Nay, do not think of that.
“I am no’ surprised,” replied Ranald. “He is an important man, aye? Wi’ an important skin to cherish.”
Katrin trusted Ranald MacLeod instinctively—or Rannie, as his fellows called him. He led his poor little band as she led hers, and inthe days that followed, they often walked together. She found him easy to talk to.
When Da grew worse and could no longer walk even with his clansmen’s help, Rannie offered his own men to spell them. He did so with a grave courtesy that would put to shame the highest in the land.
They spoke less and less frequently of the battle.Did ye see that the king got struck wi’ an arrow? In the face, nay less—
Did he live?
For a wee while, at least. Now, who knows?
Rannie was obviously curious about Katrin.How did a lass like yoursel’ end up in battle?
I took my brother’s place at Da’s side wi’ my brother perished.
They spoke more of home. Rannie headed for the Isle of Skye and wanted nothing more than to reach there.
Katrin wanted one thing more. As the days crawled by and the distance grew, she became more and more certain she would not have it.
Getting Da home—alive—would have to be enough, if she could manage a deed so impossible. Only then would she be able to try to imagine how to live without the man she loved.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rannie and hismen provided them with what food they could. They proved dab hands at theft, and young Gus set snares whenever and wherever they stopped for the night.
All too soon, Katrin lost any hope of guessing where they were. Rannie had chosen a route that differed from what the army had followed on the way down—no doubt many of those in flight did so. He moved due north, pressing the pace when possible, and announced it gladly when he estimated they’d crossed the border and were back in Scotland.
She breathed a little easier then, but not a lot. These marches, disputed territory for centuries, were prime for English invasion, which meant they remained far from safe.
She knew one thing for certain—they would not have made it back to Scotland at all but for Ranald and his band of MacLeods. Da soon took a fever, and the wound in his thigh, far from clean, caused constant pain.
None of them had hope of getting clean. Katrin had never been so filthy, but at least back on Scottish soil she began to sleep better. And to dream.
Most of the dreams were brief, terrible things, memories from the battle. She awoke sweating, screams caught in her throat. Once or twice she awoke weeping, and she not the only one of their group to do so.
She dreamed over and over again of Finlaythrowing himself to the English so she could get away. The look in his eyes just before he’d leaped forward. So terrible—and so brave and bright—was that memory, she had to build a wall around it lest the pain strike her down.
And then there was another dream, deep and wonderful and terrible all at the same time.
A quiet chamber where she lay dying. How she knew she was dying, she could not say, but aye, this she knew. She lay upon a bed covered in furs, with a bolster beneath her head, and she could see her own hands lying upon the covers. Aged hands they were, thin and frail, skin over bone. Yet hers all the same.
A woman bent over her, and the odd thing was that Katrin both did and did not know her. She had a thick braid of brown hair that fell over one shoulder as she leaned down, and eyes the color of the sea on a windy day. Not precisely young either, this woman, but of middle years.
“Mam,” she said, “ye maun try to drink something.”
A cup was tilted to Katrin’s lips. The smell of the contents turned her stomach.
Was the woman—this woman—her daughter? To be sure, she must be. Katrin’s mind groped for a name but could not find one.
She croaked painfully, “Where is your father?”
“He is here.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “I bade him tak’ some rest, but he would no’ leave ye.”
Katrin nodded. She should let her beloved husband go find some rest. But she wanted him. Needed him. “Have I been selfish?” she asked her daughter. “Have I asked too much of him?”
“Nay, mam. The two o’ ye tak’ as ye must fro’ each other. Now drink. The healer says ye must. For Da, if no’ for the rest o’ us.”
