The darkness pressed around them, as did the task; the time was closing in on them. Her face was darkened with ash and soot, a heavy cloak masked her body, and the women with her were similarly dressed; belonging to her husband’s clan.

Night pressed around them and the cries for murder reached their ears; as though this was sport. Jericho finally saw their targets and her anger boiled, three young women; one a child. A child being led to her death, gathering her reins she pointed; the girl was hers.

Riders on either side of her claimed the other two. Carefully she watched the situation unfold. Choosing her time, waiting for the moment. Silently she looked to the heavens, a silent prayer; the moment had come. The horses knew too, her mare lunged forward as she sent up a war cry that went unheard over the villagers still crying for an execution.

 Innocents to die and until the day the Lord returned none had the authority to lay judgement; only One possessed that right. They were all sinners, and deserved the offer of forgiveness; not this.  Her kinswomen took up the cry, charging into the fray.

 Their mission was one of life, not murder and in that she struck the man so he fell; but she did not die. Her mission was the life of the girl he led to death. She would not be the cause of his, letting him fall to the side she hefted the girl onto the horse’s back.   Racing across the small town square the fled the village, to the wall where their women waited.

Three parties of five split from the wall, one intended victim in each. Not that the chaos in the village would subside in time to allow many to pursue them. Finally her anger abated as they opened the distance between the village and them; closer to the meeting place.

The girl in her lap was hardly more than a child, everything in her wanted to turn back to that village and give them a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget. Yet what was she to do with the girl if she did that, and it was not the way she was taught to live. The killing had been prevented with little blood shed, that was the way it was meant to be; her battle lust needed to die. Yet she committed the place and crime to memory.  

The moon lit the clearing, appearing empty as they approached fanning out in the woods; invisible in the night. Jericho made the soft call, an when it was twice returned  the horses moved into the opening with no more than a handful of words the parties changed and headed out again. This was not their first midnight trek nor would it be their last.

Now all three of their causes rode together in her party, heading north to their home. They would arrive by mid day, the other two looped out to the east and west so as to further confuse any tracker that may have come behind.  She knew none had followed from the village, but that was not their only concern. There were many other threats when travelling so far from Sgiath land.

On her husband’s land none dared contradict her for her marriage was one of love and not convenience; he was proud of her.  But the life she lived and the views she held did not sit well with all. Her war party understood, anyone who did not   was either free to leave or her husband bid them farewell.

Barely remembered are the ways in which we came to be, but it began in hard times when men needed their wives to care for their bairns but also to stand and defend their homes. IT was in this time a fierce force was learned. Not all like or accept it, but they cannot deny it.

It was early in the thirteenth century, the year was unimportant for these events made no history books; but the legacy lives on.  Generations of war and upheaval shaped the lands and the people. 

 For a woman called Jericho it was this that began a legacy that has survived for centuries. She won freedom and life by her honor.  A Scottish woman taken captive by the English, a people she had no reason to defend. Yet she saved the life of their king, and was called a witch for how else could a woman of her size manage a weapon.

It was the life of the king and the act of treason stopped by her blade; Jericho was allowed to flee to her own lands. A woman alone had little hope, yet she had not been raised to be a lady. Journeying north as far away from those who would kill her as she could go. It was a highland chieftain who offered her refuge, free and still trapped for she had none but a man who still believed in chivalry.  

For months she lived as a ghost in the keep, these people were struggling to carve out a life. They did not have the time or energy to spare to know her. Jericho was accustomed to being scarce, it had been many years since she had been free to be herself. Conforming to her surroundings and working within the keep was yet another role she played.

A day came and the enemy surged against the walls, the keep was under attack. Reports came fast and the men were quickly pinned down by an oppressive force; terror reined. Yet the woman these people did not know had been raised for battle and was as hardened in her craft as any. She had been raised to lead a clan and could recognize that this keep had once been an impressive stronghold now struggling to maintain their defences.  Fighting to care for themselves they had still taken her in. As chaos swirled around her Jericho slipped away unnoticed.

She had fled England with the clothes on her back and the weapons she had come with; retrieved by a man ordered to see her safely to the border. It had been another lifetime that she’d had a family and a life, as the daughter and heir of a border laird.

Now in a Highland clan she knew little about she took her weapons the English had thought a joke to defend the only home she had. It was late in the afternoon when the battle cry went up, the attack had come without warning and high on the wall she saw it was already desperate.

Stealing herself to the task at hand she calmed her pulse and notched an arrow in her bow. Target chosen the arrow flew and sliced through the throat of a warrior, his body crumpled; death was instant. Jericho had learned young to make no creature suffer, not even an enemy.

Skillfully she notched another arrow and took aim, picking out the men leading the fight. Jericho dealt death swiftly, knowing her duty; each arrow hit its mark and left one on her heart. This world of death was hers, she had lived in it her entire life. The men against the wall had offered her refuge and given her what they could as they struggled through their own lives. She would fight for them.

Her arrows were few now but the garrison was pushing forward with renewed strength. Jericho sought her targets with care, taking out the leaders calling the shots. Even as she did it she wished there was another way. The men had women and bairns counting on them. Yet so did the men of this holding.

As the enemy was driven back a boy to young to fight brought her more arrows. She joined the effort until the enemy retreated out of her range. When the fight turned and the enemy fled Jericho left the wall and made her way to the tower room.

The warning had not come in time and they were horribly out numbered. The wall was strong and while it would protect their kin it may well mean their deaths. There was no where to go and each surge only ended in more wounded, they were pinned and their enemy knew it. They had waited years for it.

The last of the large holding, a vast allied region had been reduced to their northern corner. To stubborn to fall, to ornery to die they would fight to the death. Their allies had been picked off slowly, but knowing his family’s legacy could die was a taste more bitter than death for Ross Sgiath.

 The warrior in front of him pitched back, an arrow jutting from his throat. Confusion was nearly enough to pause the battle as a second seasoned warrior died and another; leadership was falling fast. Their enemy hesitated and pulling back as men died by the hand of an unseen archer.

They surged forward as their enemy fought half heartedly, trying to watch for the enemy above. Ross did not waste the gift, he had no archers skilled enough to make such shots. Now they had a chance and he led the men who depended on him.

Look as he might he did not see an arrow that missed its mark. They fought until their enemy ran, with no leaders to drive them forward the men turned tail and fled, leaving their injured and dead alike. Finally able, Ross craned his neck to look up at the wall; no one was there.

They chased them to the edge of their lands before turning back. Spirits were high even as he assigned a detail of men to look after the injured and dead. Even though they were weak they had been able to defend their home, he didn’t like how close it had come. They would need time to recover but it had bolstered the spirits of his men to see their enemy flee.

Entering the court yard they were surrounded by women and bairns looking for their kin. They hardly had time to tell that the McGrath’s had run as they were told of the archer. His young nephew eagerly informed him that he had taken more arrows to the woman. Ross asked her name, but he already knew and was struck by something, the boy and most in the yard did not even know her name.  Yet the tiny woman he had brought into their keep had come with heavy weapons strapped to her back.

Ross left his clean to find her, leaving his nephew behind. The boy trailed after him often, seeking a father. Ross knew he had a duty to his brother’s son but what he had to know was not for a child’s ear.

She sat on a chair near the high window, the heavy door to her chamber left open. She had been here months and yet he knew little about her and rarely saw her out and about in the keep.  “You are skilled with that bow.”

“I was taught the arts of battle as a girl.” She didn’t look back at him, staring out the window; he wondered if she felt trapped here.

“Why were you taught weapons?” Never had he heard a woman speak so calmly of battle.

“My father had no sons, I was meant to be his heir. It no longer matters as my clan is gone, as is what was meant for me. My father made these weapons for me. When I was given pardon were returned.”  She explained in a dead voice, he could imagine the memories it brought up; women were like that.

“I’ve heard of that in the tales.” And he had, England had called her a witch but it was the king himself who spared her life and if the tale was true had her escorted safely to the Scottish border.

“I was trained in weaponry and am skilled as any man. By years of practice, not the hand of the devil.” Her tone was cold.

“Tis not my right to judge. I do not take those tales to heart and today I have seen for myself.” He wanted to demand that she look at him, yet he owed her his life and that of his kin. This woman who seemed to have retreated into herself in hopes he would leave her be.

“Many disagree and so they have innocent blood on their hands.  I cannot say who is more evil, a witch or one who will kill a woman as one without proof. Nothing will restore a life taken.” Her tone was cold and dead, she had faced such a death and he did not know how close it had come.

 Ross swallowed hard, he had earned his place in his clan as much as had been born to it. Yet he adhered to the strict code of the Highlands; he did not harm, women nor children.  They did not spill blood without cause but the fact of life was that it was bloody and ended with death. The lass was giving far too much thought to that subject for his liking. She finally did turn to him he wished she did not look so sad.  The lass was really quite pretty and would be even more so if she smiled. Ross had the sudden urge to see her smile.