Page 48 of The Eagle

Chapter Thirteen

It was late in the day when they arrived at Stuart’s lands. The sun was low in the horizon causing the trees to cast long shadows across the field that surrounded a house that had barely survived the passage of time.

“I am not sure it is habitable,” Ewan said looking to Stuart. “I think we should set up camp and get settled. We can take our time exploring the structure once the sun rises.” Ewan would remain for a few weeks but planned to leave before the winter settled in. Artair would come and replace him then.

Stuart agreed and scanned the area for a place that would be suitable. What had once been fields were now overgrown, young trees and bushes covering the ground. There were a few places that were passable for camping, but it would take them until nightfall to clear any space.

“This will take a while,” Stuart said turning his horse around so he could address the small group.

Stuart looked to the men, who also scanned the area. Some wary, others with interest.

“We will choose somewhere not too far from the house to clear and set up camp. First, we need to make proper shelters, so we don’t have to worry about the elements as we work to restore the house.”

Ewan added, “There are plenty of young trees we can use to make sturdy shelters. It should not take overly long to cut them down.” He gave his brother a challenging look. “Two each?”

He and Ewan often competed at everything. Most times, neither won because they were so close in size and stature.

“Very well,” Ewan said pointing to a narrow path. “Let’s try this way. Hopefully, the carts will fit through.”

It took several hours to get to the spot they’d chosen. Ewan got what he wished for because they had to chop down more than two young trees each, to get the wagons through.

By the time they were able to clear not only the path, but an area for the shelters, it was dark. They worked by torchlight to erect two tents made from linen that had been covered in fat before allowing to dry. The fabric was tough and would provide shelter from the wind and light rain.

While the men worked, Dougal set up a separate shelter for himself and his wife. He made a sturdy structure from the fallen trees adding a leather roof.

Everyone was exhausted as they quickly ate pottage and drank ale, anxious to sleep.

Stuart lifted the flap of the tent and searched for a space to lie down. He, his brother, and Anton would share this one, while the rest of the men were in the other.

Once he settled on the pallet of blankets, he promptly fell asleep.

A loud conversation startled Stuart awake the next morning. Thankfully, it looked to be a sunny day. Unfortunately, the bright light coming through the tent meant he’d overslept.

He made quick work of pulling on his boots and walked out to find that a group of men had arrived and were arguing with Ewan who looked half asleep and fully annoyed.

When his brother turned to him, he motioned for Stuart to hurry closer.

“These men came to challenge our being here. They say this land belongs to the village constable,” Ewan informed him in a bored tone. “I suppose we must go and meet this man.”

“No need,” a burly man holding a wooden club said. “Here ’e comes now.”

A man rode toward them atop a black horse. By the way he sat in the saddle, he considered himself to be quite important. Stuart glanced over his shoulder at his own warhorse, which would dwarf the man’s.

“Why are ye on my land?” the man called out. “Leave at once or I will set my men upon ye.”

Stuart looked to his own men who approached.

“Mount and bring our steeds,” he ordered in a low tone. It was but a short moment later that the men returned and brought their horses. Both Ewan and Stuart mounted at once.

At seeing the horses and Stuart’s guards on mounts, the burly villager and his companions exchanged concerned looks, especially when the guards drew their swords.

Stuart pulled out his tartan that hung from a sack on his saddle and threw it over one shoulder. “Who are ye?” he said meeting the man’s gaze.

At seeing the tartan, the man became less assured. “I am Torridon St. Claire, the constable of the nearby village.”

Stuart knew the man made up the surname. He was most probably a Smith, but he let it pass. “I am Stuart Ross, this is my brother Ewan Ross, my cousin Dougal Ross,” he motioned to each man as he spoke. “This land, as well as the village ye all live in, belong to Clan Ross.”

The constable’s eyes narrowed. “Why should we believe ye or that ye care about our village. Laird Ross has not stepped foot near here in years. We have had to fend fer ourselves and do not require ye or any of yer family to come now and take what has become ours.”