Why would she care about a husband? Or bairns? They would only be left behind when the need came up for her to ride with her brothers.
When the morning came, Iris was up at dawn, pulling her satchel to her waiting horse that had already been brought out for her.
“Och, ’tis far tae early for the likes of this,” Ian grumbled as he cinched his satchel to his own horse, his eyes red.
“Perhaps if ye had gone tae bed instead of imbibing in the whiskey, then ye wouldnae be hurting,” Iris chided, laughing when Ian winced at the rising sun. “’Tis going tae be a long ride for ye then.”
“For us both,” Stephan added as he came up to them, the same pale look about him.
Iris shook her head as she patted her horse’s neck, watching as her brothers struggled with their horses. The gathering was nearly three days’ ride from their border, which meant her brothers were going to have a very long day before them. She just hoped that whatever ale and whiskey her father was bringing along that he hid it from them.
It wasn’t long before their father joined the small caravan that would be heading south. In addition to the handful ofwarriors, a wagon would carry all their supplies. Their father would lead the small group at the front, and Iris would fall somewhere in the middle of the pack, well away from her brothers, until she could ensure that they weren’t going to lose their stomach contents.
“Are ye ready?” her father asked them, shaking his head when he saw the state of his sons.
“I’m ready,” Iris replied, swinging up on her horse.
Her father looked up at her; she was warmed by the smile he bestowed, as if he was proud of what she was doing.
“I can always count on ye, Iris, mah girl,” he said, patting her leg before making his way to his own horse. “Let’s ride out!”
Everyone mounted their horses, and Iris followed the lead horses out of the courtyard and through the village, where the entire clan had come out to wish them a safe journey. When she returned again, she would be the victor for their clan, and her pride would be hard to contain.
“Do they have tae yell so loud?” Ian grumbled, holding his head as they passed.
“Ye may want tae get in the wagon, Brother,” Iris laughed as she moved her horse forward.
Her brothers were going to be a delight the entire journey, she was sure of it.
3
James rode behind the warriors on his horse, the sun beating down on the group as they made their way across the open moors southward. For two days they had traveled, making camp in the forest each night and starting out early each morn. While James was happy to be in the outdoors with the warriors, he was also growing tired of the company he was keeping.
Matteau rode ahead of him, limiting their conversation to a few minutes each night before the camp turned in. James couldn’t join his oldest friend because he wasn’t a warrior. The laird’s warriors led the way for the small group that was heading to the gathering, watching for any sign of an ambush as they passed.
The laird’s council, including James, his father, and another Scot elder that would help negotiate the truce with the Wallace clan, rode behind them. Bringing up the rear of the group were his mother and the servants, including a wagon of supplies that would help them set up the camp once they arrived.
James knew his father would likely box his ears if he joined the warriors, but that was where he longed to be. He longed to be proudly riding in the front, protecting his clan and his laird. Hewanted to wear the tartan, to carry the sword that was meant for battle and not a dagger that was strapped to his belt, only to be used if he was attacked.
He wished to be looked upon as a warrior, a hero of his clan, instead of the Scot that sat in the shadows of the laird, advising from behind.
It wasn’t that James didn’t know his father’s role was important. His father was the laird’s right-hand man, the one that was consulted about nearly every piece of business that dealt with the clan.
He just…wanted more.
“Halt!”
The command came from the very place that James was hoping to be. He pulled his horse to a stop, watching as the warriors fanned out before his eyes.
“Wot is it?” the laird asked softly as swords were removed from their scabbards, the sound barely a whisper as the steel slid free of the leather casing.
No one said a word; the lead warrior only pointed, causing James to look in the direction that everyone was suddenly interested in.
It was another caravan in the distance, a tartan flag fluttering in the breeze as they trekked across the moors.
“Macdonovans,” his father muttered beside him. “Likely headed tae the gathering.”
James sucked in a breath as he watched the procession, remembering what he had been told about the clan that bordered the English border. They were a fearsome clan, known for their brutality toward anything that did not reside in their clan. Their warriors were said to be chosen by the devil himself, but James thought it was only a tale to scare the wee ones to bed.
