They had nearly reached the croft when Molly began to sing softly in time with her footsteps, as one did to make the way shorter.
An instant memory flooded Finlay’s mind. Walking—nay, marching—with a great body of men. Someone walked beside him. A lass, a woman she was, though dressed like any warrior and wearing a sword at her side. Much as Molly had just done, she raised her voice, soft yet clear, in song.
Come all ye who would valiant be
Who would follow the train o’ bright glory.
Where battle brings us gory fates
We follow them both soon and late.
The Gallowglass gang to die!
It hit him like a boulder rushing downhill, did that memory. Fair shattered him. All at once he was there inside the memory with all the attendant emotions. Fear and dread for the battle to come, for aye, it was into battle they were bound. A deep sense of connection with the woman beside him and love,love—
“Ardahl? Ardahl, lad, wha’ is it?”
He had stopped walking. Molly stood on the track in front of him, gazing up into his face with worried eyes.
“Be ye ill? Is it yer head?”
“Nay.” He reached out for something—anything—and clasped her hands. “There is someone. I remember—”
What had happened to her? The woman who had walked beside him so bravely and sung to raise the hearts of those around her? Had she died in the battle?
That thought delivered him a second tremendous blow, one that nearly took him to his knees. So many were said to have died in that fight. A rout, by all accounts.
“Ardahl?” Molly began to look frightened. “Wha’ is it, lad?”
“Memories. Coming back to me.”
“Aye, well, ’twas bound to happen.” But the old woman continued to look concerned. “Let us get ye home.”
Inside, she sat him down and raked up the fire before fetching him a warm drink. Days had now grown short, and a wind rose to play around the stones of the tiny place with a wail like a woman grieving.
“D’ye want to talk about it?” Molly asked, sitting down beside him.
Did he?
“Sometimes it does help. When my man died—surely the worst memory I hold, for he died right out there upon that hillside, working the land. Just dropped down as if stricken by the hand o’ God—I did no’ think I wanted to go on. And I could no’ speak o’ it, no’ at all. My neighbor, Esmie, a wise woman who’s since died also, forced me to. She sat me down right where ye be and told me to let it all out.” Molly’s faded eyes were kind. “It did help.”
“There was a woman. Marching beside me on the way into the battle.”
“A woman!”
“Och, so, how could that be? Indeed, she dressed hersel’ like a man and carried—carried a sword. She raised her voice as we went, just the way ye did outside, to sing.”
“Ah, then. Is that a memory or fancy?”
“A memory, I think.” A memory. “I loved her. So very much. I love her still.”
“Her name?”
“I canna recall. Her face—’tis a strong face and a beautiful one. Fair hair, ashen brown. And the smile in her eyes—” Longing struck him, so powerful it near doubled him over where he sat.
“Och, lad.” Molly’s eyes grew round. “And ye do no’ ken wha’ happened to her?”
“Nay.Nay. When I came to mysel’ after the battle, I was alone.” Save for the dead men. “She never would ha’ left me, nor I her, unless—”
