Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“There she is, Woodgreen,” Declan muttered under his breath.
“Aye, ’tis a good sight,” Killian said.
“Ride around the side, and tell me what ye see,” Declan ordered.
“Aye, me Laird ,” Killian said as he rode away.
The ride between Glen Oak and Woodgreen village had been long and steady, the chill of the Highland air nipping at their faces.
Declan led the men down the narrow dirt path bordered by tall pines, the hooves of their horses muffled by the damp earth.
The scent of peat smoke drifted through the air as the first thatched rooftops of Woodgreen came into view, huddled close to a bend in the river.
Chickens scattered as they entered, and a few villagers paused their work to bow their heads, their eyes cautious but respectful.
The village lay nestled between low hills with stone cottages lining the muddy path that served as the main street. Smoke rose from the blacksmith’s forge, and the rhythmic clang of hammer on iron filled the quiet morning.
A few children peered from doorways, their faces smudged but curious, while a shepherd called out to his dog from the far field.
Declan took in the scene, his keen eyes assessing the sturdy fences and the half-built watchtower near the edge of the forest.
Killian rode up beside him, his dark hair tied back and his expression thoughtful.
“Seems the place is fair holdin’ up well, me Laird . The Woodgreen men in charge, George and Howard, didnae waste their time these past weeks.”
Declan nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the barricade of sharpened logs that marked the village’s western border. “Aye, but we’ll see soon enough if it’s strong as it looks. Bandits ken how to find weakness where honest men cannae.”
They dismounted near the central square where George, the village guard captain, was already waiting with his men. George was a burly fellow with a grizzled beard and weather-worn face, the sort of man who had seen more winters than he cared to count.
“Me Laird,” he greeted with a deep bow. “We’ve been expectin’ ye. The watchtowers are near finished though the south fence took some beatin’ from the last storm.” Declan nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the men behind George—strong, able-bodied, though a few looked too young to bear arms.
“Show me,” Declan said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
George motioned toward the path leading south, and the group began their round of inspections. The air smelled of damp wood and earth as they approached the damaged fence.
Declan ran a gloved hand along one of the broken posts, testing its sturdiness.
“This’ll nae do,” he murmured. “If bandits strike from the wood, they’ll break through here in less than a minute.”
Howard, the younger of the two guards, stepped forward nervously. “Aye, me Laird , we meant to reinforce it, but the men were stretched thin fixin’ the east side. We’ll see to it straightaway.”
Declan’s gaze flicked to him, sharp but not unkind. “See that ye do, lad. Weak walls bring sorrow faster than winter frost. Take a few of me men to help ye while we are here.”
Killian gave a small grin beside him and lowered his voice to tease him. “Ye always had a way with words, Declan. Makes a man feel the chill of doom when ye talk of defenses.”
Declan shot him a look but smirked faintly. “Then perhaps the words’ll stay with them long enough to make ’em work faster.”
They continued their inspection toward the watchtower overlooking the northern ridge. The structure stood tall but incomplete, its beams sturdy and straight. A young mason hammered away at one of the corner braces while another hoisted timber with a rope pulley.
Declan paused to watch then turned to George. “When’ll this be done?”
George rubbed his neck uneasily. “Three days, mayhap four, me Laird . The rain slowed the work.”
Declan frowned, considering. “Make it two. I will leave some lads with ye for a few days if needed. We cannae afford another delay. The forest road’s too quiet these days, and quiet roads breed trouble.”
George nodded solemnly, understanding the weight behind his words. Bandit activity had grown worse these past months, and a single weak link between villages could mean lost lives.
They moved next to the granary, a stout stone building near the stream.
Declan inspected the hinges, the locks, and the cart path leading to it. “Supplies must stay guarded,” he said. “If raiders come, they’ll go for the food first. Make certain two men keep watch here by nightfall.”
Howard nodded briskly. “Aye, me Laird . We’ll double the watch till further word.” Declan gave a curt nod of approval.
As they turned back toward the square, Killian fell into step beside him. “Ye ken, Declan, this place looks better than the last. The folk seem steady.”
Declan glanced at him, his eyes thoughtful beneath the furrow of his brow. “Aye, they’ve spirit enough. But it’s nae spirit that’ll save ’em if they’re caught unaware. Every wall, every post, every man must be ready.”
Killian chuckled. “Always seein’ trouble before it comes.”
Declan’s lips curved in a grim smile. “It’s what keeps men alive, Killian. Trouble never sends word before it arrives.”
A few women waved shyly from the well, and Declan gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. He admired their quiet resilience, folk who worked hard without complaint, trusting him to keep their world from falling apart.
The clouds above were darkening fast, heavy and low as if the heavens themselves were ready to burst. The wind picked up, sweeping through the trees with a mournful whistle, stirring the horses and the cloaks of the men.
“Look there, me Laird ,” Killian said, his voice half a shout above the gusts. “That sky looks fit to open any moment now.”
Declan followed his gaze, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the clouds churning like storm-tossed waves.
“Aye, ye’re right,” he muttered. “No sense in ridin’ back to the castle in this. We’ll make camp here in Woodgreen for the night; best to keep the horses dry and have the men fed before we move again.”
Killian nodded, already turning his horse to relay the command. “Aye, me Laird . I’ll have the lads set up in the stables.”
Within moments, the men moved into action like a well-trained force. Some began gathering wood and unloading supplies into the stables while others fetched water from the stream that ran behind the blacksmith’s hut.
The villagers hurried to lend a hand, bringing armfuls of straw, bundles of peat to place under bedrolls, and baskets of provisions. The clang of hammers, the murmur of voices, and the crackle of fire soon filled the cool, damp air.
Declan led his horse to a young guard. “See that he’s brushed down and fed,” he ordered. The lad nodded eagerly and led the animal away.
Killian returned, his hair tousled by the wind and his grin crooked. “Camp’ll be ready in no time, Declan. The villagers seem pleased enough to have us stay; they say it keeps the bandits at bay when we’re near.”
Declan’s lips twitched faintly. “Then I reckon we’re doin’ them a service even while restin’.”
Howard, the village guard, approached just as the first drops of rain began to fall, soft and cold.
“Me Laird,” he began, bowing his head slightly. “If ye’ll allow it, ye can take me family’s cottage for the night. It’s small but dry and warm, and it’d honor us to have ye rest there.”
Declan gave a small smile, touched by the man’s offer but resolute in his choice. “That’s kind of ye, Howard, but I’ll stay with me men. A leader who sleeps under a comfortable roof while his men face the rain in the stables deserves none of their loyalty.”
Howard’s expression softened, admiration flickering in his eyes. “That’s noble of ye, me Laird. We are lucky to have a master like ye.”
Declan only gave a brief nod, adjusting his cloak against the drizzle. “A man’s strength lies in standin’ beside his own. I’ll nae forget what ye offered, though. Keep yer family dry and fed.”
With that, Howard went to assist the others as thunder rumbled faintly across the hills.
By dusk, the rain had begun in earnest, drumming steady.
The men gathered within the wide stables, their laughter echoing through the space as they settled among the horses and the hay.
Fires crackled in iron braziers, sending up smoke that mingled with the earthy scent of rain-soaked leather and straw.
Declan sat near the center on a bale of hay, his back against a beam, watching as his soldiers shared bread and stories in the flickering light.
The villagers had brought them a hearty meal—bowls of oat broth simmered with onions and bits of salted pork, bannocks still warm from the hearth, and a platter of smoked trout from the nearby river.
The men ate with gratitude, their laughter growing louder as mugs of ale were passed around.
“A feast fit for kings!” one of them called, raising his mug high.
Killian smirked. “Aye, kings that smell of wet horse and mud, maybe.”
The group roared with laughter, their spirits lifted despite the storm.
Declan tore a piece of bread and dipped it into his broth, the warm flavor chasing off the chill.
He turned to Killian, his voice low. “Ye’d think grown men had never seen rain before,” he muttered, though there was a hint of humor in his tone.
Killian leaned back on a bale of hay beside him. “Ye cannae blame them, Declan. After a day of ridin’ and inspectin’, they’ll take any reason to jest.”
Declan shook his head. “Aye, let them. There’s too little laughter in these lands these days.”
A young soldier named Fergus began telling a tale then, his voice animated as he gestured wildly with his spoon.
“So there I was,” he began, “caught in the mire halfway to the village, with naught but me boots and a horse that hated the sight of water.”
The men chuckled, already knowing his flair for exaggeration. “I swear on me life, lads, the beast near flung me to the crows when I tried coaxin’ him across! I had to bribe him with an apple I’d been savin’ for meself!”