Chapter Two #2
Laird Robert Munro lay beneath a simple linen shroud, his once-powerful frame now still and silent.
Cameron’s hand rested occasionally on the rough wood, as if the touch could offer some comfort to the once-vibrant man.
Beside him, Kenzie held his head high, his features reflecting none of his grief.
Cameron knew his thoughts should be on avenging his father, but they skittered away from grief and revenge, leaving him only able to ponder how his parent had seemingly manoeuvred him into a marriage not of his own choosing.
Fine cold rain began to fall, beading on their cloaks and chilling them to the bone and making the cart harder to move up the long approach to Foulis Castle.
The landscape, once familiar and comforting, seemed to twist itself into a reflection of their sorrow.
The rolling hills, usually a bright green, were muted under a darkened sky.
“What will you do now?” Kenzie asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them.
Cameron shrugged. “Become the laird, I suppose.”
“Aye, but what about what Da asked of you? Will you honour his request that you marry?”
“We both know that was not a request.”
“So, you will marry the Gunn girl?”
Cameron closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “We all have our roles to play now that Da is gone. Mine now include laird and husband.”
Kenzie’s gaze narrowed. “I intend to do as Da asked, as well, and seek retribution against the Mackenzies.”
“Not today,” Cameron growled. “We lost seven good men today, including Da. Let us mourn those before we create new widows amongst the clan.”
Kenzie kicked at a pebble, sending it rolling along the dusty track. “Da thought vengeance was necessary,” he murmured. “Brahan. Alness. All of it.”
Cameron did not answer at once.
His gaze lingered on the hills, on land that had drunk too much blood long before their father’s time, and more because of him.
“Aye,” Cameron said finally. “Da always did.” Cameron’s throat tightened.
“At Alness, we lost good men, Munro men, and he called it a lesson learned, a debt paid. But I never saw the gain in it, Kenzie. Only the cost.” The memory pressed in on him—the Mackenzies’ advantage, the bitter retreat, the shame that had followed them home like a curse.
Kenzie’s features tightened. “Da believed strength kept us safe.”
“He believed war did,” Cameron said quietly.
“Against the Mackenzies. Against the Rosses, when tempers flared. Against any clan that stood too close to what he claimed as Munro ground.” Cameron exhaled, a long, weary breath.
“Da was not alone in that. The Highlands have been tearing themselves apart for generations. Frasers against Rosses, Campbells against Camerons, MacDonalds against half the north, when old slights are stirred anew. Da simply played the game as it had always been played.”
They walked on, the tension between them a tangible thing.
“We swore loyalty to the king for peace,” Cameron went on, his voice roughened by regret.
“Not for this endless reckoning. Da said he honoured that vow, and perhaps he believed he did, but every battle only sharpened the same blade meant for our sons.”
Cameron glanced at the covered form between them. “Da wanted to protect the clan. Of that I have no doubt. But I wonder now if he ever understood how tired the land itself has grown of our fighting.”
Kenzie’s jaw tightened. “He’s gone now.”
“Aye,” Cameron said, and the word carried more weight than grief alone.
“And that leaves us to choose what comes next.” He looked ahead, where Foulis Castle waited beyond the rise.
“I will defend our people when I must. I will never turn my back on Munro blood. But I will not spend their lives to soothe old grudges or honour ghosts.” His grip steadied.
“Let Da rest with his wars. I intend to give our people peace, even if it costs me everything.”
Kenzie studied his brother for a long moment before nodding. “I do not like it, but I understand.”
The silence stretched as they continued, until the looming silhouette of Foulis Castle grew closer with every step. When they finally reached the gates, the portcullis opened and those returning from battle entered the courtyard.
“Welcome back, Master Cameron, Master Kenzie,” their steward, Errol Hobbins, said as he rushed forward to greet them. His smile slipped when his gaze moved past them to the cart between the two sons. “Dear lord, who?” he asked, his voice raw as he searched the still-living men for familiar faces.
“Laird Robert is dead, as are six others,” Cameron said, motioning to a cart farther back, trying to keep his voice steady. The words echoed through the courtyard, stopping those who had come to join them from the castle beyond. “We were victorious over our enemy, but at a terrible price.”
“Nay,” Hobbins said, the word heavy with emotion. “’Tis sorry I am, milord,” he said, acknowledging the change in Cameron’s status as the steward accepted the reins of Cameron’s horse, then passed them to a waiting groomsman.
Cameron’s gaze shifted to the figure hidden beneath the thin linen covering in the wagon.
He was aware of the activity going on around him as those who had returned to the castle greeted their loved ones and the horses were taken to the stables, but his gaze remained on the once-powerful laird who was now silent.
He had faced the death of loved ones before. His mother and sister had succumbed to consumption. And yet his father’s death weighed heavier on his shoulders. The prosperity of the Munro clan was now in Cameron’s hands.
Forcing his thoughts back to the moment, he straightened.
“Kenzie, Tavish, Jamison,” Cameron called to his brother and two other warriors who had dismounted.
“Help me carry Da into the dining room. We will lay him out there until we can prepare his grave next to Ma and Lizzie at Kiltearn Parish.” The Munros had been buried there since the early thirteenth century.
The four men easily lifted the fallen warrior and carried him into the dining room, laying him out on the large table at the head of the chamber.
More warriors entered the room, their battle armour streaked with blood and mud.
They carried the bodies of the other fallen men.
They placed the men on tables along the walls of the chamber, then took up positions as though protecting them.
Cameron swallowed against the dryness in his throat as two serving women came forward and started whispering prayers near the head of the table on which his father rested.
Cameron drew his father’s sword that he had carried back from the battlefield and placed it atop the shrouded figure. “Da should be buried with his weapon.”