Page 44 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Despite the inexperience of the enemy, Father Hepburn’s holy soldiers put up a bloody and brutal fight, and no matter how many Jackson and his men incapacitated, more seemed to replace them, trickling out of the woods in a vicious stream.
And all Jackson could think about between each swing of his sword and punch of his fist and kick of his boot was Eloise. There were no churches or clocks in the woodland to mark the time, but he knew enough had passed for the doorway to close, taking her through it. She was gone, and it was all because of one man: the priest who had not yet bothered to show his face, likely waiting somewhere in the forest until it was safe for him to emerge.
Ye’ll be tied to one of yer own stakes for this,Jackson vowed, kicking the knee of a young man who could not have been older than six-and-ten. The man collapsed, but struggled to his feet again, refusing to stay down.
“Do ye have nae notion of who I am?” Jackson growled, grabbing the man—a boy, in truth—by the front of his leine.
The boy scowled back. “I ken ye’re a devil who consorts with witches!”
“I’m yer Laird,” Jackson spat, “and to attack me like this is treason! Do ye ken the punishment for treason?”
The boy sneered. “Whatever it might be, M’Laird, yer punishment will be far worse when ye reach the gates of Hell. Ye cannae harm me, M’Laird. I have me place in the Kingdom of Heaven already, fightin’ for what is righteous and good!”
“Are ye blind, ye fool?” Jackson wanted to shake the boy until sense prevailed. “Ye’ve been fed lies. Ye’ve been sold a promise that can only come true if ye live a good life, and that lass who just went through the forest has the sweetest soul of any man or woman I’ve met!”
A frown creased the boy’s brow, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “But… she’s a wicked sorceress, M’Laird. Father Hepburn told us so.”
“Father Hepburn is a liar,” Jackson raged on. “That lass isnae… wasnae a wicked sorceress. She was an author! A storyteller! As harmless as a butterfly! All the lasses that bloody priest lashes to the stake are innocent—at least all those I’ve saved from his clutches.”
Fire flared in the boy’s dark gaze. “Father Hepburn is nay a liar! Ye’ll be punished in Hell twice over for callin’ him so, and I’ll put ye there meself, even if it costs me me own life!”
Out of nowhere, the boy drew a dirk. Jackson saw it a moment too late, but he felt it keenly enough as it slid between his ribs. It was his own mistake, for it was never wise to let emotion cloud judgment in a fight, and Eloise had fogged his mind entirely.
“Ye… bloody fool!” Jackson growled, shoving the boy back as hard as he could. For good measure, he swung the flat of his blade against the side of the boy’s head, knocking him out.
Jackson’s hand flew to his wound, pressing down hard as Old Joan had taught him to. It did not appear to be deep, but it was bleeding profusely, and if the blade had hit his lung… then he did not have long before breath failed him. But his uncertain fate was not enough to halt the holy soldiers who kept coming.
He recognized a few of them from Falkernside. Samuel and John Walker—the sons of the old woman that had died in Jane McBride’s care. The farrier that came to the castle to tend to Claymore’s hooves, for Jackson did not trust anyone else with the task. The baker who sold the finest raspberry buns in all of Scotland. There were even a few women among the enemy horde, though they did not seem to know what to do with themselves.
“This is madness,” Jackson hissed, wincing at the blinding pain that shot up his left side.
Just then, Lennox wheeled back toward his Laird, evidently sensing that something was amiss. “Are ye well, M’Laird?”
“Dirk to the ribs,” Jackson replied, fighting for breath.
Lennox’s hand shot down. “Get up behind me. I’ll take ye back to the castle.”
“Nay,” Jackson insisted, lumbering forward with his broadsword gripped tightly in his hand. “I willnae flee from these people. These are me people, and it’s high time they remembered.”
Lennox kept pace with him as he continued on, heading for a glade in the woodland up ahead: the apparent source of the endless stream of holy soldiers. Meanwhile, Jackson’s other two men joined their Laird, forming a ‘V’ around him as he pushed on, refusing to fall and wither while that priest continued to spew his poison among Clan Faulkner.
The sight of the four weary and wounded warriors had a peculiar effect upon the thinned-out army of Father Hepburn’s followers: they followed at a strangely polite distance, though they did not set down their weapons. Perhaps, they thought they could renew the attack in the open space of the glade. Perhaps, they had already remembered what the price for killing their own Laird would be. And the blood staining the front of Jackson’s leine was a beacon of what had already been done.
“Where is he?” Jackson demanded to know, shambling across the tree line and into the oval glade.
Claymore’s farrier spoke up first. “Who?”
“Who do ye think?” Jackson retorted, huffing through his pain. “Where is Father Hepburn?”
Just as Jackson had suspected, the priest presented himself, slithering out of a concealed hole in the ground like the worm that he was. The wretch stood and dusted the soil from his cloak and finely woven, black robes, before casting a sly smile in Jackson’s direction.
“It is fruitless to wage war against the righteous, My Laird,” the priest said. “Ye’ve already shown which side ye wish to fight on, and there is nay hope for ye now, to save yer immortal soul.”
Jackson leaned on his sword for support, his chest on fire. “The girl is gone,” he announced hoarsely. “So, it’s yer presence here that is fruitless, Father. She is… far away, by now, and I say… good luck to all the women who… would seek to escape ye and yer wickedness.”
And goodbye to the one I love.
Father Hepburn sneered. “Ye would speak of her still, while yer life’s blood is pourin’ from ye?” He wagged a patronizing finger. “Witches always break men’s hearts and then leave them to perish.”
