Page 27 of Highlander’s Wrath

Consequences

Laird Barclay was eating dinner on his own when screams and shouts erupted from the great hall. Ever the man of action, he dropped his knife and ran to the side table where he always propped his sheathed sword before sitting down to eat.

When he ran into the hall, he saw Mistress Elliot, the housekeeper, lying prostrate at the castle entrance. Two guards stood on either side of Coira and were holding her arms. If they had not, the girl surely would have fallen on the floor and lain there beside the housekeeper. The sound of horses and the jingling of harnesses could be heard coming from the stables.

“What in the hell is going on?” he roared.

For a moment, all activity ceased as each man judged his chances of survival if he were the one to give Laird Barclay the news that his son was missing.

Fortunately, Mistress Elliot was too overwrought to consider how dangerous it was to tell the master about Colban. She stirred from her swoon and sat up, shuddering so hard the lace cap perched on top of her head nearly fell off.

“Aaaahhh! Me laird! Me laird! They took yer son! Colban has gone—gone! All is lost!”

The room seemed to spin around as Hamish took in this news. It was not possible...it could not be true. Someone must be lying.

“Where’s Colban? Who took him? Where’s me son!” His shout shook the rafters and wainscoting.

He took two long strides and grabbed Coira’s upper arm with one hand; the other hand rested on his sword hilt.

“Where’s me son? What have ye done with him? I’ll kill ye if he has been harmed!”

The two guards who had been supporting Coira tried to pry his lairdship’s hand off the governess’s arm. He was shaking the girl with such fury, her head was snapping back and forth.

“Nay, sir, let go. Let go! ‘Twas no’ the girl’s fault. One o’ the prisoners took Colban hostage after killing Miriam and the post rider. The post rider’s horse is gone, he must have took it! No one could have foreseen this or stopped such a desperate man. He must have had a knife. Believe us!”

Blind rage had made Laird Barclay lose his mind. His grip tightened so hard around Coira’s upper arm that his fingers could feel bone. “‘Twas she who encouraged me to let Colban outside to play!” He growled at her through bared, clenched teeth, “It was ye who stopped me from destroying those prisoners. This is your fault!” His voice blasted into her face, his pallor livid with anger.

He shook her from side to side like a poppet made of rags. If Coira had been fainting before, she was close to expiring from this harsh treatment. The world seemed to grow dim around her, and sparks of light popped in her eyes.

“Hamish! How dare ye! Unhand that woman now!” Father Abercromby roared so loudly, the souls in heaven would have been able to hear him.

Laird Barclay released Coira. She dropped to the floor, wheezing and gasping, clutching her arm and neck as though the hangman’s noose had just broken.

Father Abercromby stormed into the great hall, his vestments billowing out behind him like a vengeful angel’s wings.

“Shaking the lady half to death will no’ bring Colban back to us any faster, man! Use yer sense. Yer captain has ordered up a search party. Ye must leave immediately before the snow covers the man’s tracks. It’s been ascertained one of the prisoners took the post rider’s horse after killing him and this poor woman’s maid, Miriam. There’s no time to be lost.”

Hamish took a deep breath, already regretting his harsh actions. He still had so many questions to ask, but they could wait. The snow was falling thickly outside; if there was to be any hope of following the prisoner’s tracks, he must leave now. But not before he had given one last order.

“You!” he spoke gruffly to Coira. “Go up to yer bedchamber and wait there for my return.”

And on those words, he threw his plaid over his shoulders and strode out to the courtyard to where Lancer was waiting for him, already saddled.

The rest of the day, using what little light was left, was spent rounding up the rest of the prisoners. After being interrogated, the men revealed they had scattered after their companion had told them to run for their lives, claiming they would be blamed for the murders in equal measure. After a day outside in the freezing snow, the men seemed hugely relieved to be allowed back into the castle dungeons.

The sun, hidden as it was behind low, grey clouds, began to sink behind the mountains midway through the afternoon. By the time the kirk bell tolled to signify four hours past noon, it was almost dark.

When he heard it, Laird Barclay became frantic, imagining his son hungry and cold in some hidden lair. His despair was tangible as he urged Lancer hither and thither over the heath, searching the bleak landscape for some sign or footprint left in the snow. But the hounds found no scent once the trail led across a frozen burn, and after the pleading looks from some of the soldiers, Father Abercromby rode his mule over to where Laird Barclay knelt in the snow, staring at the ground as if he would find some indication lying there.

“Hamish, it’s time to return to the castle. Ye must think of yer men too. They have no’ eaten or supped a warming mouthful for half the day. If ye cannae look after yerself and yer men, who will continue the search tomorrow?”

It was as though the man had not spoken. Laird Barclay continued to stare at the snow, digging his hands into the freezing ice and sifting the flakes through frozen fingers, muttering, “Colban, where are ye?”

Father Abercromby dismounted and went to lift up Hamish gently, urging him to stand. When he had him back on his feet, he led him to Lancer as one would a child and then helped the laird into the saddle. For one moment, it looked as though the devastated man would not give his horse the office to start. Only after Father Abercromby had patted his arm and spoken encouraging words into his ear did Laird Barclay have the strength to ride home. The wind whistled as it swept down the mountain, carrying the voices of the dead with it.

Mistress Elliot made his lairdship a sleeping potion and administered it to the man, watching carefully to make sure he drank it off. His eyes drooped, and he fell back onto the pillows as Father Abercromby, and the housekeeper made him comfortable.

“That’s the most comfort he’ll be getting for many a day if we cannae discover the man’s whereabouts.” The clergyman sighed and then turned to the housekeeper. “Make sure ye have a good stock of that sleeping draught on hand, mistress. The laird is going to need it.” Then suddenly, his eyes brightened. “I’ve been racking me brain to think of a rathole to where the fugitive might flee. I wonder…”