Chapter 21
Calum
Calum strode through the bailey, the chill bite of the midday wind at his back.
His father’s summons had been abrupt—everyone to the courtyard at once.
The gathering would begin any moment, and the thought of it quickened his steps.
Irritation simmered in him. Since his return, his father had pressed him to see to the traitors and marauders still rotting in the cells below the keep.
But Calum could not bring himself to pass judgment—not when the traitors had once been his friends.
Their faces haunted him, and with each passing hour the whispers of unrest among Strathloch’s folk grew louder.
The courtyard was already crowded when he arrived, voices hushed with expectation. His father stood upon the broad stone steps of the keep, framed against the grey sky so all could see him. Calum crossed the yard, the sea of onlookers parting, and mounted the steps to stand at his father’s side.
A few steps below, flanked by the clan elders, stood Sorcha. Her face was pale, but her back was straight, her gaze steady. She looked at him not with judgment, but with an unshakable certainty that seemed to cut through his turmoil.
Domhnall raised a hand, and the murmuring fell to silence. His voice boomed across the stones, stern and unyielding.
“Traitors let murderers into our keep, and our kin died for it—men who fought, and the women and children who had no shield. Five of our own folk perished. The clan has grieved. Now the clan demands justice.”
He turned to Calum, his voice dropping, though it still carried to the farthest corners of the yard.
“The traitors lie below. Their guilt is known. The elders have given their counsel, and the people have made their will plain. As their laird—and the son of a laird—ye must speak. The time for hesitation is past. Give them your judgment.”
The words hung in the air, a heavy cloak of expectation settling on Calum’s shoulders.
The faces in the crowd blurred—impatient, angry, demanding.
He opened his mouth, but the sentence would not come.
The faces of the prisoners flashed in his mind, and with them, a lifetime of shared boyhood and battle.
His silence stretched, long enough for the air to shift.
A low murmur rippled through the courtyard, growing louder, turning from a whisper to a frustrated groan—the sound of a clan losing faith.
Then a voice rang out, clear and commanding.
“Lady Sorcha! We look to you!”
The cry struck like a thrown stone. Others joined in, their shouts swelling until the stones themselves seemed to carry the sound:
“Our Lady! Our Shield! Give us justice!”
Calum’s head snapped toward her. Sorcha’s expression was not triumphant, but watchful—bearing the quiet memory of every slight, every scornful glance she had endured.
She stepped forward, between Calum and the people. Her gaze swept the crowd, her voice not loud, yet edged with steel.
“I will not act on a whisper or the fever of the moment. If you would have me lead, say it. Speak, so there is no doubt in my mind—or in yours.”
The roar came, fierce and unanimous.
“Aye! We do!”
Calum felt it in his chest like a blow. The very stones seemed to shake beneath their voices, and he knew the sound would haunt him longer than any battle cry.
His people—his by right—had been claimed by another.
Fury and humiliation knotted within him.
Before his eyes, the people who were his by right had been claimed by a woman he had once scorned.
And she had not even asked for them—she had made them choose.
The roar of the clan's support vibrated through the stones, a promise of loyalty that settled on Sorcha’s shoulders. She held up a hand, and the sound faded into a tense, expectant silence. She turned to face her new people.
"I thank ye for the trust ye have placed in me this day," she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "But I will not act on emotion alone. Justice is not a sword raised in anger. It is a weight to be balanced, a truth to be found. The clansmen who lie cold in their graves deserve no less."
She glanced at the elders and then, pointedly, at Calum. "I will seek the counsel of the elders who have lived and bled for this clan. I will hear the words of our laird, Calum, that he might give wisdom in this time of trouble."
Her eyes then swept over the crowd, a clear and steady gaze that met the eyes of the laundress, the Tanner, and the young men who had fought beside her.
"I will make myself available to all of ye who wish to come to me with your thoughts and your grief.
My ears will be open, and I will hear all that is said.
But know this: The final judgment will be mine to bear alone, as you have requested that of me here today.
I will take all that I have heard, and I will act as is right for Strathloch. "
A hush fell over the yard, deeper than before, as if even the wind held its breath. Calum scanned the crowd and saw no doubt in the faces turned toward her. Only trust.
With that, she turned and descended the steps, leaving Calum and his father standing alone above the silent, watching crowd.
Calum watched her go, his mind reeling. He had been given a chance to speak, and he had been silent.
Now, his voice would be only one among many—and the people of Strathloch had already chosen whom they would follow.