it was. The low walls were scorched, but someone had piled leafy branches over the burned out section of the roof to ward out rain.
He slid off the mount and reached up for Honor. She had bent nearly double and maintained the position for the whole of the trip. Aside from an occasional catching of her breath, she had hardly voiced her misery. Braw in the face of her pain, he thought proudly. A woman of courage, his Honor. Her body felt rigid in his arms as he carried her to the humble bothy.
He bent his head and shoulders to fit through the low doorway. The rasp of metal jerked his attention to the far corner of the one-room hovel as he straightened. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. A thin form reclined on the packed earth floor in one corner, its scrawny arms holding aloft what appeared to be a short sword.
“Put that blade down and help me here,” Alan ordered, “else I’ll take the damned thing and spit you where you lie.”
The ragged apparition did not move.
Alan spoke in Gaelic. “My lady’s time has come on us unaware. Get you to Byelough Keep and bring a woman to help.”
“Nay,” came the answer. “I canna.”
“Do it or die,” Alan ordered quietly.
“My leg’s broke,” the raspy voice declared. “Put her down there.” The tip of the sword waved toward the darkened fire hole and a lumpy nest of furs beside it. From the look of the bedding, the old one had just scrambled out of it. He hoped the fleas went, too.
Alan knelt and laid Honor on her side. “There, sweeting. I’ll have a fire going afore ye know it.”
“No fire!” the ancient voice squeaked. “The soldiers!”
“Th’ war’s done,” Alan announced quietly as he straightened the bedding and reached in his sporran for flint. He made a quick search and located a stack of peat. As he set about coaxing a blaze, he continued to reassure their host or hostess. “Rob Bruce has set the English running south. There’s naught to fear hereabouts. I am Sir Alan of Strode, Lord of Byelough. I’d have your help if you know aught of birthing.”
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