Chapter 35
Sorcha
The days that followed settled into a steady rhythm of practice.
The clack of staves against posts, the snap of bowstrings, the thunk of arrows striking targets—each sound became part of the keep’s daily hum.
The yard smelled faintly of trampled grass and fresh hay from the stables nearby, the air alive with the movement of folk coming and going.
Already the days were shortening, the morning frost lingering longer on the stones, and each breath misted the air.
Winter crept closer with every dawn, and Sorcha felt its weight as keenly as the bow in her hands.
There was little time to harden her women before the cold set in fully, when raids would come like wolves seeking easy prey.
Beyond the yard, her burdens multiplied.
Stores had to be counted, barley measured, and woolens checked against the cold.
She had pressed Agnes into helping with the tallying, and passed some duties to those she trusted—but still Sorcha found herself drawn into every corner of the keep.
A word in the bakehouse, a hand in the counting room, an eye on the herds penned closer each night.
She told herself it was duty, yet it felt more like a need: to steady every piece of Strathloch with her own hands, as if her presence alone might shield it from the hungers of winter and war.
What had begun with a half-dozen women now grew with every passing day: shepherds’ wives with wind-burnt cheeks, serving girls who came straight from the bakehouse with flour still dusting their aprons, even two widows who carried their grief like steel in their spines.
Sorcha guided them with patient hands, her voice steady even when her heart was not.
She corrected stances, lifted chins, praised the strike that landed true.
Each woman’s progress struck her with quiet pride, a balm against her own weariness, and a reminder that strength was not only for men, nor for warriors bred to it.
It belonged to anyone who dared claim it.
And yet, beneath it all, confusion dogged her steps.
Calum’s words—that he wished to ken her, to take back the harm he had dealt—clung to her like burrs.
For years she had dreamed of a husband who might stand as partner, friend, and aye, as love.
She had dreamed of bairns in her arms, of laughter around her hearth, of the warmth her own mother had given so freely.
Those dreams had soured upon her first meeting with her betrothed, yet now he spoke of mending what he himself had broken.
Did she dare believe him? Or was this another hope better strangled before it had a chance to live?
When the lessons ended, Sorcha often found herself restless.
She still stole away to her hidden spot in the woods, bow slung over her shoulder, sword strapped at her hip.
There, in the clearing of trees, she struck her pell until sweat dampened her brow, until her arms trembled and her breath came harsh.
The moon watched her as it always had, cold and steady, and she drew strength from its silence.
Here, alone with steel and shadow, she could untangle her thoughts—at least enough to face the morrow.
The training yard itself grew busier, livelier, as more of Calum’s warriors began to join.
Some came to teach, others to test themselves against the women, and still others simply to lend their presence.
It was no longer training in secret or by halves—it was open, shared, and growing.
Targets lined the walls, arrows bristling like quills as women and warriors alike took their turns.
Blades struck shields in measured practice, men showing women the turn of a wrist, women showing men how quickness could best brute strength.
The clangor of training no longer sounded like division, but like harmony.
Sorcha welcomed it. This was what she had asked of Calum, and he had done it: invited his warriors into the fold, showing the clan that women were no less, that they stood as one.
She saw it in the way the older men nodded, in the way the younger lads watched wide-eyed, in the way her women held their heads higher each day.
She even found herself laughing again—rare, unguarded laughter—when a sparring match or an archery contest went awry. The women clapped and teased her boldly now, courage rising in them like dawn. For the first time in long months, she felt not merely their leader, but their companion.
Still, there were moments when her skin prickled with awareness.
She would glance toward the edge of the yard and find Calum there, arms folded, his eyes steady upon her.
He never interfered, but his gaze lingered, heavy with thought.
Perhaps now he knew what it was to stand apart, to see one’s spouse share laughter and ease withheld from oneself.
After two weeks, the yard had become a place of belonging.
Katherine no longer trembled when she loosed her arrow.
Morag, who once laughed at the very idea of holding a blade, now planted her feet like stone when she struck.
The miller’s daughters moved in unison, fierce as hawks.
And the warriors, who at first had joined only out of duty, now stayed of their own will—sparring, teaching, even laughing beside the women.
Sorcha’s chest swelled with pride she could scarcely hide. For the first time since taking up the regency, she felt she was giving the clan more than commands. She was giving them courage—and Calum, by standing beside her, was proving that he meant his word.
And still, he lingered at the edge. Watching.
Listening. Sometimes correcting, but most often silent, his presence a weight she could not ignore.
He greeted her on her arrival now, asked after her day in a voice almost careful, as though afraid she might break.
She was not sure when it happened, but she began enjoying their talks.
They were light things, not touching anything too deep, but more than before.
And in the great hall, they had begun to sit together during meals, should their paths cross, joined often by his warriors or the women she now counted as friends.
One evening she was sitting with Katherine, who asked after her relationship with their laird.
The question came softly but plain: could she ever find her way to forgiving him?
Katherine said the whole clan could see him trying to make amends.
Sorcha had answered that “amends were not so easily made—what’s said is said, and canna be gainsaid.
” Even as the words left her lips, she wondered if she spoke truth, or only the shield she still carried.
At night, when she lay in her chamber, her thoughts circled the same path.
She wanted to trust. She wanted to believe.
Yet every wound he had dealt her whispered caution.
And every small gesture he made—a cloak draped over her shoulders when the wind bit sharp, a trencher of food pressed into her hands when she forgot to eat—pressed against the armor she had built.
Was it so wrong, she wondered, to want him to see her? Not the Regent. Not the warrior. But the woman who longed, still, for something more than duty.