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Four
Dristan wiped the dripping sweat from his brow and took a moment to assess the progress being made.
Kenna, the clan’s healer, had her toil still ahead of her. She continued without complaint the impossible task of giving what aid she could to those wounded men who yet lived. There were so many. Unfortunately, more men than Dristan would have liked were beyond her healing powers.
The words of a priest competed with the moans of the dying whilst he persisted in his vigil of administering last rights to those who had passed on . . . warriors all, both of Dristan’s own men and clan MacLaren’s, who had fought for a cause each truly believed.
His guardsmen toiled alongside serfs and clansmen alike, attempting to get the dead in the ground afore the storms began. Dristan recalled how Riorden had been brought to Blackmore to foster as page for his sire, and the two young boys of similar age had become inseparable. Brothers Taegan and Turquine were but a few years apart and quite the handful when they were deep into their cups, especially without a willing wench at their sides. Nathaniel had joined their group during his travels in France. Rolf, Ulrick, Morgan, and Geoffrey had been with him since his first days, when he had squired with Fletcher’s sire. The remaining three, Drake, Bertram, and Cederick, he acquired at one tourney or another whilst he made a name for himself, by acquiring his riches and lands all in the name of King Henry II.
All were specifically chosen because of their uncanny ability to train and fight to the death when needed, black dragons all. They were an exceptional group of men to have by his side and guard his back. No one could mistake who their master was as they were an impressive sight with all their darkness riding the countryside, leaving villagers trembling in their wake. He had lost count of the times he had been challenged over the years by some whoreson who wanted to have the privilege of saying he had slain the Devil’s Dragon of Blackmore. Since he yet lived, ’twas obvious all failed in their quest for glory.
He looked in the distance and saw Riorden slowly following Aiden, whilst he picked his way through the bodies in search of his lord. ’Twas clear the boy and his men had yet to be successful as they carefully made their way amongst the dead.
Dristan came to stand above Kenna as she closed the eyes of yet another man who would not live to see another day. He offered his hand to the woman, although he was still leery, not knowing if she were in truth a healer or mayhap a witch. One could never be too careful when crossing the Scottish border, since he had heard tell anything was possible this far north. He watched her hesitation ’til she finally took what he offered.
As she rose, she refused to let go of his hand and clutched it in a firm and steady grip. She closed her eyes as if pondering something then opened them to look him directly in the eye. And then she did the unexpected . . . she smiled, and he knew not what to say.
“I see you, my Lord Dristan,” she began knowingly. Her green eyes were the color of the sea, and they bore into him, as if looking for his very soul.
“And what do you think you see, woman?” he said, with disinterest.
“I see a man craving a different life than what you now lead.”
“Truly? I have all I desire in my life.”
“Think you?” she asked with a touch of surprise.
“Aye! I have my sword . . . an extension of my arm; my guards and my steed both loyal to a fault; and I have the favor of my king. I have more lands than I know what to do with and riches beyond your wildest imagination. What more could I ask for or want from life?”
“Mayhap you should ask yourself that very question.”
“I need nothing more than what I now possess,” he grumbled offhandedly.
Kenna let go of his hand, picked up her satchel of herbs, and turned to see who next she might aid. He fell into step beside her, ’til she turned once more to stare confidently up at her new lord.
“Are you a witch?” he questioned lightly, not wanting her to put a spell on him if she were in truth and felt offended by his question.
“Some may think so.” She gave a small laugh. “But since I prefer not to roast upon a stake any time soon, I do not consider myself as such. Sometimes, not everything you see is as it appears, my lord. Is this not so?”
“You have the sight then?” he said, choosing to ignore her question.
Kenna looked at him again, and he became somewhat uncomfortable for all his reputation of fierceness.
“Sometimes, I know of things afore they happen. I do not know how . . . I just do. Mayhap ’tis why I know you would live a normal life if you but could.”
“Ha! Normal . . . what is normal?”
“Normal is a loving wife to tend your needs, your children’s laughter surrounding you in your hall, and a family to call your own...my lord.”
“A wife?” he roared. “What need do I have of a wife? I can have any willing wench I want in my bed without the headache of having a wife harping at me day and night!”
She flashed a knowing smile. “You have spent too much time at war, my liege, if you do not know the difference between a wife and a wench.”
“Bah . . . you are a most annoying woman,” he declared offhandedly.
Kenna but laughed at him again. “You are not the first to tell me so, nor shall you be the last.”
“Be about your business, Mistress Kenna, and save your helping hands to healing those who need your aid. The way in which my life is run is none of your concern.”
“Of course, my lord . . . ” Kenna gave him a short bow. “I but told you what I saw. What you make of my words is for you to decide.”
Kenna looked up ahead and saw a group of clansmen form a circle with heads bowed, and watched as Aiden knelt down upon the ground. “I am afraid the young one has found who was sought. Perchance I am needed there posthaste.”
“Come with me,” Dristan said urgently, as he ushered her through the lingering mayhem and wreckage of what his army had left behind. He had a foreboding they would be too late to offer what Aiden would need from the clan’s healer.
Amiria knelt down next to her father and watched as her guardsmen Cameron, Thomas, and Nevin attempted to remove their laird’s armor to see to his wounds. From the amount of blood she saw seeping into the ground, she knew the wound was severe, if not fatal. His breastplate removed, they all watched the ever so slight rise and fall of his chest and heard his ragged breathing. How he still lived, they knew not, but they did not question their good fortune.
’Twas at the sound of a deep booming voice, heard above the wailings of the village people, demanding they move, that she became aware her new lord approached. She saw him move aside Devon, her newest guardsman, with a slight push, whilst he made way for Kenna, who came immediately to her father’s side. Amiria gave her new lord but the briefest of glances, afore turning her attention, once more, to her sire. She took his hand in hers and tried to warm the coolness from his fingers.
“Tell me Kenna,” she whispered hopefully.
“’Tis most grave Aid−,” her words cut off when she looked up, and she quickly masked her surprise by who she saw. ’Twas not often she was caught off guard, as she obviously was now. “I will endeavor to do my best,” she said gravely.
Kenna set to work and lifted her laird’s tunic to see the wound beneath. “Laird Douglas . . . my laird can you hear me?” Kenna asked.
When there was no response, Amiria tried to reach her father with her own familiar voice. “Father, ’tis me; come back to us, father!” she pleaded, with tears coursing down her face.
All watched as Douglas’s eye lids fluttered open. If he saw all those who stood around him, they could not guess, but they could see the delight at seeing his offspring by his side. “Ach, ’tis me wee bonny la−.”
“Father!” Amiria cut off his words afraid he might speak her name. She leaned down and kissed his weathered cheek. Taking his hand she brought it up to her cheek. “Save your strength, my laird.”
“There’s naught to savin me, darlin,” he said softly. “Ye must be braw now without me to lead ye.”
“Nay! Dinnae leave me Da . . . ”
“Ian will keep ye safe now . . . he vowed it for always.”
Ian stepped forward into his laird’s vision. “I swear to you as I did afore, my laird, I will always see them safe.” He made a quick glance at Dristan whose brow furrowed at his words.
Douglas gave a slight smile afore he began to cough, causing blood to slowly ooze from his mouth. “’Tis a good lad . . . if only I could have promised ye to me beautiful Amiria.”
Amiria broke down in sobs, and she leaned over her sire to carefully hold him close to her heart without causing further pain. Those around them shared her heartache, knowing Kenna could do nothing further to aid the man from dying. She was only vaguely aware when Dristan made a motion to his men to retreat to give the clan their last remaining time with their lord without interference.
Whilst she tried to calm her fears, a steady stream of tears continued falling from Amiria’s eyes. Ever so softly, she told her sire she loved him.
“Do ye see her, my sweet bairn?” he whispered for her ears alone.
“See who, Da?”
“Why yer ma o’ course . . . me own sweet Catherine comin’ to take me to her side. She’s been awaitin’ a long time, ye know.”
Amiria looked up at Kenna who only gave her a reassuring smile. “Is she as beautiful as I remember her, Da?” she asked breathlessly.
“Aye that she is. I will tell her ye love her I will,” he said quietly then turned his head to look proudly into Amiria’s eyes. He gave her that smile she always cherished ’til she heard him take his last breath. Douglas MacLaren knew no more.
Amiria brushed one last kiss on her sire’s cheek, gently closed his eyes, and shakily rose. “Garrick,” she called to the piper standing by a nearby tree. He came to stand behind her as he waited for her words that shook with sorrow. “A song if you will Garrick . . . something sweet and pleasing to the ears to send our good laird on his way to the heavens.”
Amiria stood beside her fellow clansmen whilst the mournful sound of the bagpipes filled the air. ’Twas fitting a slight rain began to fall from the sky. At least with the rain, the English could not see the tears stream down the faces of the vanquished, whilst they mourned the loss not only of their chieftain, but their very way of life.
