hear them if they laid in wait. Where would they lay a trap?’
Rory looked behind at his men waiting for command. They were as restless as the mounts beneath them. They expected to let out a war cry today. Indeed, they’d feasted and bedded in celebration the night before in case today was their last.
If they returned now, it would be without gaining the honour of such celebration. If he returned to his father emptyhanded with no resolution or information, today might indeed be his last. His father wouldn’t allow such ambiguity. McCrieffs present or not, Rory’s only choice was to confront.
‘I’m crossing,’ Rory said. When Paiden pulled his horse only slightly more ahead, Rory stopped. ‘The others didn’t move.’
‘That’s because you didn’t give the signal to move.’
‘Exactly, so what are you doing?’
‘You can give the men commands all that you want, but I’ll still be by your side.’
‘When I’m Chief—’
‘You can give me orders and I won’t cross you in front of others, but until then... Forget it.’
When he was Chief. Not yet. Not without his father’s death and an elder’s approval. But Rory hadn’t been concerned for approval because of this honour today of leading his men to confront the McCrieffs. To demand why they ignored a king’s decree and a clan’s chief.
For months, the firm conclusion as to why the McCrieffs had ignored the decree and messages was that they contested the claim. So in the last message the Lochmores had arranged this day. To meet and agree or if not, to fight. The McCrieffs made no reply, but that, too, wasn’t a concern. For no Highlander would be so cowardly as to ignore a challenge and the last missive was a challenge.
Thus, because he was the only son, the only child of the Lochmore Chief, he wore the best armour his clan owned and wore a sword he’d sharpened himself. The McCrieffs had all to gain with his death and they would not claim it. This was to be his day to prove himself to his father, to his clan. To himself. It was all to be his. His to battle, wrest and claim.
If no blood was to be found on this side of the water, he’d simply ride forward to find it. The hatred between the Lochmores and McCrieffs was too deep for there not to be some argument this day. Some trophy to be won so when he did face his father again, Finley would give his proud approval. Rory would never give up until he finally obtained it.
‘If I can’t rid myself of you...’ Rory sighed with exaggeration ‘...then the others will want to ride as well.’ With his arm raised, he drew a large circle in the air. Whatever might come, this land was his to ensure this day and ensure it he must. For once, he’d be the Lochmore his father wanted him to be.
Ailsa set the bowl of bone broth and bread on the table and raised the cup of tisane to the thin lips of the Chief of Clan McCrieff. Only a few drops did he take this morning, only a few more throughout last night. The tisane was important for the pain, the beef-broth mixture crucial to retain his strength.
But this last fortnight both had been increasingly difficult for him to swallow. It was that which was telling of the sickness overwhelming him more than the grey pallor of his skin and his laboured breath. His body was slowly wasting away. His ice-blue eyes, however, were sharp as ever and steady on her.
If his eyes could speak, Ailsa knew the barrage of hate would be fierce. Though he was losing his strength day by day, he hadn’t lost his opinions.
The fact he didn’t speak now meant he was saving his strength...for what she didn’t know. She never could understand their Chief who was and had always been filled with rage and suspicion.
Even towards her, their only healer. She glanced up to find his eyes piercing her the entire time he drank the tisane. Mistrust. As if her long sleepless nights and tireless searching for calming herbs weren’t because she was there to help, but to harm him.
She would never, could never, do so. It went against everything she was. It was also a sin. God’s law should have been enough to appease Hamish McCrieff that she would do her duty to him. But she suspected Hamish had committed so many sins he didn’t see the breaking of one as much of a deterrent.
Blasphemous thoughts. This man was Chief of the Clan and deserved respect and loyalty. But everything about him made fear climb like poisonous vines under her skin.
Standing and setting down the cup, Ailsa nodded towards Mary, one of the most faithful of servants, who stood as well, and they adjusted the bedding so Hamish was made more comfortable. She didn’t know what ailed him, but she’d seen it before. The decline was slow, the body consumed on the inside until there was nothing left. All that could be done was to ease the pain and ensure a longer sleep until he died.
A quick death would be more merciful and she had heard of men doing so to their brethren on the battlefields. But for her it was too kind for this man, who wasn’t worth risking her soul for. There was many a day when she wanted to. Something she went to confessional with often. Weeks of confessionals now. The seasons were changing and still McCrieff lingered, leaving the clan in a vulnerable state.
It was no relief when Hamish’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. No relief at all since his accusing stare was aimed entirely at the only other person in the room. Her father, Frederick, who months ago had been elected to be heir apparent to the Chief. To become, in effect, Tanist. Further because Hamish was so ill it was also agreed that her father would be privy to any and all decisions that Hamish would decree. Most significantly, Frederick could suggest and, in certain circumstances, make decisions of his own that would be equally revered by the council. Unusual, but Hamish was dying and her father was a greatly respected warrior, with a bloodline linked to chiefs in the past. The decree was unanimous, including that of Hamish himself. However, Alisa always felt Hamish had given it unwillingly.
Her father must have felt the same way as well. And whether it was because of loyalty to the Chief who he had served under for years or to keep the peace among the Clan, Frederick still consulted with Hamish. In front of the clan, it kept the peace. Only she knew what a toll it took on her father and it was no surprise that, after he gained her attention, he left the room.
As quietly as possible, Alisa stepped away from the bed and let Mary continue with the rest of the routine. Months of working together, they no longer had to discuss the Chief’s care...they only had to endure it.
The room next to the chamber was empty save for her father and Alisa closed the door behind her. He let out a breath.
‘He eats less every day,’ Ailsa said.
‘But drinks your tisane more. Is this because of the pain?’
Hamish hid his pain from her; Ailsa suspected, because he didn’t want her father to know. But at night, when Hannah or Mary took over, when he tried to sleep, he cried out. For a man of Hamish’s stature to do so meant the pain was horrific.
Ailsa nodded. ‘The pain is expected at this stage. For now he seems aware, but it will increase and he will be less... He may not even know who he is.’
Frederick exhaled. ‘The others will not care.’
‘Others?’
