He kept going until he reached the designated field they'd set aside for training. Here was where he'd find the refuge he sought, honing his skills with the blade and his own body in the here and now to try to fight off the helplessness that the dream always brought with it. Cailean started his training with a run, jogging the perimeter once, then again, then speeding up and keeping a faster pace. As he circled the camp, the sun began to rise over the horizon, and the beauty of the camp, the nearby village, and the countryside around them came into focus.
His memories were dark and red, but the Highlands that welcomed him as the sun brought the day were green and bright. The rolling hills surrounded the village, which sat in a natural valley, dotted with purple heather and yellow buttercups that were so picturesque that Cailean often wondered how any violence could ever occur in such a place. Birds twisted through the air, welcoming the day, and between the thicket of trees on the hillsides, Cailean saw dark figures of animals moving as the restlessness of night gave way to the calm of morning.
By the time he'd finished his run, more of the rebels had risen from their beds and made their way to the training grounds. They all greeted him with smiles and nods; he got on well with many of the men here, almost all of them, though they didn't know who he truly was. To be fair, evenhedidn't know who he truly was, not really, so why burden them with his past? Only those closest to him here knew about it, and that was more than enough for him.
He saw Fergus Bruce, Darren's cousin, standing alone near the training weapons, and he made his way over. Fergus and Darren were night and day; the former was gloomy and broody where the other was all sunshine and smiles, but both were extremely skilled warriors, and Cailean enjoyed the company of Fergus as well.
"Spar?" he asked, picking up a training sword and offering it to Fergus.
Fergus raised an eyebrow, then nodded, accepting the weapon. Cailean picked up one of his own, and the both of them slipped easily into their fighting stances, beginning a practice drill with the effortlessness of two men who had done it a thousand times before. As they fought, some others gathered to watch — noticeably, though, Darren was not among them. Cailean was mostly focused on the fight, but in the back of his mind he made a note to tease his friend for sleeping in too late yet again.
Fergus and Cailean sparred vigorously, working up a sweat, and when they were done, other men moved in to offer their own challenge. After about an hour, Darren finally sleepily joined them, and Cailean did indeed take joy in teasing his friend quietly as Darren picked up his own sword for their turn.
"Redcoats could murder me in me bed and ye wouldnae stir," Cailean commented, holding up a hand to indicate that he needed a break for a sip of water. "The earth could tear itself in twain and ye'd still be sleepin'."
"Aye, and happy for it. Ye'll see who's wrong when ye're all too tired tae defend yerselves," Darren bantered back good-naturedly, grinning ear to ear. "Why are ye naggin' me, anyway? Are ye me mam now?"
"God forbid. Kier has a hard enough time bein' yer da, and that grizzled old warrior's bound tae have seen worse," Cailean replied. "And who kens what ye've done tae poor Fergus tae make him the way he is."
Darren laughed. "Och, Fergus has been gloomy since birth. Ye cannae blame me for that — thoughhedoes, that's for sure."
The two friends laughed and got into position, but before they could start their own fight, someone called out, "Scouts!"
Cailean lowered his sword and turned. There, coming toward them, were indeed some of the scouts they'd sent out to the surrounding villages, some other cousins of Darren and Fergus who acted as rangers and spies as required. There were many members of the Bruce clan involved in the rebellion, and each of them was loyal and stouthearted in a way that made Cailean proud to know them.
The grizzled figure that was Kier Bruce, one of the members of the rebel council, stepped forward to receive the newcomers. Cailean was surprised; he hadn't even known that Kier was watching them train. Kier said in his usual gruff tone, "What news?"
For a man approaching sixty, his voice still carried such overwhelming strength and force that it caused the two scouts to momentarily shrink back. Cailean grinned; if even Kier's own niece and nephew weren't used to him yet, was it any wonder Darren was a bit strange? He turned to tell his friend that light barb under his breath, but stopped as the woman scout, Ferda, spoke.
"Uncle, there's been a murder," she said, causing instant gasps and murmuring in the crowd. "A fortunate one, if ye ask me. Malcolm Darach is dead. Murdered in his bed. Some say by a servant, others say by his own wife."
Cailean froze. Chieftain Malcolm Darach was… dead? That man had been one of the primary traitors who had led the McNair family to ruin and destruction. Was he truly gone?
"Ye're sure, lass?" Kier asked, focusing on her intently.
"Aye, Uncle. He's dead."
Stillness filled the air. "Who told ye this?" Kier asked quietly.
Ferda's voice took on a significance that Cailean didn't understand. "A wee birdie told us, Uncle. There's nae doubt."
Kier's expression changed, then he nodded. "It's true, then," he said, then turned to the gathered group. "Malcolm Darach is dead!"
A cheer rose up around them, but Cailean remained composed. He ignored the knowing look that Darren was giving him; the rest of the men did not know who he was, and he had no intention of letting them know the full depth of his satisfaction in that moment.
What he did know, though, was that if he ever met the person who had done this, he'd shake their hand. They could not know what good they had done for the world by ridding it of that monster.
* * *
Maeve's wrists hurt from the manacles that chained her to the wall, but she had long since stopped trying to pull her arms free. She sat in the corner of this damp, dark dungeon, wondering if perhaps they intended to let her starve to death here in the bowels of Darach castle, which until just a day ago had been the closest thing she had to a home.
Two guards approached and peered in. She didn't know their names; her husband had never encouraged her to mingle with the men, not that she'd particularly wanted to be near the ones who were loyal to him. Sure enough, they both wore identical grins as they saw her, apparently repugnantly pleased to see her brought so low.
"Chained up like an animal. Think they'll keep her that way, Rod?" one asked.
"Maybe. Or they'll just cut off her head as punishment. What sort of madwoman thinks she can get away with murderin' her own husband and just actin' innocent in response?" Rod asked, spitting on the floor. "Who else could have done such a thing, eh, Brian?"
"But I didnae do it!" Maeve wanted to scream, though she knew it would be no use. She had already screamed it over and over as they'd dragged her here after finding her standing over Malcolm's cold, dead body. She'd found him that way, and in her shock, she'd tried to pull the knife from his throat. As soon as they saw the blood on her hands, they were sure of her guilt.
