Page 2 of Reviving Her Highland Spirit

The stranger shrugged. “We’ll find out. Decide along the way. Ye need someone tae take care o’ ye, lad. Ye Da can rest easy knowing that ye are in good hands. What is yer name?”

“Callum,” the boy answered. He wanted to know the stranger’s name, but, worried that he might think it an impertinence, he stayed quiet.

“Callum. A good, strong Highland name. Well, Callum, I’ll see that ye don’t want for anything from now on. How does that sound, eh?”

Callum wiped away his tears with a grubby sleeve and forced a watery smile.

“I’d like that. I’m hungry.”

“Hungry? Goodness, we had better get ye some food, eh?”

The stranger reached out, delicately plucking a gold ring from a dead man’s finger. He turned the ring over and over, squinting at the fat red jewel in the middle, then slipped the ring into the folds of his dark cloak.

He stood, holding out his hand to Callum. Callum hesitated.

“Wait, I need tae get something.”

The stranger stood patiently, watching as Callum carefully lifted the hilt of his father’s sword from his limp hand. Callum knew that dead bodies went stiff and hard after a while. He didn’t know why or how long it would take to start stiffening, but he didn’t want his father’s fingers to tighten around the sword hilt as if to take it to the grave.

He’d never lifted his father’s sword. His father had told him that swords and daggers were sharp and dangerous, and that he ought to leave them alone. It had always looked so easy - Callum conjured up memories of his father swinging the sword around his head as if it weighed nothing at all, but in reality, the sword seemed immovable. Callum tried to lift it like he’d seen his father do, but it was no good. The sword was almost larger than he was. No, it was larger than he was, by quite a bit.

“Let me carry that,” the stranger said, but Callum shook his head.

“I can do it,” he insisted.

Eventually, Callum managed to pull the sword free from where it was trapped under the tangle of bodies. He clutched the hilt, caked with dirt, to his chest, and the point dragged through the mud behind him.

“I’m ready,” Callum said, a little breathless after his exertions. “I want tae take this.”

The stranger nodded. “Come on then, Callum. This way.”

Together, the small boy and the red-headed man walked away, swallowed up by a thick wall of fog.

1

Seventeen Years Later

Callum carefully scraped the whetstone along the blade of the sword. It made a sharp, metallic ringing sound, sharpening the blade to perfection.

It was a fine sword, a greatsword, rather too large to wield in close quarters. It was designed for a battlefield, for a great charge, or better still, on horseback. Callum could lift it with ease now. He sometimes smiled to think of his five-year-old self, struggling to drag the sword behind him through the battlefield.

It wasn’t a showy weapon. The blade was long and of good quality, unadorned and practical. The hilt was gold, twisted and braided, with leather strips around the handle itself that Callum had added, to make it easier to hold and swing.

He set aside the whetstone and lifted the blade, inspecting his work. There wasn’t a speck of rust anywhere on the sword, not a blunt edge in sight. It sparkled silver as the light touched it, and Callum smiled.

Footsteps and voices, coming ever closer, shocked Callum out of his almost meditative state. They were close. He hurriedly tossed the sword into a corner, piling up some hay over it. The voices were female, probably some ladies of the keep. They were unlikely to want to venture into the smelly stables, but it never hurt to be careful. If the wrong person spotted him, they’d want to know why a stable boy had such a fine weapon.

Callum glanced at the row of stalls, horses peering mildly out at him. They were all fine creatures, placid and expensive. He pressed a finger to his lips, and one of the horses - his favorite, a mare called Stardust - whickered lightly.

The voices were right outside now, and Callum stepped quietly to the entrance, tucking his hands behind his back and trying to look deferential.

There were three young women outside. He was in luck today. It was the laird’s daughters themselves, accompanied by one of their cousins. The oldest one, if his memory served correctly. There were no other grooms or stable hands to be seen, so Callum would need to serve them.

The tallest girl, with a torrent of almost white-blonde hair hanging down her back in a plait, secured by a blue ribbon, had her back to him. The two younger girls were tugging on each of her arms, looking pleadingly up at her.

“Oh, Maggie, dinnae be a spoilsport,” the oldest one wheedled. Callum knew her well enough. She was the oldest child of Laird McAlister. Bonnie by name, bonnie by nature, everyone said, smiling and shaking their heads. She was around seventeen and was already hailed as the most beautiful young woman in Clan McAlister. Her younger sister was suitably plainer and milder, but said to be much more intelligent. Her name was Amilia.

I wonder if any o’ them know my name? Callum thought grimly, trying to keep his face smooth and respectful. Not that it mattered - none of them were looking at him.