Page 11 of Highland Fire

“Drumdearg?”

“My keep.”

“The one your cousin Iver now lays claim to.”

“Aye. If I judge where we are correctly, Drumdearg lies a good week’s ride north-northwest of here.”

“A little closer than ye might like, I suspect.”

“Aye—for now. Soon I shall sit in the great hall again—as a free mon.”

“Tell me, how is it that your gift of foretelling didnae warn ye of the trap ye were riding into?”

“It did, but I wasnae inclined to heed that part of the vision. I belittled it. Two men were being murdered. I told myself that that was the danger, that it was simply dangerous to go where there was killing being done.”

“True, although men do seem to be verra fond of doing just that. ’Tis easily seen in how they flock to a battle.”

“’Tis honor that draws them, lass.”

“Humph. Honor has put many a mon in his grave. I doubt that it makes his shroud any warmer.”

“In part, I am tempted to agree. Howbeit, a mon must hold himself to some code and one of honor is as good as any other.”

Moira considered that for a moment as she struggled over the rutted path. Honor was a fine thing. Unfortunately too many men used the preservation of honor as an excuse for killing other men. Whenever she was told that a man had “died with honor,” she always wondered how the dead man felt about it. Did he wake in heaven, realize that his life was now over, and say, “Oh, weel, I still have my honor”? She heard Tavig chuckle and realized that she had muttered her speculation aloud.

“Ye dinnae have a high regard for a mon’s ways, do ye, dearling?” Tavig asked, amused and intrigued by her opinions for they revealed a keen wit.

“I wouldnae say that I have none, but, aye, I do wonder on it all at times. And, at times, I think it is all verra absurd. There are occasions, howsomever, when there can be a great nobility revealed in a mon’s acts. Mayhap ’tis just my woman’s mind, my womanly heart. I simply dinnae understand. I wasnae trained as a mon is, wasnae taught the knightly ways or rules.”

“Nay. Women are trained to give life, to nurture it. Men are trained to take life away.” He stopped, facing her and holding out the rough waterskin he had taken from the fisherman’s cottage. “Women arenae made to take any life.”

After quenching her thirst and handing the waterskin back to him, Moira smiled faintly. “I wouldnae say that. Women may not be trained in the ways of war and deeds, but some still have the stomach for killing. Aye, and I suspect that the ones who do kill can do so with some skill. Women just dinnae do it for such things as honor.” She watched him drink, intrigued by the gentle motion in his strong throat as he swallowed.

“Nay?” Tavig wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What would make a woman kill?”

“Tis a verra strange conversation we are having.”

“True, but now ye have stirred my curiosity. What would make a woman kill someone? Hate?” He dampened a scrap of cloth and gently wiped the dust from her small face.

Although Moira found it a little difficult to keep her mind on what they were discussing, she struggled to reply. “A woman can hate. Mayhaps e’en more adamantly than a mon.” Still unsettled by his soft bathing of her face, she watched as he briskly wiped the dust from his own. “Jealousy might prompt a woman, too,” she continued, hoping that talk would stop him from noticing how she kept staring at him.

“And greed.” He slung the waterskin over his shoulder, took her by the hand, and started walking again.

“Weel—aye—I suppose. And most women would do their utmost to kill anyone who threatened the life of a bairn.”

“Aye, a woman can grow most fierce when ye endanger her child.”

“In truth, I think a woman can be prompted to kill for most of the same reasons a mon can. We just arenae driven to it as often, and some of the things a mon feels are worth dying for or killing for seem verra odd to us.”

“They can sometimes seem verra odd to men, too,” Tavig murmured, glancing at her. “Another difference is that women can be verra treacherous in the manner of their killing.”

“Weel, we cannae always face our enemy eye to eye and sword to sword. We would then become the slain instead of the slayer. Only a fool doesnae recognize his own weaknesses.”

“Aye, so ye slip a dirk in their backs in the dark of night whilst they lie asleep in their beds.”

There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. Moira puzzled over it, but lacked the courage to ask the reason for it. She then thought of her guardian, of his brutality both subtle and direct. Many a time, as she nursed the bruises he gave her, she thought of the many ways she might kill him. Often she had imagined long, slow deaths that would finally repay him for all of the pain he had caused her. Occasionally she had simply considered cutting his fat throat as he slept, quietly ending his long reign of cruelty and fear.

“And some men deserve no better than a stealthy death,” she said in a very quiet voice.