Chapter Three
Kieran tossed and turned all night. He couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep half of the time, stuck in a nightmare, reliving every moment of the fight in the woods. He could still smell the blood, hear the screams of his dying men, feel the heat of the fire racing hard towards him and those he loved most dearly.
He could still see the shock in Tilly’s eyes, her hands trembling at her sides. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest as he looked down at Bailey; the blood drained from his face, tiny groans of pain escaping his lips.
It was all he could do not to scream into his pillow – not to lose his sanity in those horror-stricken hours.
It was an absolute blessing when the sun finally crested over the horizon, giving Kieran all the reason he needed to get out of his sweat-soaked bed and get ready for the day.
His usually wild crimson hair looked like a haystack, he mused, as he went through his daily ablutions, barely paying attention to what he was doing. He was still stuck in his head, stuck in that forest, just moving through the morning because it was his normal routine.
He found he had no appetite, and as such, walked straight past the dining hall, ignoring the wafting scents of freshly baked bread and pastries. He felt nauseated at the thought of being able to eat anything while Bailey could be lying dead in the healer’s cabin. Kieran firmly decided to make that his first visit of the day.
He needed the reassurance that his friend would survive. Otherwise, he would lose his mind if he had to wait to check on him.
Kieran made his way to the healer’s cabin, placed against the outer wall of the castle grounds, near the main gate. The healer liked her distance from people, being a bit of a recluse, but she needed to be close enough to the gates to the castle grounds that the wounded could get to her quickly.
Kieran could feel eyes staring at him as he made his way through the castle grounds. Whispers behind his back as he passed by the blacksmith’s workshop. Cold silence as he passed by the farriers. Begrudging stares as he walked past the washer women at their work.
He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing exactly why he was receiving either the cold shoulder from some, as they turned away at his passing, or the blatant anger and hurt in the eyes of others. Those who forced him to meet their gaze as they stopped what they were doing to watch their Laird make his way through the grounds were the worst to him.
To say he felt uncomfortable in his own skin, his own castle, was an understatement.
These were his people, the people he promised to protect. But nothing screamed failure more than losing seven of his men to a skirmish he should have – could have – avoided.
It felt like the longest walk Kieran had ever taken as he forced himself to continue walking through the grounds, the hustle and bustle stopping everywhere he passed. His worst moment was walking past the barracks. His throat dropped like a stone to the bottom of his stomach as his men – the brothers of those who had died senselessly – glared at him as he passed by.
He tried to look like a laird, squaring his shoulders, lifting them up so that he didn’t slouch his way past them. He tried to look stern, unperturbed, but Kieran knew his emotions were running rampant across his face.
Guilt. It ate at him like acid.
Fear. He could not protect his own men.
Anger. It was his fault; he had not done enough to avoid the altercation.
Grief. Those were his friends who had died.
He sighed heavily as he finally made it to the healer’s cabin, hesitating on the threshold, his fist in mid-air, trying to find the courage to knock on the door. He could not say he even felt a sense of relief at having reached her door. It was all too much to bear, too much pain to cope with in one go.
A soft murmuring from inside the cabin reached him; it sounded vaguely like Tilly’s voice. She didn’t sound distressed, so Kieran squared his shoulders and knocked, thinking himself a total ninny for being afraid to knock on a door. He was still the Laird here. He would right the wrong of the previous day. If there was one thing his people knew about him – no matter how angry they might be right now – it was that Laird Kieran always did what was necessary to protect his people.
His fist finally landed on the door without his consent, he thought wryly. He wasn’t ready to face Bailey yet, but it had to happen.
Kieran pushed the door open at the healer’s urging to come in. He braced himself and entered the room.
Tilly was sitting at Bailey’s side where he still lay on the pallet on the ground, legs crossed under her.
Kieran instantly felt light-headed with relief – Bailey had some color to his face; he was talking, waving his hands around in the air for emphasis.
Bailey was still breathing; Kieran thanked his lucky stars.
“Good mornin’, Eithne, Bailey, Tilly.” Kieran nodded in the healer’s direction first as he made his way over to his sister and friend. “How are ye this mornin’?” He looked at Bailey, holding his breath.
“Och, I’m hungry somethin’ fierce, Kieran,” Bailey moaned, dramatically gripping at his stomach, careful to avoid his injury, “Eithne here won’ let me eat anything other than gruel. I tell ye, my stomach will eat itself ‘afore she lets me eat somethin’ o’ substance.”
“Yer no’ strong enough tae eat somethin’ ‘o’ substance,’ Mister Bailey,” Eithne grumbled from where she was standing at the hearth, stirring a pot. Clearly, this had been an ongoing argument from the moment Bailey had opened his eyes. Kieran couldn’t help but laugh to himself.
Trust Bailey to meet the edge of Death’s sword and be more concerned about his stomach than about his injury.
