Page 32 of The Guardian
“I ken. In return for her helping me when I was injured, I sent food, blankets, and coin. Surprisingly, she accepted the recompense.”
Both men were silent. “That is very surprising,” Alexander murmured. “I ken ye were in a bad way after she married Brant. How do ye feel about her now?”
“It matters not,” Hendry replied, carefully stacking meat and a chunk of potato, anticipating the bite. Chewing on the morsel, he looked toward the entrance, willing someone to enter with news. Any news. A fight in the pub. A horse loose in the village square. An archer with an arrow through his head. He wasn’t picky. Anything to get Alexander to change the subject.
The great hall fell into sudden silence the moment two warriors burst through the doors, their cloaks tattered, boots caked in mud, and chests heaving for breath. They looked as if they’d ridden through a storm.
Hendry’s eyes locked on them, widening. It was as if his very thoughts had summoned them.
No blood. No visible wounds. Thank the saints.
Tankards halted midair. Conversations died mid-sentence. Every gaze in the room snapped toward the warriors as they strode across the stone floor, their boots and armor the only sounds.
“A word, Laird. ’Tis urgent,” one of them said, glancing between Alexander and Hendry, his face pale with tension. “In private, sire.”
Without hesitation, Cynden, Liam, and Hendry stood and followed the laird and the two warriors through a side door. The wooden panel slamming shut behind them. The chill outside bit instantly, but it was the warriors’ next words that truly froze the air.
“Bìrlinns, coming from the south. Bearing MacLeod banners.”
Alexander let out a low curse. “Again? We must prepare to defend, in case it is trouble they are after.” He turned sharply to the three leaders. “Deploy yer men. Now.”
Hendry didn’t answer. He was already running. Liam and Cynden alongside.
His boots seemed to fly over the packed courtyard ground as he sprinted toward the guard quarters, barking orders as he went. “To arms! Dress for battle! Mount up!”
The courtyard exploded into organized chaos.
Men scrambled into action, racing to the armory. Once there jerking on leather and mail. Scabbards were thrown over wide backs. Swords and claymores gleamed in the growing light. Short swords were slid into hip holsters and daggers tucked into straps across broad chests. Within moments, every man was fully armed for battle.
Liam’s orders were carried to Hendry as he rallied the archers. Squires darted among huge war horses, arms laden with quivers, tossing them to the archers who stood at the ready, bowstrings already taut. Cynden did the same. His men, a combination of guards and archers, manning the top of the wall surrounding the keep.
War cries filled the air as warriors prepared for blood. Horses were led out, stamping and snorting, sensing the coming storm. Liam and Hendry mounted, their cloaks snapping like banners behind them as they rode out of the wide keep gates. Scouts rode ahead. Flank riders moved into position. Then, letting out war cries the Ross army thundered from the keep like a living beast set loose.
Hendry rode hard, his thoughts flashing back, Brant, fallen in the last clash with the MacLeods. And now Ailith was back within the keep’s walls while the same threat stirred once more.
As they crested the southern ridge, the coastline came into view. Ross bìrlinns were already gliding from the shore, oars slicing the water in synchronized rhythm. The first line of defense surged forward to intercept the threat.
Archers stood at the prow, bows drawn. Behind them, warriors bristling with crossbows and battle axes waited for the order to strike.
Even in the face of battle, Hendry felt it, that tight burn in his chest. Not fear. Not dread.
Pride. Fierce and unshakable.
