Chapter 16 #2
In the courtyard, Bradley and Alan mounted their horses and set off down the worn road leading to the village.
Hooves struck the dirt in a steady rhythm, carrying them over rolling hills dusted with the green of new growth.
The smell of fresh earth and pine carried on the wind, mingling with the faint smoke of hearth fires in the distance.
Bradley rode tall in the saddle, his dark cloak snapping behind him, while Alan kept pace at his side.
When they crested the final rise, the village came into view, alive with the bustle of labor and recovery. Roofs once blackened by flame now shone with fresh thatch, while men balanced on beams, hammering them into place.
Women carried baskets of seed, their skirts brushing the soil as they moved across the fields. Children laughed in the lanes, dragging sticks in the dirt, their spirits lighter than the scars of the raid.
Bradley slowed his horse, letting his gaze sweep over the progress with a keen eye.
He remembered too well the day they had found this place smoldering, its people broken and terrified.
Now, though bruised, the village was mending, and its folk stood taller for it.
A low sense of pride stirred in his chest, though his expression remained hard as stone.
Alan gestured toward the smithy, where sparks flew from an anvil.
“They’ve rebuilt the forge, Laird. Smith Malcom’s back at work, and he swears he’ll have tools ready for every farmer by the week’s end.
The cottages at the west end have been mended, too, and the storehouse roof has been patched.
” His voice held an edge of pride, as if the villagers’ triumph was his own.
Bradley gave a grunt of approval, his eyes narrowing as he studied the thatch lines.
“And the storehouse?” he asked, his tone sharp. “I gave the order for it to be filled to the rafters—grain, dried meat, wool, all they’d need for the winter. Did ye see it done, Alan?” He turned his dark gaze on the younger man, demanding nothing less than the truth.
Alan straightened, nodding firmly. “Aye, Laird, it’s stocked as ye commanded. We’ve barrels of oats, salted fish, and casks of ale enough to last. Wool blankets from the keep have been sent, and the women have spun more besides. Come, I’ll show ye.”
The two men dismounted, leading their horses by the reins as Alan guided Bradley toward the large timbered storehouse.
The scent of grain and dried herbs greeted them as Alan heaved open the heavy door.
Inside, neat rows of sacks, barrels, and crates filled the space, each stacked with care.
Bradley stepped in, his hand brushing over a sack of flour, the weight beneath his palm satisfying.
Bradley’s mouth curved faintly, a rare glimpse of approval.
“Good,” he said, his voice low but resolute.
“These folk will ken their Laird does nae forget his word. They’ll eat, they’ll be clothed, and nay bandit alive will rob them again.
” His hand clenched into a fist, his vow etched into the air as sure as steel.
Outside, villagers paused in their work as the two men stepped back into the sunlit square. A few bowed their heads in reverence, their eyes lingering on Bradley with quiet gratitude.
One elder woman clutched her shawl and called out, “Where is Lady McCormack, Laird? We had hoped to see her with ye.” Her voice wavered with respect, yet held a yearning tone.
Another villager, a young man stacking wood, added, “Aye, the Lady’s words gave us strength when the fields lay black. She’s a kind soul, that one. When will she come to us again?”
His question hung heavy, and others nearby nodded in agreement, murmuring her name like a prayer.
Bradley stood silent for a long moment, the villagers’ questions echoing through him.
He thought of Laura, her gentle words and soft touch, how she had comforted those broken folk when even he had not known what to say.
In their eyes, she was near saintly, a woman of grace and mercy, untouched by the darkness that haunted him.
Pride welled within him, fierce and unyielding, that she bore his name and stood as Lady of these lands.
“Yer Lady McCormack will come in a few days to bless the new well. I promise ye that,” he said loudly for all to hear.
A cheer erupted around the village. Children dashed from one to another with the same words, “Lady McCormack will come!”
A slow breath escaped his lips, and his voice softened just enough for Alan to hear.
“She means more to them than I ever could’ve guessed,” he admitted.
His gaze swept the village once more, seeing the evidence of her influence in every hopeful smile. “Laura… she gives them somethin’ I cannae, hope without fear, light without shadow. Saints preserve me, but I’ve wed a woman stronger than she kens.”
Alan glanced at him, surprise flickering in his young eyes, “Aye, and all could see that the day ye wed her.”
Bradley straightened, his expression hardening once more into the mask of command. “Go see the blacksmith.”
Alan nodded and walked away.
Bradley turned to tend to his horse. Yet deep within, he carried the thought of Laura like a fire he dared not quench.
She is a pure light. I am dark as the night, and I daenae deserve her.