Chapter 23
Sorcha
Some mornings hurt worse than others. Seeing Calum each day in the hall, or crossing the yard, was like pressing against a half-healed wound.
He was her husband—by law, by vow—yet never once had he acted as though he wished to be.
Never spoken the words that might have made it true.
She had long since taught herself to keep busy, to fill her hours with the work of the keep, for in labor there was no space for longing.
But at night, when sleep eluded her, the what-ifs came creeping in.
What if he had chosen her? What if she had not been a pawn, a duty, a regret?
Those thoughts gathered like shadows, and she woke to the dawn heavy-eyed and hollow.
Which was why, this morning, she bent over her porridge in the great hall, more tired than usual and grateful for even the small comfort of warmth in her belly.
The bench dipped beside her, and she turned, startled, to find a woman easing down with care, one hand braced against the swell of her own.
Sorcha recognized her at once—Mairi MacLeish, the wife of Niall, the guard imprisoned for taking coin to let raiders slip across Strathloch's borders. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes rimmed red, and her breathing came shallow, as if the weight she carried pressed hard against her lungs.
The woman folded her hands atop her stomach and gave Sorcha a wavering smile. "Lady Sorcha... I was hoping to speak with ye before your day begins."
Sorcha set her spoon down—the porridge had gone cold anyway.
Her own weariness fell aside as she straightened her shoulders, tucking her heartache deep where no one might glimpse it.
Folding her hands atop the table, she prepared to bear the weight of another's grief.
"Aye, Mairi, I offered to give an ear to any soul who wished to speak with me, and I’ll keep my word. "
The words tumbled out in a rush. "Please.
.. I beg ye. Exile my husband, if ye must, but spare his life.
Let me go with him, wherever he is sent.
He has done wrong, I will not deny it, but he is my husband, the father of the bairn I carry.
To hang him would be to make me a widow and this child fatherless. Surely mercy may be found?"
The plea tore at Sorcha. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself.
"I ken your love for your husband," she said gently.
"And I do not dismiss it. Exile may seem a kinder punishment, aye—but ye must remember.
.." Her gaze dropped briefly to the rough-hewn wooden table, worn smooth by years of use.
"There are clansfolk who lost their loved ones because of his choice.
One soldier—he lost both wife and bairn the night the raiders came; he returned from doing battle at Glenbrae to learn his hearth was empty.
To the folk who lost their kin, no sentence short of death will ever be justice to them. "
The woman's lip trembled, tears welling. "But no judgement will mend their hearts either," she whispered. "Death will not bring their loved ones back."
Sorcha closed her eyes for a heartbeat. The woman was right—yet so were the grieving.
Whatever she decided, it would cut someone to the quick.
There was no path that would leave all content.
Only the path that felt sound, that upheld both law and compassion, guided by the keep's ancient traditions and the will of Strathloch.
When she opened her eyes, her voice was calm, though her chest ached. "I cannot promise what judgement will fall. But I give ye my word: I’ll weigh it rightly. I willna let grief nor mercy alone blind me. Only justice."
The woman’s tears fell, but she bowed her head. "That is all I could ask."
The sound of footsteps echoed from the hall's entrance.
Sorcha knew the first of the clan were gathering, waiting for her to rise and hear their voices.
She reached out, laid a hand on Mairi's shoulder, and gave it a brief, reassuring squeeze.
As a faint, gentle smile touched her lips, she murmured, her voice soft, "Take care of yourself, Mairi.
It will do neither you nor your bairn any good to fret. "
She then stood and turned to see the elderly woman Agnes, who worked in the kitchens, standing behind her. The early morning light spilled across the stone floor, gilding the hall in a soft warmth as Sorcha prepared to begin the day's duties.
"Agnes," she began, then straightened fully, leaving Mairi still sitting. "Let us walk while we talk. I’ve need to check on a mother who is expecting her bairn any day now, and the midwife is busy with another on the far side of the keep."
"Certainly, Lady Sorcha." Then Agnes reached over and took her hand, putting a warm oatcake wrapped in a handkerchief into it.
"That is for later—I ken ye tend to get so busy ye never return to eat until late in the eve, unless ye come to help serve supper."
"Thank ye, Agnes, for that. I appreciate your kindness. Come, tell me your thoughts on the matter at hand."
Then she raised her voice: "For any others who wish to speak with me, I am sure we’ll cross paths in the coming days, and we can speak then."
Sorcha nodded and began walking, Agnes keeping pace beside her as she shared her thoughts on the judgement that would need to be made.
Agnes did not speak on behalf of Elspeth or Liam, but she too pleaded for Niall's exile rather than death, having known him since youth.
She insisted he was a man who loved his friends and had been misled by two of his closest companions.
By the time they reached the home of the woman nearing her time to deliver her bairn, Agnes had finished what she needed to say and bid Sorcha a good day.
Sorcha knocked on the door, drawing a deep breath to clear her mind.
For a fleeting instant, she longed for the ease of setting her burdens on another’s shoulders—but such ease had never been hers.
She steeled her resolve, knowing the path forward would test both her heart and her judgment.