Tearing a strip from the ankle of his hose, he knotted it around the wound. It wasn’t great but it would do until he got back to the castle.
He began to march, feet squelching with each step, mud dripping from him. He thought about what to tell his father. The boar was dead. The village of Cromarty was safe. The people could sleep a little easier tonight.
He decided against mentioning his encounter with the English. They would tell no one, certain not to admit that a single Highlander had outfoxed three of their archers. They hadn’t looked like a normal patrol though. They’d looked like scouts. That wasn’t good.
Emerging from the wood, he decided not to go back via Cromarty. Instead, he climbed the mountainside, pausing only to eat some sorrel he found growing on the lower slopes. It would keep him going until he got home.
He needed the mountain air to clear his head, get the stink of the boar out of his lungs.
He heard the castle before he saw it. The masons were still hard at work on the east tower, the sound of their chiseling echoing toward him. Reaching the top of the mountain, he looked down the side.
The sound of masons chiseling stone was the sound of Lennox’s life. There had not been a day he could remember when he was not woken by their work. The castle was continually being repaired or improved. All his life, rough wooden scaffolding had covered some part or other. Would the place ever be finished?
At least it would be in a safer castle than some clans enjoyed. The battlements soared upward, the bedrock protecting the base from any attempts at undermining. They had been raised in height twice in the last thirty years, and the protective walls were now some of the highest in all of Scotland.
Ross had told him what life in the castle used to be like, frequent raids from the Vikings who came across the sea without warning, their faces painted, their bows firing further than anything the clans could manage.
Then, the clan had survived by retreating into the castle. The Vikings were not fans of prolonged siege, the risk of being taken from the rear was too great. They preferred flash attacks before returning home with their spoils before armies could be raised.
Lennox struggled to imagine it. There hadn’t been an attack for as long as he could remember. The truce with the English was tenuous but it held. The Vikings stopped attacking years ago when they realized they could not get into the castle, turning their attention to the land of other clans further north.
Descending the mountainside along a well used stony track, Lennox made his way to the castle.
"Lennox," a voice called out as he passed under the portcullis. "Your father is looking for you."
He looked across the courtyard. Thomas was laying out targets for archery practice, pausing to wave at him.
"Did he say what he wanted?"
Thomas shrugged. "He’s in the great hall."
"He can wait until I’ve changed and bathed. I am more filth than man."
Once he was clean and wearing fresh clothing, he called in at the apothecary for a poultice, applying it to the wound the boar had caused. Pressing the poultice in place, he headed for the great hall.
The hall was in the corner by the east tower, built more than a century earlier, the oldest part of the castle by far. The stone was far rougher than the other buildings but there were no cracks in the walls, the work had been well done.
He found his father alone in the hall, poring over papers that were piled on top of each other.
"You sent for me," Lennox said.
"Some time ago. Where have you been?"
"Getting clean."
"Close the curtain. You let the heat out."
Lennox did as he was bid, crossing the room a moment later.
"I hear you went hunting this morning."
"Aye, Father."
"Find anything?"
"One Scottish boar."
"Dead?"
