Chapter Ten
Returning home, Liam endured his mother’s scolding, equal parts fear and fury, followed by his father’s firm, wordless grip on his shoulder, and Effie’s fussing as she wrapped his battered knuckles.
When he finally escaped the cottage, the cool air hit him first, brushing against his face and grounding him in the way only the outdoors ever could.
He needed space, at the same time he needed noise. He needed something that didnae remind him of Beitris’s bruised cheek or the way her lip had trembled when he’d entered the apothecary.
So he made for the fields.
The archery competition had already begun. He heard it long before he reached the slope overlooking the range.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Arrows cut through the air with a keen whistle, sinking into targets with satisfying force. Archers stood in scattered clusters, men speaking loudly about how ailments could affect their aim, exaggerated shoulder stiffness, or sleepless nights.
Lies. All of it. Ritual and humor woven together. A game of false modesty they had all played since boyhood.
Liam paused at the edge of the field, letting the familiar sounds wash through him. Something in his chest loosened. This place, at least, felt like home. A bow in his hands always grounded him. A target hit lifted his spirits.
He spotted Hendry standing near a line of trees, arms crossed, expression sharp as a hawk observing prey. When Hendry noticed him, the intensity cracked into a softer look, relief, even concern.
“Liam,” Hendry said, stepping forward. “I hear ye were Cormac’s opponent this time.”
The corner of Liam’s mouth lifted, though his knuckles throbbed beneath their linen. “Opponent implies he had a chance. I was more… punisher.”
Hendry barked a laugh. “Aye, so I heard.”
Cynden, the laird’s younger brother, approached next, eyes bright with mischief. “Impressive, they say. That Cormac didnae land a single hit.” He let out a low whistle. “Ye’ve made half the village men jealous.”
Before Liam could respond, more warriors drifted toward him, drawn by curiosity, admiration, and the thrill of hearing firsthand what everyone was already exaggerating into legend.
“He needed a lesson, that brute.”
“About time someone put him on his arse.”
“Should’ve happened years ago.”
“Well done, Liam.”
“He deserved every bit of it.”
Each comment struck him differently, some as camaraderie, some as praise, some as justice shared among men who protected their own. Pride swelled through him but so did something else. Something quieter. He shifted on his feet, suddenly restless.
He had not fought Cormac to impress these men. He had not fought for reputation. He had fought because he had seen red, the moment he imagined Beitris crying out with no one to hear her. He clenched and unclenched his bandaged fists.
Would Cormac truly learn or was this only the beginning? A bully’s nature didnae vanish from a single beating, no matter how deserved.
Liam stared toward the distant line of trees, jaw tightening. If Cormac returned to his old ways or if he so much as looked at Beitris again Liam would face him all over. Even with an injured leg, bruised hands, or worse, it didnae matter.
A lull settled over the grounds as the spent arrows were pulled free and splintered targets carried away to be replaced.
The sharp twang of bowstrings faded into murmurs and laughter as most of the men drifted toward the ale tent, where village lasses served drink and flirted freely.
The scent of malt and sweat mingled in the air.
Liam lingered behind.
His gaze slid toward the practice range, toward the familiar line etched into the earth.
His fingers curled reflexively at his side, the phantom memory of a bow fitting into his palm making his hand itch with a restless ache.
For a heartbeat, he forgot the pain, forgot the stiffness in his leg.
He was only an archer again, hungry, eager, alive.
“Give it a go.”
The words cut through his thoughts.
Liam turned to find a young man standing before him, holding out a bow with both hands like an offering.
The surrounding men fell silent, a ripple of stunned stillness sweeping through them.
Liam recognized the lad at once, one of his former students.
A boy he’d once trained to notch his first arrow.
The young man, blissfully unaware of the weight of what he’d just done, grinned from ear to ear. “I have improved much,” he said proudly. “I dinnae think I can beat ye, but I may surprise ye.”
Something twisted gently in Liam’s chest. The lad’s unguarded enthusiasm, his complete lack of fear or pity, struck deeper than any careful sympathy ever could. Despite himself, despite the trepidation curling low in his belly, Liam reached for the bow.
“I have very little doubt ye will beat me,” he said quietly. “I’ve nay held a bow in many months. I doubt I’ll even take proper aim.”
The young archer stiffened, realization dawning. “Ye dinnae have to,” he rushed out. “I ken ye’re the best.”
Liam met his earnest gaze. After a breath, he gave a slow nod. “Aye. Very well then. Show me what ye can do.”
That impish grin returned at once, bright and contagious.
For a fleeting moment, Liam almost believed himself whole again.
The bow fit his hand as if it had never left it.
The familiar weight of it steadied his breathing, eased the tightness in his shoulders.
Muscle memory whispered promises his body might no longer keep, but hope stirred anyway.
They moved to a quieter section of the grounds where only a handful of archers waited their turn.
“Go ahead,” Liam said, handing the bow back and folding his arms. “Show me.”
The lad took his stance, feet planted, one forward, shoulders squared. He lifted the bow with care, notched an arrow, drew, breathed and loosed.
The arrow struck just shy of the center. A murmur of impressed voices followed.
“One more,” Liam called out gently.
The second shot went wide. The young man scowled and kicked at the dirt in frustration.
“Ye did very well,” Liam said, stepping closer. “I am impressed.”
The lad’s jaw set with fierce determination. “I will make ye proud.”
“I already am,” Liam answered.
A hush crept over the gathering men as they waited. Liam felt their eyes on him, some worried, some hopeful, all brimming with unspoken questions. He held out his hand.
The bow and two arrows were placed into his grasp.
Once, he had competed in trickery, multiple arrows, blindfolded shots, feats meant to draw awe and gasps. Now, as he lifted his gaze to the target, doubt whispered cruelly at him. Had it always been this far?
He glanced toward the watching men, brothers in battle, men who had stood with him beneath charging horses and clashing steel. Hendry’s gaze met his, steady and sure. A single nod passed between them.
Pride flared in Liam’s chest at the simple, unshaken faith.
“Ye may all want to move away,” Liam called out dryly. “My aim is nae what it once was.”
Chuckles rippled through the circle of men, easing the tight coil in his chest.
He stepped to the line, heart thundering far too hard for so simple a thing. His stance was imperfect, his weight shifted awkwardly, but he adjusted, leaning at the waist until balance was something he could almost convince himself he had.
He lifted the bow. Notched both arrows. Despite the bandaging on his hands, he didn’t feel impaired. He ignored the tightening skin on his knuckles; it was but a slight nuisance.
If he was to fail, he would do it in one breath, not two.
His world narrowed to the painted red circle ahead. The murmurs faded. The ache in his leg dulled beneath focus. Slowly, steadily, he released.
Silence followed.
A large hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Well I’ll be,” Hendry murmured. “Not bad, friend. Not bad at all.”
Liam dared to look. Both arrows kissed the edge of the center circle.
A sharp rush of sound broke loose, voices rising, laughter, claps on his back.
“Not bad for a man who’s nae touched a bow in months!”
“Well done!”
“A fine showing!”
Pride swelled hot and bright in his chest, startling in its intensity. He drew in a slow breath, forcing himself to keep his voice light. “Ye all best return to the competition and nae embarrass our laird overmuch.”
The contest continued with renewed energy. Several of his own archers claimed victories, and a pair from Munro Ross’s clan took prizes as well. Coin purses changed hands amid good-natured jeers and cheers.
Liam stood among them, soaking it in. The rhythm of it. The camaraderie. The pulse of the world he had once lived for. His blood stirred with it, sharp and yearning.
And then the thought crept in, cold as a shadow. When he returned to the keep, he would return to being a scribe.
The warmth inside his chest flickered.