Chapter 22 #2
River’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and Archer almost flinched away from it—not as a reaction to her, but rather out of surprise that she would willingly come this close.
Even if she had agreed to come here with him, even if she was listening to him now, he still felt as if this illusion of peace between them could shatter at any moment.
“Here we could pretend he didnae exist,” added Archer, tentatively reaching with his own hand to lay it over River’s on his shoulder.
“Me maither, she couldnae stand the man. She was a kind woman, ye ken . . . too kind for her own good. She always tried to help those me faither hurt by wagin’ his senseless wars, by razin’ the land, by pillagin’ and lettin’ his men do as they pleased. ”
River remained silent for a long time, her gaze fixed on the lake. In the end, she said, “I think I would have liked yer maither.”
Archer couldn’t help but laugh abruptly at that, the sound surprising both him and River.
“Aye,” he said. “So would she.”
“Ye’re naethin’ like yer faither,” River said. She was not the first one to say it, and every time Archer heard those words, a strange pride crept up his throat and cut off his words, choking him up.
“Aye.”
“How long since this clan has been at war?”
“Ever since I took over,” said Archer, and though others may have found him weak, he considered that his best achievement.
He would fight if he had to. He would send his men to battle without another thought—but only if it was necessary, only if the conflict couldn’t be resolved in any other way.
As long as he had peace in his lands, he had the greatest wealth of all.
With a smile, River lowered herself onto the blanket and began unpacking the food.
Archer sat down next to her and was instantly amazed by the sheer volume and variety of what she had brought there.
Surely, he thought, she hadn’t been the one to drag everything out there, to the lake, considering the basket had to be heavy.
Anything from cheeses and cured meat to apples and bannocks and tarts came out of the basket.
Archer reached for a bit of cheese, popping it into his mouth, and then poured them both a cup of wine, handing one to River.
For a while, they picked at the food in silence, the only sounds around them those of nature—the gentle lapping of the water on the back, the birds in the trees, the distant howl of the wind.
Then, River broke the silence with something Archer hadn’t expected to hear.
“I received a letter yesterday from me brother,” she said. “One of many.”
“Aye,” he said. “And what’s he sayin’?”
“I daenae ken,” said River, much to his surprise. “I still havenae opened it.”
The admission came with obvious embarrassment, though Archer could not figure out why.
“Ye daenae wish to read it?”
“Nay,” said River with a sigh, shaking her head. “Nay, I...I never read them. I keep them all in a drawer in me chambers.”
Archer remained silent, waiting to see if River would volunteer any more information on her own. When she said nothing, he asked, “Why?”
River made a noncommittal sound, as if she herself didn’t know the answer to his question. She nibbled on a piece of bannock that she had torn off with her fingers, staring out into the horizon.
“I’m afraid of what I might find in them,” she admitted at last. “I fear he may . . . what if he blames me?”
“For what?”
“For everythin’,” said River. “For our maither’s death.
For…och, I daenae ken. What if he kent all this time?
What if he was helpin’ her? We ken she wasnae actin’ alone, but we still daenae ken who was helpin’ her, Archer.
And who better than me brother? But even if it wasnae him…
even if he’s innocent, he might hate me that I didnae save our maither. ”
River’s words were like a dagger to the heart for Archer, especially now that he remembered exactly how she had died. He had done nothing to help the woman; he had simply allowed her death, sanctioned it, even. And now River was blaming herself for it instead of blaming him.
After a moment of hesitation, he reached for her hand, holding it tightly in hers.
“River…I’m certain yer brother doesnae blame ye for anythin’,” he assured her. “And though I daenae ken if he’s innocent or nae, naethin’ bad has ever been heard regardin’ him. As far as I ken, he’s a good man.”
“How could he nae blame me?” asked River, her gaze now distant, as if she was there physically, but was mentally far away. “I could have done somethin’ to save her.”
“Nay,” said Archer firmly. “I could have done somethin’ to save her and I didnae. So if ye wish to blame someone, blame me. Nae yerself.”
River looked at him then, and Archer felt as though her gaze was piercing right through him.
“It wasnae yer fault,” she said firmly, and it seemed to Archer that she truly meant it. “I would never blame ye for this.”
“Then daenae blame yerself either,” said Archer. “I certainly daenae blame ye and I doubt yer brother does.”
River fell silent once more and turned her gaze back to the lake, to the horizon. For a while they sat there, picking at the food, content in the silence between them.
Then, Archer said, “Sometimes it’s easy to forget people love us. It’s easy to forget they’re on our side. But when ye decide to open those letters, remember yer brother and think…does he love ye? I think he does.”