~ Reiver’s Passion ~

by

Mariah LeGrand

One

Scottish Highlands 1305

The steep heather-covered brae was slowly losing its purple hue and velvety texture for that of the pale, dry color of ripe wheat. A grove of mountain ash in the nearby wood dropped their fiery colored leaves in continuous procession as the crisp breeze ruffled through their branches, layering the ground with those weakened with death, setting the forest aflame in this time of autumn.

A lone bird had tarried too long; his cry cleaved the morning stillness in his futile effort to find a companion for the long trip to the warmer climes.

The sun’s rays held little warmth as they peeked through the clouds moving swiftly over the land. Like a great eye, its lid slowly closing in a capricious wink when the giant puffs of cotton moved before it, shutting out the semi-brightness of waning days.

The sharply rising slope of dried heather stood motionless until, breaking its summit, two kinsmen came into view, their helmets reflecting the sun. Bent close together, they appeared in deep conversation. The hammered metal of the harness clanked against the full armor of the horse of the larger rider, as they stepped casually along the path. The smaller rider’s horse wore only the leather saddle and bridle, undressed for battle. The leather saddles sighed a steady rhythm in harmony with their peaceful surroundings.

The two riders traversed the hillside to a grass-filled glen, their mounts moving slowly, as they picked their own way around the boulders strung hither and yon in their path. The steeds moved, uncaring of the clear trail they left in the fine layer of shimmering frost, which still blanketed the land in the morning hour. All trace of their passing would soon flee when warmed from the rays of the day’s sun.

Both kinsmen were dressed in leather jerkins and leggings. Their woolen plaids bearing the bright red and green of the Comyn clan were draped from their shoulders. Black leather boots covered their legs to the thigh. Their shields were carried slung across the saddle pommel in an attitude of peace, and the stiff gauntlets were tucked in their belts. They were not traveling in haste to battle but were moving at a more leisurely pace enjoying the morning briskness.

The larger of the two, green eyes shadowed beneath his helm looked on sullenly at the gaiety of his kinsman. A sword dangling at his side was revealed in the glint of the scabbard at his waist. The smaller rider wore only the short scabbard holding a sgian-dubh; a jewel encrusted dagger at the side of his leg.

The men of Scotland were never without a weapon unless in bed, and then it was always within arm’s reach. If they had laid aside their dirk or heavier claymore they had only to bend to have the deadly sgian-dubh in their hand. It was commonly worn by the men in a scabbard on the calves of their legs. Though the sight of such a weapon on a female was indeed rare.