Highland Soldiers: The Enemy
SOLDIERS
Book 1: The Enemy
J.L. Jarvis
HIGHLAND
SOLDIERS
Book 1: The Enemy
J.L. Jarvis
Copyright © 2012
All Rights Reserved.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Dunross, Scotland, June 15, 1679
Marion wore only her shift and bare feet. They had taken the rest. With nothing to confine them, her dark chestnut waves tumbled over her shoulders. The beadle sent her on her way with a prod of his beefy fingers. She fixed her eyes forward and walked down the makeshift aisle in the barn that served as kirk for today’s secret meeting. Whispers wafted in waves as she passed by each row of parishioners and pressed toward her goal. On she proceeded past a grim gauntlet of narrow-eyed elders to arrive at the stool of repentance. It was oaken and plain, with a hole in the middle. A commode, it was meant to inflict shame. She sat on it and folded her trembling hands on her lap. Her bare feet were flat on the ground, and she pressed her knees close together. Her moss green eyes drifted over the congregation. Skin like cream and full lips of a muted rose hue softened the dread from her features to her detriment. She appeared almost untroubled, which would only inflame the kirk elders as they meted out accusations and determined her punishment.
Steps away stood the minister, a lanky man with keen eyes that could shrivel a soul. His stentorian scolding rang out through the barn, where a few dozen people sat on folding stools watching.
“Marion McEwan, you are charged with engaging in the sinful act of fornication. Confess and repent of your wickedness before this assembly now. Name your partner in sin so he might likewise be brought to justice.”
Her gaze drifted toward him, but lips never parted to break the long silence.
“Speak or suffer the wages of sin. It is your choice. No one else can save you,” he said, with an edge that grated through his tone.
When no answer came forth, his wrath simmered. “Marion McEwan, hear me now. Confess your sin! Repent before God against whom you have transgressed or be cast out from this congregation!”
The minister’s indignation rang into the heavy oak rafters. “Fall down before God. Show your tears of remorse! Name your partner in sin that he might share your utter disgrace and plead for deliverance from the fires of hell!”
Still she offered no words of repentance, nor a name of the father. A gust from the moor blew out the candle she held in her hand.
Suddenly quiet and measured, the minister’s voice intoned his contempt, rising and falling with well-practiced effect. “Are you so shameless and prideful to think you can raise this wee one with no father and no kirk? Will you wallow in your blasphemous ways rather than swallow your pride? We can have you imprisoned, and when you are released, you will be an outcast! Do you hear me? Cast out from your kirk and your kinsmen! Your only hope is confession. Repent now and be delivered from—”
The minister stopped mid-rebuke as a shadow eclipsed the main source of light coming in through the doorway. Before muskets could be raised, a fierce Highland dragoon strode in. Hair, dark and wild as his mood, was lashed back, but the wind caught loose waves. A daunting form, he was draped in plaid colors of earth, dried bracken and heather. Powerful legs took him in a few strides to the minister, who found his chin caught in the crook of the Highlander’s elbow as if in a vise. Fear-numbed faces looked on. A handful of parishioners by the back wall lifted their muskets, but lowered them as three more kilted men appeared in the doorway with doglock pistols aimed at them. The Highlander whirled about and took stock. Satisfied that his men had matters under control, he pressed a pistol to the minister’s temple. One man rose from behind and lunged at the Highlander. He was dispatched with a sharp backward jab of his elbow.
“Blinking eejit! Are there any more fools here?” The Highlander brandished his pistol. “Look outside. Do you see the rest of my men at the top of that brae?”
Heads turned toward the doorway. The setting sun blazed from over the brae. “If these lads and I dinnae join them soon, they will thunder down here and strike down all who dare hinder us.” Confident he had secured their attention, he went on with chilling calm. “Let us leave, and I will neither kill nor report you for this illegal meeting today. But stand in my way and the whole Highland Host will descend and hunt down every man Jack of you.”
His eyes met those of the minister’s son, and he allowed himself a brief moment to burn his scorn into the man’s onyx eyes. He was tempted to pummel the scoundrel, but not today. He would leave this one to the vengeance of God or, better yet, to the sorry lout’s wife.
Sweat beaded the minister’s forehead as the Highlander shoved him toward the stool of repentance. Marion watched, her face now drained of color.
“Kneel,” he ordered the minister. As he did, the Highlander kicked his feet out from beneath him, making him fall face first into a pasty of cow dung and hay. A noise from the back caught the Highlander’s attention. With a sudden pivot, a flash from a musket caught his eye just as one of his men returned fire with his pistol. The musket shooter clutched at his grazed arm and watched his blood darken his sleeve as he slid his back down the wall in a faint.
As the Highlander wielded his pistol to keep other foolishly brave souls at bay, he cast a quick glance at Marion McEwan and his deep brown eyes softened. “Come, lass.” He held out a strong hand and she took it. While rising she faltered. With a sure grip, he steadied and guided her up to his side while he took in her unsteady state.
Without warning, the Highlander stomped his heel on the minister’s hand, which had inched its way down to his belt and grasped a knife hilt. The Highlander relieved the reverend of his knife and, with an easy yank, pulled the offending hand onto the stool. With a shuddering stab, he pinned the minister’s sleeve to the seat of the stool of repentance.
Marion’s eyes drifted half closed as she swayed. The Highlander circled her waist with his arm as the burnt-out candlestick fell from her limp hand. “Steady, lass,” he said as he tightened his grip.
With a weak glance up to him, she whispered, “I’m fair done.”
Shoving his pistol into his belt, he scooped her up into his brawny arms. Warmth softened his eyes as he looked at her, even as his jaw tightened. Now livid, he strode toward the door with a few well-placed dark glares that forbade any to stop him. “Shoot me and you’ll shoot her as well,” he said, casting the words over his shoulder with conviction and measured haste. Once outside, he hoisted her onto his large gray drum horse, and then mounted behind her. His men backed away, pistols pointed, then mounted their horses in a run as they all galloped off toward the brae. Soon they were but silhouettes against the last remnants of the day’s sun.
*
The minister finished wiping the dung from his face and returned the handkerchief to its owner.
“Someone do something!” said a man who showed no signs of moving himself.
“Dinnae be daft,” said the reverend with biting impatience.
“We should follow!” said another.
“And do what—complain to the authorities that our illegal worship meeting was interrupted by the king’s royal dragoons? He has the law on his side. And as long as we meet against the law like this—outside of the kirks that were taken from us—we can do nothing!”
Thomas settled his shaken new bride in a stool, and then turned his attention to the men’s discussion. “We were fortunate, aye? They could have killed every one of us on the spot and been thanked by the crown for their service.” His words were met with spontaneous nods of agreement, for while he was an accomplished student of St. Andrews University and therefore deemed worth their attention, he was also the minister’s son.
“Right you are, Thomas,” said the Reverend Blackwell.
“We should not act in haste,” his son added.
“Thomas is right,” said an Elder. “‘Sufficient unto today is the evil thereof.’ Better we rally and fight for freedom another day!”
“And what if it were your daughter spirited away? Would you just let her go?” said Margaret McEwan, the young woman’s mother.
“Whisht, Margaret,” said her husband, Archie, in a low voice. Discreetly, he gripped her arm.
Thomas said, “She brought it upon herself—and on us.”
“How so?” asked her father as he leapt to his feet. Now it was Margaret who clutched Archie’s arm to restrain him.
The minister said, “One has to wonder why the whole Highland Host has descended upon us for one girl.”
“The whole Highland Host?” said her mother. Mouth agape, Margaret looked first to him, then her husband.
The reverend ignored her interruption and continued, “Highland barbarians came seeking your daughter. What has she done to draw such interest, I wonder?” He gave her a knowing look.
“Och!” Margaret fumed and opened her mouth to protest, but Archie tightened his grip on his wife’s arm. She closed her mouth and looked down to the ground to conceal her anger.
Reverend Blackwell studied her with sharp eyes. “It’s clear now where your daughter gets her rebellious spirit. Hold your tongue, Mistress McEwan, or you will find yourself taking your daughter’s place on the stool of repentance.”
Margaret took in a sharp breath to reply, but Archie’s quiet, throaty grunt cautioned her to hold back her rage.
Having dispatched his authority, Reverend Blackwell continued, “Thomas is right. Marion brought this upon herself by consorting with those savage Highlanders. Ah well, we ken who the father is now, do we not? My only surprise is that he came to claim the wee bastard and its mother.”
Several of the men nodded.
Archie quietly asked, “Can we not send a party to search for my daughter?”
The reverend shook his head. “The wages of sin have been paid on this day. I’ll not stand in the way of God’s judgment.”
With a sideways glance toward her husband, Margaret whispered through tight lips, “Archie, you’d best take me home before I say what I’m thinking.”
*
As they rode from the kirk, Marion turned and looked over the Highlander’s shoulder to see whether anyone followed.
He said, “Dinnae look back, lass. ‘Tis bad luck.”
“Aye? Well my luck could not get any worse.” Had she been stronger, she might have laughed, but instead she leaned wearily back against the Highlander’s solid chest, secure in the strong arms that held her.