Page 30 of The Guardian

Chapter Ten

By mid-afternoon, the wind had risen to a persistent howl, tugging at the shutters on Hendry’s cottage like a restless spirit demanding entry. The wooden slats rattled with each gust, but he paid them no mind. Inside, all was quiet, save for the slow, methodical rasp of steel against stone.

Hendry sat hunched at his small table, the familiar weight of a dagger in one hand, a whetstone in the other. He didn’t need it sharpened. It was already honed to perfection. But the motion, the scrape and drag, offered the rhythm and noise he required.

Sword training had ended. First meal had long since passed. The keep had emptied out, each warrior tending to his duties. The day slipping into the quiet lull that followed the morning rush.

Hendry, not scheduled for patrol until the next morning, had filled every hour with distraction. He’d brushed down his horse until its coat gleamed. Cleaned every corner of his cottage until even the hearthstones shone. Then gathering his soiled clothing, he had trudged to the laundry.

The laundress had stared at him as if he’d grown a second head, trying to snatch the bundle from his hands with a scolding mutter. He’d let her take it, eventually, but not before scrubbing the first tunic himself, just to fill the time.

All of it was a futile effort to drown his own thoughts. Of the look of sheer shock when he’d last spoken to Ailith.

The scrape of blade on stone faltered as a knock echoed against the door.

He didn’t look up.

“If it’s Tobin,” he called gruffly, “I’m not hungry. And I dinnae care if the stable roof’s fallen in.”

The door creaked open anyway.

Hendry glanced up with a frown to find one of the stable hands, barely more than a lad with hair sticking out in every direction, wringing the edge of his tunic.

“S-sorry, sir,” the boy stammered. “Didnae mean to interrupt. I was told to bring this to ye.” He held out a basket.

Hendry didn’t reach for it. Instead, he pointed to the table with the edge of his blade. “Who gave it to ye?”

The boy nearly tripped over his feet as he rushed forward, setting the basket down with an unceremonious thump. A linen cloth, embroidered with vines and tiny blossoms, covered the contents.

“A woman,” he muttered. “Dunna ken her name.” And with a quick nod, he fled, closing the door behind him with a sharp thud.

Hendry set the whetstone aside. His fingers, steady moments before, now trembled slightly as he reached for the basket.

It wasn’t from his mother. She would have come herself, rapped at the door, and walked right in with arms spread for a hug. Her keen eyes taking him in for any sign of injury or thinness from skipped meals.

This… this was different.

Carefully, he lifted the embroidered cloth.

The scent struck him first, sweetness and spices.

Baked apples.

He stared down at the two half-moon pastries tucked into the linen, their crimped edges golden from sugar caramelized at the seams. His breath hitched. They were folded pies, his favorite. Something Ailith used to make when the trees were heavy with fruit, and the days had grown short.

He forced himself to open the second bundle.

Roasted chestnuts.

His throat tightened.

Before even reaching for the jug, he knew what it was. He uncorked it, brought it to his nose, and breathed in the rich scent of honeyed wine. She’d always made it for him in the colder months, knowing how he preferred it warm and spiced.

All of it. Every item in the basket had been made with him in mind. The food and drink he loved. The ones she remembered. The ones no one else would ken.

His body tightened as he stared down at the offering. Was she trying to undo what years of heartbreak had done with this?

Instead of soothing his troubled soul, the offerings made Hendry angry. The silence of the room seemed to press in tighter. The food sat there, fragrant, a message without words. Ailith was trying to make amends.