Arran chuckled. “’Tis willnae matter if I’m dead and gone, little brother. Come. Let’s tell Ma what has transpired.”
The brothers made their way up the winding stairs to the second level of the keep, where the current lady of the keep was nestled in her sitting room, her embroidery balanced on her knee. At one time, Morea Mcaiwn had been a force to be reckoned with. She was known for her exploits just as much as her husband had been, wielding a sword as well as any Scot could. In fact, she had met her future husband on the battlefield, holding a sword to his throat until he yielded to the bonnie lass.
But after the birth of her sons, she had sheathed her sword and retired to the keep, becoming one of the lasses that waited for their husband to return from battle.
When he hadn’t, she had sunk into deep despair, merely a shell of her former self. A broken heart was rumored to be her ailment, and while she counseled Arran on matters related to their clan, he always saw the sadness that was lurking in her blue eyes.
“Mah sons,” she stated as the brothers walked into the room, “what news do ye bring me?”
“We are going tae battle,” Arran said dutifully, leaning down to buss her cheek with his lips. “Malcolm will stay behind tae protect ye and the others.”
“A dutiful son,” she murmured, her gaze on Arran. “But who will watch over ye, mah son?”
“I need no one,” Arran reminded her. He was a warrior to be feared, not coddled.
She chuckled, patting his cheek with her hand. “Aye, Son, but one day ye will find someone ye cannae live without. Mark mah words.”
It was a tale she enjoyed spinning every time he went off to battle. While more lairds would have already taken a wife, Arran had not. He had no wish to leave a lass behind fretting for him or bairns without a da if he was struck down in battle.
Nay, a warm, willing body in his bed every once in a while soothed his needs enough.
“We will depart in two days,” he told her instead, “and bring victory tae the Mcaiwn clan.”
“Just like yer da,” she stated, her eyes watering with tears that never seemed to dry completely. “Aye, well, come home in one piece. Mah heart couldnae take another blow if I lost ye or yer brother.”
Arran’s throat closed, and he walked out before she could see the emotions churning in his eyes. He could not tell her that he would come back, for he would die to protect his clan, his family.
Just as his da had done.
1
“What do ye think? Should we attack from the side or the front?”
Arran rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, looking out over the field that separated the two borders. His men were hidden in the copse of trees behind him, with his second-in-command, Alistair, next to him. They were both dressed in cloaks that covered their tartan in case they had encountered the enemy sooner than they had planned.
Right now, the element of surprise was on their side.
For two days, they had traveled along the ridgeline of the woods that led them to the border of the McDougal land, slitting the throats of any small war parties they had come upon. Arran was not going to be merciful in this battle, not after the horrors that were etched in his brain from what his clan had endured.
The only prisoner he would take was the severed heads of Laird McDougal and his sons so that the line would fall to no one save any female clan members.
“We attack in the dead of night,” Arran decided, knowing the keep was still a ways from where they were. “If there are warriors waiting in the trees, then we will fight until we reach the keep.”
Alistair laid his fist on his chest, a show of respect to his laird. “As ye wish. We will fight until the end.”
Arran nodded, mimicking his motion with one of his own. “Until the end.” On the battlefield, there were no titles that would rank one man above another. He was their laird but would give his life to save one of them at a moment’s notice.
The two men turned back to the woods, where the camp had been set up. It was a crude camp, with only bedrolls for sleep and small fires to chase away the impending darkness. One of his warriors had offered to erect Arran’s tent, but he had declined as they would not be in this area long enough. He wished to remove the threat, seek his revenge, and return to the keep.
It was as simple as that.
Scores of warriors were milling about, some sharpening their weapons while others talked quietly amongst themselves. Arran drew in a deep breath as he dismounted, feeling at peace with his men. While he had learned the ways of a laird and led his clan, his true place was here. These men could anticipate his movements and react far sooner than Arran could draw his sword. He trusted them with his life.
Arran strode to the fire and settled himself on the log that had been positioned there, accepting the bowl of stew from another so he could put some sustenance in his body to maintain his strength. Tomorrow, they would begin their assault on the McDougal land, and men would die.
Ale was passed around, and Arran took a long swallow, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. The night leading up to battle was always the longest, where Arran would calculate their advantages and lament over his decisions until the early morn.
Was this how his da felt before his own battles?
