Chapter Nineteen #2
Later that afternoon, news of riders approaching came to Cameron. He strode to the courtyard where the first rider clattered back through the gates. Cameron strode forward, his brother Gavan at his side, every eye in the yard fixed on the mud-splattered scout who swung down from his saddle.
“Report,” Cameron demanded.
The man bowed his head. “Not a single Mackenzie to the east, m’laird. But there is a ship. She sails under the Royal Navy’s flag, pushing through the Cromarty Firth as we speak. She’ll dock at Invergordon by nightfall.”
A ripple went through the men, murmurs of uneasy surprise and uncertain hope.
A ship of the king’s navy here, in the north?
It could be relief, it could be a summons, or it could mean the king had grown weary of Highland feuds altogether and come not to judge between clans, but to end the problem by force.
An English army in his wake would not ask who was right or wrong.
It would strike both sides, burn strongholds, and leave silence where rivalry once stood.
Cameron gave a sharp nod. “We will see soon enough what colours they truly fly. Thank you for your report.”
The man saluted and withdrew, leaving the yard buzzing with speculation.
Before the hum had died, two more sets of hooves thundered through the gates. The scouts who had ridden south and west slid from their saddles, sweat streaking their brows. The portcullis closed behind them.
“No movement,” one reported. “Fields empty, roads clear.”
“The Mackenzies aren’t massing west,” the other added.
Cameron’s shoulders eased, but only slightly. No news was not always good news. He dismissed them, his jaw tight as he turned back towards the hills. Only one scout remained unaccounted for. The one he had sent north.
The wait gnawed at the men. They moved restlessly along the walls, tightening ropes, checking arrow slits, hauling stones for the battlements, yet their hands worked without focus, their eyes flicking again and again towards the gates.
Cameron did not blame them. He, too, kept scanning the horizon, willing the final rider to appear.
Nearly an hour later, the sound of hooves broke the tension. The portcullis rose, and a lone horse tore through the gates, foam on its flanks, its rider bent low over the saddle. The scout all but fell from his horse, then staggered towards Cameron.
“They’re coming.” His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. “The Mackenzies march south. I saw them with my own eyes. They bring siege towers, ladders, and a ram, all rolling towards Foulis.”
They had been forced to bring siege towers, his father having captured all their cannons in earlier battles. Cameron supposed he was grateful for that small mercy.
“How many men?” Cameron asked.
“Two hundred or so. They should reach us by midday tomorrow.”
A silence fell, heavy and absolute. The sound of the horse’s laboured breathing was the only noise in the yard.
Cameron’s jaw tightened. The moment he had dreaded, the one he had braced himself for, had arrived. Now was the time to prove himself as laird. He stepped forward, raising his voice so it carried across the courtyard stones.
“Then let them come. We will not meet them on the field, but on these walls. Foulis has stood against worse, and it will stand again.”
A murmur rippled through the ranks, swelling into a cheer, sharp and resolute, born of loyalty more than bravado. Cameron nodded once, then turned to the exhausted rider who had brought the news.
“Get yourself food and rest,” he ordered. “You have done your duty twice over today.”
The man bowed and staggered towards the hall.
Cameron watched him go as the cheer faded. The weight on his shoulders did not.
This was no raid, no probing strike. This was war.
*
From her place on the steps of the keep, Destiny had watched the courtyard churn with noise and motion.
Scouts rode in, dust clinging to their cloaks, and each word they brought twisted the air tighter around them all, until the final rider stated the Mackenzies were advancing from the north with two siege towers and a ram in their wake.
The cry of “Munro! Sutherland! Ross!” rose from the gathered men as Cameron rallied them, their voices confident and fierce. To hear them shout was to feel the ground tremble with determination. She admired it, envied it. That certainty, that unity.
But as she looked past the warriors, her gaze caught on those who did not cry out.
The women gathered near the well, holding babes tight against their shoulders.
The older men and women, too frail for arms, leaning on canes, their eyes dark with fear.
The wide-eyed children peering from behind skirts, clutching one another’s hands.
They could not shout for battle. They had nothing but the walls, and the faith that their laird would hold them safe.
Her throat tightened with shame. It is my blood that drives this storm upon them.
Her father’s ambition, his cruelty, had brought the Mackenzies to Foulis.
He had traded her life for his schemes, and still it was not enough.
Now he sent others to break Cameron, to break them all, with siege and fire.
That burden lay heavy on her heart, and though none spoke it aloud, she felt it pressing from the silence of the courtyard.
She curled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, wishing she could shut it out. But she would not turn away. If she carried her father’s shadow, then she must also carry the weight of his sins.
As Cameron’s voice carried across the yard, strong and steady, she steeled herself and looked at the people huddled near the walls. They needed something more than swords to keep them whole. They needed someone to hold them steady, to remind them they belonged, even when the sky darkened with war.
The shame remained, sharp as a thorn. But beneath it, something else stirred—resolve. She could not undo her father’s choices. But she could choose differently.
For Cameron. For Foulis. For them all.