She thrust her worries aside. Now wasn’t the time to think about things that were beyond her control.
“Let’s drop these hares off in the kitchen, and see how our youngest brother fares.”
Not bothering to see if Symon followed, she gathered the game and hunting gear, and made her way toward the main tower.
But her steps slowed slightly as she walked through the courtyard. For the first time she noticed the bare surroundings. The square wasn’t exactly devoid of people; there was one lass throwing grains at a flock of chickens, and another moving across the enclosure while carrying a bundle of twigs on her back. However the place seemed strangely quiet and lacking without the clansmen about.
When she reached the entrance of the great hall, her steps faltered again as she remembered Androu’s condition. While she hunted with Symon this morning, she had prevented herself from thinking about their youngest brother’s illness. She was adept at hunting and administrating the clan, but healing the sick wasn’t one of her talents. Of course, she realized that the fault lay entirely at her feet. Her mother had tried to teach her the basics of healing, but she didn’t have the patience to learn about the many herbs and roots. But now that the hunt was finished, all her worries about Androu came rushing forth. Sickness had taken a hold of Androu a few days earlier, and since then it tightened its grip and refused to let go. During this period their mother Crystane had barely left his side.
Forcing herself to continue walking, Sileas’ feet crushed down on the layers of moor grass, heather, thyme and rosemary that were strewn across the floor. But even the herbal fragrances couldn’t hide the fact that darkness was closing in. It was impossible to ignore. Even though there was nothing tangible present, she had a sense of apprehension, a sense that death lurked somewhere close by.
The wooden shutters were tightly closed in an attempt to keep out the cold wind. But while it served its purpose, it caused the great hall to be cast in gloom. What little furniture they had in the room was practical and robust. The servants had pushed the common table and benches to the side, allowing an easy path for the inhabitants to walk.
As she reached the fireplace, she paused long enough to toss two logs into the fire. Since most of the household had gone on the Cold Trod mission, there was little point in lighting the multiple hearths in the upper chambers. It was more practical to move everyone downstairs where they could conserve and share in one huge fire.
She knew that she was dallying, but she disliked seeing Androu so helpless and weak. Brushing the soot from her fingers, she braced herself and then made her way to her family. As she got closer, she could hear the soft, soothing croon of her mother’s voice. Her aunt Jannet sat in the corner, lending her sister quiet strength as she worked at spinning wool.
“How is he?” Sileas asked.
“His condition has worsened,” her mother said, shaking her head wearily, and confirming her fears.
“Is there anything we can do?” Symon asked from behind her. He maneuvered in front of her, and peered down at their younger brother’s flushed face. They all knew what fevers entailed. If it was severe enough, and there were no cures to be had, then the person was as good as dead.
“I’m afraid nae,” Crystane brushed her hand across Androu’s flushed cheek and let out a weary sigh. “I tried all the remedies I ken, but none of them has brought down the fever. The only thing I can think of is tae obtain a healing potion from the healer in town. Unfortunately we dinnae have enough money for that.” She threaded her fingers through her hair, displacing the cap on her head. “I wish that Fearghus was here tae tell us what tae do.”
Androu turned and let out a soft whimper. “I’m cold,” he said.
Crystane reached over and tugged the woolen blanket closer to his neck
“I dinnae think we can wait until Da comes home,” Sileas said, frowning.
Her mother’s countenance became drawn and tight, and she gave an imperceptible shake to her head. Sileas didn’t need words to understand her mother’s fear.
“We cannae let him die,” Symon said, his tone grave.
“Nay, we cannae,” Sileas agreed. Looking down at Androu’s face, she still couldn’t tamp down the feeling of helplessness that paralyzed her body. Even though she was aware of their bleak realities, her brother was too young to die. He still had more summers to live, more years to grow and become a man.
As she watched her brother sleep, an idea struck her. “Today is Market Day,” she said slowly, as the notion began to bloom and take shape. At the same time a tiny spark of hope began to swell in her chest. “We caught three hares this morning. I’ll take auld Johne with me, and we’ll go into the market town tae sell them. With food being scarce at this time of year, there has tae be someone willing tae buy the meat. And with the money that we gain from the sale, we can buy the medicine we need for Androu. Then there’s a guid chance that we can avert death once and for all.”
“I’ll go with ye,” Symon said quickly.
“’Tis best that ye stay here, Symon,” she said, shaking her head. “Ye need tae assist Ma and Jannet. And while I’m gone, ye can help manage the tower too.”
He opened his mouth to argue. But she shook her head again, sending him a tight smile that showed that she wouldn’t back down from her stance. She was his elder sibling after all, and he needed to listen to her.
“Well, if ye must go, I want ye tae take something with ye,” Jannet said, getting up from her stool.
“’Tis nae necessary tae bring anything else,” she said. “All I need tae take is the game.”
Jannet ignored her comments and walked over to her. Digging into her pocket, she pulled out a small, weightless sack, and placed it in Sileas’ palm.
Sileas untied the bag and peeked inside. Furrowing her brows, she said, “’Tis dried yarrow.” She handed the bag back to her aunt. “Nay one will buy this herb at the market.”
“Take it,” she pushed it back toward Sileas. Her eyes became momentarily bright as if her emotions were about to overwhelm her. “It willnae take up much space, and it will bring guid luck tae your side. My dearest Blayre, God rest his soul, used tae say that ye must always carry yarrow with ye whenever ye travel. Ye never ken whether ye or someone else will have a need for it.”
She started to protest, but the stubbornness on the older woman’s face brooked no argument.
“Fine,” she said, reluctantly tucking the sack into her pocket. It was easier to take the offering than to argue with her stubborn aunt. “I’ll leave now, and will return with the healing elixir for Androu.” There was no other choice.
Chapter 3
Griogair’s horse coughed.
“Were ye cooped up in the stable for too long, laddie?” he asked, his tone affectionate. “It appears that ye cannae take tae the cool air.”
As if to answer his question, his steed let out a sneezing snort. Griogair chuckled, but then his amusement faded as he contemplated the direness of his situation. Almost half of the day had passed, and he had yet to come across the market town. Still he was certain that he would find it if he followed the old drovers’ road. In all actuality the road was only a dirt path that was overrun with weeds and shrubs. However the discerning eye could detect the worn route. It was only a few months ago that he had passed through the territories with Rory and Duncan. The road spread across the vast regions of Scotland. In years past the Highlanders used this route to reach the central markets where livestock and other goods were sold and traded. From the Highlands to the Lowlands, the road spanned the perimeters of hundreds of clan territories. Those tribes disliked having people and livestock passing near their domains, although it wasn’t something that could be helped.
A goldcrest twittered in a nearby rowan tree, while a red squirrel foraged in the dense undergrowth.
“Nae much has changed here,” he said to his horse.
Of course the mountain peaks and valleys that he knew and loved were behind him now. In their plac
e were an endless chain of rolling hills that acted as a physical barrier between Scotland and England. This region was known as the Borderlands, and was divided into three distinct sections: the East, Middle and West Marches. But the startling beauty of the region couldn’t be contained by imaginary boundaries. Spanning the marches were lonely stretches of beaches, sweeping coastal flatlands, salt bogs, and wide, brimming rivers that gave life to the vibrant tree-covered glens. Still other areas contained spongy mosses, while another part consisted of rocky outcrops, and tracts of heather-carpeted moorland. A languid, peaceful air permeated the picturesque districts, yet the inhabitants on both sides of the border were deeply suspicious and fearful of one another. Regrettably there was just cause for it.
He viewed the vast fields before him. Several mounds of various sized rocks dispersed throughout the landscape. The long bronze blades of grass were swept down by the wind. Meanwhile the blooming heather and bright yellow gorse grew in abundance. The plants carpeted the hill tops and ravines in a shroud of purple and burnished gold.
The peacefulness of the scenery lulled him into relaxing his guard. He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the request he received from the MacRell.
“’Tis shocking enough tae find out about Robart’s death. But why would Alasdar withhold the reason for his summons? It disnae make any sense. What do ye think?” he asked the horse.
His mount gave him no answer.
“Aye, I agree with ye,” Griogair nodded as if his companion spoke. “I dinnae understand it either. I guess we’ll find out the reason soon enough.”
The wind suddenly picked up. It swept through the moorland and pushed a portion of his great kilt forward. Up ahead he saw a lone tree standing atop a small mound. The rude wind had stripped it of its leaves. The branches were left bare, and were bent as if a perpetual gale blew at it. He let out a breath of relief. From what he could remember, the town was a little beyond that hillock.
He pushed the horse forward, but the quick motion startled a bird that hid among a cluster of young hawthorn bushes. His horse reared back at the unexpected activity. At the same time the bird shot up into the air and disappeared from sight.
“Whoa,” he said, steadying his mount. “Ye are clearly nae yourself today. ’Tis only a red moorbird.” The horse gave a hacking cough and Griogair’s concern deepened. “We’re almost there, laddie. Once we circle this knoll, we’ll be in town.”
But his words provided little comfort to his friend. His steed’s breathing continued to be harsh and laborious. Just as Griogair was about to voice further encouragement to his mount, a man on a horse appeared out of nowhere and obstructed his path.
“Och, a Highlander,” he said, sneering. The robber’s greedy eyes landed on Griogair’s stallion. “The clan will get a verra guid price for this horseflesh.”
As his focus locked onto the thief, Griogair took in his ragged appearance. At first the robber appeared young, but upon closer inspection, he saw that the man was only a year or so older than Niall MacRell. At one time the scoundrel might have resembled an average Scot, but the marks on his narrow features made him unsightly. It was as if someone had set fire to his face, and the only things left were the angry pink scars that marred the left side of his cheek. Another older scar slashed across the top ridge of his nose, and cut deep down to the corner of his mouth. His greasy hair was the color of blood-stained sand, and hung down the side of his gaunt face. Beady light blue eyeballs stood starkly out from his freckled skin. The expression in his eyes was haunted, as if he had witnessed a lot of bloodshed or was the cause of it.
He noted that the reiver also wore the steel bonnet that the men in the region favored. Over his leine, he had on a jack of plait that had seen better days. The body armor was torn in several places, revealing the rusted iron plates underneath the quilted fabric. In his hand, he held a basket hilt backsword. It was a shorter weapon than Griogair’s claymore, and he knew that he could easily disarm his opponent.
In the course of his life, he had come across several reivers. These men were fierce fighters, and he admired their stealth, boldness and speed. The galloways they rode were equally as impressive. The shaggy haired ponies were sure-footed, reliable, and traveled long distances without tiring.
During the last battle the queen ordered several reiver families to serve in her army. The queen had placed a death warrant on their chiefs, so they had no choice but to comply with her demands. It was a boon to Scotland when they joined the army. Griogair saw firsthand how proficient they were at racing, scouting, and carrying out surprise attacks. They didn’t wear obvious armor, nor were they bogged down with considerable equipment.
But after fighting with and associating with Lowlanders, Griogair knew that this bandit couldn’t be trusted. Under normal circumstances, he would have avoided men like this since they always caused problems. He never searched for trouble, but sometimes trouble found its way to him. In those cases, the men were vicious and had a point to prove. Most times, the rogues wanted to substantiate to everyone that they dared to fight a sizable man like himself.
But he wasn’t interested in fighting the ugly fellow. However he was intrigued by the robber’s horse. Instead of riding a galloway nag, he rode a charger that contained unusual markings on the snout. While a large portion of the mare was brown, there was a distinctive white star at the center of her head. More white patterns spotted the horse and one angular patch circled her nostrils. An old memory nagged at him. He had seen this horse before. But where? Unfortunately he didn’t have a chance to contemplate the origins of the mount when the reiver leaned over, and grabbed the reins on Griogair’s stallion. The move was bold and unexpected, and his hand automatically reached for his claymore.
But the robber’s movements were only meant to distract him while a second man came up from behind. That man was horseless, but his attack came suddenly. He was so fast that Griogair barely had time to unsheathe his sword. But when his blade was fully drawn, the thief had already slipped the halbard from the riding fastening.
“He has a mighty fine battle-ax, Murdo,” the man yelled while brandishing the stolen item. As he held it up for his companion to see, the sunlight glinted off the weapon, which was a combination of a spear and ax.
“’Tis a fine piece indeed.” Griogair said, replacing his claymore back into its sheath. “Ye will fetch excellent value at the market too — if ye can find a warrior tae buy it,” he continued, his voice calm.
The bandits watched him, confusion on their grimy faces. But the puzzlement quickly changed to suspicion. Likely they were used to striking fear, surprise or even anger in their unsuspecting victims. His response befuddled them.
“Who are ye?” Murdo bared his teeth. There was one missing tooth on the right side, which gave him an almost feral appearance.
“I’m the owner of that halbard,” he replied, his tone flat and disinterested.
“Not anymore,” the man behind him snickered.
The mount let out a fierce cough, his body shuddering under its force.
“The horse has a sickness,” Murdo observed. He put a finger to his lip in open consideration. “We’ll likely get half the price for it.”
“’Tis a guid thing he isnae for sale then,” Griogair said, his tone slow and deliberate.
The two men glanced quickly at each other and were about to burst out in laughter. It was at that moment when Griogair took masterful control of the reins. Through years of practice and combat, he guided his mount with skilled purpose. His steed reared and kicked his hind legs at the thief who held the war-ax. His screams cut off as the blow landed squarely onto the poor bastard’s chest. Dropping the ax, he fell to his knees, clutching desperately at his chest.
Seeing his friend struck, the scar-faced thief bellowed with rage and rushed at Griogair, the pointed staff directed straight at his heart.
Griogair easily maneuvered around the oncoming horse. Grabbing a hold of the lance, he yanked it out of his opponent�
��s grip. He then raised the weapon high over his right shoulder, and whipped it down and across the attacker’s torso, knocking him off his mount. Next, he snapped the ash lance over one knee, and tossed the remnants to the ground.
The reiver sprawled on the earth, his face turning bright red with rage. If he had his lance, he would have charged at Griogair again.
Reaching behind him, Griogair withdrew his claymore once again. “Have a care, and dinnae rob every traveler ye meet. Next time ye may nae be as fortunate.” He saw Murdo glance over at his sidekick. Griogair pointed the sharp sword tip at the prone man. “I wouldnae worry about him if I were you. I only knocked the wind out of him. If I desire it, I could have my horse crush his skull and yours too. But I’m feeling benevolent today,” he continued. “I suggest that ye leave before I change my mind and annihilate ye both.”
Murdo turned white and his scars stood out like ugly thorns.
Griogair dismounted and started to retrieve his ax. At that moment, the second man pushed himself off the ground, scrambled on the charger and took off.
Murdo got up and watched his friend flee, although he didn’t follow him. Opening his legs into a fighting stance, he brandished his shortsword. Griogair had a longer reach with his claymore, but this man didn’t seem to care about his handicap. Releasing a loud war cry, the robber barreled toward him, his disfigured face showing murderous intent.
Griogair disarmed his assailant with the bored efficiency of a basic training drill. The weapon flew into the air and pierced the ground several feet from where Murdo stood. When the thief turned his gaze on Griogair, fear and hate spat from his eyes.
“I’ll do enough killing when the English come.” Griogair dismounted and went to pick up both his ax and the shortsword. All the while his regard never left his adversary. “Ye are fortunate that I dinnae like slaughtering cowards.” Getting back onto his horse, he shook his head in disgust, and he rode off.
Highland Honor Page 2
