Page 19 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

R aff held Ingrid snug against him in bed later that night, neither of them able to find sleep. The events of the day still clung to them like a damp chill—heavy, unwelcome, and impossible to shake.

He brushed his lips against her temple, his voice low but firm.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, Ingrid, but we need to leave before you’re accused of being a witch and hidden away somewhere I can’t reach you until your fate is decided.

I have two friends I fought beside more times than I can count. ”

And foolishly made a wish with one drunken night. Though he kept that part to himself.

“Either will help us, I’m sure of it. We can pack your things when we return from market. At first light the next morning, we go. No farewells. No explanations. The less said, the safer we’ll be.”

She was quiet, her fingers curling lightly against his chest. He knew she didn’t want to go. She had built a life here—simple, aye, but meaningful. One thread at a time, she’d woven herself into this place.

“I saw how easily the villagers turned that desperate man away,” Raff continued, a tight edge in his voice. “I fear what they might do to you if accused, to save themselves. We must do this. We must leave.”

“I know there are some who would not raise a voice against me,” she said, her voice soft.

“But would they have the courage to stand against those who do?” he asked, meeting her gaze in the dim light. “Fear makes cowards of good people.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But it does frighten me.”

“Then tomorrow we go to market,” he said. “When we return, we pack. And we leave before dawn.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, lingering there for a moment. “I don’t know if it would be wise for us to ever return… or if those here would even want us to.”

Gray morning light stretched across the land as they made their way to market with silence their only companion.

Ingrid glanced back once, the village barely visible now through the thin trees and rising mist. Her heart felt a tight squeeze in it.

She had planted roots here, shared laughter, sorrow, hope.

And yet it all felt as if it had been stripped away in a matter of days.

That was the cruelty of fear. It changed people.

It rewrote friendships and bred silence where once there had been welcome.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the bustling market, Raff’s jaw was tight with concern.

They found a small space for her wares, between a scowling butcher and a jovial woman peddling herbs, and set about preparing the stall.

Ingrid arranged her blankets carefully, hands steady despite the unrest in her heart.

Though she kept her two fused fingers from anyone seeing them as much as possible.

Raff hovered, uneasy. “I don’t like leaving you here alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.

He hesitated, scanning the crowd. Warriors loitered in clusters. Mercenaries stalked between stalls, eyes always moving. Their presence was too thick, too tense. Trouble lingered here, and Raff could feel it in his bones.

“I’ll be quick and get the village the last of the supplies it needs for winter,” he promised.

He leaned closer, his hand brushing hers. “Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. If anything feels off, close the stall and keep hidden behind the cart until I return. Do not wander off on your own.”

She nodded, offering a faint smile. He squeezed her hand once and slipped into the flow of the market.

Ingrid stood still for a moment, watching him disappear into the crowd. Then she turned to her blankets, arranging them again though they didn’t need it, but she had to do something, anything, to keep her mind from dwelling on how their lives were about to change forever.

Raff moved swiftly through the market, his every step sharpened by unease.

The air stank of smoke and wet wool, and conversations, those that weren’t hushed, held a clipped, uneasy tone.

He kept one hand near the hilt of his blade, not because he expected a fight, but because he no longer trusted what this place might become.

He passed by a stall selling root vegetables, the merchant barely looking up. Another selling dried meat barked a price without being asked. But it was the cluster of men near the ironmonger’s tent that stopped him in his tracks.

Six of them, maybe more—cloaked, armed, and not trying to blend in.

Raff recognized the look of them. They were hardened mercenaries, the kind who didn’t care about coin as much as the excuse to spill blood.

Two wore the markings of a northern clan, the others bore no sign but carried themselves like men paid to hunt.

One of them glanced his way and nudged another. They said nothing, but the stare lingered too long.

Raff moved on.

He bartered for salt, for food preserving, root vegetables to fatten the supply they already had, and honey to sweeten some foods and some meant to use on wounds.

He kept his eyes moving, watchful. More warriors walked the market than he could count, most pretending to shop, their eyes always drifting to faces in the crowd. Searching. Hunting.

This was no longer a market, Raff thought grimly. It was a net being drawn tight.

He turned down a narrower path of stalls, the noise fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of hammer on iron.

Behind the blacksmith’s forge, he found the trader who dealt in winter tools—snow shovels, axes, dried pitch.

He made his purchases quickly, his gaze drawn to a young lad standing nearby, pointing out names in a ledger for a broad-shouldered warrior who wore a silver clasp that mercenaries from the north wore.

Raff didn’t like what it meant, but he couldn’t ignore it. The lad had probably been promised good coin to point out people at market to match the names. A list of possible witches.

His grip tightened on the sack in his hand. This wasn’t just about fear anymore. This was a witch hunt craze building by the day.

He turned back toward the main square, faster now. He had seen enough. The market wasn’t safe. Not for Ingrid. Not for anyone like her. And the longer they stayed, the more likely they’d be caught in a snare that was already closing.

Ingrid tried to keep her focus on her stall, arranging and rearranging the wool blankets as customers passed.

Many stopped to admire her work and purchase blankets for the winter.

Talk was lively but guarded. The unease was obvious.

It could be felt and seen, fear as well.

Everyone avoided eye contact with the many warriors or mercenaries walking through the market, fearful they would be claimed a witch and dragged away.

Kate, an older woman who lived alone and sold her potions to ease various annoyances; tooth pain, churning stomach, hair loss, and more, hurried over to her.

“I was warned they wait for me at home. I cannot go back. I need to go to my sister, far from here,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes. “I have nothing to barter, but you have always been kind, Ingrid, and I need a blanket to keep me warm on my journey. I have no right to ask?—”

“This is a perfect one for you,” Ingrid said with a smile and handed it to her as if she was purchasing it. “I have something else you can use as well.” She went to the cart and returned with a small sack. “Just what you need. Safe journey home.”

Kate looked in the sack. A tear rolled down her cheek, seeing food. “Bless you, Ingrid.” She took hold of her hand, the one with the fused fingers and whispered, “You should leave. You are marked. They will come for you.”

“Go,” Ingrid urged seeing warriors headed their way and Kate quickly vanished into the crowd.

Two older men whispered behind their hands, staring her way. She smiled and they turned away.

Then children came eager to run their fingers across the soft wool, not yet aware of the madness that was taking root. New mothers purchased blankets for their bairns, and the elderly bought blankets to keep the winter cold off them.

Her hand rested on the edge of one of the two blankets left. She hoped—perhaps foolishly—that the witch craze hadn’t reached the market and that there were people who would stand firm for those they knew, family and friends. Now feeling the fear spreading, she wasn’t so sure.

A shiver crept through her, and not from the cold.

“Ingrid.”

She turned, startled. Raff was at her side, his face grim, his tone urgent.

“We leave. Now.”

Her eyes widened. “What?—”

“Too many mercenaries. Too many warriors who aren’t buying a thing but watching everything.

I saw a lad pointing to a page on a ledger a mercenary held and then pointing to people linking the names to the faces.

Grab what’s left of your blankets.” He hurried to the cart to deposit his purchases and ready the horse.

Ingrid reached to grab the last two blankets when the jovial woman selling herbs was suddenly in front of her.

“Will you take a pouch of my finest herb mixture for one of those lovely blankets,” she asked with a smile, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “It will keep you safe. Hide who you are.”

Ingrid stared at her, too shocked to speak.

The woman tucked the pouch into Ingrid’s hand and took one blanket. “Keep it with you. It will not fail you.” She hurried back to her stall.

Raff returned, took Ingrid’s hand, rushed her to the cart and swung her up on the seat. He pulled himself up beside her, took the reins, and got the horse moving, not too fast so as not to draw attention to them.

Only once, as the market noise faded behind them and the trees once again began to thicken, did Ingrid glance over her shoulder.

Her stall stood empty. Another thing she would lose, the joy of market day.

She had worked so hard to make a place for herself, and now it was gone.

Tears threatened her eyes and fear worried her heart.

All that mattered was that she had Raff and together they would build a new life.

She couldn’t lose him. It would break her heart.

Ingrid moved closer against Raff until she was pressed against him. His one hand remained curled tightly around the reins. His free hand moved to rest on her thigh to give it a reassuring squeeze as he looked at her.

“We don’t wait until morning. As soon as the village is asleep, we leave. We will do well. We will make it to my friend, and we will fear no more.”

He sounded so confident that she believed him, but she still gripped the bag of herbs tightly for extra courage.

She nodded. “Agreed.”

He squeezed her thigh again. “Just a few more hours, my love. Then we’ll be free of this.”

The hope of escape died fast with the whistle of an arrow through the bare trees.

Raff reacted instantly, urging their horse behind a thick outcropping of stone. More arrows followed, thudding into trunks and earth. Then came the warriors—six, maybe more—emerging like wraiths from the forest.

“Chafton’s men,” Raff spat, jumping off the seat and hurrying Ingrid off it. “You need to run and hide.”

“You need to run with me,” she urged. “You can’t fight six men alone.”

She was right. Besides, there could be more than six. And there were.

One dropped down from a tree nearly on top of them and Raff had just enough time to grab the axe he had purchased at market.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered Ingrid.

He fought like a storm unleashed, he wielded his axe with remarkable skill, but then it was always his weapon of choice. The scent of blood soon hung thick in the air. One dropped. Then another. But there were too many, coming too fast.

He heard Ingrid scream and turned his head as he swung his axe.

Not one but two warriors had grabbed her.

He turned to go to her, a mistake. A heavy strike caught him at the shoulder.

Another slammed into his side. He went down on one knee, vision swimming.

Still, he struck out blindly, refusing to yield.

Then came the blow to his head. Sharp.

Before darkness swallowed him whole, he caught sight of his wife being dragged away.

When Raff stirred, the forest was silent. Pain rippled through every part of him, and blood streaked his brow. He pushed himself upright with a groan, blinking against the dusk.

“Ingrid…” His voice cracked.

No sound of hoofbeats. No fallen enemies nearby. No sign of her at all.

He dragged himself to the crushed patch of earth where he had last seen and recalled the terror on his wife’s face as she fought those dragging her away. He heard her then, though only in his head. She had roared out his name.

“RAFF!”

He had failed her.

They had taken her.

But nothing would stop him from finding her and freeing her, and he knew there was only one person who could help him succeed.

The witch.