Highland Warrior

by McCollum, Heather

  He longed to know more about her. She had opened up a small amount on the hill yesterday but had retreated before he could ask… What would he ask? Joshua’s aunt, Merida, had always advised him not to ask questions to which he did not really want to know the answers. But without answers, the questions swam in his head like fish in a barrel.

  Had Kára loved her husband? Joshua wanted the answer to be no. She must have married very young to have a son of nine. Had Henry Stuart forced himself on her? That question he did want to know the answer. If it was aye, Robert’s son would die before Joshua left Orkney, regardless of his blood link to King James.

  A song began, the voices of the people rising to fill the crowded room, spilling out the open door for those outside to join. It was in their ancient Norn language, the power of it intense with hope and determination so that knowledge of the words was not needed to lift the spirit. Pastor John smiled, his face lit with awe and joy at the show of unity. No doubt the resonating voices raised chill bumps along his skin as they did on Joshua.

  His gaze drifted over the warriors of Hillside, counting them, ranking them in skill. So far, he had taught them defensive tactics, maneuvers to keep them alive if attacked, giving them the opportunity to retreat with their lives.

  Even though the skills were similar, he had not talked with them about attacking first. Should he begin to teach them offensive tactics and strategies for a siege against Robert? Lead them through exercises, physically and mentally, to transform them into ruthless hunters of human life to kill without mercy?

  Joshua thought of some of the men who had become friends to him while he was living at the palace at Birsay. Angus and Mathias, Liam, even Tuck, who talked too much. They had either been assigned to apprentice with Robert or had been hired to guard his lands. They each had their own families back on the mainland, some following them to Orkney and living in the village beyond the palace. A full-out war would see most of them dead or in misery, their families grieving.

  It was true that the odds would not be in favor of the Hillside men, but Joshua’s experience could hone them into deadly weapons. They would either kill and conquer or Kára’s people would die out trying. Either way, death would lie heavy on the shoulders of Orkney.

  The song ended and people began to file out of the room, smiles and laughter in contrast to his dark thoughts. Joshua felt a brush against his arm and glanced down. Kára’s amma, Harriett, stared up at him. She was draped in a gown similar to the one Kára wore but had a shawl of embroidered lace over her white hair. “You are thinking hard about something, Highlander.”

  He turned back to watch Kára lift the bairn from Brenna’s arms, kissing his little forehead and looking down into his face with a joyous smile. “War changes people,” he said. Kára turned gently in a tight circle as if dancing with the bairn.

  “We have always been at war,” Harriett answered.

  In truth, hadn’t Joshua? From the time he could lift a wooden sword, his father had told him he must grow strong to battle. When his mother died and his father lost his mind in grief, expecting that it was truly the biblical end of days, George Sinclair had officially declared Joshua Horseman of War. From that day on, it was all he was supposed to care about. War and winning war. Even though the numbers showed he had won in South Ronaldsay when he’d tried to help a small group defend their home from a neighboring family, he counted the battle as his first loss. Death and misery had piled up on both sides. He swore never again to lead people where he thought they would die.

  “To have a chance at winning against Robert,” he continued, “I would have to make them into brutal, uncaring warriors. Even then they will likely die.”

  Kára showed the bairn to her own son, Geir. The lad smiled down at the newborn, gently touching its cheek with the back of his finger.

  “The training changes people,” Joshua said. “Brutality twists their souls.”

  They stood quietly for a long moment. “How twisted is your soul, Highlander?” Harriett asked, making him look down into her dark blue-gray eyes, the same color as Kára’s.

  The piercing gaze seemed to slice into him, searching his multitude of sins. How many battles had he fought, ignoring the fear and pleading in men’s eyes before he killed them? He looked back to the happy smiles of the people still in the room and connected with Kára. She still held the bairn. Her look was curious. Did she wonder what her grandmother was saying to him? Did she hope her wise words would sway him to their side of this unwinnable battle?

  “War changes people on both sides, and not for the better,” Joshua answered, avoiding her direct question. He tore his gaze from Kára and met the eyes of the old woman. “Which is why I do not recommend it for your family.”

  “You would have us abandon our isle,” she said, her tone giving no hint of her feelings regarding the suggestion.

  He had mentioned it only once to Kára. Had she told her grandmother? “Aye,” he said.

  “You do not seem the type of man who has ever retreated,” she said.

  The very idea made his fists clench, and he crossed his arms over his chest, sliding easily into a familiar battle stance. “I have not.” Even in the battle in South Ronaldsay, with John Dishington fighting him, he had not stopped until both families were decimated.

  “I do not think my granddaughter is in favor of retreat, either,” she said.

  Across the room, Kára, bairn still on her shoulder, began to make her way over to him. “But my clan is large and the most powerful in Scotland.”

  “Powerful enough to overthrow Robert’s rule here?” Harriett asked.

  Certainly, but then King James would outlaw the Sinclair Clan and try to take their lands and castle. Civil war would rage across northern Scotland, and they would need to take the crown from King James to win. The lives of the common people would be misery, and death would rule the land for years before things settled, leaving the borders vulnerable to English and French invaders. The thought left bitterness in Joshua’s mouth, making him want to spit.

  “Such frowns over here,” Kára said, stopping before them, her gaze going from her grandmother to Joshua. “What are you two talking about?”

  “War and twisted souls,” Harriett said.

  “’Tis not something to talk about at a celebration of life,” Joshua murmured, his gaze going to the wee lad wrapped in bright blue swaddling.

  Kára brought him off her shoulder so he could see that the lad was awake, his blue eyes taking in whatever he could see. Osk came up to stand at Joshua’s shoulder. “He looks lusty and full of health after such a difficult time being born,” Osk said.

  “You can hold him,” Kára said to Joshua. “He is named after you.” She lifted the bairn away from her, settling him into his arms.

  The bundle felt awkward, so light and fragile, nothing like the bulk of a newborn foal. “He is smiling at me,” Joshua said, balancing the bundle in the crook of one arm. He reached into the bunting to pull out one of the lad’s little hands.

  “He is too young to smile,” Harriett said.

  Joshua looked at her. “Too young to smile or too young to know not to smile at a Horseman of War?”

  “Both,” she said and walked toward the door to join her sister, Hilda.

  Joshua looked back down at the miniature face that started to scrunch up. “He is going to fuss,” he said.

  “He nursed before the ceremony,” Kára said. “There is probably a bubble trapped inside. Pat his back.”

  Joshua shifted to clasp him in two hands, and the bairn’s face relaxed into a smile. “See, he smiles at me.” He lifted him into the air and looked upward at him.

  Kára tipped her head back to look up at the bairn near the ceiling. “I would not—”

  Like a river of foamy white, the bairn’s puke shot out from his wee lips. Years of training his reflexes to save him, Joshua twisted
to the side, and the spit-up flew over his shoulder.

  “Aak,” Osk yelled as the bairn’s puke hit him in the face.

  Joshua lowered the bairn to rest over his shoulder, his large hand spanning him to pat his back.

  Osk sputtered, wiping his face. “What the bloody hell!”

  “If we ever take bairns into battle, we should make sure to feed them well first,” Joshua said and grinned. Kára held a hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from erupting.

  “Give me my bairn,” Brenna said, suddenly next to him, her fingers reaching and her frown fierce. “No one is taking him into battle.”

  Joshua looked to Kára. “She is always snatching him away from me.”

  “Have your own babe,” Brenna said. “Then you can flip him up into the rafters and make him empty his breakfast.” She huffed. “Now I have to feed him again.”

  “He is perfectly healthy and happy,” Joshua said, pointing to the little face. “See, he does smile at me.”

  “If he is already smiling, it is at me,” Brenna said and whisked the baby away.

  Kára’s grin spread wide, and a soft chuckle came out. “New mothers are a protective lot. Do not mess with her or Brenna might slice your throat.”

  Joshua’s hand went to his neck, rubbing it absently. “Hmmm…I was going to gift wee Joshua with one of my sgian dubhs, but perhaps that is not the best, given his mother’s bloodthirstiness.”

  Kára laughed. “What else would you give him then?”

  Joshua tilted his head in the direction of Kára’s underground cottage where the stack of tributes from the children still sat. “I have a pile of painted rocks, jams, and woolen scarves. Perhaps one of those.”

  Kára’s eyes widened in mock disbelief. “And make a child cry that you gave their gift away?”

  “Gifts? More like bribes,” he said, meeting her smile.

  She flipped her hand this way and that. “But they were bribes given from the heart.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I will gift him my sgian dubh and stay well away from his mother.”

  “You are wise, Joshua Sinclair,” Kára said, smiling as she stared up into his eyes. Open and happy, as if the world were a safe and wondrous place. He had never seen anything so…freeing, as if his whole life he had not been able to take a full breath until that very moment.

  He reached forward to capture her chin in his fingers and leaned in to her. His gaze traveled the softness of her cheeks, the freckles over her straight nose, the long lashes bordering her eyes, and ended on the perfect curves of her lush mouth. “How can I keep this happiness on your face?” he asked, his brows furrowing.

  Her exuberant, teasing smile faded, and it was as if a shadow of darkness had fallen over her, bringing a chill to the room. “Happiness in my world is fleeting. It is impossible to keep.”

  Sensing her withdrawal, he dropped his hand. “Perhaps we should find a new world, then?”

  After a pause, Kára looked toward the door. “I should go to town to help set up for the Fire Festival to celebrate Samhain this eve.”

  Joshua cleared his throat and crossed his arms. Behind him, Geir made gagging noises and laughed as Osk continued to wipe away the bairn’s puke. “’Tis clever not to light the fires here at Hillside to draw attention,” Joshua said.

  “We still must be on guard for Robert’s retaliation in town.”

  “I will set up a perimeter with a rotation for guarding the festival,” Joshua said. The chill that Kára’s frown had brought clung to him. Damn cold. Would he never feel warm again?

  Harriett, Kára’s grandmother, stood near the door with her sister. They spoke and then both looked at him. How twisted is your soul, Highlander?

  The faces that appeared in his nightmares, damning eyes staring lifelessly at him, tried to push their way forward as if summoned by the old woman’s question. He walked through the room toward the cold outdoors. If Kára could see the dead stalking after him, the people who had fallen to his sword or his poor judgment, would she curse her own people with the same nightmares he battled?

  …

  Damn, Kára thought as she caught the toe of her slipper in the hem of her straight gown.

  She should have changed into her trousers and tunic before the festival. Her face flushed as she glanced across the fire where Joshua spoke with a group of men he’d been training. She had remained in the dress because it was pretty with the embroidery on the hem and neckline. The traditional blue wool costume had been her mother’s. Amma had insisted Kára not bury her in it, but to keep it to wear and honor her memory. So Kára’s mother had been buried in an older frock, along with her scant pieces of silver jewelry and her favorite mixing bowl.

  Samhain was the night when spirits could walk the earth once more, visiting those they left behind. A long table for the dead had been set up behind Asmund’s tavern, and she walked over to where Osk stood, wearing a clean tunic. He arranged the four plates and cups that represented their loss. “Da would want whisky. I have wine for Ma and Eydis,” he said and glanced at her. “What would Geir want to drink?”

  What did it matter? Her husband wouldn’t come back, even on Samhain. None of them would. But the laying out of food for the dead was not for the deceased. It was for those who remained behind, surviving without them. “Ale, Geir liked ale over whisky,” she said, patting her brother’s shoulder. He had been just a lad when her husband was killed, the same age her son was now.

  The pastor who had come over from Scotia spoke with some of the villagers nearby, learning of their losses. She glanced over the three plates they added this year. Last Samhain, they had only one to put out for her husband. Her parents and sister had been with her to celebrate the harvest and take the blessings of walking between the fires. Some good that did them. There had been no blessings when the village was attacked by Robert and his sons and her mother and sister were caught inside a burning building. Or when she and her father went after Robert to avenge them. Her father had been skewered by Henry Stuart, and both of their horses had been taken. Kára had been forced to hide in the tall grasses to survive, failing them all.

  She felt pressure gather in her eyes, and she blinked, denying the tears that would show her to be weak when her people needed her to be strong. But they would not stay inside her. Kára took a fortifying breath and walked toward the bank where the sea beat at the rocks and seaweed spread out in the foamy water below.

  Staring out at the waves turned orange with the setting sun, she let her tears slide down her cheeks unchecked. She would grieve for them here, bleed it out of her so she could stand strong tonight and try to enjoy the festival. She had not cried much for her slain husband, her world consumed with a newborn son. With her family around her, she did not have to raise him alone. But now…she must guide Osk and Geir with only her amma’s help and wisdom. Loneliness pressed inside her, filling her chest cavity until it felt difficult to inhale. Aye, she must bleed some of the sorrow away.

  With the wind blowing, she did not hear anyone approach, and started as Joshua halted next to her. He looked out at the waves, too. She stopped herself from wiping her wet cheeks, giving her tears away, and breathed deeply to keep herself from sniffing. The wind dried trails of salt-sticky tears on her cheeks.

  “Ye grieve for your husband,” Joshua said, his words even. “I am sorry, Kára, that ye lost him to live on alone without the comfort and help he could give in raising Geir.”

  She didn’t say anything even though she opened her mouth and closed it.

  Joshua stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the wind pushing against their faces as if it tried to keep them from plunging off the edge. “Ye married him young then? Ye must have loved him very much.”

  She swallowed, clearing her throat. “We were young, both of us. Thrown together, really, by our parents, who wished us to have a chance to live our lives
before anything could happen. I cared for him, even if we were together less than a year.”

  “Ye kept his son alive,” Joshua said, his words caught by the wind, making it hard for her to hear. She moved a step closer to him. “Geir is a tribute to him,” Joshua continued.

  She watched two seabirds dive down on the wind currents and wrapped her arms around herself. “I poured all my anger into keeping my babe thriving, even as he struggled at the beginning, since he was small,” she said, the words tumbling out.

  Joshua stepped closer until she could feel his arm press up against hers. The warmth of his touch made more tears leak from her eyes. “It is my parents and sister…” she started and sniffed.

  He glanced back toward the table. “I saw Osk setting out four plates.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak at first. “The loss of them is still fresh and raw within me. I would not have my people see me so weak.”

  His arm moved around her shoulders, and he pulled her gently into his side. “There is no shame in grief. Tears let the poison of sadness out. Otherwise, it will fester inside, making ye act unwise.”

  She turned her eyes up to him. Strength and hurt warred in the lines of his face. “Do you let your tears out, Joshua, Horseman of War?”

  Joshua inhaled. “My emotion bleeds out of me in rage more often, but if my brothers or sister were taken away, struck down by illness or a blade, I would surely weep. To refuse to do so would harm me even more.” He nodded, glancing behind them. “But I understand. I, too, hide my rage and sorrow if possible.” He pulled her into him, both arms circling her. She settled her face against his chest and let him hold her. “Ye need to let them out, Kára. I will carry your tears to my grave.”

  Joshua Sinclair was strength and acceptance. He asked nothing of her but stood there letting her grieve without judgment. She relaxed into him and felt the hotness of her tears flow freely out against him. He did not stroke her but held her as if he were a boulder for her to cling to while a river flowed viciously around her, wanting to sweep her away in the current. Her arms dropped to wrap around his waist, the faces of her mother, father, and sister rising up behind her squeezed eyes, pushing the tears out.