Locating Wulf’s dapple gray destrier among the small herd of horses, he asked, “Who rides your father’s horse to keep him in good form?”
“No one,” confessed Jamie. “He’s a tad difficult to handle.”
“He responds well to you, I suspect.”
The boy nodded. “He knows my voice.”
“Think you can mount him?”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “Aye.”
“See to his exercise, then. Not alone, mind. Take him out when the other Black Warriors take to the saddle.”
A grin broke across the boy’s face. “Aye, laird.” He started toward the horse, then stopped. “Thank you, laird.”
Aiden nodded. If that’s all it took to lighten the lad’s burden, he should have done it weeks ago.
“Chief?”
A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Cormac was standing behind him, a frown creasing his brow. “Aye?”
“The rescue of Hamish and the others was a worthy undertaking,” the bowman said, the tone of his voice serious.
“But...?”
“But it was a costly venture. We lost more than thirty arrows.”
Aiden bent to brush his horse’s gaskin. Without a smithy, they were unable to forge new arrowheads. Although they reclaimed every spent arrow while hunting, that hadn’t been an option during the raid on Dunstoras. “How many are left?”
“Fifty-seven.”
Not a dreadful number, if hunting was all they were needed for. “You fear that we’ve not enough should MacPherson’s men come a-calling.” Which was a likely occurrence after the raid—MacPherson’s wounded pride would demand that his men comb the woods in search of them.
“Aye.”
“A fair concern. I’ll have the men assemble a hearth.” The reason they hadn’t created one already wasn’t the challenge in building a smithy—it was the smoke. Smelting required a very hot fire maintained for a considerable amount of time—the sort of fire that was difficult to hide. A small cooking fire or a warming brazier gave off little smoke by comparison.
Cormac nodded and departed, his mission accomplished.
Neither man mentioned the length of time it would take to acquire new arrowheads. It was pointless.
Aiden brushed his horse until its coat was shiny and smooth. The soothing nature of the task was no longer working. Time was hounding him. They had already lived in this temporary camp for far longer than he’d originally envisioned. When he had gathered the clan here, his hope had been that it would be only a matter of weeks before he could ascertain his innocence and reclaim his family’s land. But almost three months had passed, and he was no closer to identifying the man in black.
Now their supplies were running short. Food and the other necessities were becoming scarce. It wouldn’t be long before the prophecy Isabail had made on her arrival would come true. His people would go hungry and his warriors would not have the strength of arms to protect them.
He tossed the curry brush into a bucket with a loud clatter.
The horse snorted and shifted uneasily.
Aiden gave him a reassuring pat on the neck, then turned away. He had only one clue to the identity of the man in black, and that was Isabail. If he did not soon prove his innocence, his clan would starve.
He marched into the inner close and across the snow to his hut. When he stepped inside, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Isabail was seated on his pallet, her head bent over a piece of cloth. She continued to wield her needle and thread even though the stiffness in her shoulders told him she was aware of his presence.
“Tell me the names of the men visiting Lochurkie that night,” he demanded.
“Nay.”
Closing the gap between them in three easy strides, he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “Enough, Isabail. You’ve played this foolish game too long. Give me the names.”
