The west highland chief cursed his stony expression revealing a rare glimpse of emotion. 'For once I wished our informants had been wrong.''
'As do I.''
They'd come as soon as they heard the first whisper of rumor that the English had retaliated against a village that had given the 'rebel's'' aid. Leaving their temporary base in the hills and forest 🌳 of GaIIoway, they'd raced the forty miles or so east through dumpries to Iochmaben . But they'd never had a chance to prevent the slaughter that had taken place here.
As soon as MacLean rejoined them,MacSon turned to him and his partner, Lamont. The two Guardsmen were among the handful of men who'd escaped the disaster at Loch Ryan and taken refuge here. 'No one could have foreseen this. This is not on you—either of you. Do you understand?''
His voice was hard and commanding, without a hit of compassion or reassurance. Lamont and MacLean were warriors; they understood orders not coddling.
Neither man responded for a moment. They exchanged a glance, and then Lamont gave a short nod , one that was mirrored a moment later by his partner.
'Good'' MacSon said . 'Then let us give the villagers a proper burial and return to the king to tell him what we found. But no doubt that what has been done here will be avenged.'' He turned to Maxwell. 'Gather the bodies and bring them here .'' They were standing in what had a been a village Kirk — identifiable by the scraps of the robe left on the body of a priest . 'The three of us will dig.''
Maxwell nodded and began the grim work of gathering the charred remains of the dead 💀.
Someone will come for me...
Carissa dreamer of knights from troubadour's tales. Of strong 💪, handsome warriors on white chargers with shimmering mail, colorful Tabards , and banners streaming in the wind as they in to rescue. Noble knights. Valiant knights. The knights of her childhood. The knights she'd once believed in. A knight like her father.
'My father is the greatest knight in Christendom!'' The boast she'd made when the other children teased her about being a bastard had only provided more fodder for them after he'd left.
'Where's the greatest knight in Christendom now, Carissa?'' they'd taunted.
Not here.
She woke with a start delirious with hunger and thirst, barely strong enough to unfurl from the ball that she'd been rolled in for God knew how long, at first the sound of voices confused 🤷♀️ her . She'd prayed so hard and for so long without response that when it finally came, just when she'd resigned herself to her fate , it seemed a cruel taunt of her imagination.
But then the voices grew stronger.Men's voices. Was it the English soldiers? Had they come back to torment her? To finish the what they'd started?
A fist 🤜 of irrational fear gripped her, and her Raw lips— which had parted to cry 😭 for help— clamped shut. But then she realized she had to take a Chance. If the men were friends, it might be her only chance of rescue. And if they were English...
Perhaps they would put her out of her misery.
She opened her mouth to cry for help , but in some kind of cruel, twisted irony, her voice strangled in her throat. Tears 😭 of desperation and frustration sprang to her eyes . She willed her voice to work with everything she had loeft, but it wasn't enough for more than a faint whisper. 'Help! Please, help me .'' She started to cry at the futility, precious fluid rolling down her cheeks. 'Help me!'' It was louder this time. Not much, but enough to give her encouragement. She sat up a little straighter, looked up through the tunnel of light and tried again. And again.
Her efforts were awarded by a shout, a voice that seemed to be coming closer to her. 'I think someone is down there .''
It wasn't her imagination. She cried out again , sobbing with both hope and fear. Don't go. . . please don't go! I'm here.
With a burst of energy, she wobbled to a stand , using the mossy stones of the wall to help keep her upright. She looked up as a shadow crossed over her head . A man's face appeared above her, peering down.
She gasped. Blinked. Felt her knees grow wobbly— and not from exhaustion or starvation.
From his face. The most perfect 👌 she'd ever seen .
Sunlight blazed behind him like a halo, bathing his tawny hair in golden light. His nose was straight and strong;his jaw firm, lightly clefted , and not too square; his cheeks high and sculpted; and his mouth 👄 was wide and full of sin. His eyes 👀 were light in color— blue or green, she could not tell—set below brows arched Like the wings of a raven. There wasn't one part of him, not one bone or one inch of golden skin ,that had not been put in exactly the right position.
Dear Lord, he wasn't a man, he was an angel.
And that meant. . .
I'm in heaven.
It was her last thought as the ground rose under her feet.