The villagers had brought them a hearty meal—bowls of oat broth simmered with onions and bits of salted pork, bannocks still warm from the hearth, and a platter of smoked trout from the nearby river.
The men ate with gratitude, their laughter growing louder as mugs of ale were passed around.
“A feast fit for kings!” one of them called, raising his mug high.
Killian smirked. “Aye, kings that smell of wet horse and mud, maybe.”
The group roared with laughter, their spirits lifted despite the storm.
Declan tore a piece of bread and dipped it into his broth, the warm flavor chasing off the chill.
He turned to Killian, his voice low. “Ye’d think grown men had never seen rain before,” he muttered, though there was a hint of humor in his tone.
Killian leaned back on a bale of hay beside him. “Ye cannae blame them, Declan. After a day of ridin’ and inspectin’, they’ll take any reason to jest.”
Declan shook his head. “Aye, let them. There’s too little laughter in these lands these days.”
A young soldier named Fergus began telling a tale then, his voice animated as he gestured wildly with his spoon.
“So there I was,” he began, “caught in the mire halfway to the village, with naught but me boots and a horse that hated the sight of water.”
The men chuckled, already knowing his flair for exaggeration. “I swear on me life, lads, the beast near flung me to the crows when I tried coaxin’ him across! I had to bribe him with an apple I’d been savin’ for meself!”
Killian laughed loudest of all. “And here I thought ye’d charm the devil himself, Fergus. Seems even horses see through yer silver tongue!”
The stable rang with laughter again, the warmth of camaraderie filling the space.
Someone began humming an old Highland tune, low and mournful, and before long, others joined in. The harmony rose and fell like the rhythm of the rain on the roof, carrying the weight of countless memories and unspoken vows.
Declan closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the sound wash over him, and in that moment, Isabelle’s face flashed before him. He thought about her waiting for him, warm in his bed.
I wonder if Isabelle misses me, or is she relieved I’m gone?
He raked a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh.
Damn it all, why do I care whether she warms to me or nae?
Yet he did care, more than he should’ve after so short a time. The way she’d stood her ground, chin tilted high though her voice trembled, had burrowed into his mind. He told himself he wanted her obedience, her respect, but if he were honest, it was her fire that drew him in.
When the song faded, Killian leaned forward, his tone softer.
“Ye ken, Declan, there’s peace in moments like this. Even with war always lingerin’ beyond the hills.”
Declan nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Aye, but peace never lingers long, Killian. It’s like mist—here in the mornin’, gone by noon.”
His friend grunted in agreement, pouring them both a bit more ale.
Declan lifted his mug and took a long drink, his eyes glinting with quiet resolve. Tomorrow, they’d ride again, but tonight, they were safe, and for now, that was enough.
By dawn, the rain had ceased, and the mist hung thick over the fields. The camp stirred to life as men stamped out the last embers of the fire and packed their gear.
Declan rose, stretching the stiffness from his muscles, and barked out orders.
“Let’s move, lads. Ye ken the drill, leave the place better than we found it. We’re guests, not raiders.”
Killian grinned as he hauled a saddle onto his horse.
“Ye always say that, Declan. Ye think the villagers’ll be whisperin’ about the noble laird that picked up his own scraps?”
