrith?”

  “Nay!” Each man said, aghast at the notion.

  “I don’t understand. Are you not mercenaries?” She was growing more confused with each passing moment.

  “Mercenaries?” They all laughed at her. “Nay!” Duncan smiled proudly as he looked at his men. “We be Highlanders!”

  She had never seen a Highlander before this day. Moirra had told her many stories of Highlanders being big strong men with great senses of honor and pride about them.

  These men were enormous! Each wore his hair long, well past his shoulders; some had two braids at their temples, others only one. Their breeches were made of leather and were tucked into leather boots. Three of them were bare-chested, exposing well-defined and almost unbelievable muscles, as well as scars that were more likely than not earned in battle. Arms as big as tree roots, massive legs, and shoulders broader than Aishlinn had ever seen on any man before. They simply did not seem real.

  In Moirra’s faerie tales, the Highlanders were big, hairy and beastly looking men. While Aishlinn would agree they were all very big men, she could not necessarily say they were beastly looking. Moirra also warned that Highlander men liked their drink strong and their women ready. As a bairn Aishlinn had not understood the auld woman’s words. Older now and alone in the forest with seven of them, she prayed quietly that there was no truth to the stories.

  Duncan stepped toward her and bent on one knee. “We be grateful to ye lass. ’Twould be our great privilege to see ye to yer destination. We will defend yer life and yer honor to our deaths.” His expression was quite serious.

  Years of experience with cruel and harsh men, warned her not to trust the ones standing before her. “What do you know of my honor,” Aishlinn asked. Why would they make such a pledge?

  Duncan studied her for a moment. “Ye killed the Earl of Penrith, did ye not.” It was statement, not a question.

  “Aye, I did,” she answered attempting to sound stronger than she actually felt at the moment.

  “Then lass,” Duncan said, “I owe ye a lifetime debt of gratitude for what ye’ve done.”

  He could sense that she was quite perplexed. He raised an eyebrow, then with a wry smile and a wink he said, “Ye see, lass, ye saved me from havin’ to kill the whoreson meself!”

  * * *

  The fire burned steadily as they all huddled around it. Aishlinn was wrapped in several plaids and Duncan sat uncomfortably close to her. The tears had stopped, but the shivers and doubt running through her mind had not. She was still very leery of these men.

  The day was growing darker and the fire cast flickering shadows upon the group. They had sat for some time in quiet reverie, each of them lost in private thoughts. It was Manghus’ deep voice that finally broke the silence. Quietly he began to explain why they were so glad to hear of the untimely passing of the Earl of Penrith. Duncan remained quiet as he absentmindedly poked a long stick at the fire.

  Manghus explained that some ten and seven years ago the Earl of Penrith had ordered the destruction of a village. The earl had been convinced that someone in that village had stolen several pigs from his lands. Instead of searching out the reivers individually, the bastard had ordered the destruction of the entire village. The earl meant it a lesson to anyone who would steal from him or would offer refuge to those who hid from him.

  “Duncan was just a lad at the time,” Manghus told her, his voice laced with sadness. “Only eight when it happened.” He paused for a moment as he stared blankly at the fire. Aishlinn wondered if he wasn’t staring at something from his own past. “Twas Duncan’s village. Only three lads survived it. Duncan be one of them.”

  From the angry and pained expressions on the faces of the men around her, Aishlinn knew the story had to be true. No one could have feigned the pain, sadness and regret she saw in their eyes. Her heart broke for the men. She knew their pain well. An odd sense of relief washed over her for now she could understand why they had made their pledge to protect her
.

  “Aye,” Duncan said, growing disgusted at the flood of memories. Angrily he tossed the stick into the fire. “And Findley and Richard be the others.” He was done reliving it. Not a day had passed since the murders of his family and friends that he did not think of killing the man responsible. Many nights he had lain awake thinking of all the different ways he could kill the Earl of Penrith. Although he was glad to hear of the earl’s death a very large part of him wished it had been at his own hands.

  He looked at Aishlinn and tried to guess her age. She looked to be around ten and five or six at the most. He could not get over how wee and tiny she appeared. Yet she had somehow managed to kill the man who had left him an orphan so many years ago. He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards her as well as a bit of admiration.

  He wondered what else the earl had done to her besides the severe beating. Knowing the earl’s reputation, Duncan was certain the bastard had raped her. He imagined it would take a very long time for her to recover from such a thing, if recovery were even possible.

  Huddled under the several plaids they had wrapped her in she still shivered. Duncan could see she fought against sleep for every few moments her head would list to the side before she would jerk and try to right herself. He knew she must be terrified and why shouldn’t she be? She had been through a hellish ordeal and was now alone in the forest with seven strange men. He wondered how long it would be before she could trust anyone again.

  He slapped his forehead with his hand as it dawned on him that she was still in her wet clothes! She would certainly catch her death of cold.

  “Lass! Me apologies for being a thoughtless man.” He went to his pack and pulled out a tunic, trews and wool leggings and brought them to her. “Ye be still wearin’ yer wet things. Let me help ye get out of them and into somethin’ dry.”

  How dare he suggest such a thing! Moirra was right. Highlanders may have a strong sense of honor, but they were beastly men just the same.

  Sensing her mortification, Duncan did his best not to laugh out loud. “Lass! I be promisin’ I’ll not take advantage of the situation. I mean only to help ye. Me intentions be honorable.”

  It took some convincing and only after each man took an oath to impale himself on his own sword should he so much as think of catching a glimpse of her whilst she changed, she finally relented. Duncan carried her to a large pine tree where he took great care in setting her upon her feet. He promised to stand guard, not to peek, and not to abandon her.

  With aching muscles she slowly removed her wet dress and shift. They were soaked and landed on the ground with a wet thud. The cool early evening air instantly brought chill bumps to her bare skin. She wished she could move more quickly, but her aching bones and unrelenting shivers made moving at anything other than a snail’s pace nearly impossible.

  She donned the linen tunic, its hem landing just past her knees. She knew she looked ridiculous. The course linen scratched at the welts and cuts on her back but at least it was dry clothing. The trews were just as enormous! The legs were far too long even after rolling them up a few times. She imagined she could have fit both her legs into just one of the legs of the trews. And they would not stay put! Frustrated she huffed and grabbed the waist of the trews with both hands. With the leggings in one hand she stepped from behind the tree, kicking her wet clothing with her bare toes.

  The laugh escaped Duncan’s mouth before he had a chance to stifle it. “Ya’ve been swallowed whole by a beast made of cloth!”

  Honorable men, my foot! Aishlinn thought to herself. An honorable man would not laugh at a young woman in distress! Had she not been so tired and cold and had not every inch of her body hurt beyond measure she most assuredly would have kicked him in his knee.

  Still laughing he apologized for he knew he had embarrassed her but he could not help it. He carried her back to the fire and shot a look at his men that warned them not to laugh as he did his best to stifle another chuckle.

  Rather gently he put her down and bade her stand still while he went to his pack and drew out a belt. She teetered and struggled not to keel over. Before she realized it, Rowan stood next to her and offered his hands for support so that she would not fall. She was in the process of thanking him when she caught sight of the belt in Duncan’s hands. Duncan could see the fear rising up in her as she lowered her head and began to shrink away.

  “’Tis only to hold the trews up lass, nothing more.” He spoke softly and was sorry that he had frightened her. He carefully drew the belt around her small waist and cinched it as taut as he could. ’Twasn’t perfect and the trews did slip a bit, but at least it kept them from falling off completely. Quietly she thanked him as he and Rowan led her back to the fire.

  After settling her in and covering her with plaids, they shared their evening meal with her. She was famished but her stomach felt uneasy and she was able to eat only a little. The oatcakes were nearly as chewy as the dried beef, but she was very grateful to have something in her stomach.

  The exhaustion was overwhelming, and her eyelids grew heavier. Unable to fight the weariness any longer, she lay down upon the plaid. With no strength left to cover her own tired and cold body, she kept still as Duncan pulled the plaids over her shoulders. His lips curved into a warm smile as he tucked the blankets under her chin. “Are ye warm lass?” She could hear the genuine concern in his voice and it surprised her. Not since her mother and Moirra had passed had anyone shown her any kind of concern, save for Baltair who had helped her escape. She was used to harsh words and criticisms, not kind gestures. She nodded her head and closed her eyes.

  Her body wanted desperately to sleep but her mind would not surrender to it. Soft quiet tears came again. She could do nothing to stop them any more than the memories that brought them. She did not want the men to think her weak or foolish so she pulled the plaid over her head to cry unnoticed.

  She tried to unfurl her fingers to wipe away the tears, but they seemed frozen now after riding for Heaven-only-knew how many days with a death grip upon the reins of her mare. The cuts in her back stung, her face and eyes throbbed obstinately. She tried to take in a deep breath, but the action caused pain to shoot through her ribs and down her spine.

  She longed for her mum, for Moirra and for a quiet, simple life. She wanted a home of her own where she would always be and feel safe. Why could she not be more like her mum, strong and beautiful? Perhaps if she had been either of those things her life would have been so different.

  Shivering, she thought back to the day the brothers had told her she would be going to work in Castle Firth. They had not allowed her to take anything with her save for the clothes on her back and the blanket her mother had made for her when she was born. Had she not been so relieved to leave her brothers, she would have protested more adamantly about taking more of her mother’s things with her. The blanket had been the only thing from her childhood she had left to remind her of her mother. Now it was gone forever, tucked under the pallet at Castle Firth.

  Aishlinn had learned a few short days after arriving at Firth that her brothers had traded her to work there. They had traded her for two sheep. That was all she had been worth to them. The thought pricked at her heart now, though she should not have been surprised by it. They had never been fond of her to begin with. Still, it stung at her pride to think she was of so little value to them. Would anyone ever think her worth more than two sheep?

  Pulling the plaid tighter, she tried to will her mind to stop wandering. What made her think she had worth or value? Hadn’t she nearly been born out of wedlock? She had never learned the true identity of the man who had fathered her. Had her mother loved him and did he love her? Was he a good man? And what had caused his death?

  Had Broc not married the pregnant Laiden who knows how Aishlinn’s life could have turned out? Would it have been possible to be worse than it was?

  Aishlinn knew that Broc had loved her mother, had loved her dearly. But looking back, she knew that although
her mother had been warm towards Broc, it was more likely than not out of a sense of gratitude. She didn’t think it possible that her mum could have truly loved the cold and distant man.

  She had another go at taking a deep breath, a bit more slowly this time. Another jolt of pain shot through her ribs. Perhaps if she quit breathing altogether the pain would eventually subside. At the rate she was going, she thought she might have to be dead a good sennight or two before the pain would ever leave her body.

  She tried to focus on something other than the agony and tried to concentrate instead on the few good memories she had left of her mum and her childhood. She vividly remembered having laughed often as a child. Never in the presence of Broc or her brothers however, for it was quite evident that none of them enjoyed laughter. Unless it was at Aishlinn’s expense. Nay, the laughter never subsided then!

  Was there a chance that she could leave her past behind and start anew? If she could find an inner strength, find some part of her mother inside her soul, then maybe she could. Perhaps she could be strong and take control of her own life from this point forward. She was, after all, Laiden’s daughter.

  Chapter Six

  They waited for the lass to fall asleep before Duncan, Rowan and Findley broke away from the fire. They left the others behind to watch over the lass. They had much to discuss amongst themselves and did not want her to overhear their conversation. Duncan grabbed Aishlinn’s dress and shift that had been drying on a branch near the fire and they walked back towards the stream. Not one man spoke until they were certain their voices would not carry.

  “Why,” Rowan began, slipping back into the Gaelic. “Why would the earl skelp a wee lass so?” He had a good idea as to why, but did not want to say it aloud.

  “We ken the earl well Rowan. Evil needs no reason to skelp or to kill,” Duncan told him. None of them doubted the earl’s cruelty as they had witnessed it themselves at very young ages.