Shadows in the Mists

The smell of smoke wafted gently through the trees causing a deep feral growl to rumble through his chest. He cocked his head to one side and listened, but knew that he was too late. He eased up to the edge of the forest and knelt in the underbrush as he looked out across the glen to the skeletal remains of the wee cottage and the dead livestock scattered about. The cottage showed no signs of life.

He sighed heavily, eased from cover and slowly made his way toward the cottage, his heart heavy with sorrow, fists clenched in rage.

Since the debacle at Culloden, that demon of a man Cumberland had been systematically killing and raping the highlands, slowly turning it into a green desert.

He wasn’t sure if he would be able to make a difference, but by God somebody was going to pay for this wanton slaughter and these depravities.

History will probably not record the atrocities following the defeat of Charlie’s army of 5000 hard-bitten highlanders by Cumberland’s 9000. History tends to favor the victor.

He winced and unconsciously allowed his hand to drift up to his now healed shoulder at the thought of the thunderous booming of the massed artillery and steady lines of riflemen during that last wild charge. His wounds had since healed but his heart never would. It had been swallowed by the blackness of despair and sorrow as he had watched his fellow highlanders, friends and family slaughtered wholesale on that cold April morn.

Shaking his head to clear those horrible visions as he cautiously moved toward the burned out farmhouse. His eyes narrowed as the sound of snoring came to his ear. He reached up and filled his hands with two of the pistols hanging from the brace along his shoulder.

Quietly slipping up to the house, his back to the wall, pistols raised, he stepped into the doorway and leveled the pistols ready to fire. Quickly surveying the destruction inside, his eyes came to rest on a red coated soldier snoring away in a chair next to the hearth. His fingers tightened on the triggers, his eyes flashed with malice but then slowly relaxed the tension and lowered the barrels.

He stepped quietly into the room and moved to the bed where the nude form of a middle- aged woman lay sprawled. He ground his teeth as he could tell by her waxy pallor that she was dead, and slowly covered the woman with a crumpled blanket from the floor in an attempt to restore some of the her dignity. Thinking back to the night when Mary’s wee farm had been laid waste by Cumberland’s men, then turned back to the sleeping soldier.

Grabbing a scorched chair, he placed it gingerly in front of the redcoat whose hand now sleepily brushed at his nose. Sitting slowly, he casually lay a pistol across his lap but kept the barrel of the other trained on the sleeper as he stretched out his foot and tipped the chair back causing the soldier to crash to the debris strewn about the floor.

The redcoat jumped with a roar then came to an abrupt halt when he found himself face to face with the feral grin of the highlander and the leveled pistol. His eyes darted to the musket leaning against the small hearth then slowly started to reach for the knife at his back.

The highlander’s eyes hardened and held up a finger in an “ah, ah, ah”, motion.

The soldier relaxed and resigned himself to being a prisoner for the time being.

“Where are the others frae yer bunch?” the highlander growled.

The soldier just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

His eyes narrowed as he regarded the soldier suspiciously. “Ye are entirely too calm fer aine in yer position. That tells me that they are no’ far off, or ye’ve a camp nearby.”

The soldier just shrugged again and was about to resolve himself to waiting on a patrol when he heard the hammer of the flintlock click back. “Lord Marcum’s regiment is based in the town of Holywell just south of here!” He gobbled. “We were on a patrol to find and arrest any and all Jacobite sympathisers, and she was a Jacobite.” He quavered and held up a bit of tartan, patterned for the Jacobite cause.

The highlander exploded onto his feet and pressed the pistol’s muzzle against the soldier’s eye. “Aye, and she wis such a fierce warrior and enemy that ye saw fit t’ rape and kill her?” He snarled. “Well, she certainly deserves better than this. So, ye are going to see that she gets a proper burial!”

It was well into afternoon when the soldier had finished the grave and had lain the poor women in the earth. As the last stone was placed atop the wee cairn, the highlander bowed his head and whispered a silent prayer then looked up at the soldier whose eyes were darting to and fro looking for a possible escape.

Slate grey eyes filled with tears as he growled at the soldier, “I intend to see that justice for this poor woman is meted oot. But, we both know what will happen if ye are taken to the authorities so that just leaves me.” With that he snapped the pistol up and fired a ball point blank into the soldier’s stomach.

The stunned redcoat collapsed to the ground, clutching at the wound, and pleading for his life.

Raising another pistol he said in a matter of fact tone “That wis for the crime of killing those who hadnae raised arms against ye.” Suddenly the second pistol barked, firing a round into the wounded man’s groin.

The soldier screamed and writhed in agony.

“That was t’ make sure ye dinnae use that on any mair innocents in the hereafter.” Pulling a third pistol from the brace he said. “Now, because I am not heartless and I know ye widnae want t’ live withoot yer manhood.” He squeezed the trigger firing the shot though the soldiers open mouth.

The back of the soldier’s head erupted in a spray of blood and brains, spattering the cairn of his victim as the shot echoed away through the glen. Casually reloading the pistols and replacing them on the brace he looked toward the south and in a whispered growl spoke into the chill wind “Ye’re next, Laird Marcum.”

It had been almost a fortnight since he arrived in Holywell and taken on as assistant to the blacksmith. Holywell was a quaint little village that had been spared the ravages of years of warfare. This was due in large part to the mayor and elders paying a ransom to whichever side held sway at the time. The whitewashed walls of the shops and homes on the high street spoke of money. It straddled the crossroads between the western highlands and lowlands and enjoyed a fair amount of trade. Its market was known far and wide, drawing people in from the farthest reaches of the county. The market was more like a fair at times, goods and wares of every sort were available, for a price.

It had been two bloody backbreaking weeks and still no sign of Lord Marcum. Rumor had it that he was away south conferring with the Duke of Cumberland. He was becoming anxious, especially with so many of those that had killed his kin milling about the town. There were times that he had wanted to let his rage loose and kill these Redcoats in their barracks but knew that he would be cut down before he could ever hope to get them all. Hefting another load of firewood for the smithy, he made his way along the muddy track glancing over sadly at the figures swaying in the breeze from the old oak at the edge of the village. It’s branches loaded down with corpses of men and women whose only crime was to have been born Scottish.

A contingent of cavalry preceded an elegant six-horse coach as it thundered into the high street. Townspeople scattered in all directions as it had been learned the hard way that the coach did not stop for pedestrians. The cavalry and coach did not stop for anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path.

He walked along close to the buildings, his eyes never leaving the coach as it slowed to a stop in front of the town hall. Inside was one of the butchers who had been meting out “justice” to his people. His attention was so focused that he only caught a flash of finery and lace before he crashed headlong into her.

There on the ground before him was an extremely beautiful woman, a lady of means by the look of her attire. However at the moment her mud spattered face was livid with rage.

“How dare you lay hands upon my person!.” She shrieked.

His eyes went wide at her accusation as he looked down at the bundle of wood still in his arms. Hands grabbed him roughly from behind and he felt the cold kiss of steel at his neck. His eyes flashed with a hint of silver and a low growl rumbled through his chest as his muscles and tendons tightened readying to defend himself.

Just then the rotund Lord Marcum appeared surrounded by his bodyguard of soldiers. “Kill the insolent swine.” He lisped with a casual wave of his hand while he leaned down to help the lady to her feet.

The hands tightened around him as he readied himself for the leap at Lord Marcum’s throat when the sound of the woman’s voice sounded “STOP! I want him alive. I want him to work off the cost of this dress he just ruined, as a lesson to him and others that would think to treat their betters so casually. Then hang him.”

Lord Marcum clapped his hands gleefully and chuckled, “Oh My dear Lady Ashford, you have such a clever mind.” Marcum turned to the troops holding the highlander and waved his hand “Take him away and put him in chains until I can devise a suitable task for him to perform. In the meantime insure he requites himself for his folly.”

He felt the dull thud of the club at the back of his skull but no pain, only darkness. The pain would come later.

A splash of cold water shocked him awake. “On your feet, scum” Barked a particularly rough looking sergeant. He spat out bits of straw and attempted to sit up, looked down and saw the manacles about his hands and feet and felt the collar chaining him to the wall. Suddenly a boot slammed into his stomach with brutal force, knocking the wind from him. If there had been anything in his stomach he certainly would have added it to the filthy straw strewn about the floor of the cell.

“That wasn’t a request!” and the soldiers boot slammed into him again. He could do naught at the moment but curl up in a fetal position and weather the beating. Again and again the boot slammed into him. Luckily he did not hear the tell tale snap of bones, but he would feel the bruises for days.

There was a sharp jerk as someone yanked the chain to the collar, snapping his head up and cutting off his air supply as he was hauled to his feet. He swayed on unsteady legs he slowly looked up into the malevolent eyes of the sergeant.

“Rule number one! Never look your betters in the eye!” He caught the flash of movement and felt the sharp impact of the jailer’s fist along side his head, the jarring impact caused him to fall to a knee.

“I said on your feet!” Again the chain was jerked and he was hauled roughly back to his feet. Keeping his eyes lowered, he braced himself for the next blow.

“See? I told you it would finally seep through his thick Scottish skull.” The sergeant chuckled to the other two soldiers. “Right, her ladyship has a little task for you, mucking out the horse stalls.” Hands shoved him roughly forward as his feet shuffled quickly to keep his balance, restricted by the length of chain between his ankles.

The morning sky was gray and overcast when he stumbled up out of the basement jail, but it caused him to squint nonetheless. The soldier who had hold of the chain jerked sharply every third step or so, jerks so hard that a lesser man might have had his neck snapped by the violence of them.

As they entered the high street, he noticed the Lady at the root of his misery standing in the doorway of Marcum’s headquarters with a smirk on her face. His eyes hardened but he looked down at his shambling feet as he felt the chain tighten again. The soldier chuckled as they passed the smithy’s.

“Look there, once you’ve finished all your appointed tasks we’ve a spot all picked out for you.” Chortled the sergeant.

Looking up he saw the empty noose swaying from one of the branches of the oak tree between two rotting bodies.

He was prodded into the stables with a club then pushed suddenly into an open stall, to land heavily in the stinking muck. Gritting his teeth he slowly got back to his feet and looked around. “Whit aboot a fork?” He growled.

“Oh no, no fork. You’ll be using your hands. The Lady Ashford was very specific on that point” the soldier snickered.

The sun had begun to set when he finished the last stall. He stood slowly, hearing the creak of his joints and back. He was covered in muck, but the good thing about it was that he smelled so bad that it kept them from jerking the chain as it tended to bring him within smelling distance.

As he shuffled from the last stall and into the evening air he heard the sultry voice of Lady Ashford. “Have that filth cleaned, I have another chore for him.” He glanced up wearily before he realized his mistake. The sudden blow from the club to the back of his legs dropped him to his knees. He grabbed at the sergeant’s belt to keep from falling on his face, only to feel the club slam into his shoulder. “Rule number one, scum!”

He heard the soft tinkling of her laugh as he gritted his teeth through the pain. His eyes smoldered with rage as he silently vowed to make her pay for this inhuman treatment. This woman seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in seeing others suffer.

Chains clanking and clinking, he slowly, painfully regained his feet, eyes cast downward he mumbled in a voice dripping with sarcasm “Ma apologies….m’lady.”

She turned and regarded him coolly then turned up her nose at his offensive odor then spun about in a whirl of skirts and headed toward Lord Marcum’s headquarters. The headquarters were actually lavishly appointed apartments that had belonged to the local mayor until the English arrived to commandeer it and most of the young women of the town.

The sergeant prodded him roughly in the back “You heard the lady. I am to make sure you are cleaned up, move it!” Shuffling off as best he could with the hobbling chains restricting his movement he headed in the direction of the stream.

Soon standing on the banks of the rushing stream he turned and held out his manacled hands to the guard.

The sergeant just laughed and placed his booted foot against the prisoner’s behind and shoved, sending him headlong into the icy cold stream. “Nice try, but those chains stay on until we cut you down from the gibbet in three or four months.”

Sucking in great gasps of air at the shock of the cold, he turned and looked at the sergeant whispering, “Oh, I think it will be a bit sooner than that.”

A quarter of an hour later he was standing in the antechamber of a third floor apartment, he could not help but stare at the finely crafted oak paneling and tapestries. The two guards tightened their grip on his arms as the sergeant knocked sharply on the ornately carved door.

After a moment it opened to reveal the Lady Ashford. She looked over at the prisoner then stepped out of the room and walked slowly around him as if inspecting livestock. “He cleans up rather well don’t you think Sergeant? He almost looks presentable.” She said with a smirk on her bright red lips.

“Um…Yes m’lady, I suppose he does.” Replied the sergeant nervously.

She turned and stepped back to the door of the apartment “You men may go about your business.” She said curtly.

Shocked, the sergeant replied “But m’lady, this man is a prisoner and potentially dangerous!”

She regarded the sergeant a moment then said, “I suppose you are right.” Stepping forward and with a deft flick of her hand a small dagger appeared in her palm, which she quickly lay against the prisoner’s neck. “I have a feeling he will behave himself, otherwise.” She let the sentence trail off shrugging her shoulders and whipping the blade away quickly, smiling as she saw the wince of pain on the prisoner’s face as a thin scarlet line appeared upon the side of his neck.

The sergeant sighed heavily and turned to the other two guards “Alright boys, let’s go.” Stopping at the antechamber door he turned and said “My lady, I will post a man outside this door just in case.” She nodded and waved a dismissing hand as she eyed the prisoner. The sergeant bowed and stepped out closing the door of the antechamber quietly behind him.

Motioning with a come hither finger and a seductive smile she stepped into her apartment and waited for the prisoner to shuffle in then closed the door to her apartment behind him. Slowly walking around him again she reached up and slipped his ragged tartan from his shoulder then with a slender finger poked at the almost healed bruises on his torso.

“My but you are a tough one, for I know the sergeant is not a kind man but you look hardly the worse for wear. Good, this pleases me greatly.” She said in a low sultry voice.

He kept his eyes level and ahead of him, taking in the size of the room and it’s furnishings. This one room was bigger than the cottage he grew up in. The finery and riches were absolutely beautiful. It was obvious that someone had been pillaging the local manors and castles as some of the items though lovely, were definitely out of place. Which is exactly what he was feeling. To him, these were cramped confines for someone used to the open glens and lofty mountains.

She stepped away from him and into the middle of the room facing away, innocently crossed her hands behind her back and casually nodded toward the wooden bathtub near the hearth. “I want you to fill that and let me warn you, there had better not be a drop of water spilled on that carpet. I would hate to have to call the sergeant back so soon.” She said pleasantly.

He glanced over at the kettle over the fire and the tub, noting there was no bucket with which to draw the water. Then looked at her sideways knowing she wanted him to not only spill the water but scald himself in the process. “Aye” he thought. This woman takes great pleasure in the misery of others. Shuffling toward the hearth he wondered how a woman of such beauty could be given to such cruelty. Stopping before the hearth he looked from the tub to the kettle again then reached down and grabbed the tub and carried it to the hearth. He positioned it so that it was almost under the kettle then swung his manacle chains over the kettle, catching a link on a molded hook on the far side if the kettle rim. Pulling gently he tipped the kettle so that the steaming water poured directly into the tub. Once it was half full he relaxed the tension on the chains and then carefully pulled the tub away from the fireplace, positioning it in the center of the flagstones before the hearth. Turning back to the kettle again he used his manacle chain to fit over the hook and lifted the entire kettle from the fire. Moving slowly he sat the kettle on the edge of the tub, tipping it carefully and pouring in the remaining water. The steam rising from the tub choked him and snatched at his breath as it threatened to blister his chest but he was able to bear it.

“Bravo, Bravo clever man!” she stated merrily as she clapped her hands together slowly. “I thought sure you would be moaning in pain by now.” She laughed. “But I do not remember asking to have the tub moved.” She stated in a thoughtful tone as she placed a slender finger to her cheek

Realizing her game he stated softly “I thought that having the tub nearer the hearth would keep the night chill off ye m’lady.” As he waited for her to call for the guards he noted the wardrobe was slightly ajar, as if there were something behind it. A small smile came to his lips as he realized it to be a passage into the next apartment, more likely than not Lord Marcum’s. His eyes flashed with a hint of silver. He would bide his time, but tonight Lord Marcum would draw his last breath.