A CHRISTMAS WISH

Chapter 6: The Silence Before The Storm

CHAPTER 6:

The silence before the storm:


“You can not possibly be serious about this, Laird.”

Iain glanced at his most trusted soldier.

Quinlan was his first in command and had been trained by Iain himself. He had come to Iain’s keep severely injured, hovering at death's door after escaping from an English raid on his village in the Lowlands. A village allied to Iain’s clan. Regardless to say, Iain had taken in the former farmer and driven the English scum off his lands. But Quinlan had chosen to stay behind in the Highlands, choosing a life as a warrior rather than going back to tending the land. His determination had paid dividends and in a few years time he had risen among the ranks of Iain’s warriors to his current position as Iain’s right hand man.

It was unthinkable for a soldier to question his Laird's motives but Quinlan was a different story. Iain trusted the warrior; he had proven time and time again that he had the clan’s best interests at heart. Furthermore, Iain wasn’t your average laird, too proud and foolish to heed advice and counsel when it was offered. He allowed the men he trusted to question him provided it was done privately and at this particular moment in time they were all alone.

It was the dead of night; they sat under a giant Oak tree with the full moon gleaming over head. The twenty other warriors Iain had brought along with him were all fast asleep scattered about the deserted field, bundled in their plaids.  

“I suggest you go to sleep Quinlan. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Oh yes, they did have a long day ahead of them tomorrow. Tomorrow, they would finally arrive at the Baron's manor. It had taken a good week of slogging through treacherous mountain passes and trekking through endless isolated tracts of pasture to get here, not that the journey had taxed Iain or his warriors too much. They were trained for endurance, even the horses were fairing better than Iain had expected.

The day of reckoning was close at hand and for once Iain wasn't lamenting his fate. He had reconciled himself for what was to come. He was past the point of railing at his circumstances. Tomorrow they would arrive at the Baron's holding and in a few days time they would enjoy the fruits of their victory.

Iain thought of the days to come philosophically, true his hand was being forced, true he would have to marry an Englishman's daughter, but there were always positives to be had in any given situation. And this one presented him with the prospect of victory over the spineless Baron.

Iain’s warriors had already proved vastly superior in the battle field and he had no doubt they would replicate their performance from previous battles.

He wasn’t foolish enough to let his guard down however, after all Baron Arnoff's very involvement ruled out any semblance of fairplay. There was sure to be treachery a foot but forewarned was forearmed and Iain and his men were more than capable of handling anything the English could throw at them.     

“But Laird, why must we fight in their tournament? We are a hairs-breadth from victory in the lowlands anyway. The Barons forces are losing grip fast. We need not lower ourselves to their terms.”

Iain had heard that question many times before. In fact he had been the one who had asked it.

It had taken a supreme effort of will not to take the few steps forward and wring Hugh’s neck in front of the King. But the crafty old weasel knew him too well. He had forced Iain’s hand with the one indisputable fact which Iain could not possibly refute. Iain had indeed promised his Father on his death bed to follow the Kings every edict.

His Father Donald, the Laird before him was indebted to the king for saving his life in a battle. Unfortunately, it was Iain who had to carry the burden of that debt.

Iain had inherited a broken clan fighting for survival, a clan which Iain had molded into an impregnable fighting machine. Unfortunately things had only started to turn around after Donald's death and the old Laird himself had died before witnessing the giant strides his Clan had taken under his Son’s leadership.

Perhaps Donald had thought that his small clan could only survive if it was allied to the King or maybe old age had scrambled his brains whatever the reason, Donald had sought his word and Iain had reluctantly given it. His only regret was that Hugh had also been there in the room on that fateful night. The old man had made Iain pledge allegiance to the king shortly thereafter. Not that Iain had to be forced, his promise was a sacred pact and Highlander's took their promises to the grave, their word was etched in stone.

“I have my reasons Quinlan.” Iain replied, his tone warning against any further inquiries. “Now go to sleep or be silent.”

Quinlan knew when to shut it. Even he wasn't brave enough to venture forth when the Laird was obviously not in the mood to talk.

It had been a week since the Laird had bounded out of the King's hall with the devil at his heels. Quinlan was the only man to accompany Iain to the King's hall at Scone Abbey but he hadn't been allowed to attend the Lairds meeting with the King.

Iain had jumped onto his horse immediately afterwards and ridden off in an angry flurry of hooves. Quinlan had never seen Iain in such a state. It seemed the calm and collected warrior had even forgotten his first in command. Fortunately Quinlan was smart enough to stay back and wait for Hugh to come out of the hall.

To Quinlan's utter amazement he had learned that their clan would be participating in some English tournament. What really shocked him though were the prizes the Laird would claim if they won. It still puzzled Quinlan, why would the Laird agree to fight some tournament for lands that they were already on the verge of reclaiming from the Baron? And to marry an Englishwoman into the bargain, It was madness.

Quinlan hadn't been able to think of one sound reason for the Laird’s acceptance of such an outrageous proposition.

Iain’s hatred of the English was legendary; it was one of the main qualities which had attracted Quinlan and many others to fight by his side in the first place. Hadn't they spent the past years in battle after battle with the English marchers and their occupying forces?

All of them hated the English, none more so than the Laird himself. Than why in the world would the Laird agree to obey such an order? Quinlan knew that the command had come from the King himself, but even so, he couldn't imagine Iain ever accepting such a plan.

Unfortunately Hugh hadn't told him anymore and Iain sure as hell hadn't been in a friendly frame of mind for the last few days. The men he had trained into the ground were a testament to that fact. The Laird had been in the blackest of moods and no one had dared venture an opinion thus far, that is until now.
 
“But Laird.......” Quinlan began tentatively once again, only to be snuffed out by the angry gleam in Iain’s eyes.

“I said enough Quinlan. I will not countenance any more questions. It need not concern you. Just concentrate on the task at hand. We have a tournament to win. Focus on that and leave everything else be.”

Quinlan stared at his incensed leader and finally decided to let the matter drop. Iain was right they did have a tournament to win and focusing on things beside that all important fact was a waste of energy.  Iain had always taught them to go into battle with a clear mind and steadfast heart and that was precisely what Quinlan would do.

The Laird had never lead them astray before; the very fact that Quinlan was alive at this very moment was proof of that fact. Now was not the time for doubts. The Laird had his reasons and that was more than enough for Quinlan.
    
Iain heaved a silent sigh of relief when Quinlan finally nodded and got up to leave. He hardly spared him a second glance as the man walked off into the darkness. Questions and recriminations could wait for later, tonight Iain wanted to clear his mind of all his worries.

He picked up his sword; a double edged heavy-weight called Claidheamh Mor and stared at its gleaming razor thin edge sightlessly. "Soon my friend, soon", he thought to himself as he ran a big calloused finger along one sharp edge. "Soon your blood lust will be sated"

Until then however there was only time to sit still, time to savor, time to let the anger build within his heart, anger he would hold tenderly to his chest like a lover until the day he walked into battle. Than and only than would he unleash his demons onto the battlefield.

Not once did the mere thought of defeat enter his head, he had been born as a curse upon his enemies; a curse that would soon devour anything and everything in its path.

O.k time for the trivia again for those of you who r interested:

1) U might be wondering what Iain has to do with the Lowlands. Well,  the Highlanders were very territorial and they had alliances beyond their boundaries. The very powerful clans like the Mclaughlin clan had an extensive reach. Many villages in the Lowlands were allied to different clans and they depended on these clans for protection. They became honourary clan members too. Clan members didnt need to be related by blood, just allegiance.

2) The name of Iain's sword is actually historically correct. the swords were called that. Unlike English Knights Highland warriors didnt wear metal armors, they had very little protection for their bodies and the specialized hilt was used to potect the wrist from sword attacks.

Once again thanx for reading and i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter too. Plz dont forget to COMMENT and VOTE if you enjoyed this chapter. Untill later.