Chapter Seven
The scouting mission proved a success far greater than Callen expected.
They’d made camp less than a league from their enemies, so he, Gavin, and their guard returned to camp before the sun fully rose.
With the rolling hillsides of the Yorkshire dales, the three men approached their enemy with cover.
They crept along a stone wall, using that as a shield until they could hear men talking.
Callen reported to the men and Elspeth what he witnessed.
“We spied Eustace and Strathbogie discussing a plan to sail from the Yorkshire coast to Scotland rather than cross overland. They sounded anxious that Elsie hadnae arrived yet. Eustace wanted to send men out to scout, but Strathbogie argued we were more likely to capture the men and find their camp than they were to bring Elsie to them. Eustace was adamant we must have followed Elsie and her captors. Strathbogie didna disagree, but he believed Elsie would arrive at any moment. They had men who’d ridden south alert them that Elsie and her captors werenae far away.
Her captors wanted their money first. Eustace refused and insisted they see Elsie first. We ken why they havenae heard aught since yesterday. ”
“Will they stay where they are through tonight?” Angus queried.
“I believe so. Even if they discover the men and Elsie are missing, they willna abandon such a well-established camp. I ken it’ll be a long wait, but I willna approach until the witching hour.”
It was the time of night when Celtic folklore and Christianity intertwined.
Superstition taught it was when the veil between the living and dead was at its thinnest. The devil and his enchanted minions mocked the hour of Christ’s death at three in the afternoon by haunting the unsuspecting at three in the morning.
Callen prayed the Lord would understand he didn’t make light of Christ’s sacrifice, rather wishing to mock the English.
The group passed the day tucked amongst the trees, well off the road and away from anyone who might cross their path.
It was tedious, but the scenery was breathtaking during breaks in the mist. The rolling hills reminded Callen far more of home than the Lowlands ever did.
When it finally grew late enough, Callen wrapped his plaid around his shoulders after changing back into his doublet and breeks.
He’d set aside a head from the prior night.
He attempted not to retch at the sight along with the odor from his brothers’ favorite cheese.
The minger stank worse than the decapitated body part.
He shoved it up the nose and into the ears to keep it from falling out as he rode.
No one had bothered to close the eyes of the dead, so they appeared to stare straight ahead.
Gavin and Alasdair had gathered the squirrel and rabbit bones from the previous night and attached them to a guard’s horsewhip.
The guard used the whip as a weapon, not to steer his horse.
“Be careful, my heart.” Elspeth didn’t like Callen going alone, but she supported his mission to terrorize the “Disinherited” Scots and their English allies.
She watched as he mounted his steed with his plaid wrapped around his shoulders and upper back.
He’d pushed it down like a cowl so he could see where he was going, but he’d pull the extra material over his head as he approached the enemy.
He gripped the severed head by its hair.
The whip rattled in his hand that held it and the head.
He would’ve carried a torch too to complete the legend, but it would’ve been awkward to manage, and he didn’t want any extra light that could reveal his disguise.
As he approached the enemy camp, he released a series of ear-piercing whistles that made the horses whinny and stomp.
Several chasséd, bumping their rumps into one another.
Men spun to see whether they were under attack.
Only Ridire Dubh’s hoofbeats echoed in the night as Callen rode in a wide circle.
When he had the men on alert, he charged away, heading toward the open moorland.
It was a perfectly foggy night, so he knew he disappeared to them.
He changed direction when he was certain he was out of earshot.
He urged his mount into a gallop, praying his trusty steed wouldn’t misstep.
He neither wanted to go sailing over his horse’s withers nor break one of the animal’s legs.
He raced around to the far side of the camp, the whip cracking in the air while he held the reins and the head in the other.
He stilled the whip long enough to ensure his plaid covered his head as he slouched into it.
He leaned forward so the rushing air couldn’t knock the material free.
He shifted his reins to between his teeth, where he kept the plaid synched closed.
He emerged from the heavy mist closer to the camp than he had been before.
“Who is that?!” A voice screamed.
“Not who. What?!” Another came from the opposite side of the fire.
Callen didn’t respond, instead holding the head high, so the flames illuminated it as he cracked the whip, making the bones clank against each other.
He transferred the reins to the hand with the whip and pulled back, making Ridire Dubh rear and paw the air.
He released another eerie whistle before commanding his horse back onto all four hooves.
He spun his steed and charged back into the fog, once again crossing several hills and coming precariously close to a cliff he hadn’t seen. He only intended to pretend to be dead.
As he approached for a third pass, he cackled as loudly as he could before whooping and cracking the whip in a series of staccato snaps.
The rolling fog over the moors lent an otherworldly aura to Callen’s form.
His black steed appeared even more ominous than it usually did on a battlefield.
He drew as close to the enemy as he dared before reining in.
Positioning himself to remain mostly in the shadows, the firelight only danced across his legs and his horse, creating a spectral form that looked to disappear into the fog.
Ridire Dubh’s hoof dug at the dirt as Callen spoke.
“Ye dared steal a Scottish lass. Now I, the Dullahan, am here to remind ye what happens when ye Sassenachs and treasonous Scots cross the border to take what isnae yers. Ye summoned me to send ye to yer deaths. I already took a new head tonight, but I will need a fresh one by morn. Who will be next?” Callen snapped the whip toward a cluster of men who stood with swords drawn but too terrified to do anything. “Ye? Or mayhap ye?”
He swung the head in a large circle before flinging it toward Eustace Maxwell.
“Ye have a bonnie face. An improvement on that one. Step forward.”
The man took a large step back. While he wasn’t as superstitious as his northern countrymen, the Lowlander wasn’t impervious to the ancient myth.
The shadows the flames cast on the headless horseman conjured enough fear in him to nearly pish himself.
Before he could respond, Callen shifted his focus to Strathbogie.
“Ye. Ye wished to take the woman as yer wife. I wish to take yer head.” With his hand now free, he drew his sword.
Once more placing the reins between his teeth, he controlled his mount with his thighs.
He nudged his warhorse forward just as he had too many times in battle.
He leaned forward as though he’d run the disgraced noble through.
He pulled back his weapon just before impaling the earl, instead using the whip to lash the man’s back.
He cracked the whip again, ensuring it slashed the traitor’s neck.
Strathbogie’s high-pitched scream filled the night. Callen chuckled.
“Do ye fear death after all? Ye sound like a wee lass who wet her raggies. Come for a Scotswoman again, and ye shall meet me in the underworld where I can take yer heads and have a different one for each day of the sennight. Venture close to the border as Samhain nears, and ye will find me waiting for ye.”
Callen wheeled his horse around to encircle the men once again.
For good measure, he charged toward three men.
Before any of them could defend themselves, he swung his sword thrice, severing each head from the man’s shoulders.
He caught the last one as it sailed through the air and shook it, creating a gruesome scene before he rode off into the night.
“What the bloody hell did we just see?” Eustace asked anyone and no one.
Callen released a series of whistles much like he had as he approached.
He rode over hill and dale at a slower pace than he had during his performance.
He let go of the head where he was certain the English, Strathbogie, or Eustace were unlikely to find it.
He pulled his plaid down, making it easier for him to see and hear.
He looked back every few minutes, shocked no one pursued him.
He’d expected at least a few men would give chase, not believing his act.
But none followed. The fog hung low, and the moonlight cast shadows all around him.
He supposed if he’d witnessed what those men did during the week of Samhain, he would’ve been wary to venture away from the relative safety of the English camp.
“Callen!” Elspeth was the first to spy him.
She rose from the log upon which she sat and rushed forward.
He guided Ridire Dubh to where the other horses stood hobbled before he dismounted.
He tossed aside the whip and his plaid before enveloping his bride in his arms. Neither cared who watched them as they shared a kiss that carried all their love, fear, and relief.
“It’s over, mo ghaol. Nae a one of them did aught. Mayhap pish themselves, but none even attempted to defend themselves. They willna show hide nor hair near Elliot land or ye.”
“Callen.” The couple turned toward Angus as he approached.
“I still don’t approve of how you and Elspeth came to be married, but I can’t deny your devotion to my daughter.
It breaks my heart to see my lass go, but Dunrobin is now her home.
Keep her far from the border and the war to come. You have my blessing.”
Elspeth and Callen stood in stunned silence for a moment, but neither questioned what made Angus change his mind. If he supported them, they’d accept it and appreciate it without reservation.
“Thank you, Da.” Elspeth let go of Callen to embrace her father before returning to lean against her husband. “Over hill or over dale, I know you will always find me.”
“I nearly lost ye once. I would roam the moors for a lifetime before I’d stop searching for ye.”
“I’d rather we rode together to the Highlands.”
“We shall soon enough. I love ye, mo chridhe.”
“Your wild Highland love warms my heart. I love you too.”