When will I stop losing the people I love the most?
The anguished question ripped through his mind before he could better direct his thoughts. Self-pity had no place in a warrior’s arsenal. Hamish shook his head, dislodging rainwaterfrom his shoulder-length, russet-colored curls and then ducking once again, so that overhanging holly did not prickle him as Luar picked her way through the narrow gap in the thickly-growing bushes which cloaked the entrance to their hiding place.
Two years earlier, he would have had to shout a password to a lookout, else risk an arrow in his chest before coming through the holly. He would have emerged into a clearing that was busy with families cooking and playing, whilst loyal men sharpened their blades and prepared to follow Hamish and his father in retaliation against Donald.
All of that was gone now. The clearing was large and empty, loud only with the deluge of rain. However, smoke from a cooking fire drifted from the entrance of the caves, together with a faint scent of roasting meat.
The smallest of smiles played across Hamish’s rugged face.
Thank all that was holy for old Siegfried and his unshifting loyalty.
He led Luar to a high overhang of rock and tethered her beneath it, removing her saddle and rubbing her down as best he could with a twist of cloth. Her breath plumed in front of them, as steam from her flanks rose up to mingle with the mist and woodsmoke. He found the stubby end of a carrot in a saddlebag and presented it with a mumbled apology.
“Ye deserve better, Luar.”
Luar did not seem to mind. She munched the carrot and nudged at his stomach. Hamish gave her neck a final pat before stepping out into the rain and jogging over to the cave entrance, his leather boots squelching through the mud.
“Yer back safe then,” Siegfried greeted him, his watery blue gaze never lifting from the cooking pot.
“Aye.” Hamish shook out his cloak. “’Tis a pity the weather did not choose to turn before the English ended their journey.We could have taken them out, one by one.” He mimed shooting arrows, but his companion was not amused.
“One of ye, against ten score of them?”
“There are two of us.” Hamish seated himself upon a log which was positioned near the fire, glad of the warmth as he stretched out his long legs. “Three, if you count Alaric.”
Siegfried made a noncommittal noise. He had never hidden his distrust of Alaric, ever since the young laborer had arrived at the cave and pledged allegiance to Hamish’s father, two summers earlier. Alaric had proven himself to be a strong and valiant warrior, not once giving Hamish good cause to doubt him. But deep down, Hamish shared Siegfried’s disquiet. There was something about the expression in Alaric’s sharp brown eyes that made him uneasy.
“This is nay the time to be picky about our comrades,” he reminded the older man.
“Indeed, it is not. Especially since you sent the bulk of them away.” Siegfried stirred his pot, before lifting the ladle to his lips and tasting the stew. His thick grey hair was neatly combed, despite the roughness of their surroundings. Siegfried was a man who believed in upholding standards.
“I had nay choice.” Hamish kept his voice level. Siegfried may be an old curmudgeon, but he spoke the truth. “We have not the provisions to see ourselves through the winter. I canna ask men to serve me and then watch them all starve.” He flexed his fingers and held them over the blaze, deliberately looking away from the dank and shadowy cave behind his friend.
It was no place to spend the winter.
They had managed it once, aye. But that was with troops of men, and many months to prepare before the snow set in. Things were very different.
“Ye do ken, Siegfried, that ye are also free to leave whene’er ye wish to.”
This time, the aging warrior met his gaze across the fire. “I’ll serve ye until ma dying day, just as I promised yer father I would.” He nodded sharply, one hand going to the simple cross he wore over his good woolen cloak.
Hamish gulped down a lump of emotion. “I’ll see ye back as the Seneschal of Greenock before then. I swear it, Siegfried.”
“Aye, well.” He smiled, transforming instantly into the good-humored mentor that Hamish had revered as a child. “I’ll not pretend I dinna miss the comfort of my own bed, but we have ter make the best of things.”
Hamish found his hands clenching into fists. “I’ll not rest until Greenock is back under my control.”
“Then ye’ll charge straight onto the sharp end of an English man’s sword.” Siegfried unceremoniously ladled out the stew and handed a roughly hewn bowl to Hamish. “Eat this. ’Tis the last of the meat.”
“I’ll go hunting on the morrow.” Hamish gazed down at the unappetizing stew with little pleasure.
“Only if this weather breaks.” Siegfried settled on the far side of the log and considered his own bowl with comparable disinterest.
Hamish gazed out at the sheets of rain falling beyond the mouth of the cave. His friend was right. Few animals would be about in this.
“I should not ha brought ye back here.” He spooned stew into his mouth and chewed. “’Twas selfish of me.”
“Ye had no choice.”
