Page 30 of Highlander’s Wrath

Surrender

“We will be back at the castle in time for supper,” Laird Barclay told Coira.

Her eyes widened. “Is that so? How strange. It seems to me to be far later in the evening.”

He gave a gruff laugh at this. “‘Tis always the same when Sassenachs visit the Highlands in winter. It takes a fair bit of time getting used to the shortened days. If we did nae have Father Abercromby burning rushlights to keep track o’ time, we would all be abed by three tolls past the noon bell.”

The low-lying clouds had scattered with the advent of the evening, but the gloaming was not yet dark enough for the stars to show. As Lancer trotted up the road, Coira noticed a narrow track turning off toward the moradh; its rutted path could be seen distinctly in the moonlight.

“To where does that trail lead? I have noticed many woodcutters’ pathways and cordwood piles all along the wayside.”

He did not immediately reply, debating whether to answer her question. Then he said, “The trail leads to the auld Farquharson gamekeeper's bothy. In times past, both clans had access to forest until me faither forbade them ingress. ’Tis where the prisoner, Gregor McKay, has taken Colban.”

Coira grabbed his hand that was holding the reins, pulling for him to stop.

“We must go and get Colban back,” she insisted. “You have wasted enough time bringing me home, and you must do the same for Colban now. Fate has brought us past this trail.”

He seemed to be considering her words, but it was hard to tell when her back was pressed against him; she could not turn her head around to look at his face without shifting herself in such a way that might cause her to fall off the horse.

“Laird? If we approach the bothy together, we can reason with the man. He will not be startled by a man and woman trying to reach a reconciliation with him.”

“A reconciliation?” Laird Barclay said. “Why would I want to reconcile with the man who took me son?”

Coira sighed. Maybe it was to be seen as a blessing that she did not have to look him in the eye when she said what she had to say to Laird Barclay. “Have you not been listening? Surely I am not the only one saying this? ‘Tis time to put this blood feud to rest, Hamish. And you can only do that by talking to this man in a conciliatory manner. At the back of his mind, he knows you are not the monster his mother portrayed you to be. You spared his life, made the prisoners comfortable in the dungeons, granted them certain dignities. He will be aware of this.”

His grip tightened around her waist. “And for all that kindness, he takes Colban and asks for me to sacrifice meself in return for his safe return.”

Coira grasped his hand. “It has not come to that yet. I am sure he will listen to reason if you show him that you have changed.”

It was then Coira realized she had hit on the truth: his lairdship had changed. He might blow hot and cold like a dangerous storm tossing its full fury on the coastal beaches, but his anger tired itself out far faster than it had before. The permanent scowl she associated with the man who had visited London all those weeks ago was now more often a smile. She had no fear he would lose his temper with the man who had taken his son because Laird Barclay had too much to lose from doing so.

She held her breath, praying he would turn off the road and guide Lancer down the trail. For many anxious moments, Laird Barclay seemed to deliberate her advice. If he did as she asked, they both knew their relationship would take on a whole different meaning; it would indicate he had surrendered that part of himself that held on so desperately, avenging the clan’s honor. It would also mean he recognized the wisdom of showing mercy to his enemies and those who had fallen into the same rut of feuding and harboring vengeful thoughts.

“All right,” Laird Barclay said, and gave his horse the office to turn and follow the narrow trail winding through the tall trees. “But I do this only because ye ask it of me, Coira. And while I am fighting the urge to give ye a full scolding for talking me into sparing the prisoners, allowing Colban to play outside, and then attemptin’ to ride to the village in the midst of winter, I have to trust ye ken more than I do about mercy and forgiveness.”

Her heart swelled at his words. The longer she rode with his arms wrapped tightly around her, the more Coira felt Laird Barclay’s wrath leaching out of him, to be replaced by a warmer, happier emotion. And although they would have no cause to celebrate until Colban was back home safely, the future looked bright for the Barclay clan if they managed to mend fences with their northern neighbor.

Under the moonlight, Coira saw the steam from her breath mixing with that of his lairdship’s. It rose and curled intertwined into the night so that she did not know where his breath began and hers ended. It was a good omen; she did not doubt that they could extract Colban from his captor and resolve this unpleasantness. Only then would it be time to mourn her poor maid and make restitution with the post rider’s family.

Unfortunately, Coira’s limited knowledge of the bitterness of clan wars had given her an undeservedly optimistic outlook of how things stood, and her hopeful opinion of how events would pan out was bound for disappointment.

As they left the forest and began to ascend the moradh, Coira saw a large, dark shape loom on the mountain slope ahead.

“What is that?” she asked, hoping her voice did not betray her trepidation.

“‘Tis naught but a broch, lass,” Laird Barclay told her. “They litter the mountainsides in these northern parts hereabouts.”

By this time, they were riding past the ancient pile of stones. The towering structure glinted sullenly under the stars, guarding its well-kept secrets.

“What purpose do they serve?” Coira wanted to know.

“Och, the ancient ones used them for many things: stargazing, lookout posts, ley line sentries, the demarcation of clan lands. But as ye can see, the stones are slowly being removed to build crofts and cottages elsewhere. In many hundreds of years, all signs that they were ever here will be erased.”

Coira felt sad when she heard this. She risked glancing back at the tall, crumbling tower and wished it could be preserved forever.

“Over that next slope is the bothy, Coira,” Laird Barclay told her, “and so ‘tis here I must leave ye and Lancer. Please keep him safely tethered. I have no wish to walk back to the castle.”

“But I want to come with you!” she objected. “Colban will have need of me. He will be hungry, cold, and tired. Tie Lancer to a rock instead.”