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‘Aye, it is. I’ve always thought so,’ he said softly.
Morna slipped off her horse which bent its head to nibble the grass. She set off to explore the clearing, running her hand along the stones and staring up at the blue sky above her, lost in a world of her own.
As he saw her hand caress the stones, how Will wished those soft hands were touching him. Most of Morna’s hair had blown free of her plait, and she uncoiled it and let it fall around her shoulders and then came over and sat beside him. Will watched her fingers slipping in and out of her hair as she crossed one thick skein over another until the plait was back in place. The sun shot through her dark hair with auburn streaks, and the light in her eyes turned them from dark brown to warm amber. The exertion of riding had brought a pink bloom to her cheeks and, in her smile, lived such excitement, such joy in the world around her. Morna may be hard on the outside, but Will sensed that, on the inside, lived a soul that yearned to be free and wild and loved, one that was not as worldly as she seemed.
‘Will, tell me, why are you so hard on Drostan?’ she said suddenly, breaking him out of his musing.
She was here with him alone, and all she could think of was that fool Drostan. Frustration clawed at him.
‘I am as hard as I need be to keep him safe,’ he said curtly.
‘But he says you stole his birthright, and you admitted that you killed his father.’
‘He does not mourn Fearchar, for that man used to beat him mercilessly and despised him as a weakling. He knew as well as I do that should Drostan become Laird the Cranstoun’s would ride right over him, and a dead man can’t inherit anything, can he? Trust me, he is better off under my rough guidance than he ever was under his father’s. Yet he bleats about how hard done by he is. What I stole from him was never his in the first place. The men don’t respect him so they won’t follow him, but it seems the weak always resent the strong, it is the way of the world, so he spits his poison at anyone who will listen.’
‘What ails him?’
‘An affliction of the lungs. I doubt he’ll see old age.’
Morna looked down at her hands and then looked up at him from under her lashes.
‘You think me harsh, girl?’ said Will.
‘Aye, but I suppose life has made you that way,’ she replied. ‘What happened to bring you to this place Will? How did you come to be a Bain, here, at the edge of the world?’
‘’Tis a long story and not a pleasant one. I had a family once, a clan, and I hoped for a future as a Laird, but Robert the Bruce took it all away. That great King your brothers bow down to destroyed my family because they would not side with him in his quarrel with the English King. My father was given a choice, join Robert’s army or face oblivion. Clan O’Neill had already suffered English retribution for joining with Wallace’s failed rebellion years ago, and the people had no appetite for more war. We tried to stay out of it, thinking Robert would fail, but like a pestilence, his violence spread.’
‘He is trying to free Scotland from the English yoke, Will.’
‘While gaining absolute power for himself.’ The old anger rose up inside of him like a bitter river, choking his words. ‘Others pay the price for his ambition, why he has even sacrificed his own brothers. One was hung, drawn and quartered, a hideous death, and Robert did not stop long enough to mourn him. Instead, he set about shoring up his power by grabbing land from other men who would not pledge, men like my father, and I didn’t even see it coming.’
Morna was looking at him intently, so he made his words as cold and dispassionate as possible. There could be no weakness before this girl.
‘My father sent me away to be seasoned in the service of an old friend of his. He told me to learn the art of war, and so I did. I think he saw which way the wind was blowing and got me clear of it. I received word of an attack, so I rode home only to find Balladour Castle razed to the ground and our once proud hall, a place of light and laughter, reduced to a pile of smouldering wood, bodies strewn all over. My father’s charred corpse I pulled from the rubble and buried with my bare hands. Thank God my mother had died years ago and was not there to suffer it. My clansmen were gone too, scattered to the four winds as outcasts, untouchable, treated worse than lepers and named traitors to the Bruce. I failed them, so I cannot fail my people here and return one day to a blackened wreck of a life. I’ll spare you the details of the broken bodies, the blood, the carnage.’
‘I know only too well what the violence of men is, Will. I saw Bannockburn.’
‘Then you should understand why I am hard, why I do not trust in fate.’
‘I do, in part. Each time Cormac and Lyall go off to war I fear I may never see them again, that they will end up ripped open in a ditch somewhere, like the corpses I saw at Bannockburn. I hate this war with the English, and I long for it to end. It has been my whole life so far.’
Will looked intently at her. ‘You know, at Bannockburn, I made a choice. Though I hate Robert the Bruce and what he did to my family, I decided Scotland was more important, so I risked my life for the Scots cause and for freedom. Look where it got me, mistaken for a traitor and almost executed by the King’s own men. If you hadn’t intervened, I would be dust now. That is where my patriotism would have gotten me.’
‘Then I understand, Will, why you want to stay out of it and keep your people safe. Why should you die for someone else’s glory? Why should my brothers?’
‘Aye, I don’t fight for Kings or some misty-eyed dream of freedom. I make my own luck, and I never pledge to anyone, King or commoner. All I had was taken away from me, and I fear it will happen again so, I make no mistakes, I yield to no man. That is the only way to keep safe what is precious to you. Hang on to what is yours and kill anyone who tries to take it from you.’
‘And what is precious to you, here, in this world?’
‘Not much, I’ll own.’ He looked at her, frowning, his eyes dropping to her mouth and back up again. ‘You could be,’ he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘Talk to me as if I were some simpering fool who would fall for sweet, empty words. I am sure that has worked on other women, but it won’t work on me.’
‘What do you suggest then, if I am to woo you.’
