That had been done in the old days, as she knew. Had not Finlay told of it in his stories? But that had been in the days when shields were larger. This one bore a crack right across, and they had to yank several arrows out of it.
And the chief was not a small man. As they tried to load him onto the makeshift litter, the shield came apart.
“Here, use Brada’s wrappings. Fro’ my pack.”
Finlay’s cheek had resumed bleeding. Trails of blood trickled down as he shrugged off his pack and swung it to the ground. Somethingwithin gave off a mournful sound, and when he unwrapped the harp, they all stared.
The beautiful instrument’s back had broken in two, now held to the bow only by the strings.
“Och, Finlay!” Katrin cried.
“Nay matter,” Finlay said, placing the shattered instrument into the pack once more. “The wrappings are strong.”
Katrin wept as they spread the leather on the ground and lifted Da onto it. Carrying him so would not be easy. And they were so very far from home.
Two men came slogging through just as they prepared to lift their burden. One of them was the drummer who had walked beside them for a time. He still had his drum, not burst, and his face was gray with strain.
“The battle is lost. Lost!” he called to them. “The English knights are coming after us, killing all they can find. Best flee!”
Katrin’s panic threatened to choke her again. She dared not take the time to look back down the hill, but aye, she fancied she heard hoofbeats and screaming.
“Come, hurry,” she told her group.
Finlay shrugged his pack onto his back. With one of them at each corner, they lifted Da and started off following the drummer and the others who fled.
A hard and arduous process. Da’s weight was such that he dragged the sling to the ground.
At last, Davey said, “Let us fold the cloth and try again. Rabbie and I will hold the chief higher. Mistress, ye lead the way. Harper, keep watch fro’ the rear.”
They shifted Da and tried again, the two strong young men hefting him to shoulder height. Better yet, how long could they continue?
Others fleeing the battle now streamed past them. When Katrin heard hoofbeats pounding, she paused and turned in terror, expectingto see a line of English knights bearing down on them.
What she saw instead gave her a sudden rush of hope. Their own men. Not only that—a face among them she recognized for that of Laird Robert Stewart.
One of their own commanders.
Abandoning her group, she ran toward him.
“Laird Stewart, Laird Stewart!”
For one terrible instant she thought he and the horsemen with him would not stop. Perhaps it was her voice—a woman’s voice—that made him draw his mount to a halt in the soaking turf.
He streamed with wet, a combination of sweat and rain, but he appeared untouched. He gazed down at her with incredulous amazement.
“The battle is lost!” he bellowed.
“Aye, but my father—” Wildly she gestured behind her. Rabbie and Davey had laid their burden down. They made a piteous sight. “He is the chief of Murtray and sworn to John Randolph, Earl Moray—he answered Laird Randolph’s call and now is sore injured.”
“The Earl of Moray is dead.”
“Oh! But my laird, surely ye—If ye can only help us get him awa’—”
Sir Robert shot a withering look at their group and a second at Katrin. “Nay time. Ye must make yer own way.”
And he spurred his mount, which bore a grievous wound across the chest, away. The other riders followed, throwing up sodden clods of turf and muddy water as they went.
Anger arose in Katrin’s heart. Anger and a sense of betrayal so terrible it felt bottomless. Their own commander had abandoned them—abandoned her father in all his loyalty—to the aftermath of this terrible battle.
