Page 61 of The Shape of Silence

That possibility settled heavily over the gathered officers. Sir Cedric Harlowe had spent the better part of a year tightening English control through the eastern territories, burning smaller holdings and choking roads with mounted patrols. Combined with another five hundred infantry, his force would become large enough to threaten nearly every Scottish stronghold between the Earn and the northern ridges.

“How many scouts shadowing them now?” Lucas asked at last.

“Eight riders rotating in pairs,” Morggán informed him. “Finlay commands them.”

Lucas nodded once approvingly. “Good. If the English mean to move cautiously, let’s see if we can slow them down yet more.”

Lucas stretched out his legs, his feet landing beside Eòin’s scratches in the dirt, and crossed his arms over his chest. He sighed, possibly weary. “My riders are spent,” he said plainly. “The horses as well. I’d sooner nae drive them through the dark unless there’s need.”

“There is need,” Morggán replied without hesitation. “But it neednae be your men.”

Tormod was already nodding before the order fully formed, lifting his hand and beckoning Donnchadh to him, ready to give out the command that was forthcoming.

“I’ll send fresh riders north,” Morggán continued. “Fast horses only. Have them find Finlay’s trackers and return before dawn if they can with an update.” He returned and gave a nod to Tormod, who then spoke quietly to Donnchadh.

“Aye,” said Lucas. “I’d rather nae commit our full force blind. Five hundred English hidden amongst forest and marsh can disappear quick”

“Aye,” Morggán agreed. “Especially if they’ve commanders clever enough to keep them quiet.”

The fire popped sharply in front of them.

As Lucas sat near the fire facing Avery’s house, and now that information had been traded and an immediate plan set into motion, he seemed to relax a bit. His dark gaze settled finally with more scrutiny than his original fleeting glance upon the hut.

The old derelict cottage looked even more unimpressive now surrounded by armed men and horses. Firelight caught unevenly along the weathered planks and patched thatch roof, revealing all the small imperfections of a place built slowly over years by practical necessity rather than skilled hands seeking beauty.

“Whose place is this?” Lucas asked.

Morggán followed his gaze toward the house. “A lass lives here.”

Lucas’s eyes shifted back to him, one brow lifting slightly with clear curiosity now. “A lass.”

“Aye.” Morggán said, and sighed. “After Caerwyll’s disaster south of the marshes, I became separated from most of my men during the retreat. I carried away a cracked rib, a torn thigh, and little dignity, collapsed beneath a tree.”

At that, several expressions around the fire soured immediately. Peadair muttered something unpleasant beneath his breath regarding the Earl of Caerwyll, while Airril snorted outright. Lucas himself only looked grimly unsurprised.

“The man could lose a battle in broad summer daylight upon open ground,” Airril remarked flatly. “And likely blame the weather afterward.”

A few rough laughs answered that. Morggán’s own mouth twitched briefly despite himself.

“He near accomplished exactly that,” Morggán said. “He ignored counsel twice over, split his riders poorly, then panicked once the English pressed harder than expected. Half the retreat became men tripping over each other through bog and timber.”

“Rank breeds confidence far more reliably than competence,” Lucas observed.

“Aye,” Tormod muttered darkly. “And usually in inverse proportion.”

Lucas’s gaze drifted once more toward the hut. “So ye stumbled bleeding into a lass’s forest house.”

“More or less.” Morggán did not elaborate further. “She allowed me shelter while I waited on the lads finding me.”

That appeared sufficient explanation for Lucas. His attention moved on toward more practical concerns. “And the area?”

“Safe enough. The forest is nigh impassable about a mile or so in that direction,” Morggán said, pointing as he spoke. Then he nodded toward an area he knew well already, a little more easterly. “But advise your men to watch for snare lines near the stream and through that section. The lass traps rabbits there.”

Lucas nodded once, already turning to relay instructions toward several waiting officers nearby. He did not question further about ‘the lass’, which frankly suited Morggán well enough.

Hours passed beside the fire, friends of long-standing catching up with each other, before the gathering finally began to thin. Officers drifted away one by one toward their respective tents and units, until eventually the sounds of an army settling for the night carried constantly beneath everything else: muted conversation, the clink of tack, weary men coughing, an occasional burst of rough laughter before quiet reclaimed the woods again.

Then Lucas departed as well, disappearing into the shifting dark, Airril and his other men following.