The Highlander's Secret(2)
Keenan grunted and climbed off his horse. “It matters not. Whoever’s responsible is long gone by now.”
“It had to be a Viking raid, only they are capable of such merciless slaughter,” Eamon muttered.
“These pagans are barbaric,” Bruce spat out between clenched teeth.
Keenan glanced towards the shore and frowned. “Where are all the ships?”
“My laird?”
“The ships,” he repeated. “Fer a settlement on the coast I would expect to see some boats along the shore. Yet there are none. What happened to them?”
Eamon followed his gaze towards the shoreline and saw he was correct. “Mayhap they were destroyed as well? Or could be the ships were taken with them.”
Laird Gordon stroked his beard with a thoughtful look in his eye and turned back towards his men. “Forget the ships. What’s important now is that we find any survivors.”
The men walked off together, searching for any signs of life while Eamon was left alone. His brother, Keenan, was brave and wise, which served him well leading as chieftain of their clan. Eamon was honored to have him as a mentor to look up to. He clicked his tongue again and pulled on the horse’s reins, leading it carefully through the wreckage. His boots clomped across the ground and Eamon came across the charred framework of a house. When he glanced down, he saw a gap beneath one of the beams just large enough for a child. The structure was merely a barricade of ash and stone, but something pricked at the back of his mind, urging him to explore. The horse whinnied as he moved towards it, stamping its hooves in reluctance and yanking back against the reins. Eamon chuckled, patting the horse on its side and brushed his fingers through its shaggy mane. “Calm yerself, Angus, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Shall we take a look inside?”
He released the horse’s bridle and knelt to pull back one of the fallen beams. To his surprise, there was a pair of tiny bare feet in a hidden culvert. They appeared to be untouched by fire, yet covered in dirt and soot, and more importantly alive. Once his thoughts caught up with him, panic struck like a blow to the chest and he offered a silent prayer. In an instant he was on his knees, pulling back the rubble to rescue the child they belonged to.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, Eamon was delighted to find a young girl sitting in the ashes. Her hair was as red as flame, her eyes a piercing, emerald green.
She gazed back at him, terrified.
Green as a Scottish loch. Green as clover in the mossy glen, and green with innocence and life. Eamon gasped when he saw her; the child was an angel sent from heaven with eyes that could bore straight into a man’s soul and come out the other side.
Her garments were ripped and barely more than ash themselves. She was no more than a wee lass, no older than eight and even if that old, small for her age. Yet somehow, she managed to survive the Viking horde. A wave of paternal affection swept over him and he eyed the child with a tender gaze.
“Hello there, lassie. It’s safe now, ye can come out. I will not harm ye,” he murmured as soft and gentle as his voice would manage. “Come here and let me see ye.”
The girl didn’t speak, her eyes wide with fright as she cowered even farther back in the crevasse. The last thing he wanted was to cause her more grief, but all the same he had to get her out of the wreckage. He could not let her remain amongst the ashes alone and uncared for. Eamon reached out to her in welcome, offering his hand with a timid smile. She looked at him, her blazing red hair cascading down on either side of her face, and then down at his hand in confusion.
The girl stared back at him, but after a moment, placed her hand in his. Eamon’s smile widened and gestured to the outside world where he could help her escape from the horror surrounding her. Her eyes flickered to the horse a few feet away and made no gesture to move.
“Ah, lass. We’ll have none of that. Ye need to come out, so we can help ye,” he insisted.
Her hand clutched tighter around a piece of metal she was holding when he spoke. Brows drawn, he asked, “What have ye got there, lass?”
He held out his hand to her. The girl looked back at him with green, calculating eyes. Eventually, she handed him the metal trinket she was hiding and placed it in the palm of his hand.
When he took it from her, the girl cried and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Eamon glanced down at the pinnacular brooch and admired the intricately woven pattern. It was a maze of knotwork woven around two dragon heads, with one on either side. Eamon had never seen anything like it; the craftsmanship was different than anything Scottish made. Examining it closer, Eamon brushed his finger across the tiny worked ridges before staring at her in awe. “Where did ye get this, child?”
She didn’t answer, but her lip twitched as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. As the pieces fit together, realization crept into his heart and Eamon’s eyes grew wide with understanding. “Ye’re one of the Norsemen,” he whispered. “They brought a child on their raid?” The thought of these violent invaders brought a heat to his neck and a sharpness to his eyes.
His voice became more agitated and the girl’s tears came swifter, her tiny frame shook with quiet sobs fighting to break free. Eamon gazed at her with new eyes, completely mystified as to why they had left a child behind. He couldn’t fathom a logical explanation for any of it, or why she would have been brought there in the first place.