Authors: Bertrice Small
Adair yanked her mind back to the present as she rode into Stanton village. She directed her horse to the village fountain and well, watering him as she stood among the group of shocked women, who had never
imagined to see a woman a-horse ride into their midst.
Then, with a small, friendly smile, she said in a quiet voice, “I am Adair Radcliffe, the lady of Stanton. Come with me and I will set you free.” She did not wait for a reply, but, turning her horse about, she headed down the road and out of the village. And behind her most of the women followed her. The few who did not stood for several long moments as if they had been turned to stone.
But as the group of women disappeared from their sight and they saw the horsemen galloping down the hillside, the three women who had not been able to make up their minds picked up their skirts and, running for all they were worth, chased after the others.
Adair did not stop until she had brought the women from the village to the top of the hillock from where she had come. Then she told them, “You will all be freed to return to your own homes when this is over, lasses.”
“Who are you?” one of the bolder women asked.
“I have already said. I am Adair Radcliffe, the lady of Stanton.”
“You wear a plaid and the badge of a chieftain’s wife,” a sharp-eyed woman said.
“I do,” Adair admitted. “I am also the wife of the Bruce of Cleit.”
“Why have you come to rescue us?” another girl asked.
“We did not come to rescue you, but rather to mete out justice to a traitor to King James. Ramsay of Balmain and his ilk have operated beneath the aegis of King Henry of England to stir up trouble here in the borders. Several of the border lords have taken it upon themselves to clean out this nest of traitors. King Jamie does not want a war between Scotland and England. He has too much to do to bring peace within our borders, and to bring prosperity to Scotland. The border lords did not want any women harmed if it were at all possible.”
“What will happen to us now?” a woman asked.
“We will try to get you back to your homes,” Adair answered her.
The women now grew silent, the first shock having worn off, and they watched as below in the village, house after house was emptied of Ramsay’s men, who were dispatched swiftly and without mercy. Adair saw Conal and Murdoc single out a man whom they slew together. She knew without anyone telling her that it was Alpin Bruce, but she could not find it in her heart to be sorry. She did, however, say a quick prayer for his soul.
And then Ramsay of Balmain was brought forth from a cottage. A strong rope was fastened about his neck. He was dragged to a nearby tree and hanged from a high branch. For several long minutes he struggled and squirmed on the rope’s end. Then, with a great shudder, he died and was still. To Adair’s surprise the women with her cheered loudly. Some embraced one another.
Others wept with open relief.
Murdoc rode up the hill to tell Adair that the village was now safe. She left her flock of women upon the hillside, promising to return. Then she joined Conal and the other border lords. “The women want to know what will happen to them,” Adair told them. “They are still frightened. I have said we will return them to their homes.”
“We’ll find out from where they have come,” Duncan said. “ ’Tis probably no more than a few villages and farms. There are no more than twenty of them.”
“Do it now,” Adair said. “Take them away now so that they do not have to spend another moment in a place where they suffered so much indignity. Those who remain behind can destroy Stanton. We can fire the cottages today, and then batter the walls of what remains over the next few days.” There was a grim and angry look in her eyes, and none of the men would argue with her.
Instead, Duncan Armstrong rode up the hill to learn what he could. When he returned an hour later he chose two men from each clan group, eight in all. The nine
men went back up the hill, where the women had gathered into small groups. Each clansman brought with him a string of horses, one for each woman he would escort. They would be allowed to keep the horse they rode as recompense for their unlawful imprisonment. Duncan assigned each clansman a group of women, and then waited as the women mounted, and the eight groups rode off. Then he and Murdoc returned down the hill.
The bits of furniture remaining in the individual cottages were piled into the center of each dwelling and then set alight. As the flames rose higher the roofs caught too.
Adair remembered seeing those roofs burn over three years ago. They had obviously been rethatched to accommodate Ramsay and his men. The cottages burned into the night. When the morning came the dirt floors were scorched black, the beams and roofs gone, as were the small blackened windows.
For the next few days the stone walls were battered down one cottage at a time. And as each cottage ceased to exist, the stones were carried away to be placed on the hillside. A small dam was built of some of the stones in Stanton Water. And finally there was nothing left to ever indicate that a prosperous village had once stood upon that ground. Even the fountain where the women had come for water had been destroyed, and the well filled in with stones. Stanton was, to all intents and purposes, gone.
Adair walked alone to the hilltop where Stanton Hall had once stood. She looked out over the lands that for six hundred years or more had belonged to the Radcliffes. It was no more. Oh, the land would always be there. But everything else that had made Stanton the Radcliffes’ pride was gone. She wept silently for it all.
For her mother, for her father, for her beloved old Beiste, and yes, even for young and foolish FitzTudor.
And when her tears had ceased and the sadness began to lift from her heart, she turned her face north, toward Scotland. A slight breeze brought with it the elusive
scent of heather. Adair smiled. Then she turned and looked down the hill to where her husband was patiently awaiting her. She began to run toward him, and she did not stop until she had reached the shelter of his strong arms. She lifted her small heart-shaped face to him, and Conal Bruce kissed her with all the love he had in his heart for her.
When their lips had parted he turned and shouted to the men waiting for them, “I love her! I love my lady wife, and I always will!”
The Scots raiding party cheered his declaration loudly, Hercules Hepburn, Andrew Home, and the laird’s brothers all grinning broadly as Conal Bruce lifted his wife into her saddle. They urged their horses forward, and when they had reached the top of the hill Adair turned to look back but once. Then, setting her face forward, she moved her horse to Conal’s side. They were going home. She was Adair, the lady of Cleit, the wife of Conal Bruce, and no one was ever going to take that from her.
No one!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
is a
New York Times
bestselling author and the recipient of numerous awards. In keeping with her profession, lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, founded in 1640. Her light-filled studio includes the paintings of her favorite cover artist, Elaine Duillo, and a large library. Because she believes in happy endings, has been married to the same man, her hero, George, for forty-five years. They have a son, Thomas; a daughter-in-law, Megan; and four wonderful grandchildren. Longtime readers will be happy to know that Nicki the cockatiel flourishes, along with his fellow housemates: Pookie, the long-haired greige-and-white cat; Finnegan, the long-haired bad black kitty; and Sylvester, the black-and-white tuxedo cat who has recently joined the family.