Page 78 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
From his vantage point atop the MacQuarrie Castle walls, Laird MacAlpein surveyed the coming of his enemy’s army with a bitter twist to his mouth. A part of him was glad that the bastard Captain Bolton had come. He had hoped to face the devil in open battle ever since the day he had learned of his wife’s execution.
The blonde-headed Huntress Nina flitted back and forth between the Laird and the edge of the English army, getting as close as she dared so that she could bring back accurate report of their movements to him.
“This man, this Captain Bolton,” the Scottish huntress said, leaning and stretching against the parapet as languidly as any cat, “you say that he is the leader, aye? But he is nowhere to be seen at the forefront of his men.”
The Laird gave a bitter laugh, his breath smoking, a plume of scorn, in the crisp air in front of him.
“Nay, Nina, ye’ll nae find Captain Bolton there. He’s the sort o’ man who only comes to the front of his army when he is negotiatin’ a surrender from the opposition, or else to stand over ye just before he stabs ye through the heart.”
Nina sniffed derisively. “Nay honor,” she said.
“Aye, the sort o’ man who could swallow a nail and spit up a fishhook, so crooked is he,” the Laird replied.
“Well,” the pretty Scottish hunter said, “you had better be goin’ down, nay? I do nae ken much of these English but, from what I hear, they always like to discuss certain things before the fightin’ and the killin’ starts, aye?”
The Laird breathed a heavy sigh. “Aye, I s’pose that ye are right, Nina.” He got up, straightened his great kilt and touched a hand to the reassuring handle of his broadsword.
“I shall be in the woods,” Nina said, matter-of-factly, stretching languorously once again and flashing him a white, predatory smile. “If this Bolton does anything dishonorable, I shall put an arrow through his eye for you, aye?”
The Laird smiled, despite the thought that in no time at all he would be in negotiations with his most despised enemy.
“If he tries to harm me or any man with me whilst we negotiate, then ye can kill him if ye can,” he said.
The Scottish huntress smiled a wolf’s smile; all bright white teeth and absolutely no humor.
* * *
The grass rippled in the space between the two armies. Roughly five-hundred English soldiers––well-trained and under the command of the feared Captain Bolton––set against about one-thousand fierce Scots, intent on defending their homeland and avenging their clan.
It was, as these things go, a picturesque place for two-thousand men to potentially fight to their deaths. The craggy fells and low, snow-dusted mountains of the Highlands acted as a backdrop to the looming battle, patches of pine forests swayed in the gentle breeze and, high above, buzzards drifted like ghosts on the thermals.
Laird Tormod MacAlpein rode out, through his gates and down the sloping road, accompanied by a retinue of a dozen riders. He looked as resplendent and noble as any Laird that had come before him. His hand was on the pommel of his sword and his face was forbidding.
The company rode out towards the battlefield, down through the press of highlanders that arrayed across the stretch of field that led to MacQuarrie Castle, and into the ribbon of grass that divided the two rival armies by little more than a long bowshot.
The Laird saw straight away that there was a pavilion set up already. He rolled his eyes at this.
Bloody English. Even a man with as ruthless and blood-soaked reputation as Captain Bolton seems to be unable to face a battle without first havin’ a damned picnic.
The Highlanders reined up a short march from the canvas pavilion.
“Stay here, lads,” the Laird said, getting down from his great gray war-charger.
“Yer Lairdship, one of us should go wi’ ye,” Dunnet said. The old physician took a nervous swig of whisky from his ubiquitous flask. “I do nae trust this beggar, nae as far as I can throw him.”
“Better trust the fox in the chicken coop than a Bolton at the negotiatin’ table,” the Laird said. “But this is a matter betwixt the two of us. It has been, ever since he…Well, I think it best that we sit down, just he and I.”
Dunnet inclined his head. “As ye wish, yer Lairdship, but we’ll be standin’ ready, should ye need us.”
The Laird nodded, turned and walked towards the pavilion. Sitting underneath, shaded from the sun that now shone out of a clear, forget-me-not blue sky, was Captain Aldair Bolton.
There was no petty exchange of sniping slights, no subtly veiled insults, when the Laird sat down at the small table opposite Captain Bolton. The two men simply took a moment to study each other up close, as close as either one of them had ever been to the other.
Captain Bolton took a sip from the teacup that he had in front of him––fine bone china, even all the way out here. The Laird looked at him contemptuously.
It’s some poor sap’s job to cart all this decorative rubbish around Scotland, just so that this festering boil of a man can appear sophisticated in front of the men he negotiates with.
The sea gray eyes of the Laird flicked over the face of his nemesis, taking in the severe cheekbones, the unsmiling mouth, the icy cobalt eyes. He had a high forehead and a receding hairline that made him look aristocratic, and there were two deep frown lines between his brows.
