Chapter Fifteen #3
“Safe enough. The forest is nigh impassable about a mile or so in that direction,” Morggán said, pointing as he spoke.
Then he nodded toward an area he knew well already, a little more easterly.
“But advise your men to watch for snare lines near the stream and through that section. The lass traps rabbits there.”
Lucas nodded once, already turning to relay instructions toward several waiting officers nearby. He did not question further about ‘the lass’, which frankly suited Morggán well enough.
Hours passed beside the fire, friends of long-standing catching up with each other, before the gathering finally began to thin.
Officers drifted away one by one toward their respective tents and units, until eventually the sounds of an army settling for the night carried constantly beneath everything else: muted conversation, the clink of tack, weary men coughing, an occasional burst of rough laughter before quiet reclaimed the woods again.
Then Lucas departed as well, disappearing into the shifting dark, Airril and his other men following.
Morggán remained seated several moments longer after the others had gone.
He stretched out his leg, the thigh wound stiff today.
And though he hadn’t said a word to another, his ribs still ached and he still occasionally found himself short of breath.
As he had before, however, so he would today as well—hope that tomorrow was better.
He found himself looking once more toward the hut, and then, after a long moment of deliberation, he told himself it was practicality that finally pushed him to his feet.
The lass had endured enough for one day without finding two hundred additional armed men sleeping outside her home by nightfall.
He ought to make certain she was settled and understood they would likely move by dawn.
Yet even while crossing the clearing toward the house, Morggán knew honesty demanded more than that.
He simply wished to see her again before the night ended.
He had known women before. Desired them. Bedded some. Admired others. Yet it had been many years indeed since the mere wish to stand once more in a woman’s company had drawn him across a camp at night with no purpose more urgent than hearing her voice again.
The house stood quiet when he reached it. Firelight glowed faintly through the narrow gap in the cloth covering the lone window, warm against the surrounding dark.
Morggán knocked lightly against the doorframe rather than simply entering as he had done more often than not before today.
There was a brief rustle of movement inside followed by a longer pause than he expected.
“Avery?” he called, frowning slightly toward the door, his hand on the handle.
Only then came the sound of the latch lifting. The door swung inward just enough for her to peer out at him first before opening it farther. Avery remained half-hidden behind it for a moment before stepping back to allow him entry.
“Sorry. I didn’t know who it was,” she explained, almost apologetically.
“Better safe,” he answered quietly.
Only once she moved farther aside did he step within. Charlie lay near the hearth and thumped his tail once against the packed earth before rising and greeting Morggán. He scratched idly behind the hound’s ears, but his gaze was filled with Avery.
“I was just washing my face,” Avery said.
Indeed, the cloth normally folded atop the little bedside table rested in her hand still damp from the basin of water.
Her hair, usually left loose or braided simply down her back during the day, had been twisted up at the back of her head and secured there with the short bone comb she used nightly.
Morggán knew the routine well by now.
Each evening she shed layers gradually as the house warmed when she was in for the night: her cloak—or his plaid—was doffed first if she had worn it during the day, followed eventually by the outer tunic, then boots and hose beside the bed.
Afterward came the basin and cloth, the strange little twig brush she used diligently upon her teeth each night, and finally fresh garments before sleep.
Always fresh garments, every night without fail.
The familiarity of those small habits struck him unexpectedly hard now. He wondered suddenly, and with uncomfortable force, whether he might ever witness any of it again.
Outside, the distant noise of the enormous camp—even subdued at this hour—still carried through the walls in softened fragments, but inside the little house everything felt strangely removed from it once more. Smaller, quieter.
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the sounds beyond the walls. “Sounds like your friend brought all of Scotland with him.”
The corner of Morggán’s mouth moved faintly. “Nae quite.”
Throughout the evening more riders continued filtering gradually into the forest from varying directions, summoned back by scouts carrying word that Morggán lived.
Near sunset Blair finally returned from the eastern river crossings with nearly thirty men mud-streaked and exhausted from days searching marsh and road alike.
Later still another company arrived under Eòin the Elder from the western pine valleys, bringing the army’s strength nearer once more to what it had been before Caerwyll’s disastrous retreat scattered them.
With every returning unit the forest around Avery’s hut grew less like a temporary encampment and more like a true war company settling itself for movement.