Enchanted by The Lord (Historical Victorian Romance) (18 page)

              But just as it had seemed Donald of Islay was on the edge of destroying Aberdeen as he’d promised, the Highlanders were now facing a tough battle in a little place called Harlaw. The bodies, body parts, and blood ruined the field, making the place look less green and more red.

              He felt miserable. Fingall had no desire to sack and destroy Aberdeen, a place he’d never laid eyes on. The killing was nothing more than a necessary evil, the requirement of serving his clan and protecting his kin. Had his voice been heard in such matters, the entire village would have stayed home, limiting war to actual attacks on their lands. The great lords quarrelled over land that rightly belonged to the clans solely for greed. They didn’t work the land; they didn’t appreciate hard work and an honest living.

              None of that mattered on the field of battle, though. His first duty was to his kin, his second to walking away as unscathed as possible. That was all that mattered.

              “Dhugall!” He shouted to his brother across the distance between them once again. The man had been scanning the field for enemies a short distance away, but ran to Fingall when he was called.

              “Aye, brother?”

              “Take Keddy and Tavish and look for the McIntoshs.” He said, mentioning a pair of decent fighters.

              His brother looked confused by the instruction, but had always listened to Fingall in battle as he would a superior. All of the village did. “Surely they’ve fallen. Are you sure?”

              “We need every man to defend this position. The enemy is regrouping. Hurry! Hurry back!”

              Dhugall did as he was bid. Fingall ran over to Mártainn. “Your head isn’t broken, is it?”

              “They’ll have to hit this old skull a lot harder to get the better of me, Fingall MacAllarran!” He had a good-natured grin plastered to his face. He was clearly enjoying the battle.

              “Fingall! They’re coming this way!” A man called out. Fingall looked over just in time to see the man warning him felled by a thrown axe.

              Without having to utter a word, Fingall and his kin were in position on the front line of the battle and bashing Albany’s men into surrender. The battle was pitched between the fighters and as he squared off against a particularly large, foul-smelling man, Fingall felt his remaining strength waning. Still, he and his men managed to best the offense and he killed his opponent with a desperate lunge, cutting the man off at the legs.. He tried looking about for his brother, but didn’t spot him. He apparently hadn’t returned yet.

              What he did see, though, was the center of the wedge representing the Highland forces, retreating. As the tactical retreat sped up, he was given orders to withdraw as well.

              Some of the men of the village were unhappy with the decision, but he wasn’t in any mood to argue. Even had he wanted to remain, it would have been pointless with the rest of the force withdrawing. They’d have been quickly overrun.

              “Go! Pull back!” He shouted, and at his word they did as he said. The force pulled away and he could hear Albany and Mar’s men cheering. There weren’t enough to pursue and do serious damage, though they did try to harass them. Fingall saw a man he’d known since childhood struck in the back by an arrow, falling in a heap before him. He had to leap to avoid tripping over the body.

              It was a long, difficult retreat. Eventually, the remaining forces pulled away to a distance that leaders felt to be appropriate. For every 10 men that had been among them, at least one had died- possibly. Maybe less than that, Fingall thought. But at the same time, he was quite certain he’d seen far more of the enemy die. The retreat, to his mind, seemed tactically bizarre. It was as though Donald of Islay had suddenly lost all appetite for fighting.

              When the last of the stragglers had arrived, Fingall called for the survivors to account for themselves. When he saw his kin and neighbors gathered, he felt a rising sense of alarm.

              “Has anyone seen Dhugall? Tavish? Keddy? Where have they gone?”

              None could speak up. Embarrassed looks passed among the men.

              There could be little doubt, but Fingall couldn’t accept it. “He’s here. They have to be here.”

              “Fingall, there are thousands among us. We can search the camp.” Mártainn suggested.

              Searchers were sent out to inquire among the camp. A man came back with them.

              “I saw the men as described.” He explained. “They approached a pair of men who had fought Albany with our group, and I took them to be our own. But they may not have recognized who they were, for the pair- they looked so much alike, I thought them to be brothers- for they turned and slew two of the men on sight. The third man, the red-haired man, fought ably. He managed to slay one of the men, but the other killed him. I wondered on it, but we were so caught up in the fight with the enemy, there was nothing to be done. I don’t know what became of the survivor.” Further description confirmed that the surviving McIntosh was Colin.

              Fingall fell to his knees when told this, dropping his axe before him. He did not weep, nor did he look up.

              “Everything is lost.” He was silent for a long time as the men around him wondered on his words. But deeper and with more conviction, he added, “I will avenge you, though Dhugall. And I will live the life you wanted for me… for us both.”

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              In the aftermath of the battle, Donald of Islay simply returned to the his holdings and surrendered his claims. It didn’t matter to Fingall or the people of Bodhuvan. They had their losses to count among them. Families would have to cope with their losses and move on.

              For Fingall, that had meant he’d immediately become the head of Dhugall’s family. He’d seen to it that the fallen had all been brought home for burial, excepting Colin McIntosh’s brother. Once their betrayal had come to light, it had been agreed to leave him to the crows.

              Fingall spent his days caring for the cattle, and he had more than ever. All of McIntosh’s stock and property was awarded to Murron for her and the children, by agreement of the village elders. It also meant Fingall was doing the tasks that had fallen to Dhugall before. He spent far more time than usual around his young niece and nephew, and he tried to take all of his meals at the Dhugall’s cottage. It also meant he was seeing far more of Jocelyn.

              Initially, their mutual interest had been dimmed, seeming improper in light of Murron’s and the children’s loss. After Dhugall’s body had been properly buried, weeks went by. There was no question of Jocelyn leaving. At the same time, the warmth between Fingall and Jocelyn grew, gradually at first, then stronger so that no one could miss it.

              “You’ll need to marry her, and soon, you realize.” Mártainn had reminded him. It was their first fishing they’d tried together since Dhugall had passed. Mártainn’s own war wounds had healed almost fully. Some remarked that he seemed a bit slower in his memory for a time after, but eventually even that returned to its old strength.

              “I know it. But I’m so busy taking care of Murron and the children.”

              “No one says you need be there for them at all times. You are doing honorably in caring for them, but Murron is a strong woman. She will remarry, never fear it. There are some who would court her, when the proper mourning period has been decided to have ended.”

              “It’s not over yet.” Fingall declared, knowing it was for him to decide. He thought it strange that he should have such control and say over his sister-in-law’s life, but such things were never questioned in the clan. He had once said as much to Murron in happier days, that he wondered that women did so much for men. She’d laughed at it.

              “If we didn’t do this work, you men would be helpless children living in your own filth. I am amazed you manage to clean up after yourself on your own at all. Though, I confess I’ve never understood why you don’t even attempt to learn these skills!”

              “I do well enough.” He’d claimed, and it had been true. But Murron hadn’t objected and now that he was the man of the family, he found the unexpected responsibility to be a burden; one he would try to shoulder honorably and without complaint.

              Turning away from his memory and returning to his conversation with Mártainn, he informed him, “It’s not over and won’t be until Colin McIntosh lies dead in the ground. On that she and I agree.” He told the blacksmith.

              “And how will you do that? He could have gone anywhere.”

              “Word has gone through the clans. He is known for his deeds now. Word is to be sent to me if he is seen. If that is so, I will find him and challenge him. Justice will be done.”

              Mártainn shook his head, disbelieving. “You sound certain. Men like McIntosh don’t necessarily abide by the ancient customs of honor. I would be wary of his possible treachery.”

              “And so I shall.” He agreed.

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              As time went by, it became clearer that the large amount of space in Fingall’s home was a better place for the family. As it became clear that Murron and her children were very dependent on him and he had no intentions of marrying his sister-in-law, he made a decision one night.

              “Murron. You’ll mourn no more.” He told her after a day of hard labor caring for the cattle. The lands he was responsible for were too much for him; he’d enlisted his nephew and another kinsman to help with care of the cattle.

              She had been cleaning the house and looked up from her work. “I thought it was your intention to wait until my husband had been avenged.” She said cooly.

              Fingall sighed. “One day, and there can be no doubt in this, I will see McIntosh dead. But you have a life to live, two children to raise. You need to be free to take a husband again.”

              “You don’t stake your claim upon me?” She checked.

              “You know I think of you as a sister.” He noted.

              “I know, and glad I am of it. Well- I’ll remind you that there’s one not far from us who has waited too long for your attentions.”

              He nodded. “I know it. You’re her only kin. Will you object to my asking to marry her?”

              Murron put both hands on her hips and laughed heartily. “Object to this match? As close as the two of you have become, I insist! It’s borders on unseemly, how you two carry on- and don’t carry on. Get married, finally!”

              It was true. Wherever Fingall was, whatever work he was at, Jocelyn was at his side. They’d long since given up on traditional male and female work between the two. There was too much that needed to be done, and as she liked to say, she preferred to be useful. In the process, the flirtations between them were noted by all, to such an extent that it was the talk of the town as to when the pair would finally make it official.

              He sighed with relief. Not that he expected opposition, but there was no way to be absolutely sure. “I’m going back to your old house to bring some things over. I’ll talk to Jocelyn on the way.”

              “A good plan. Off you go, then!”

              Jocelyn was in one of the out buildings, preparing feed for the cattle. He told her his plan to bring some of Dhugall’s family’s things over to the house, and she readily agreed.

              As they approached the door, he looked up at the building. “Eventually, I should likely tear this down. Use it the boards for something else around the farm.”

              “So you don’t plan to see us move in here?” She said with a twinkle in her eye.

              “How do you know I’ll be asking you to marry?” He teased, opening the door. Before she could answer, a bolt was buried deep within his right bicep.