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“Ewan listened avidly to the stories I read for him.” She completed. “We did not spend all this time in a total feral state.”
“Good to know.”
As both returned their attention to the road, cold fear washed over her. Three men stood blocking it a dozen yards ahead. They wore no tartan, but Freya did not doubt for a second they were in her cousins’ crew. Drawing near, she observed knives tucked in their ragged trousers.
The McKendrick’s expression became focused and hard. “Go to the woods.” He instructed
“No, I—” The notion of leaving him to fend off these thugs on his own shattered her.
“Do as I say for once.” His frigid tone did not admit contradiction.
With the aim of putting Ewan in safety, she steered her mare to her left where the woods were thicker. Delicately, she woke Ewan up.
Even shaking all over as cold sweat trickled down her spine, she found a calm voice. “My love, rush and climb a tree.” She instructed knowing her son proved to be good at it.
“Yes, mommy.” He replied rubbing his eyes as they dismounted.
“And do not come down until I tell you to.” She eyed him straight. “Do you understand?”
“I do.” She put him down and let him run.
Around them the bare trees offered little as a hiding place, but the thick branches might help.
Quickly, she tied the mare deeper into the shadowy place and, bent torso, sneaked to where the men stood. They saw her and Ewan on the road for sure as she suspected they came after Drostan.
Shielded by a tree, she waited.
“Take whatever you want and leave.” The Laird commanded.
“Aye, blunt be gid, me Laird.”
Peering around the thick trunk, Freya saw the men unsheathe their knives. Closely followed by her husband. He had his traditional sword at his waist. Good thing he kept this custom.
The three goons surrounded his horse and Freya feared she would pass out. With long intakes of air, she tried to keep her head cool.
“Here, take it.” He detached his sporran from his waist and extended it to the one who talked.
“We will ‘ave yer blunt after we ‘ave finished wif ye.” And attacked Drostan.
The Laird was prepared and defended himself dextrously. The other two came at him and thrust the knives, trying to get at him, but his sword diverted them. Mounted, he had more chances, Freya observed.
Drostan continued fighting with his well-trained skill, but one against three revealed to be a hard skirmish.
Freya looked around for something to use as a weapon and help him. A thud on the ground and she turned to the road to see the foes pulled The Mckendrick off the horse. He lay on the dust, sword still in hand, flaying it to avoid the attacks. The criminals got scratched here and there; unfortunately, it did not stop them.
One of them poked him on the right shoulder; the surprise and pain made him drop the s
word. Rushing to retrieve it, one of the three kicked it out of his reach. The second took his boot to the Laird’s ribs, extracting a grunt from him. The third lifted his foot right over her husband’s neck, about to strike.
That was when Freya knew she had to do something. Acting on instinct, she grabbed a fallen branch and launched into the deserted road with a warrior’s roar. The thugs eyed her stunned. She stood by Drostan on the ground and ferociously pivoted the naked branch around her, banging one odious head, a spine and a leg. The banged-head fell, and the others swayed.
Not satisfied, she brandished the four-feet, club-like weapon and swung it again on her way back, blind to anything else. Her roars echoed through the bare vegetation, much scarier. Even if they dodged, she meted considerable damage.
“Stop, ye hag from hell!” One shouted.
“Only when I have turned you all to a pulp, you damned bullies!” She yelled in complete fury.
Her yelling must have woken the thug hit on the head. “Let us run from here, ye devils!”
