Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Roy left the council chamber with the sound of argument still lodged behind his eyes. The shared patrol had been approved. It was a beginning, Donaldina called it.
Beginnings required trust. Roy had found battles simpler.
He crossed the courtyard toward the stables, where the air smelled of rain-dark straw, leather and the warm animal musk of horses. Hammers continued sounding from the outer wall, though the afternoon softened and the wind no longer struck Dun Ard with such violence.
His stallion stood in the open yard beside the stable doors.
Bran was a great black beast, broad through the chest and scarred along one flank from a spear that had nearly taken them both during the war.
He watched Roy approach with the solemn suspicion of an animal who considered most men disappointing.
Roy took a brush from the rail. Bran allowed three strokes before turning his head and attempting to bite the handle.
“Ye have survived worse insults,” Roy told him.
The stallion’s ears flattened. A giggle sounded behind the fence. Roy glanced over his shoulder.
Four village children stood crowded beside the gate. The eldest boy could not have been more than nine. A smaller girl clutched the rail with both hands, while two younger lads peered between the wooden slats.
All four stared at Bran. Then at Roy.
“Does he bite?” the girl asked.
“Aye.”
The children drew back. Roy continued brushing.
“Only people he dislikes,” he added.
They moved forward again, apparently confident that an enormous warhorse would find them charming.
The eldest boy pushed open the gate. “Can he bow?”
“Nae.”
“Our old pony bows,” said one of the younger lads.
“Yer old pony is likely attempting tae fall.”
The girl laughed. Within moments, they surrounded Bran at what Roy considered an unwise distance. The stallion watched them with his ears turned forward, puzzled by the sudden gathering of small, loud creatures.
The eldest boy held up a piece of carrot.
“Bow,” he ordered.
Bran looked at Roy.
“Bow,” the boy repeated.
The stallion took the carrot and remained upright.
“He cheated,” the girl declared.
“He is a horse,” Roy shrugged. “His sense of honor is limited.”
They tried again. The children commanded Bran to bow, turn, lift his hoof, and shake his head. Bran ignored every instruction while consuming each reward offered.
Roy leaned against the fence, intending only to watch. Then the smallest lad attempted to push Bran backward by placing both hands against his chest. The horse did not move. The boy’s boots slid through the straw until he sat abruptly upon the ground.
A laugh escaped Roy. The sound surprised him. It surprised the children, too. They stared at him for one silent heartbeat before laughing with him.
“Ye must give the command properly,” he said.
He stepped beside Bran and clicked his tongue once. The stallion backed three paces. The children cried out in delight.
“He only listens tae you!” the girl exclaimed in awe.
“He possesses excellent judgment.”
“Make him bow.”
“He doesnae bow.”
“Try.”
Roy looked at Bran. The stallion looked back with profound distrust. Roy took the carrot from the boy and lowered it beneath the horse’s chest. Bran bent one foreleg and dipped his head in pursuit of the food.
The children cheered as though Roy had conquered Edinburgh. Bran seized the carrot and straightened, clearly pleased with the arrangement.
“Again!” they demanded.
Roy repeated the gesture. This time the stallion bowed farther, and the smallest boy attempted an imitation, nearly falling face-first into the straw.
Roy caught him by the back of his coat. “Careful.”
The child grinned up at him without fear. Roy set him upright.
Soon he had Bran lifting one hoof while the girl bowed solemnly before him. The boys took turns issuing commands the horse ignored, after which Roy repeated the same words and received immediate obedience.
“That isnae fair,” the eldest complained.
“Life rarely is.”
“Does he ken any tricks without food?”
“He carries me intae battle.”
The children considered this.
“That isnae a trick,” the girl mused.
“Nae?”
“It sounds like work.”
Roy smiled. He felt it before he could stop it, broad and unfamiliar upon his face. The children laughed again as Bran stole the remaining carrot from the boy’s pocket and chewed it with shameless satisfaction.
Roy was still laughing when he sensed someone at the gate. Donaldina stood beyond the fence. She wore her dark green cloak, one hand resting on the open latch. Wind loosened strands of hair around her face. She had plainly come to seek him, yet she did not enter. She only watched.
His laughter faded. The smile left his mouth almost at once, his expression settling back into the calm reserve he knew how to wear.
Donaldina noticed the change. Something in her face softened and saddened together.
“There ye are,” she spoke.
Roy placed one hand upon Bran’s neck. “Was I required?”
“Hamish said I would find ye here.”
“That doesnae answer the question.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesnae.”
The children continued feeding Bran, though more quietly now, sensing the alteration without understanding it. Donaldina’s gaze remained upon Roy. He felt strangely exposed beneath it.
She had seen his scars. She had held his hand beside Lachlan’s cairn. Yet being found laughing seemed somehow more intimate, as though she had discovered a portion of him he had not knowingly offered.
The little girl tugged at his sleeve. “Make him bow again.”
Roy looked down at her. Before he could answer, Donaldina entered the yard.
“I should like tae see that,” she said.
The children brightened. Roy regarded Bran. The stallion’s ears flattened, making his opinion of further performance plain.
Donaldina’s mouth curved. “Does he obey every command except when he possesses an audience?”
“He has spent too much time among lairds.”
Her smile deepened. Roy carefully set down the last piece of carrot.
Bran bowed. The children cheered again, and Donaldina chuckled softly beside him.
Roy no longer smiled, yet warmth lingered in his chest long after his expression faded.
When he looked at her, he noticed she was still watching him, as if she had seen something worth remembering.
The children resumed their game as though Roy’s brief withdrawal into silence had never occurred.
They crowded around Bran with handfuls of carrot and solemn instructions the stallion continued to ignore.
The little girl bowed repeatedly before him, convinced courtesy might succeed where command had failed.
Two boys argued over whose turn it was to hold the reins, though neither possessed the courage to take them from Roy’s hand.
Donaldina remained near the gate. She told herself she stayed because the children required watching. It had nothing to do with the smile she had seen upon Roy’s face.
That expression seemed impossible now. His features settled once more into their accustomed stillness, the scar along his jaw lending severity to a countenance already too practiced at concealing itself.
Yet, Donaldina had seen him laugh. The memory remained warm within her.
One of the younger boys, a narrow little lad called Iain, slipped away from the others while no one was watching.
A chestnut mare had been tethered near the stable doors, still damp from exercise and restless beneath the unfamiliar noise.
Iain approached her from behind, holding out a piece of carrot in one hand.
Donaldina saw him too late.
“Iain!”
The boy touched the mare’s hindquarter and the animal shied violently. Her rope snapped taut against the post. She screamed, a high, piercing sound that cut through the laughter. One foreleg struck the wooden rail as she twisted, and then she reared, with her hooves beating at the air.
Iain fell backward. His head struck the packed earth with a dull sound.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The children screamed. Bran tossed his head. A stable hand dropped the bucket he carried, water spreading dark across the straw.
Roy moved before any of them. He thrust Bran’s reins toward Donaldina without looking and crossed the yard in three strides.
The chestnut came down hard, her front hooves striking close enough to the fallen child that her heart stopped. She reared again as Roy stepped between them.
“Easy.” His voice was calm, trying not to challenge the animal or deepen her panic.
Roy caught the broken rope near the mare’s halter. She jerked away, nearly dragging him from his feet. He moved with her instead of resisting, turning his body so that her weight passed beside him.
“Easy, lass… easy.”
The mare’s eyes showed white. Foam darkened the bit at her mouth. Roy kept one hand upon the rope and lifted the other slowly toward her neck.
Donaldina scarcely breathed. The man who met Cormac’s sword with cold precision now stood beneath the striking range of a terrified horse without blade or armor. Every movement was deliberate. His shoulders remained loose, and his body angled away so that he did not appear to trap her.
The mare stamped. Roy murmured something Donaldina could not hear. The horse’s ears shifted toward him. Again, he spoke. The words mattered less than the voice and its steady roughness, patient and certain, asking for trust rather than demanding submission.
The mare’s hooves settled upon the ground. Roy stroked her neck once, then passed the rope to the stable hand who had finally reached them.
“Take her inside… slowly.”
Only then did he turn toward Iain. The boy had begun to cry. It was not the thin wail of a child seeking attention, but a broken, breathless sound dragged from true fear. He lay curled upon one side with dirt across his cheek, and one hand clutched against his chest.
Roy dropped to his knees beside him. “Dinnae move yet.”
“I’m hurt,” Iain sobbed.
“I ken.”
“Am I dying?”