Chapter Ten
By mid-afternoon, the wind had risen to a persistent howl, tugging at the shutters on Hendry’s cottage like a restless spirit demanding entry. The wooden slats rattled with each gust, but he paid them no mind. Inside, all was quiet, save for the slow, methodical rasp of steel against stone.
Hendry sat hunched at his small table, the familiar weight of a dagger in one hand, a whetstone in the other. He didn’t need it sharpened. It was already honed to perfection. But the motion, the scrape and drag, offered the rhythm and noise he required.
Sword training had ended. First meal had long since passed. The keep had emptied out, each warrior tending to his duties. The day slipping into the quiet lull that followed the morning rush.
Hendry, not scheduled for patrol until the next morning, had filled every hour with distraction. He’d brushed down his horse until its coat gleamed. Cleaned every corner of his cottage until even the hearthstones shone. Then gathering his soiled clothing, he had trudged to the laundry.
The laundress had stared at him as if he’d grown a second head, trying to snatch the bundle from his hands with a scolding mutter. He’d let her take it, eventually, but not before scrubbing the first tunic himself, just to fill the time.
All of it was a futile effort to drown his own thoughts. Of the look of sheer shock when he’d last spoken to Ailith.
The scrape of blade on stone faltered as a knock echoed against the door.
He didn’t look up.
“If it’s Tobin,” he called gruffly, “I’m not hungry. And I dinnae care if the stable roof’s fallen in.”
The door creaked open anyway.
Hendry glanced up with a frown to find one of the stable hands, barely more than a lad with hair sticking out in every direction, wringing the edge of his tunic.
“S-sorry, sir,” the boy stammered. “Didnae mean to interrupt. I was told to bring this to ye.” He held out a basket.
Hendry didn’t reach for it. Instead, he pointed to the table with the edge of his blade. “Who gave it to ye?”
The boy nearly tripped over his feet as he rushed forward, setting the basket down with an unceremonious thump. A linen cloth, embroidered with vines and tiny blossoms, covered the contents.
“A woman,” he muttered. “Dunna ken her name.” And with a quick nod, he fled, closing the door behind him with a sharp thud.
Hendry set the whetstone aside. His fingers, steady moments before, now trembled slightly as he reached for the basket.
It wasn’t from his mother. She would have come herself, rapped at the door, and walked right in with arms spread for a hug. Her keen eyes taking him in for any sign of injury or thinness from skipped meals.
This… this was different.
Carefully, he lifted the embroidered cloth.
The scent struck him first, sweetness and spices.
Baked apples.
He stared down at the two half-moon pastries tucked into the linen, their crimped edges golden from sugar caramelized at the seams. His breath hitched. They were folded pies, his favorite. Something Ailith used to make when the trees were heavy with fruit, and the days had grown short.
He forced himself to open the second bundle.
Roasted chestnuts.
His throat tightened.
Before even reaching for the jug, he knew what it was. He uncorked it, brought it to his nose, and breathed in the rich scent of honeyed wine. She’d always made it for him in the colder months, knowing how he preferred it warm and spiced.
All of it. Every item in the basket had been made with him in mind. The food and drink he loved. The ones she remembered. The ones no one else would ken.
His body tightened as he stared down at the offering. Was she trying to undo what years of heartbreak had done with this?
Instead of soothing his troubled soul, the offerings made Hendry angry. The silence of the room seemed to press in tighter. The food sat there, fragrant, a message without words. Ailith was trying to make amends.
That she had believed a near stranger, not giving him the benefit of the doubt, waiting for him to return. No. Instead she’d quickly married the lying man leaving Hendry to wonder what had occurred.
A pang in his chest brought back a rush of emotions. The physical pain he’d felt at returning to find his woman married to another. Having to hide from everyone to cry in private as his entire body shuddered with tears pouring down his face.
He’d vowed never to allow himself to love again. To not leave himself open to betrayal.
The wind rattled the shutters, and he stood to ensure they remained latched. A question entered his mind. Had Ailith brought the basket to the keep?
The thought stopped him cold.
He swallowed hard. His gaze flicking to the window. Had she sent the basket and fled? Or… was she still there at the keep?
With a grunt, he returned to the table, picked up a dagger, and began to sharpen it. He would not give in. No matter how much he still loved Ailith, he had to remember that she had the power to destroy him.
Just before last meal, Hendry, Liam, and Cynden stood before their men.
Each leader took a turn asking for reports, giving orders, and praising when it was warranted.
Then the men were released. Those who lived elsewhere headed home, and those who lived there returned to their quarters or to the great room to await last meal.
Many of the warriors adjured to the kitchen area within the guard’s quarters. In the small space where an archer, called Joshua, sometimes cooked for the group. Hendry had eaten there a few times and had been impressed.
It was often said that Joshua’s cooking rivaled that of the keep’s cook, which made for a friendly competition.
Hendry glanced to the keep and then toward the guard’s quarters.
If Joshua cooked, it would be only enough for about six men, so he decided he wouldn’t go there and take from their portions.
For a moment, he considered skipping last meal, but he was already hungry and by the time he began patrolling the following morning, he’d be too hungry to properly focus.
“Ye looked undecided,” Liam said with a lopsided grin. Then sniffing the air he added, “It smells like roasted hog.”
Indeed the smoky aroma made Hendry’s stomach rumble. “I am very hungry.”
Together they walked to the main entrance, into the wide foyer, and turned left into the great room.
Already servants meandered about with trays laden with baskets of bread, platters heaped high with sliced roast pork, and bowls filled with fragrant steamed potatoes.
Others carried pitchers, one in each hand pouring and refilling tankards as they went.
An older harried woman hurried to Hendry and glanced up at him. “Sir, the laird wishes a word with ye.”
Hendry nodded at the woman who turned and rushed toward the kitchens.
“What do ye think it is about?” Liam asked having overheard what the woman had said.
Scanning the room, he didn’t see Ailith, so he shook his head. “Probably about the executions. We’ve nae had time to discuss it.”
Hendry walked toward the high board, every so often looking to each table.
Just as he reached where Alexander sat, he saw her.
Ailith. She sat with Nala, Alexander’s wife, as well as Ainsley, Cynden’s wife, at the table where the women who lived at the keep usually sat.
It was a round table to the left of the high board.
Except for when important visitors were expected, Lady Nala, preferred the company of women during last meal.
Often citing she and Alexander didn’t have privacy to discuss personal matters at the high board.
Upon reaching the high board, Alexander motioned to an empty seat on his left. “Sit. Eat with us.”
Obviously, the seats had been saved for them. Often Alexander invited them to join him, since only one of his siblings, Cynden, still lived there.
He lowered to a chair and was immediately served by a maid who remained close in case the laird required anything. He thanked the young woman, who blushed prettily and moved to refill tankards.
“Did ye note that Ailith is here?” the laird asked. “She has requested an audience with me in the morning.”
Hendry looked toward Ailith, who kept her gaze down. “An audience. Did she state what about?”
“She did nae,” Alexander said, meeting his gaze. “Do ye have any idea what it would be about?”
Spearing meat and biting into it, he almost moaned at how delicious the pork was. Hendry shook his head. “I spoke to her two days ago. Found out that Brant lied to get her to marry him. She was shaken at hearing the truth.”
Hesitating, he glanced once again toward Ailith. “We also spoke on the subject of Brant’s death and how she’d falsely accused the warriors that had fought alongside him to be at fault. When I explained the bond between the men, she was stricken.”
Alexander’s brow furrowed. “She refused the widow’s allowance and has struggled to survive because of pride.”
It was astounding how much Alexander knew about the clans’ people. Laird Ross was a man who cared for his people, who fought for them, and would not allow any suffering that could be avoided. It made sense that he was informed about Ailith.
“I ken. In return for her helping me when I was injured, I sent food, blankets, and coin. Surprisingly, she accepted the recompense.”
Both men were silent. “That is very surprising,” Alexander murmured. “I ken ye were in a bad way after she married Brant. How do ye feel about her now?”
“It matters not,” Hendry replied, carefully stacking meat and a chunk of potato, anticipating the bite.
Chewing on the morsel, he looked toward the entrance, willing someone to enter with news.
Any news. A fight in the pub. A horse loose in the village square.
An archer with an arrow through his head.
He wasn’t picky. Anything to get Alexander to change the subject.
The great hall fell into sudden silence the moment two warriors burst through the doors, their cloaks tattered, boots caked in mud, and chests heaving for breath. They looked as if they’d ridden through a storm.
Hendry’s eyes locked on them, widening. It was as if his very thoughts had summoned them.
No blood. No visible wounds. Thank the saints.
Tankards halted midair. Conversations died mid-sentence. Every gaze in the room snapped toward the warriors as they strode across the stone floor, their boots and armor the only sounds.
“A word, Laird. ’Tis urgent,” one of them said, glancing between Alexander and Hendry, his face pale with tension. “In private, sire.”
Without hesitation, Cynden, Liam, and Hendry stood and followed the laird and the two warriors through a side door. The wooden panel slamming shut behind them. The chill outside bit instantly, but it was the warriors’ next words that truly froze the air.
“Bìrlinns, coming from the south. Bearing MacLeod banners.”
Alexander let out a low curse. “Again? We must prepare to defend, in case it is trouble they are after.” He turned sharply to the three leaders. “Deploy yer men. Now.”
Hendry didn’t answer. He was already running. Liam and Cynden alongside.
His boots seemed to fly over the packed courtyard ground as he sprinted toward the guard quarters, barking orders as he went. “To arms! Dress for battle! Mount up!”
The courtyard exploded into organized chaos.
Men scrambled into action, racing to the armory.
Once there jerking on leather and mail. Scabbards were thrown over wide backs.
Swords and claymores gleamed in the growing light.
Short swords were slid into hip holsters and daggers tucked into straps across broad chests.
Within moments, every man was fully armed for battle.
Liam’s orders were carried to Hendry as he rallied the archers.
Squires darted among huge war horses, arms laden with quivers, tossing them to the archers who stood at the ready, bowstrings already taut.
Cynden did the same. His men, a combination of guards and archers, manning the top of the wall surrounding the keep.
War cries filled the air as warriors prepared for blood.
Horses were led out, stamping and snorting, sensing the coming storm.
Liam and Hendry mounted, their cloaks snapping like banners behind them as they rode out of the wide keep gates.
Scouts rode ahead. Flank riders moved into position.
Then, letting out war cries the Ross army thundered from the keep like a living beast set loose.
Hendry rode hard, his thoughts flashing back, Brant, fallen in the last clash with the MacLeods. And now Ailith was back within the keep’s walls while the same threat stirred once more.
As they crested the southern ridge, the coastline came into view. Ross bìrlinns were already gliding from the shore, oars slicing the water in synchronized rhythm. The first line of defense surged forward to intercept the threat.
Archers stood at the prow, bows drawn. Behind them, warriors bristling with crossbows and battle axes waited for the order to strike.
Even in the face of battle, Hendry felt it, that tight burn in his chest. Not fear. Not dread.
Pride. Fierce and unshakable.