Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Colin woke to the disagreeable discovery that being alive was not the same thing as being well.
His shoulder announced itself first. It throbbed with a deep, ugly insistence, as though the arrow had not been removed at all but merely changed its mind and settled inside the bone. His head felt heavy with the remains of Fionn’s vile potion.
For several moments, he remained still and let the room return to him by degrees.
Breac was seated near the wall with his arms folded and one boot braced against a stool.
Murdoch was standing by the window, looking down into the courtyard as if he expected Robert Munro to climb the stones out of spite.
And Elspeth.
Colin’s breath stopped. She was asleep in the chair nearest his bed, curled in an attitude that could not possibly be comfortable and therefore was entirely like her.
A blanket slipped from one shoulder. Even in sleep, there was a stubborn line between her brows, as if her dreams offended her and would be corrected upon waking.
Her face was too pale. The bandage beneath her robe showed when she shifted, a white glimpse at her ribs that sent a hard, cold memory through him: blood on green cloth, her hand red against her side, her knees giving way in the ruined meadow.
Colin began to sit up. Pain struck so quickly and so savagely that his vision went white at the edges again.
Breac was on his feet at once. “Dinnae be a fool.”
“I am sitting.”
“Aye. I had gathered that from the foolishness.”
Murdoch turned from the window. “Fionn said ye werenae tae rise.”
“Fionn says many things.”
“Most of them are cleverer than what ye are about tae dae.”
Colin ignored them both and pushed himself upright with his good arm. The motion pulled at the bandage and sent another wave of pain rolling through his shoulder. He took it in silence, because there were limits to the humiliation one man ought to provide before breakfast.
Elspeth stirred in the chair. Colin stilled at once. She did not wake. Her hand tightened briefly in the folds of her robe, then relaxed.
Breac saw where Colin’s gaze had gone, and something in his expression softened in a manner Colin disliked immediately.
“She hasnae left ye.”
Colin looked at him.
“Since they brought ye in,” Breac continued. “Skye tried. Fionn tried. I tried, which I mention because me bravery is rarely appreciated. She said if any of us attempted tae remove her, she would begin with the nearest injury and create others.”
Murdoch gave a grunt. “I believed her.”
Colin looked back at Elspeth. She stayed.
The knowledge settled strangely in him, heavier than the pain and far more difficult to dismiss. He had known duty. He had known loyalty, in soldiers, in friends, in men who would stand at his back because they trusted his blade and his judgment. But this was not that.
Elspeth owed him nothing of tenderness. He bought her into this life. He brought danger to her feet. He made her a target for a madman’s vengeance. Yet she had sat beside him through the night, wounded herself, pale with exhaustion, and refused to leave.
His chest tightened with a discomfort that had no decent name.
Colin swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Breac cursed under his breath. “There it is. The foolishness has gained legs.”
“I need tae meet the Council.”
Murdoch stared at him. “Ye need tae lie down.”
“I have lain down.”
“Fer six hours.”
“Then I have rested.”
“That isnae what rest means.”
“It will serve.”
Breac stepped closer. “Colin.”
There was too much in the way he said it. It was not said out of mere irritation or friendship. There was fear, perhaps, though Breac would have preferred death to calling it so.
Colin did not look at him. “Help me stand, or move.”
Breac muttered something so impolite even Murdoch’s brows rose, but he came to Colin’s good side and braced him. Murdoch took the other, careful of the wounded shoulder. Colin stood.
For one humiliating breath, the chamber tipped. He locked his knees and waited for it to obey him.
“Splendid,” Breac said. “Ye are nearly the color of oatmeal. Very commanding.”
“Get me me boots.”
“Shall I fetch yer coffin as well, or will that wait until after the meeting?”
Colin’s gaze cut to him. Breac fetched the boots. Before dressing, Colin looked again at Elspeth. The blanket slipped lower. The dawn chill crept into the room despite the fire. He took two steps toward her before either man could speak.
It cost him more than he liked. The chair seemed farther away than it had any right to be. He reached for the fallen blanket with his good hand and drew it carefully over her shoulders. She shifted slightly beneath the touch, turning her face into the warmth. A strand of hair lay across her mouth.
Colin’s fingers lifted before he could stop them. He brushed it away. The softness of her skin against his knuckles nearly undid what arrows and councilmen failed to accomplish.
“Stubborn lass,” he murmured.
Elspeth did not wake. Behind him, Breac said nothing. Murdoch, mercifully, also said nothing. Colin was aware of both silences and disliked them equally.
He straightened. “Nay one wakes her.”
“Aye,” Murdoch nodded.
“If she asks where I am—”
“We will lie,” Breac offered.
Colin turned slowly.
Breac sighed. “We will tell her ye are being sensible in another room.”
“That is also a lie.”
“It is a kinder one.”
Colin dressed with more assistance than dignity. Every movement pulled at his shoulder. By the time his belt was fastened, sweat gathered at the back of his neck and the last of the potion’s fog had been replaced by clear, punishing pain.
Skye had left food under a cloth. There was bread, cold meat, cheese, watered ale, and a bowl of broth whose steam had long since died.
Colin ate standing, quickly and without appetite.
The food steadied him almost at once. Strength returned not as a flood but as a hardening, a gathering of the pieces of himself that pain had scattered.
Breac watched with open disapproval. Murdoch watched as if deciding whether to knock him unconscious and ask forgiveness later.
“Dinnae,” Colin warned.
Murdoch’s mouth tightened. “I havenae spoken.”
“Ye were thinking loudly.”
Breac rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ save us from lairds who cannae die because they are too stubborn tae follow instructions.”
“I will rest after the Council.”
“Nay, ye will say that, then find six more reasons tae bleed on important furniture.”
Colin finished the ale and set the cup down. “Are the men gathered?”
Murdoch’s expression became serious at once. “Aye. Breac kept the prisoner alive. The attacker says naething useful beyond Munro’s name, and even that he spits like a curse. Scouts saw tracks tae the north ridge, then lost them in stone.”
“Dead?”
“Four of ours. Seven wounded. Among the villagers, two dead. More hurt, most nae badly.”
Colin closed his eyes for one moment.
Four of ours. Two villagers.
Six lives because Robert Munro could not wound the dead man he hated and so struck at the living son instead.
His shoulder throbbed harder, as though the body wished to remind him there were simpler pains available.
“Elspeth?” he asked, though he knew the answer and needed to hear it again.
“Fionn says she will be sore,” Breac repeated quietly. “She will also be insufferable.”
Colin opened his eyes. “Then she will heal.”
“Aye.”
Several minutes later, Colin entered the lower chamber where the Council had gathered. A few men looked first at the bandage beneath his dark coat. Wiser men looked away before he noticed. He noticed all the same.
“Sit,” Colin ordered.
They sat. Pain made him sharper, or perhaps fear did.
He had come into that room with Elspeth asleep behind him, Munro’s arrow wound burning in his shoulder, and the memory of his people screaming in a meadow meant for joy.
The table was crowded with councilmen, captains, Breac, Murdoch, and old Tormod, who had no official place in strategy but possessed the useful habit of remembering every feud that had ever drawn blood within fifty miles.
Maps were spread across the table. Stones marked watch posts. A strip of leather marked the ridge from which the attackers had come. Colin studied it in silence while the men waited.
At last, Murdoch spoke. “We could ride before noon.”
Several heads lifted.
“Tae Munro land?” one councilman asked.
“Aye,” Murdoch nodded. “Strike fast. He willnae expect it after failing.”
“He may expect exactly that,” Breac corrected. “Munro wants Colin angry.”
“I am angry,” Colin spoke.
“Nay one doubted it,” Breac replied. “The question is whether ye intend tae be useful with it.”
A few men shifted, alarmed by such boldness.
Colin did not look up from the map. “Continue.”
Breac leaned forward. “Munro attacked a feast before witnesses. Women, children, villagers. That gives us more than grievance. It gives us a case.”
“Cases dinnae stop arrows,” Murdoch said.
“Nay,” Breac agreed. “But the Crown does. Sometimes. When properly embarrassed.”
Old Tormod snorted. “The Crown moves like winter honey.”
“Then we heat it,” Breac urged. “Send letters at once tae the Crown. Tae Niall. Tae Domhnall. Tae Ruaridh, though he will curse us for it and send men while claiming he shouldnae because Isobel is with child.”
A murmur passed around the table.
One of the captains tapped the ridge on the map. “If we attack now and Munro claims we struck first, the Crown may hesitate.”
“Or punish both clans,” another added.
Murdoch’s jaw flexed. “And if we wait, he strikes again.”
“If we wait foolishly,” Colin told them. “We willnae.”
The room quieted. He placed one hand on the table. The other hung uselessly beneath his coat, with pain pulsing down his arm.
“Double every watch. Roads, burn paths, shepherd tracks, the old pass above the east wood. I willnae have any child go beyond the village without escort and nay woman will be walking between village and castle alone. Harvest work continues only under armed guard. Any stranger is held until I see him.”
One of the older councilmen frowned. “That will frighten the people.”
“The people were attacked at a feast. They are already frightened.”
No one argued.
Colin continued. “We send tae the Crown before sundown. Robert Munro broke peace before witnesses and targeted me wife.” The words tasted like iron.
“He wants us tae ride blind intae his land. We willnae oblige him. We gather proof, allies, and men. Then when we move, nay one will ask whether we had cause.”
Breac nodded. Murdoch did not like it, but he nodded, too. Around the table, agreement settled slowly, uneasily, but firmly. Then Malcolm Grant, old enough to have advised Colin’s father and foolish enough to believe longevity made all thoughts useful, leaned back with a sigh.
“Yer faither would have ridden already.”
The room froze. Colin’s eyes lifted. Malcolm seemed not to notice the sudden stillness. Or perhaps, worse, he did and thought himself entitled to continue.
“I only mean ye have his look when wrath takes ye. A hard thing, that. Like Black Alasdair come back tae sit at his own table.”
Colin said nothing. Pain moved through his shoulder, sharp and clean. It was almost welcome. It gave him something to hold.
Another man, perhaps seeking to soften what had been said and succeeding only in making it worse, cleared his throat. “And the lady has yer maither’s air. The way she stood in the meadow with the bairns, there was something of Lady Aileen in it. A brightness, perhaps. A gentleness.”
The names struck the room like two blows.
His father.
His mother.
Alasdair, whose blood lived in Colin’s face no matter how much he hated the mirror.
Aileen, whose name was spoken in the castle as if she were a hymn, a ghost, or a wound no one had permitted to close.
Colin felt something old and violent rise in him, but it was not rage. Rage would be simple. This was grief buried so long it had grown teeth.
Breac shifted slightly beside him, only to remind him that he was not alone in the room. Colin did not look at him. He looked at Malcolm first, then at the second man.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that every man leaned in despite himself.
“If one more person at this table speaks of me faither as if he is a measure fer me, he will leave me land before nightfall and never return.”
No one moved.
Colin’s gaze shifted. “If one more person speaks of me maither as if she is a tale tae be laid over me wife, he will follow.”
The second man paled. “Me laird, I… meant nae disrespect.”
“I dinnae care what ye meant.”
His voice had not risen. That made it worse. He saw the effect of it in their faces, in the lowered eyes and tightened mouths.
“Me faither is dead,” Colin reminded them. “Me maither is dead. Speak of them again tae draw likeness, warning, poetry, or comfort, and ye will find exile a generous punishment.”
Silence held. Even the fire seemed to burn more quietly.
At last, Malcolm lowered his head. “Fergive me, me laird.”
The other man followed. “Fergive me.”
Colin remained standing until the room understood apology did not erase command.
Then he looked back at the map. “We were discussing letters.”
Breac was the first to move. He reached for the ink and parchment as though nothing unusual had happened, though there was a tightness around his eyes Colin knew too well.
“Tae the Crown,” Breac spoke. “Then Niall, Domhnall, and Ruaridh.”
“Aye,” Colin nodded.
The Council resumed, but no one spoke of parents again.
By the time the letters were drafted and sealed, Colin’s shoulder had become a field of fire.
His vision narrowed twice, though he kept his hand braced upon the table and made no sound.
Men left with orders. Captains went to place guards.
Messengers took horses. Colin turned toward the door before pain could find a way beneath his ribs.
He had a prisoner to question.