She couldn’t remember seeing other medieval houses next to the hall when they arrived. Had she missed them? They were eerily accurate recreations of village hovels from the twelfth century. As she watched, the torches were pressed to their thatched roofs.
Instantly, the homes were ablaze. “No,” she cried, unable to believe what she was seeing. Was it some kind of ultra-real re-enactment?
If so, things had definitely gone too far.
They had given her and her mother no warning of what was happening and surely it was dangerous to set fire to buildings with visitors still inside them?
The leader of the horseback riders emerged from the fire with another victim of the blaze in his arms. He quickly took in the scene.
The men who had been throwing water on the fire were running after the torch bearers, swords out ready. Villagers from the burning homes were trying to save what they could, throwing their possessions out onto the grass. Those rescued from the hall were slowly sitting up on the grass. Others were helping where they could, providing fresh water and blankets for the wounded.
His eyes took all that in and then he looked at her. “MacLeish,” he snarled, his voice no more than a low growl.
Beth wanted to ask him if he’d seen her mother but she couldn’t speak all of a sudden. His eyes were burning twin holes into her soul.
He was intimidating enough even if he hadn’t looked so furious. A clear six foot five, he obviously took re-enactment seriously. There were taut muscles spread across his chest, his shoulders looking like they more used to carrying horses, than riding them. His skin was blackened by the smoke and soot, sweat pouring down him creating pathways through the soot.
He had dark hair that was closely cropped. His eyes were equally dark and as he continued to stare at her. He looked livid.
He knelt for long enough to lay the elderly woman in his arms out on the grass. Then he stood up again, grabbing Beth’s tee-shirt in his enormous fist. “Why?” he said, his voice becoming a whisper and all the more aggressive for it. “Why would you burn Pluscarden?”
“I…I…” Beth stuttered. “I didn’t. I’m not one of them, I swear.”
He turned his head and she looked too. The escaping bunch had dropped their torches and were clambering onto horses. They began galloping away, firing arrows back at their pursuers as they went. One of the chasing men fell, an arrow in his chest.
The giant holding Beth bellowed at the top of his voice, “MacIntyres. To me.”
The surviving men ran back to him at once, leaving the group on horseback to vanish into the distance.
In moments she was surrounded by men, all of them looking at the torch their leader was holding. He stared at her again.
One of them prodded her in the back. “You should have run with your kin when you had the chance, lassie. One of ours is dead. Perhaps we should redress the balance with your blood.”
“Look at what you’ve done,” their leader said, letting go of her top to grab her chin, forcing her to stare down at the victims on the ground. His hand squeezed tightly, making her gasp. “Was it worth whatever Duff paid you?”
Beth’s heart began to pound with fear. He could pick me up and throw me like I’m a caber, she thought, fear growing inside her. Snap me in half without breaking a sweat.
“Okay, time out,” she said as the other men pointed their swords at her, swords that looked a little bit too real for comfort. “This isn’t funny anymore. I’m not part of your stupid re-enactment so stop acting like I am. I want my mom.”
