Tanist and warrior her father would want to be part of that battle. As Clan healer it would be her duty to attend those in need. ‘My pouches are full and ready, I need to only go to my room.’
‘No,’ her father commanded. His expression was not one she’d seen before. The warrior, the father and leader were there, but a flash of something else exposed itself to her. A look she’d never seen before and it took her aback. That vulnerability was of a man facing something far stronger than himself.
‘Whatever happens here today, stay hidden until I say otherwise.’
‘Stay hidden while people die?’ The last time there had been an attack was mere months ago and he’d let her tend the injured. Two McCrieffs had died. The time before that, she’d been a mere child. Too young to comprehend what she saw, but old enough to remember her friend, Magnus, charging towards the oncoming Lochmores. Too small to make a difference and far too inconsequential to be seen. The horse’s hooves cut his life down immediately. ‘You can’t expect me to sit still. I can’t!’
‘There will be no deaths today, not by my hand or decree. If it was my will, all would be spared. Except...’
‘Except?’ She seemed only to think and speak in questions now. Stupid. Ineffectual. Useless. Even her emotions were weak. She knew that all too well. Magnus had been all smiles and then violently nothing but blood and crushed bone. The Lochmores were no longer just some clan hated by the McCrieffs. She hated them, too. But then... Ailsa shook her thoughts away. There should be no but then... ‘There are no exceptions! If the Lochmores are here, then I am needed.’
‘You have twenty years, my Ailsa, my daughter, and I’m a selfish man—if I could keep you for longer I would.’
‘I’ll stay safe. I have and can again.’
‘I’ll keep you safe...until I can’t any more.’
‘Father?’ Did he mean to sacrifice himself? No. To sacrifice himself was one matter, but he was Tanist and he’d be sacrificing his clan, his life, the life of his ancestors.
‘Stay hidden, Ailsa, until I call for you. That is my only wish and desire as a father, but if that won’t do this time, I order you to. Do you understand?’
An order. Aware the messenger was rapt with every gesture and word, Ailsa held still. She would question her father, but never the clan’s leader. When she nodded, her father swept out of the room with the messenger following.
Exhaling the breath she held, Ailsa thought only a moment about what she would do. Quietly, she stepped into Hamish’s room. He was mostly awake, so she waved Mary over to her to whisper what was happening. Told her to stay with Hamish and care for him. Mary glanced at Hamish, but agreed.
With that done, Ailsa left the room. She’d keep her silence in front of others, but to stay hidden wasn’t an order she’d obey from her Tanist or her father. Their enemy was on McCrieff land. Blood had or would be spilled. A true healer was neither daughter nor clan member. She would heal.
* * *
The battle armour Rory wore weighed heavily on him as he travelled further on to McCrieff territory. Paiden rode by his side, watching his back, and the rest of the men stayed evenly spaced behind them.
They were as silent as a troop of Highland warriors could be. Only he, because of his armour, made sounds unlike the others. The sound and the burden chafed the further they travelled on McCrieff land. Rory rolled his shoulders, but it gave no relief in the tightness of his gambeson over his tunic, nor did it ease the weight of the chainmail of his hauberk. None of the others wore armour. Their shields and swords were enough for any true Highland battle.
An hour, maybe two, travelling like this and he felt as tense as a burdened deer being hunted. A weighted deer was a slow one.
What he wouldn’t give for flinging both shield and sword in the air and crying out for war. This hiding game of the McCrieffs wore thin. Mere months ago, when Edward granted McCrieff land to Lochmores there’d been a clash of swords. Small, significant...unsanctioned. The border of their land was always patrolled. Some Lochmores, gloating over what they perceived as a victory, had raced over to McCrieff land. It was a small battle unknown until too late by their Chief and the men had been well punished. More so since blood was shed. Two McCrieffs had died and one Lochmore.
That had been nothing more or less than it’d been for generations until this very moment. His sword arm ached with the need to swing. To feel the rough reverberation of metal against metal. Instead, they rode through empty fields until they saw the village surrounding the motte and bailey with a centre keep.
Even from this distance, Rory could see the weakness of the McCrieffs’ half-stone and half-timber defence. It was encircled by a partial wall at its lowest point, but nothing a bit of fire and a medium-sized battalion could not destroy.
McCrieff’s castle was, mostly, as his father remembered and recalled to him. Had they made no improvements since then? His own land was surrounded by water, but even they fortified their walls. The McCrieffs had not prospered like his own clan.
Riding slowly, they approached the village, which wasn’t empty, but full of wide-eyed silent residents. So much silence, which weighed heavier than his armour. Ominous. Foreboding. Not one resident moved. It was as if they feared one flick of a wrist would erupt in bloodshed. Rory slowed his horse even more and quieted the breaths through his lungs.
There was always a moment of stillness before a battle, but he felt none of the menacing tenuousness now. He craved to fight, but with soldiers who also craved to draw their swords. Not villagers and children. Not with domesticity that chafed more than the unusual circumstance he found himself in. Only the animals didn’t seem to understand that the unnatural stillness wasn’t to be broken.
So they rode through gaggles of squawking hens and through small herds of sheep. Always Rory observed every detail of the residents, buildings and houses. He might not feel the hatred of enemies, but he knew there were those who hated him. Anything he missed could be his death or the demise of his men. He didn’t want either, but he wouldn’t accept the latter at all.
They had prepared for battle. Instead, they walked through the McCrieffs’ village as if this was no more than a neighbourly visit. Except the silence. This was the indication that all was not welcoming. Good, he wanted to fight. Why weren’t they fighting?
Damn the coward, McCrieff. Hamish’s reputation was as a duplicitous ruler, but rumour was he faced you as he lied. This nothingness was something else and unwanted. How could he prove to his clan, to his Chief, his father, that he, too, would be worthy of power if at this moment he was denied proving himself?
On through the silent village until the wide open gates. Here, Rory stopped and Paiden pulled his horse alongside his once again.
‘I don’t like this,’ Paiden said.
‘Now you show caution?’ Rory said.
‘I wanted to turn away at the stream, but you wouldn’t let me,’ Paiden gave a fake wobble to his voice. ‘But I’ll agree if you turn back now.’
Deep on McCrieff land and it wasn’t safe for any of them. The questions kept mounting. ‘Why bother? If it’s a trap, we’re in it and it matters not if I go through that gate or not.’
Paiden gave a grim chuckle. ‘I think it matters very much. About what that is, is up to you.’
It was a trap Rory knew he must purposefully step foot into. He was already a dead man simply riding to this point. If he rode past the gate, he’d be in the Great Courtyard surrounded by McCrieff warriors who could easily strike him with arrows. Armour or not. Enough arrows and any protection would eventually fail.
However, he was also a dead man if he stood outside the gates, so it was possible they intended to take him prisoner, but the McCrieff Chief wasn’t that clever. So what else could it be? Did they intend to lay out a feast for him and his men and tell tales by the fire?
He’d