Callum’s thoughts turned to Orm. Deaths were not uncommon during patrols, that was always the risk you took protecting the clan. Somehow he had never thought Orm would be one of the fallen. He had seemed invincible, even when they were children. A wooden sword blow that would fell most would just have Orm laughing and spitting in the dirt with derision.
“Remember when he shoved Tommy into the pig swill?” Ivar asked. “I nearly wept, it was so funny.”
Callum managed a smile. He well remembered their old sword master coughing out bits of turnip peel and wondering how he’d been bested by a ten year old who was half his size.
“Or when he jumped into the moat to avoid his lessons.”
“Aye, couldn’t swim and would rather drown than mark a slate with his name.”
“What about when he found out Moira was pregnant? Never saw him so happy.”
More memories followed, the men laughing as they recalled all that Orm had done with his life.
Callum remained silent. What hurt him most was the way it had happened. It wasn’t a noble war to push the Normans out or get the Northmen back to their ships. It was a foolish wee ambush by the weakest clan in the highlands and isles. Not just that but a knife to the chest and all because Callum didn’t check one of them was dead.
“It’s not your fault,” Hamish said from the back of the group of riders.
“Och, dinnae do that,” Callum replied. Hamish had an unnerving habit of being able to read his thoughts. “It’s not your place to say who’s to blame.”
“I tell you something,” Ewan said. “He should have stopped patrolling when he wed his wee lassie. He let his training slip once he was married. Got fat.”
A murmur of agreement from the other men. Callum turned from one face to the next, feeling a hint of mutiny rising.
“He was bound by his oath to protect the clan,” Callum said. He couldn’t admit it but he agreed with his men on the matter. It was one thing to swear the oath but to continue patrolling once wed and with a pregnant wife waiting back at home?
“Moira begged him to stay,” Hamish said. “He told her nothing would happen. ‘I’ll be back soon enough. We’ll go to MacLeod castle together when I return and stake out that farm together like I promised.’ No lass could manage that land alone. Such a waste. Married men should stay at home.”
Another grumble of agreement.
Callum looked at Orm’s body on the back of the horse. He thought about how Moira would take the news. A tiny part of him wanted to give the task to one of his men but he couldn’t do it. It was his job as laird’s son just as it was his job to walk so Orm had one final horseback ride through their land.
“Married men should not patrol,” Ross echoed, bringing him out of his reverie.
“Better that men who patrol do not wed,” Callum replied, bringing grunts of agreement from the others. “Orm was told but he wouldnae listen. Spoke of love like that mattered more than protecting our people. Now I must inform a widow with bairn on the way that her man is dead. The oath is no small thing. It does not fit well with marriage.”
“What will you be telling your bride to be then?” Hamish asked, looking pointedly at him.
Callum winced. “Dinnae remind me of that. I tell you what I told my father. I will never wed.”
“I’d like to be there when you tell the laird you’re turning down his choice of bride.”
Callum wasn’t looking forward to talking to his father again. He had told him before that he had no intention of ever marrying but that was before the wedding had been arranged. He had managed to put off the conversation before this patrol but she was already on her way from the mainland. Time was running out for him to get the matter dealt with before she turned up and started getting measured for a wedding dress.
They reached Frazer castle at noon on the second day. Callum left his horse outside and entered alone. “Have you seen Moira?” he asked the first person he encountered, a wee slip of a lassie who was struggling across the courtyard with a heavy tray of fresh smelling oatcakes.
“Aye, in the great hall with the others. I’m to fetch these in for them.”
“I’ll take them for you.”
“You’re a noble. You can’t-”
He interrupted. “You can barely move for the weight of them. How old are you? Twelve?”
“Ten, my laird.”
“I’m not the laird. I’m just his son.”
“Just a laird’s son taking a tray of oatcakes from a kitchen skivvy.” She giggled as he lifted the tray from her arms.
