Chapter Eleven
The sun was high in the cloudless sky, its warmth sinking into the blanket where Beitris and Ailith sat shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the field.
The air rang with the snap of bowstrings and the distant thud of arrows biting into wood.
Beitris found a peculiar joy in watching the men at these competitions.
Grown warriors turning into eager boys once more.
Boasting, laughing, shoving one another with bruising affection.
Liam stood among a knot of archers near the ale tents, animated and relaxed in a way she seldom saw.
Laughter creased his face, his head tilted as he spoke, his broad body easily towering over most of the men around him.
Even with the uneven line of his stance, his leg betraying him with that slight, stubborn limp, he was every inch a formidable man.
Her gaze lingered far longer than propriety allowed.
“Look,” Ailith murmured, nudging her gently. “They are about to begin anew.”
The archers returned to their positions, the field tightening with concentration. One by one, arrows flew, some true, some wide, each shot met with held breath and collective exhale. The tension in the air hummed with anticipation, the crowd swaying between silence and sudden bursts of cheers.
“We require yer help.”
Beitris turned to find a young lad standing breathless before her. “An archer is injured.”
At once, duty swept away distraction. Ailith gave her an understanding glance. “Go. I will keep yer place.”
The boy darted through the crowd, Beitris close behind as they wove between clusters of men and the press of onlookers.
He led her to a makeshift bench where a man lay half-reclined, blood streaming from a vicious gash along the side of his head.
The crimson ran freely, soaking the cloth pressed to his temple and dripping steadily to the packed earth below.
“What happened?” Beitris asked as she knelt.
“’Tis merely a cut,” the man muttered irritably, shifting despite the woman leaning over him. Carla. Beitris knew her well from the village. Carla’s hands trembled as she braced his chest. “My wife frets for naught,” the man finished.
“’Tis nae for naught!” Carla snapped, eyes bright with fear. “Ye are bleeding far too much.”
Beitris gently pushed the man’s hand away and lifted the blood-soaked cloth. Fresh blood welled immediately, thick and alarming. Carla paled, swaying on her feet.
“Head wounds bleed fiercely,” Beitris said explained calmly. “It appears worse than it is. Dinnae fret.”
She searched the crowd. Where was Camden? He never missed the competitions, always ready with his kit and steady hands.
“Has anyone seen Camden?” she called. There were murmurs of several people stating they’d seen him earlier.
Someone neared and when she looked up again, Liam stood before her with a healer’s box cradled in his arm. “He sent this,” he said quietly. “There’s another man with an arrow in his arm.”
Their eyes met briefly, but enough that something fluttered in her stomach making her take a deep breath. “Thank ye,” she murmured turning back to the injured man.
She worked quickly, pressing, cleaning, stitching with practiced precision.
The man gritted his teeth but didnae cry out.
All the while, she felt Liam’s watchful presence beside her, steady and silent.
It unsettled her in a strangely intimate way.
Instinct whispered that he wished to speak.
A foolish hope fluttered that he might finally voice what lingered between them.
It was utter foolishness to hope for something more than just his ensuring all was well.
When she finished wrapping the man’s head, she straightened and lifted the healer’s box. “I will take this back to Camden.”
When she began to walk, he came alongside. She paused, meeting Liam’s gaze. “Do ye require more poultice?”
He shook his head. “Effie plans to fetch it from the apothecary.”
“I see. Ye walk better today.” Beitris wasn’t sure what else to say to him, and she wondered why he continued to accompany her.
“As time passes, I pray my leg remembers what it once was,” he said quietly. “Still, I am nae fit for a horse.”
She spun to face him. “Dinnae even consider it. Ye will undo weeks of healing in one foolish ride.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “I have nae intention of testing my leg in such a manner anytime soon.”
Her sigh trembled as she turned again, and then his hand closed gently about her arm.
“I return to the keep in a pair of days.”
The words struck like a physical blow. Her breath left her in a slow, aching exhale. Though she had known that this moment would come, when she’d not see him as often, knowing it and hearing it were very different things.
“Aye… of course,” she said after a beat. “I will arrange with Keir so that I can continue yer care there.”
“There is nae need,” he replied evenly. “I can tend it myself now. The pain has eased.”
It felt as though his hand had clenched around her heart instead of her arm. So this was how it ended.
He was closing the door, quietly, politely, finally. Keir had been right. Liam was a charmer, but only for a short while, then his attention waned and he moved on to the next woman.
“I see.” Her voice thinned. She withdrew her arm. “I must find my cousin.”
“Of course,” he said gently. “I will return to the village once…”
“Aye, I am aware after all yer family lives here,” she interrupted. Beitris hurried away before he could say more. The ache behind her eyes burned, blurring the path ahead.
After several stumbling steps, she realized she had no idea where Camden was.
She blinked hard, forcing the tears back until the field returned to focus.
At last, she spotted the flash of her cousin’s red hair near the far tents and nearly ran toward it, clutching the healer’s box as if it might steady her heart.
All she desired now was the quiet warmth of the bakery and the lonely comfort of her own bed, where she might finally allow herself to break. The sooner she left the archery grounds, the better.
Just as she neared her cousin, something tugged at her, an instinct she could not ignore.
Beitris glanced back.
Liam stood exactly where she had left him, unmoving amid the noise and motion of the field.
His gaze was fixed on her, dark and unreadable, as though he, too, felt the distance stretching between them with every step she took.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked across the throng of bodies and color and sound.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then someone jostled her shoulder, breaking the fragile tether. When she looked again, he had turned away.
Beitris didn’t need a looking glass to ken her eyes were swollen. The tightness of her lids and the dull ache behind them told her as much. She had cried herself into exhausted sleep the night before, giving her sorrow free rein at last.
Her heart was broken. There was no kinder way to name it.
For months she had tended Liam’s wounds, watched him struggle, watched him rise again.
Somewhere between poultices and quiet conversations, between hope and denial, she had fallen in love with him.
She had tried to convince herself it was gratitude, fondness, duty, but the raw pain that tore through her when he told her he was returning to Ross keep and no longer required her care had stripped all such comforting lies away.
She leaned over the basin and splashed cold water onto her face. Once. Twice. She soaked the corner of a drying cloth and pressed it over each burning eye, holding it there until the sting eased and the world steadied again.
The ache in her chest remained.
Still, she would not allow heartbreak to make her useless. Her mother expected her to shop this day, and Camden would no doubt need her help at the apothecary. Life didnae pause merely because her heart had shattered.
Thankfully, her parents were too occupied to note the dullness in her demeanor as she descended to the bakery.
The warmth inside wrapped around her at once, the comforting scent of rising dough and baking crust. She drank a cup of sweet cider and ate warm bread spread thickly with butter.
The simple fare grounding her more than she wished to admit.
Then she gathered the shopping basket and tied her hair back.
“Wear yer shawl,” her mother called from behind the counter. “There’s a chill in the air.”
Beitris returned upstairs for one of her shawls and paused at the window. The stretch of road before the tavern was already alive with vendors forced from their usual spaces by the spring festival tents. Nothing seemed amiss.
Low, grey clouds hung heavy over Tokavaig, muting the light of the afternoon and casting the village in a veil of soft shadows.
The chill bit through the thin air as she walked the short distance to the square.
Her steps slowed, her pulse quickening with the memory of what had happened here only days earlier.
Her gaze swept the crowd instinctively, searching for a familiar, unwanted face.
But the square was filled only with women bargaining for food, vendors calling their wares, and a few villagers beginning their preparations for the final night of the festival. Relief loosened the tight knot at the base of her throat.
At the first stall, she was surprised by the bounty stacked upon the rough table.
The farmer grinned as he explained how he’d shielded his garden from frost with fencing and left it open to the sun above.
She selected a heavy cabbage and two broad green squash, then added cured pork and a fresh bundle of carrots to her growing basket.
Content with her purchases, she turned to leave.
And then she saw him.
Cormac emerged from between two stalls, a weighted sack across his shoulders, his hat pulled low over his brow, far too low. As if to hide the bruising. His gaze darted about, wary, until it landed on her. For the briefest instant their eyes met.