“Ye wait here,” she told Da and his two young helpers, one supporting him on either side. They had become, so, like one being.
“Nay—” Da began. She ignored him.
As she stepped to the door of the dwelling she drew her sword. And was met, when she stepped in, by what was very nearly her own reflection—a man, as dirty and tattered as she, standing in a like attitude with a sword in his hand. Five other men sat in dirty straw behind him. Eating.
Her heart leaped sickeningly. She stared into the man’s dark eyes and he into hers. After a startled moment, he lowered his sword andshe did the same.
“Curse me,” he told his fellows, “’tis a woman.”
Who were they? Dressed in Highland garb, they were so smeared with mud and wet she could scarce recognize the tartan. Not English, that was the important thing.
“Fleeing the battle, are ye?” the man asked. He was perhaps thirty and had a gap in his front teeth. A foolish question, but then, he no doubt needed to establish she was not English either.
“Aye. I ha’ my father, sore wounded, and two o’ our clansmen.” She jerked her head. “He is Chief MacMurtray.”
“Is he, then?”
She directed her gaze at the other four men, only one of whom had got to his feet and at the food they shared. By God, she was hungry.
“Did ye find that food here?”
“Nay, this place is long empty. We stole that, we did. Fro’ a house. Wee Jacky stole it.” He indicated the man on his feet who, indeed, was very small.
The man to whom she’d been speaking thrust out his hand. “Ranald MacLeod,” he introduced himself.
“Katrin MacMurtray.”
“Bring yer men awa’ in. We will share wha’ we have.”
It turned out that Ranald, Jack, and their companions had also been recruited under Earl John Randolph’s banner, and had become separated from the rest of their clan during the battle.
“A rout, that,” as Ranald put it. “How so many could be brought low by so few is beyond me.”
“’Twas the archers,” Katrin answered, “so I am certain.”
The other three MacLeods were Jamie, Gus, and Tam. Jamie was wounded but not badly. They were making for home.
“Ye can travel along wi’ us if ye’ve a mind,” Ranald offered. “We can help ye wi’ yer chief, then.”
To say that Katrin felt grateful would fall far short. These were not their own men, nay—God alone knew what had happened to their own men—but they were fellow Highlanders banding together.
They shared their food, which was not much, a fact that made the gesture mean even more. Katrin wanted to wolf down what she was offered. Instead she consumed it slowly and made sure Da ate all his.
They sat in a circle on the rough stone floor and spoke of the battle, or spoke around it, for there were things none of them wanted to mention. The hideous sights seen. The savagery on both sides.
As said Tam MacLeod with a shake of his head, “’Twas cruel to put they horses through that. I saw a gey many go down.” He was a young man with a slash to one arm and horror in his eyes.
So had Katrin, and it had bothered her also.
“Aye, so we will travel together,” said Ranald, and Katrin felt touched by the fact that even if Robert Stewart had forsaken them, they’d found hearts far more loyal.
She and Ranald spoke of it as they moved out, leaving the ruined hut.
“We saw Laird Stewart come through after the battle,” she told him. “I asked for help for my da. Da was sworn to Earl Randolph, ye ken, who was in turn sworn to him, and answered when he called us up.”
“And what did the fine Laird Stewart do?” Ranald asked, not without a touch of irony.
“He rode off.” The words felt sour in Katrin’s mouth. “Abandoned us. Saved himself.” She had a flash of Finlay throwing himself to the wolves, in sharp contrast.
