“Here,” he said, tossing her an oatcake. “You look like you need it.”
He crossed the courtyard, taking the stairs up to the keep two at a time. Ducking his head to enter, he stepped straight through the open doorway into the huge room beyond.
Inside it was heaving with people. He took in the scene quickly. There were petitioners lined up at one side, warming themselves by the fire. His heart sank as he realized there could only be one reason why so many people were waiting to be seen. His parents must have traveled from MacCleod castle and if that were the case, he doubted it was to visit the Frazer family. They’d come looking for him.
“Callum,” a voice called out from the far end. “My son, what are you doing back here? I was told you were patrolling for another week.”
“I was, father,” Callum replied, passing through the crowd so he could reach his parents who were sitting together on the dais.
“Perhaps you might tell us why you have returned so soon, covered in blood, and carrying oatcakes like a serving girl. Were you so hungry you laid siege upon the kitchen.”
A laugh went up among the petitioners.
“We were attacked.”
Silence fell upon the crowd. They all feared that war might return. It had been little over a year since William had bought his crown back from Richard of England and many thought Richard was sure to double cross the Scots sooner or later, bring his armies back north, perhaps as far as the islands. The truce held but only just.
“Attacked by whom?” the laird asked, sitting upright on his throne. “The bastard King Richard?”
“MacDonald men.”
“MacDonald?” He spat into the dirt, arms folding across his chest. “Lose anyone?”
Callum nodded. This wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go. He wanted to speak to Moira on her own. He looked around, spotting her over in the corner, sitting with her ladies in waiting, dress barely concealing the swelling of her belly. Callum felt an immense wave of sadness wash over him. The bairn would never know its father, only hear tales of what a noble warrior he’d been.
“What happened?”
“They ambushed us at the fairy glen.”
“Heading for the grain store no doubt,” his father said with a nod. “Did you leave any alive?”
“Aye, father. Half a dozen.”
“Why? Why not kill them all.”
“They’re hungry like us. What good would it have done to slaughter them?”
His mother looked at him, seeing his face and understanding at once. “Hold a moment, Alan. Callum, who did you lose?”
Callum paused for a brief moment. Moira was not looking at him. She was looking at the children playing nine men’s morris on the floor in front of her, smiling as she pressed a hand to her bump. He was about to ruin her life and he desperately wanted to give her a few precious seconds before he did it.
“Well?” his father asked. “Who died? Spit it out boy.” The room waited. Even Moira looked across at him.
“Orm.”
A scream from behind him. Moira fell to her knees, sobbing wretchedly, thumping the rushes with her fists. “My Orm!”
“A good man,” the laird said quietly, stroking his chin. “May he rest in peace.”
Callum watched as the ladies in waiting led the weeping Moira away. She turned as she went, glaring at Callum for a moment. He did not shy from it, taking her rage before she vanished out of the end of the room.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” the laird said when she was gone.
Callum told him everything. When he was done, the laird nodded. “Gillian, my love. Write a letter to Malcolm demanding parley. This cannot go on. We will have no stores left and he’ll have no men to raise armies when the English come.”
“And if he doesn’t listen?” Gillian asked him.
“I will make him, my dear.” He clapped his hands together and managed a smile. “Though it is under a cloud, I am glad to see you, my boy. I have some news about your bride to be.”
