AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The younger stance lit up. “Really?”
“Yes. And rather bigger than a cottage.” The boy neared and Drostan crouched to his level.
“Oh.” His tiny brow creased. “Can I come and see it?”
“Maybe.” Of course, Freya would object to it. But he was the boy’s father, was he not? In a marriage, the children belonged to the father after all.
What if he granted it, Drostan contemplated? He might take the boy to meet his family and ride with him back here in a day or two. The temptation loomed too great. If he took his son, she would follow, no doubt. Not a very noble way to lure her back, he understood. But they would find a middle ground in this foggy situation. And if she did not come, he would bring Ewan to her. She would certainly be worried sick, and he had no intension of distressing her.
“I will bring you here in less than a week. Agreed?”
Ewan beamed and nodded. “Agreed.”
Without stopping to consider the morals of it, Drostan rushed inside, found a scrap of paper with a pencil, and scribbled a note
to Freya. He grabbed Ewan’s worn coat and dressed him in his humble rags. The McKendrick lifted the boy on the saddle before mounting behind him and setting off on the dusty road.
Hours later, Freya awoke from a restless sleep to the sun leaking through the creases on the wooden window. Her body jerked up as she looked around. Birds song broke the morning stillness as she tossed the covers and hurried to dress. Ewan would be about soon, and she must prepare his breakfast. Luckily, she bought eggs and a little bacon the last time she walked to the village.
In quick movements, she put on her second-hand dress and left the chamber. To enter an eerily silent front room. Little light came from under the closed door. Hazel eyes darted to the cot. Empty. Rushing there, she touched the blankets. Cold. He had gone for long.
Worried, she scrambled to the unbarred entrance and threw it open. No horse. And no hope the worst had not happened. But she checked around anyway. Ewan liked climbing trees and exploring the river bank. Nothing.
Her hand rubbed her brow as she paced towards the front room. Light poured in. It fell on paper and pencil on the table.
Ewan asked to come with me. I will bring him back in a day or two. D.
Blood curdled in her veins as her sight darkened perilously. She covered her face with unsteady hands on the verge of collapsing in a heap of terror on the floor. Trying to swallow on gritty throat, she forced herself to inhale deep, and avoid losing consciousness. Her feet scrambled to the basin where she splashed freezing water on her face. It did not get better.
The extension of what had just transpired hit her like a down-hill rolling rock.
Four years straining to keep her son in anonymity razed with a one-line note. Just like that, father and son launched themselves into deadly danger. The urge to scream, to cry, to hit something stormed in her like a hurricane.
Since Ewan was born, she had made him wear hoods to conceal his face. She had walked through back roads to avoid meeting familiar people. Had trekked to the most distant markets and villages outside McKendrick lands. And had dressed in a way to blend in with the crowds.
Ewan counted too few friends because she allowed him limited contact with children his age. Freya met no friends because small villages tended to make the wrong news run too fast to the wrong ears. The Lady McKendrick had not seen her parents since Beltane more than four years ago, and had not heard of them either.
She gave up the husband she loved more than everything. Deprived Ewan of a father. Deprived herself of social interaction. Deprived her son of the comforts he was due. Lived in the shadows, hiding, looking over her shoulders, dodging unnecessary risks.
And the tears? Buckets-full of those. For her. For her son. For her fears. For their losses.
But mostly, she had lived in fear. Fear that any tiny slip would burst a clan war that would threaten Drostan’s life. A war that would attract English attention and jeopardise everything the McKendricks held dear. Their clan. Their traditions. Values. Traditions which they kept with preciousness. Those which inspired admiration and respect in the Highlands.
All rendered useless by a one-line note. Crumbled. Gone to waste. Turned to dust.
Impatiently, she dragged her hands over her tear-streaked face, and steeled herself. Despair would take her nowhere.
How on Earth would she put this to right?
First, she must go fetch Ewan. Nonetheless, walking to the McKendrick in broad daylight would be a foolish thing to do. It would have to be after nightfall. The long distance would take hours to cover. It mattered not. The most important was to return Ewan to safety and keep his domineering father at arm’s length. And safe, too.
Meanwhile, there were chores she must do in the cottage. Repairs, cleaning, tending to the vegetable garden on the back. Followed by a dip in the frigid river to keep alert. Intense activity would hold sanity and her hands too busy to fret.
Freya lamented she did not have a black cloak. It would help her mingle in the dark. What she did have was a very worn and mended one which had been green once—when Drostan gifted it to her. Faded and old, it still shielded her from the crisp autumn air.
Her feet gained the road to the McKendrick at the exact moment it started to rain. Darn it. It had not rained all these days. But now it poured the skies open. It did not signify, it should be a small price to pay for what she must do.
One hand pulled the hood to better conceal her face; though it would be difficult to identify her in the faint lantern she carried. Her old boots sloshed on the puddles, causing her feet to freeze. She shut her mind to the discomfort and forged ahead.
