“What?” That made Adair stare.
She turned a wondering smile on him, one the likes of which he had not seen for days uncounted. “I believe this is my grandsire’s land.”
“Your grandsire?”
“Aye, so. My mother’s father, as I told ye. She was born here, and I knew this place as a wee girl. We used to climb up here when we went exploring. Adair, we are no longer on Mican’s lands.”
Robbed of all words, Adair said nothing.
“My grandsire—his name is Rohracht MacFee—holds lands north from Mican’s. I wondered—I did wonder if we might reach him, though I did not know the way. It seems Alba has led us.”
“Will we be welcome here?”
“My grandsire has not seen me in a long while, but aye, I will be welcome.”
For an instant, Adair went dizzy with relief.Food. Rest. A chance to heal.
And then mayhap a boat might be had to take him and Bradana home.
“The dun lies down there.” She pointed. “Ye canna see it for the shoulder o’ the brae, but it is no’ far. Och, Adair”—her eyes swam with tears—“ye were right. We needed only have faith in Alba after all.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
So great wasBradana’s relief as they picked their way down off the brae, she felt as if she walked on air. Her grandfather, so she told herself, would remember her. He would welcome her. Offer the hospitality they so desperately needed.
As unannounced visitors, however, they were first met with suspicion. The settlement not being a large one, they tramped some distance before reaching the first of the outlying huts, guarded by a drystone wall with an open gate. The residents stared. Some went pelting off to summon members of the guard, who came at a run.
The guards raised their weapons, looking at Bradana’s party unhappily. She could only imagine how they must appear—injured, filthy, her wedding finery in shreds, with two exhausted ponies and a limping hound.
She made haste to identify herself. “I am Bradana MacCaigh, granddaughter to Rohracht MacFee. Is he here?”
Great confusion ensued. The guards held them at the gate—with wary courtesy—while another man went running. A crowd formed in the almost magical way that happened when such things occurred.
Bradana expected her grandsire to come, figuring the guards had sent for him. Instead, a woman soon came walking up.
A tall woman she was, with red hair gone mostly to gray. She moved proudly and with some confidence, though her clothing appeared plain. She stared at Bradana and her companions with considerable astonishment but smiled as she paused at the gate.
“Mistress Bradana. Do ye remember me?”
Bradana did, and she did not. The woman’s appearance rang a distant bell of memory. She had been very young the last time she’d been here, but remembrance came fast.
“My grandsire’s wife?” she half guessed.
“Aye. My name is Morag MacFee. Lass, what brings ye here and in such straits?”
“I come seeking refuge wi’ my grandsire.”
For an instant, the woman’s kindly blue eyes clouded. “He is ill, my lass, and has been for some time. But to be sure, ye are welcome here. Come awa’ in.”
Bradana hesitated. She cast a look around at all the staring faces, avid and curious, and another at Adair. A miracle, this. But she owed these people a warning.
“I maun say—we are in trouble and may have danger on our heels.”
“Ah, well.” Morag smiled. “There will be a story in it.”
“Aye, mistress. A long one.”
“I love a good story, me.”
