He again headed home and that morning, he was even less alone on the road that led away from the battlefield. Word of the defeat spread quickly and an endless stream of family members traveled in the opposite direction, bringing horses and carts with which to recover the bodies of their dead. Even though there were those who offered to help him, Shaw thought only of going home – home to the aunt who loved him, home to the peaceful glen of his fathers, and home to a bed where he could finally rest.
As it was, Shaw’s time on the road home consumed the rest of the first day after the battle, and well into the second. Yet, time had no meaning as he fought just to stay mounted on his horse. Surprisingly, it was not the many dead he left behind that preoccupied his mind, but the man who allowed him to live. How could he not be consumed with it, for the Englishman’s face was etched into the underside of his eyelids? Each time he blinked or closed his eyes, the image was there to remind him – he was alive, many others were not – and Shaw knew not why.
He hardly noticed when his horse left the main road and turned down the lane in the middle of the MacGreagor glen. The horse continued on, as if commanded not to halt until it delivered its rider to the castle’s courtyard. At last, the black stallion stopped. In muffled tones, Shaw heard his aunt cry out. There were other voices too, none of which he could distinguish, as he finally let loose of the reins to his brother’s horse, leaned slightly forward, and fell to the ground.
MACGREAGOR GLEN
Before the battle, the peaceful glen had not changed much since the days of Laird Michael MacGreagor. The graveyard situated beneath the trees on the southern side of the glen held more of their beloved, but that was to be expected. The men still played an occasional game of futeball on one side of the lane that ran down the middle, practiced their archery on the other side, and the younger boys still admired the aging cannon that sat on the archery side facing away from the castle. Of a necessity, the only remaining cannon balls and the gun powder were secretly hidden away where adventurous boys could not possibly find them.
The three-story castle faced the glen with its back to a river that flowed into the sea. A few yards north of the castle, Lindsey’s bridge became a favorite place for women of marrying age to make a wish and toss rose peddles into the river. In a semicircle facing the castle, lay a collection of old and new cottages, with the most recently built being farthest away. Because the cottages were often different shapes and sizes, rarely were the paths between them straight, but no one seemed to mind.
The land had not changed much, but the generation that lived in the MacGreagor glen doubted they would ever see happiness again.
SHAW AWOKE IN HIS OWN bed.
The cottage he shared with his brother and aunt was one of the older cottages, but it still held in the warmth of the hearth better than most. The room had but one small window with four glass panes, and although far from new, the furniture served their needs well enough. The smell of cinnamon and apples gave off an air of comfort and did its best to mask the odor of smoke. Nails along one side of the walls held various pieces of clothing, but on the other side, those that normally displayed weapons belonging to Bruce and Shaw, displayed them no more.
Not yet awake enough to know where he was, terror filled Shaw’s eyes as he anxiously glanced all around. Assured he was not surrounded by Englishmen wanting to kill him, he calmed enough to look beside him at his brother’s empty bed.
Shaw remembered then, and closed his eyes.
“You near to bled to death on your way home,” said his aunt Glenna as she drew near and knelt beside his bed. “I sewed up your leg as best I could. You got the fever, but ‘tis gone now.”
He lifted his head a little, and looked at the table at the far end of the room. He expected to see the washed body of his brother laid out for viewing but the table was empty. “Bruce?”
She bit her lower lip to keep from crying. “Buried these two days.”
It was true then, it was not a dream – the brother he loved so very well was dead. Shaw closed his eyes and laid his head back on the thin feather pillow.
“We had but three buryin’ boxes,” she went on, “and Bruce was laid in one of them since ‘twas he that made the boxes. We had not the lads to dig for so many, so we lasses dug but three large graves, wrapped the lads that were brought back in blankets and placed them in the ground together. We dinna think they would mind.”
Glenna MacGreagor helped her nephew take a drink of water and then set the goblet on the floor near his bed. It was time to change the bandage on his leg, but it could wait a few more minutes. She hesitated to say it, but he had a right to know. “Not many came back.” When Shaw turned his face away, she put a loving hand on his arm and bowed her head. “The priest dinna come – too many others needed buryin’.”
Shaw was still bone tired and a bit confused, so it took a while before he finally managed to ask, “How many?”
“I washed you all up and cleaned your shoes,” she said, hoping to avoid his question. “There be a terrible bruise on your ribs, but I felt each one and I dinna think any were broken. They are but cracked, perhaps. I spread liniment, but there is little more I can do for sore ribs.”
On the ride home, he was certain every rib in his chest was broken, but just now when he moved, the pain was not nearly as bad as he remembered. “How many,” he asked again.
“Died in the battle?” She hesitated, but with Shaw there was never a sure way to put off answering his questions. “Many thousands, they say.”
He thought that was likely true, but he said nothing. “Help me sit?”
She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled his upper body up. With her other hand, she grabbed a second feather pillow off his brother’s bed and stuffed it behind Shaw’s back. It was not enough to hold him upright, but it was all she had close by. Slowly, she helped him lay back. As soon as he was settled and the pain on his face had diminished some, she said, “’Tis time to look after your leg.” Careful not to expose his nakedness, she moved the blanket off his left leg until his injured thigh was exposed.
He tried not to grimace as she began to untie and then un-wrap the bandage. The wound was longer than he imagined and still he could not remember how he got cut. It was not from his own sword, of that he was certain, for he held it in his right hand and the injury was to his left leg. His sword, he supposed, lay on the battlefield somewhere. He lifted his head to take a look and to his relief, the cut did not look too infected.
As soon as she carefully cleaned the wound with stinging vinegar, Glenna spread a paste made of yarrow and mint leaves on the cloth, wrapped the new bandage around his thigh, and knotted the ends.
“You may breathe now, my wee love.”
Her words brought a slight smile to his lips. He wasn’t that wee anymore, but she always called him that and he supposed to her, he would never be grown up. When he truly was wee, he called her Mother, but when he got older, she put a stop to that. His mother was not just a good woman, she was Glenna’s sister, and he best not forget whose child he truly was. He never forgot, though he had no memory of the woman who gave him life.
Glenna spread the blanket back over his leg. “While you slept, you reached your fourteenth year.” He said nothing so she continued, “They come each day to see if you know.” She got up and tossed the old bandage in an empty bucket.
“Know what?”
“How well their lads died.”
He heavily sighed. What was he to tell them? That he was too short to see much in the beginning, was buried beneath men he knew not, saw but one MacGreagor die, and desperately wished he had not seen that. “Tell them I know not the answers they seek.”
“I shall tell them. Rest now while I make you a warm broth. We must get you strong again for there is much to do.”
He needed little encouragement, closed his eyes, and once more let sleep wipe away the unbearable sights, sounds, and smells of the battle.
GLENNA HAD A TALENT when it cam
e to healing and most of the clan came to her for advice. With Shaw at home, however, she let no one in to bother his rest, and stepped outside to talk when someone came to the door. Shaw’s recovery was painful, particularly when he tried to walk, but he persevered until he could limp the full length of the cottage and back at least twice. His ribs were still sore, especially when he tried to sit up without Glenna’s help, but he resisted the temptation to just lie in bed. Each day as the pain diminished his strength increased.
Glenna asked no questions about the battle, not even about his brother, and he said little if anything at all – save to occasionally thank her. Each day, he seemed more alive than the one before and when she took the bandages off for the last time, she used scissors to snip off the thread knots, got hold of the thread with her fingernails, and pulled each of the stitches out. Some obviously hurt more than others, and after she wiped away a few drops of blood and cleaned the wound with vinegar, she helped him stand up and then helped him put on his shirt and kilt. After that, she watched him hobble to the table.
Now that he was far more alert, she had plenty to tell him. “Hendry told us Jamie died and looked none too beset with grief as he said it. He has declared himself laird,” she announced as she set a bowl of stew in front of Shaw and then went to the pot to fill one for herself.
“Hendry is laird and not his father?”
“Hendry’s father has not yet returned from the battle.” She drew in a deep breath, set her bowl on the table, and took a seat opposite her nephew. “We know not what became of him and the news is worse still. Jamie’s wee son would have been our next laird by rights, but he passed soon after we heard Jamie was dead. Such a sad laddie was he, for his heart never did beat properly. Jamie’s wife and daughters have moved into a cottage, for Lexine vows she shall not live in the castle with Hendry. ‘Twould not be proper for her to stay there anyway, now that she is widowed.”
“Could we not send for Jamie’s brother?” Shaw asked. “He is our rightful laird now.”
“We know not where Lucus and the others have gone. We have heard nothin’ from they who left in spring, nor do we know if any were called to fight. Surely, if they had been, they...”
Having Hendry for laird was the last thing Shaw expected, but not the most troubling. “How many?”
“How many of our lads died?”
“Aye.”
She looked tired and those were the kinds of questions she wished not to have to answer, but knew she would eventually. “There be twenty-nine new in the graveyard. The rest are not found or come home, though six of the lads went back and tried to find them all.” She paused to take a deep breath. “They reported seein’ row after row of dead laid out, but brought back only two.” She continued to talk without giving him time to ask more questions. “After all this time, I fear there is little hope of ever seein’ them again. We’ve no stone cutter now, so it shall be a while before the graves are marked. The priest dinna come, but you know that already. Some fret over that. Others fret over...” her words trailed off, as if she had said more than she intended.
“Over what?”
“I suppose I best tell you, for you shall find out soon enough. Some came back long afore you did.”
He wrinkled his brow. “Some?” He was beginning to see what that meant, but it would take time to fully believe it. “How many?”
“Eight or nine, I dinna count them.”
“Uninjured?”
“Aye.”
Shaw had yet to touch his meal, set his spoon in his bowl and tried to think. Some could have come back before him since he did not find Bruce until noon the next day, but they surely would have been on foot. “With horse or without?” he asked.
“With.” She motioned toward his bowl. “Shaw, eat. You need your strength...we need your strength.”
“They ran?” he muttered more to himself than to her. She said nothing and he did not expect her to. “They ran,” he said again as though he had to force himself to believe it.
“They swear the battle was over before they took their leave. ‘Tis that they brought none of the dead home with them, the widows dinna believe them, and...”
“They wait for me to say yea or nay?” an already disturbed Shaw asked.
“Aye.”
He avoided her searching eyes, and tried to think what to say. Before the battle and after he surmised the number of Scots, he could do little more than gawk at the thousands of fearsome English gathered on the moor opposite them. “Say I know not, for I saw not one Scot run away before the battle.”
“Some did. There are other accounts of lads runnin’.”
“Aye, but not by my tellin’. Who am I to condemn a lad lest I saw it for myself?”
She finally smiled. “You have become as wise as your brother, for we need the lads, be they runaways or not. I shall tell the widows.”
“Thank you.” At last, he began to eat the delicious stew she sat before him and wondered at how little attention he had paid to his appetite in the last few days.
“Hendry was the first to come back, and was likely the first to run from the battle, though he dinna admit it. He claims Laird Jamie spoke to him after the battle and with his dyin’ breath, appointed him laird.”
Shaw hid his revulsion and continued to eat.
“We know not what became of Laird Jamie’s body,” she said before he could ask his next question. “The lads that came home after the battle said they cannae find him. Did you not see him?”
Shaw considered not answering at all, but surely there were others who saw what happened. Still, he was determined none would hear the gruesome details from him, so he merely said, “He was on the front line the last I saw of him.”
“The front line?”
“Aye, all the lairds and knights were sent to the front.”
She was astounded. “All of them?”
“As best as I could tell.”
Glenna had not touched her meal and now she wasn’t sure she wanted to eat. At length, she sighed. “Now their sons rule Scotland and our new king is but a year old himself.” She poured ale in Shaw’s goblet and set the pitcher down. “We’ve a whole new Scotland now, for the ways of the fathers do not always become the ways of the sons.”
That concept was a bit difficult to grasp for someone who was abruptly forced to change from a boy to man. Even so, his aunt looked distraught, so he smiled to reassure her. “You best tell me all of it.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, the lads had only just begun to cut the firewood for winter and...”
“Wee love,” he whispered, for what she always called him was what he had lovingly always called her in return, “how many lads have we left?”
“I never learned to count as well as you, but they say less than thirty, includin’ Elder Aulay. The king called all from the age of twelve up to fight, but some of the younger laddies are grown up enough to help with the heavy work.” She abruptly bowed her head. “Even so, some are needed to help with the shops in town, so we have even less to tend the land.”
“And how many lasses and children abide in the glen?”
“I know not. Perhaps you may count them when you’ve a mind to.”
Last spring after half the clan left, he counted the cottages still in use. All but three housed full families and the other three belonged to the elder and two widows with no children. Survival with only thirty able-bodied men sounded difficult at best. His thoughts wandered back to the men who went off to fight and never came home. “I dinna hear of the English takin’ prisoners,” he muttered, “but ‘tis possible.”
“They say many Scots were buried in the moor where they fell. I suspect that is what became of them. Elsewise, they would have sent word or come home.”
“Perhaps they are wounded and recoverin’ somewhere.”
“There are some, we hear, but we have not heard of the lads being MacGreagors. Three of the wives went to enquire, but they had no good news to tell when they re
turned.”
Shaw was quiet for a time before he asked, “You wish to tell me more about Hendry, do you not?”
“Only that he has managed to insult Elder Aulay already. Would that he had died instead...”
“How did he insult Elder Aulay?”
“Hendry said he needs no council and no elder to tell him what to do. ‘Twas a sorely lackin’ and cruel thing to say.”
Shaw lovingly touched his aunt’s arm to calm her. It made her bow her head again, but she recovered quickly. “Skye has come to see about you every day. I think she fancies you.” He had no reaction so she continued. “She brought one of her grandfather’s canes so you may take a walk today. Your leg is healin’ well, the sun is out, and a good soak in the loch shall do you good. ‘Tis cold. I know, for I bathed in it this mornin’, but not as cold as it shall be come winter.” Her nephew fully smiled this time. “A smile ‘tis a very good beginnin’. I prayed constantly that God would give your mind back to us. We need you Shaw, for you alone can...”
“My mind?”
“Aye. You did ramble on some and I thought you daft, but now you are come back to us, finally.”
“What did I say?”
“’Twas hardly a word discernable. You cried out a time or two but I cannae make out what was said.” She finally took a bite of her food, chewed and swallowed.
He suspected she heard more than she was telling, but he let it go.
“Perhaps we should have gone north with the others,” said she. “We could still, and...”
“Do you mean leave the glen?”
“We could. There are just the two of us now.”
Shaw thoughtfully stared at the table. “Did you not just say I am needed here?”
“Aye.”
“Then I say we stay.”
“With Hendry givin’ commands?”
Beloved Secrets, Book 3 Page 6
