Chapter Six
Hendry refused to remain idle. Restless and still sore, he ignored the dull ache in his side and strode out to the training field, his boots crunching on the hardened earth.
Sword practice echoed across the grounds, metal clashing, warriors grunting, and barked commands piercing the air.
The familiar rhythm of drills brought a measure of calm to his unsettled mind.
Liam stepped up beside him, arms crossed, his gaze trained on the line of archers loosing arrows at straw targets. The steady thwack of shafts hitting their marks filled the air.
“Ye are looking better,” Liam remarked, cutting a glance at him. “Still pale as a corpse, though.”
Hendry smirked. “And ye look like one who lost a wager and got dragged behind his horse.”
Liam’s bruised jaw and swollen eye told the tale. Purple bloomed across one cheekbone, and the corner of his lip was split. Still, he didn’t flinch from the jab.
“Cormac was cruel to a young lad,” Liam muttered, his voice low and tight. “I’ll nae stand for that, especially if it’s someone who cannae defend himself.”
Hendry nodded, his respect for his friend deepening. “I heard. I’d have done the same. Cormac’s as dense as stone. A knock to the head might actually help.”
Liam chuckled, then winced and touched his side. “Aye, worth even the aching ribs.”
The two of them stood in silence, the cool breeze stirring the scent of sweat, leather, and the faint iron tang of sharpening blades. But Hendry’s thoughts weren’t on drills or bruised egos. As the sun climbed toward its descent, unease bloomed inside him.
The patrol should return soon.
He prayed they’d come bearing news, and prisoners.
Every hour that passed gave the attackers more time to vanish into the forests, or worse, escape the isle altogether.
Despite the border patrols, the wild terrain of Skye was riddled with hidden paths, and the mainland was only just over a day’s ride away.
By the time the sun hovered low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the compound, the returning riders appeared on the horizon.
Their massive warhorses trotted in, eager for rest and feed, snorting and pawing the earth as squires rushed forward prepared to take the reins and the warrior’s weapons to clean.
But there were no prisoners in tow.
Hendry’s chest tightened. The look in the men’s eyes told him everything. Faces drawn, jaws clenched, disappointment and something darker etched in every line. He strode toward the warrior he’d placed in charge, his voice clipped. “What happened?”
The man’s expression turned grim. “We found a man. Wounded. Beaten the same way as ye. He died before we reached his home, but he was able to give us a description of the ones who did it.”
Hendry’s breath caught. The warrior didn’t need to elaborate. The image was clear: blood, desperation, a final whisper of justice before a family’s world was shattered. That grief, raw and consuming, would follow them for many months, if not years.
Word spread quickly. Hendry joined the patrol in reporting to the laird.
Inside the great hall, tension crackled in the air as they recounted the news. Laird Alexander Ross, normally calm and composed, surged to his feet. Fury carved deep into his features, his hand slamming onto the table with such force that goblets rattled and the room fell instantly silent.
“At dawn,” the laird’s voice thundered, “the entire force rides out. Every mile of Ross land will be searched. Every croft, every barn, every crumbling ruin. No corner left unturned.”
He paused, his next words seething with righteous wrath.
“We will find the cowards. And make them pay.”
A roar of agreement erupted in the hall. Blades were unsheathed and raised high, the warriors chanting as one, voices rough with fury and justice.
“Death to them! Death to them!”
The cry echoed like a war drum, a storm gathering on the horizon. And Hendry stood among them, his pain forgotten, his blood humming with the promise of retribution.
The moment the warriors’ chants echoed through the hall Hendry’s thoughts flew to her.
Ailith.
His chest tightened painfully. Would the bastards, cornered and desperate, stumble upon her secluded cottage? Would they see her simple home as the perfect place to hide? To take what they needed?
To hurt her?
The thought sliced through him sharper than any blade. He pressed a hand to the edge of the table, steadying himself, though no one seemed to notice he was quiet.
He was a warrior. A commander. Duty demanded he ride at dawn, lead the full force of their might to flush out the murderers.
But Ailith, his Ailith, was alone. Vulnerable. And no matter how he tried to bury the truth, he couldn’t deny the pull in his chest. He loved her. Still.
As platters of roasted meat and trenchers of warm bread were passed down the long tables, Hendry sat stiffly among his comrades.
The hall buzzed with the hum of anticipation, warriors murmuring about their plans.
Which direction they’d ride. How they’d gut the traitors if given the chance.
There was pride in their voices, excitement at the justice to come.
But the noise washed over him like a distant tide.
He couldn’t hear them. Not truly.
All he could see was Ailith. Her beautiful hazel eyes filled with fear. Her arms wrapped around that shaggy dog. The fragile peace she clung to out in that woodland cottage and how easily it could be shattered.
He had to act.
Rising from the bench with sudden resolve, he barely registered the turned heads. “Going to see my squire. I’ll return shortly.”
A few nods. A shrug. The others turned back to their meal and spirited talk of vengeance.
Hendry strode from the great hall, his pace brisk, his heart thudding with urgency. He searched the kitchens first. Empty, but for a few lingering servants who informed him Tobin had already eaten. Without pause, he turned toward the courtyard.
The soft clink of metal on stone led him to the blacksmith’s hut, where Tobin stood beneath the silvering sky, oiling a sword. The squire’s face lit up at the sight of him.
“I brushed down yer horse and sharpened yer blade.”
“That’s not why I came,” Hendry cut in, his voice firm, low.
Tobin blinked, straightening.
“Tell me, Tobin… have ye kept up with yer sword training?”
The lad’s chest puffed with pride. “Aye, sir. Daily. With Cynden and his first,” he said, referring to the laird’s youngest brother, who was in charge of training the squires and younger guard force.
Hendry gave a tight nod. Good. That made what he was about to say easier.
“Then I’ve a task for ye. One I dinnae give lightly.” His eyes locked with the young man’s. “It’s a matter of life and death. And I’m trusting ye to guard something… someone… I could nae bear if she were to be hurt or worse.”
Tobin’s face sobered, all youthful bravado vanishing as he stood straighter.
“Of course, sir,” he said.
Ailith bent low among the rows of her croft garden, her fingers brushing aside damp earth as she reached for a cluster of broad beans, their pods swollen and heavy with promise.
A few leeks stood tall and proud nearby.
While cabbages, large and pale green, glistened with dew in the morning light.
She plucked each vegetable with care, brushing the soil from their roots with practiced movements.
This harvest, while modest, was hard-won.
She had planted everything in stages, thinking ahead, so she wouldn’t starve before spring’s thaw.
But she remembered too well the lean ends of winter, when her cupboard held only dried peas and the occasional tough squirrel or hare snared in the woods. Hunger had a memory. And it haunted her.
A sudden, low growl from Teller froze her in place.
Her heart leapt, a cold rush of fear replacing the warmth of the morning sun. She straightened sharply, her breath catching in her throat as she scanned the edge of the forest beyond the garden. Teller stood alert, hackles raised, eyes locked on something just beyond the trees.
Then she saw it. Movement. A rider, still distant, blurred by light and shadow.
Her pulse quickened. She clutched Teller’s scruff and backed toward the cottage, nearly stumbling as she turned and rushed through the door.
Slamming it shut behind her, she leaned against the wood, her chest rising and falling as a wave of dread crested in her chest. Her hands trembled, and tears stung her eyes.
It was becoming too much, living with the constant shadow of fear, never knowing if the next stranger would be the last thing she saw.
Moments passed. Then came a knock.
Teller launched into frantic barking, his body rigid with alert.
Ailith’s breath caught again. She crept toward the door, each step slow and deliberate, as if a wrong movement might shatter the fragile barrier between her and whomever waited outside.
A voice called through the din. Young. Not aggressive.
“Miss Ailith, I am Tobin, squire to Sir Hendry. I come at his bequest.”
She quieted Teller with a sharp command, hand still pressed to the door as her racing heart fought for calm. The boy’s voice came again, firmer this time.
“I come to ensure yer protection.”
Unlatching the door, she cracked it open, peering out to find a young man with a sincere expression and wind-tossed hair.
“Why would he send ye?” she asked, relief and confusion warring within her.
Tobin’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “The men who attacked him have killed a man. Hendry believes they may try to hide in these woods. He fears ye may be at risk.”
She blinked at him, taken aback. “Wh-why would he send ye? I can bar my doors. There’s no need for concern. Surely ye have duties far more important than watching over me.”
Tobin’s brows dipped, his youthful face hardening. “There is nae duty more important than protecting a clanswoman.”