“Aye, I will find her. Ye will be careful, willnae ye, Artan?” she asked softly, fighting the urge to cling to him.
“Wheesht, this wee scuffle will be o’er and done ere the sun sets.” He gave her a quick, hard kiss and strode out of the room to make his way to the walls with Bennet.
As Cecily finished dressing and braided her hair, she told herself to be brave. Artan was a warrior. It was why Angus wanted him to follow him as laird of Glascreag. The wife of a warrior had to be strong and support her husband, not weigh him down with tears and fear. She could not give in to the urge to crawl beneath the bedcovers and pray until the fighting was over. Cecily was determined not to shame Artan with any show of weakness.
She found Crooked Cat in the kitchens barking out orders to the women gathered there. It took a moment for the old woman to see that Cecily was standing there. After she looked Cecily over carefully, her rheumy eyes surprisingly sharp, she ordered Cecily to a table set in the far corner of the kitchen.
“Ye are to cut these into bandages,” she ordered, setting a pile of old linens on the table along with a very sharp knife. “And when ye are done with these I have some herbs for ye to grind up.”
“Are ye sure this is all ye wish me to do?” It was not a very exacting chore, not something Cecily thought a warrior’s wife should do.
Crooked Cat leaned closer and lightly patted Cecily’s cheek with her somewhat gnarled, calloused hand. “Ye are a new wife, lassie.”
“Aye,” she agreed, unable to hide her confusion, “although I dinnae ken why that matters.”
“It matters. Ye havenae been hardened to the way of it all yet.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “I am nay sure I will e’er be hardened to the fact that men seem compelled to swing swords at each other.”
The old woman laughed. “Aye, fools that they are, but e’en if they set down their swords, some other fools would quickly pick them up and probably take a swing at the ones who put them down. Our men do it to protect Glascreag and us, and that is no small thing, aye?”
“Aye,” Cecily agreed and picked up some of the linen. “I will do this then, but I do have a skill at healing, ye ken. ’Tis the one thing I was taught to do and I am good at it.”
After glancing around to make sure everyone was doing as they had been told, Crooked Cat looked back at Cecily and asked, “What do ye mean it was the only thing ye were taught?”
“My guardians didnae really teach me how to run a household for reasons I am nay sure I will e’er be told or understand. Howbeit, Lady Anabel considered the healing arts a lowly thing, fit only for peasants to learn.”
“Ah, I see. She thought to shame ye.”
Cecily found she could actually smile about it. “Aye, so I was always verra careful to ne’er let her ken how much I enjoyed it all. So, if ye need help tending to any wounds—”
“I will send for ye right quick.”
After the woman hurried away, Cecily began to cut the linen into strips fit for bandages. At the moment, tucked away in the corner of the kitchens was probably the best place for her. It meant she could not see the men preparing for battle or see what force confronted them. She had told Crooked Cat the truth. She doubted she would ever be truly hardened to the fact that Artan would be facing men who sought to kill him, now and all the other times he might have to go to battle. She could only pray that she could hide her fear and thank God that Angus had taught him well.
Artan stood on the walls between Angus and Bennet and scowled down at the men gathered before the walls of Glascreag. He noticed some of the MacIvors arguing vigorously with some of the Ogilveys. The way some of the men kept pointing in the direction of the village told him they were arguing its fate. He suspected the MacIvors were arguing against burning it since it was their hope that they would soon take Glascreag and they would not want to have to rebuild too much. Since all the villagers and a great deal of their livestock were already within Glascreag’s walls, Artan was not terribly concerned. They had rebuilt the village before and could do it again if they needed to.
“I would guess that old MacIvor has left his lands verra lightly guarded,” drawled Angus.
“Mayhap we should try to send out a runner to inform the Duffs,” said Artan.
Angus laughed. “Aye, ’twould serve Old MacIvor weel to stagger home after trying to steal my lands only to find he has lost his own to Ian Duff. Is that fool on the white horse Sir Fergus?”
Looking at the man riding toward them on a big white horse, Artan nodded. “’Tis him, and from what I can see he was in sore need of the MacIvors, as it appears that nearly half of the Donaldsons have deserted him.”
After glaring down at the man reining in near the wall, Angus grumbled. “He has no chin. What fool thought to wed a MacReith lass to a mon whose neck seems to start at his mouth?”
Recalling Cecily saying much the same about Sir Fergus, Artan laughed softly. Angus may have had nothing to do with the raising of Cecily, but there was a strong hint of the man in her. He suspected Angus recognized that strong touch of MacReith blood in her and was heartily pleased.
It pleased Artan, too. Cecily might well have been raised in the Lowlands by a pair of thieving, murdering wretches, but she had the soul and spirit of a true Highland lass. She was also completely untainted by Anabel and Edmund’s complete lack of morals, their selfishness and cruelty. In keeping Cecily so apart from their family and friends, the Donaldsons had actually done Cecily a great service. Recalling the faint scars on Cecily’s slim back, however, Artan still wanted to see them hang.
“I have come to collect my betrothed bride,” Sir Fergus called up to them.
“I dinnae suppose we can just kill him here and have done with it,” muttered Angus.
“Dinnae tempt me.” Artan glared down at the man he so ached to kill. “Ye have no bride here, so I suggest ye turn about and ride on home ere someone hurts ye.”
“Cecily Donaldson is promised to me and ye stole her from me, right on the eve of her wedding!”
