The High Road (On Hold)

Chapter Nine

Notice: This chapter contains somewhat adult themes. Read at your own discretion.

          The night's breeze whispered in Christelle's ear and sent a chill down her spine. These Scots must love the cold, she thought. The soft fabric of her woolen cloak was warm to the touch and clung to her skin. One after another, her feet stepped down the dark streets of Inverness. Scottish nightlife was always something to behold in the eyes of a foreigner. The windows of the taverns and pubs around her shone brightly as if the rooms inside were set on fire. Raucous laughter and cheers could be heard from outside the wooden doors and walls. Every so often, a drunkard would stumble out the door and shamble to the side of the building to relieve himself. Because clean water was an uncommon commodity, the peasants and princes alike drank ale and mead daily. Even children were subject to alcohol consumption.

Most public buildings in medieval Europe were built of stone, if at all possible. But despite the scores of rocky outcrops in Scotland, especially the northern regions, quarrying was difficult. For this reason, and the fact that the fortress stood proudly next to one of Scotland's many pine forests, most buildings in the Boak district were made of wood. To emphasize the power and authority the governor held over the fortress, his quarters in the main castle were built of stone. Some of the citizens of Inverness even joked that Governor O'Connor slept not on a bed, but a slab of stone.

The streets were fairly empty. In Scotland, you choose whether to put your mind or your body to sleep when night falls: those who put their bodies to sleep go to their beds, those who put their minds to sleep go to the tavern.
Every so often a night watchman would tiredly meander past Christelle, paying her no mind. Their sharpened spears shined brightly in the lantern light and gave a smart look to the soldier's blue army tunic. She pondered on what her soon-to-be-husband would think of his soon-to-be-kingdom. Surely Edward must act with more civility. He is a prince after all.

The princess looked around her. Well, a Scottish prince.

The late-autumn night was bitterly cold to an Englishwoman not accustomed to the northern chill. I'll wager there is a fire inside one of these taverns. Her mind played with the idea of entering one. She had no desire to return to the castle just yet. Christelle silently stepped to the window and drew back a section of the curtain covering the square hole in the wooden wall. Just as she did, the door to her left swung open and slammed into the side of the building. Three burly drunks shambled out of the doorway, roaring with laughter and punching each other on the arms.

"Ach I tell you most nights ah drink till I piss straight! Ye know ye've had enough when the foul wench in the corner starts to look like a bonny lass!" yelled the man in the center of the group. His friends on either side continued laughing until one looked to his right and said "Well, speaking of bonny lass! Look what the Almighty has put right here in front of us!" The man gestured to Christelle as he spoke.

The man in the center spoke again, "Oh aye! She's a pretty little thing isn't she! Say, lassie, where's yer husband?" he asked with a devilish grin on his face.

Christelle said nothing, stunned and beginning to become fearful of the three muscular Scots now towering in front of her. "Wot", he called, "Haven't ye got a tongue?" Still she said nothing.

"Ah it's even better if ye canne speak. Because if ye canne speak, ye canne scream" he said turning his head down and cracking his knuckles. With a movement fast as lighting, his hands seized Christelle's arms and he pulled her up to his chest. The other two men grabbed Christelle's shoulders and held her still. She struggled and fought her attackers, trying to break free from their grip, but to no avail. Her muscles strained as she tried to squirm out of his massive hands. "Quit moving you wench!" he screamed at her. His hands tightened, bruising her arms. His eyes were a light brown, but appeared black as death to her. Now that his friends had wrested their grip on her, his hands ran over her neck and chest. She fought them with every bit of strength she had, but it was not enough.

The man in front of Christelle then toppled to the ground as if he were tackled by something. The men holding onto Christelle loosed their grips, confounded. They went to assist their friend off the ground, but he was on the ground wrestling with the figure that had slammed into him. The assailant on the ground bellowed in pain. Dark red blood seeped to the stone street below them. A hand grabbed Christelle and swept her away, barreling down the cold stone. She could hardly keep up at the pace the dark figure was running at. "Are you hurt?" the man's voice hurriedly asked. "No! But please slow down I cannot keep up with you!" she cried.

The man stopped suddenly and he looked behind. It was impossible to see his face in the darkness. "Come", he said sharply. "We must have you back to the castle."

The pair quickly ran back to the castle courtyard. The man turned every few seconds to ensure they weren't being pursued. As soon as they passed through the castle gatehouse, he slammed the gate doors closed and barred them with a hefty wooden beam used to shore the gate in times of urgency such as this. Christelle fell to her knees. Her heart jumped to her throat and her lungs pounded. Her pulse and veins trembled as her heartrate refused to slow. She had just enough energy to look up at the face of her savior now illuminated by courtyard torchlight.

"Breathe, my lady", Stéaphan said as he descended to one knee beside the Princess. Her breathing was sharp and quick. Her eyes grew dark and hazy. It was as if the world about her was spinning and she could not stop it. Stars wheeled overhead and her senses dulled. Her spine felt the cold stone of the castle Inverness courtyard as it struck the ground. Stéaphan hung over her. He spoke, but Christelle could not hear him. Her eyes hung heavy and slowly closed. The last thing she saw was the bright green tinge of Stéaphan's eyes, shining brightly in the torchlight.