Page 76 of The Shape of Silence

She was almost afraid to ask, but really wanted to know: “Why? What happened to Kerr?” How severe was military punishment in this century?

“Reduced to baggage handling,” Eòin replied. “He's with the horses and supply wagons now. Lost his sword besides. Carries naught but a dagger.”

Avery turned to him as they walked through the forest. “That was his punishment?”

It seemed strangely out of proportion to the fury she’d seen in Morggán that afternoon. She wasn't wishing anything worse upon Kerr, but she had expected... something more.

Eòin looked at her in open surprise. “Lass, ʼtis the greatest humiliation a fighting man can suffer. A warrior without his sword is nae a warrior at all. While the rest of us ride with honor behind the laird, Kerr loads wagons, curries horses, and keeps count of sacks of grain. He’ll nae soon forget the lesson.”

Avery glanced out over the forest ahead of them. She couldn't imagine feeling ashamed to do honest work, but perhaps that wasn’t the point. Apparently, the shame lay in everyone knowing he’d been judged unworthy to stand beside his companions.

Even before the house came into view, they knew that the armies had returned. Closer to the house, though within the dense forest were scattered hundreds of tents, and now horses and men streamed between them.

“ʼTis nae guid,” Eòin commented, pausing for a moment to study the mounted men moving through the trees. “Too soon to be returned,” he added as further explanation.

It was earlier than normal, but Avery possibly wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Eòin hadn’t expressed concern.

“Come.” He caught her free hand and quickened his pace toward the house.

She went along, more curious about what concerned him than annoyed by his manhandling.

The clearing immediately around the house was chaos. Avery gasped, as it seemed every other man was wounded.

One rider leaned heavily across his saddle while another pressed a blood-soaked cloth against the side of his neck. Beyond them, a man lay face down across his horse, supported only because another rider stayed close, his hand on the man’s back to keep him from slipping to the ground. Others dismounted stiffly, sleeves slashed open and stained dark with blood, one soldier cradling an arm that hung unnaturally from his shoulder while another limped badly enough that two other soldiers bore nearly all his weight.

Avery's pulse sped up. Her eyes swept through the confusion, searching almost instinctively for the handful of faces that had become familiar.

She found Morggán first, striding across the clearing with the same purposeful gait as ever, issuing orders to the men around him. Tormod stood not far away, calling for Muir, whom she understood was the army’s doctor. Finlay was helping ease a rider from his horse, and Alasdair, though very much on his feet, had one hand wrapped in a bloodstained strip of linen.

Only after she had found each of them standing and moving under their own strength did a bit of relief come.

So this was real, she found herself thinking once again. Every detail before her looked impossibly, unmistakably... medieval.

As Morggán strode across the clearing, his attention fixed on the wounded, his gaze lifted almost absently, searching the confusion. It found her—and in the next breath he lowered his gaze and found Eòin's hand wrapped around hers.

This brought him to an abrupt halt. He didn’t just falter, but deliberately checked his stride, as though something had struck him squarely in the chest. His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching, and there was no mistaking the hardness that settled into his eyes, a cold, cutting edge that made her swallow nervously. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking visibly.

It was a judgment already passed.

Then, just as quickly, he wrenched his gaze from her. The look vanished behind the rigid mask of command, his attention snapping back to the wounded as he turned away and barked fresh orders.

It had been only a heartbeat, the heated look and savage reaction, but long enough to cause heat to rise into her chest. His questions from yesterday came back with unwelcome clarity. Has another man spoken to ye? Eòin?

She didn’t know if Eòin, too, had seen that feral look in Morggán’s eyes, but just then he released her hand, as if scorched, and strode forward, presumably to help with the commotion of so many wounded.

A man nearby cried out as another soldier lowered him from his saddle. Somewhere to her left someone shouted for water.

Avery turned, ignoring every instinct that might have seen her offering what little help she could give, and walked toward her house.

Not my army. Not my responsibility.

She clung to the thought, knowing even as she did that it was only partly true, and entirely self-serving. It was easier to tell herself she was preserving a necessary distance than admit a quieter truth, that Morggán’s distrust irked her. Beneath that lay something even less rational. If she kept her distance from this chaos—from the wounded men and the unmistakably medieval reality unfolding before her—perhaps she could postpone, if only for a little while longer, whatever truth she still wasn't ready to face.

“Avery!”

Morggán’s shout reached her just as she was about to turn the corner near her woodpile. She frowned and turned, glaring at him from twenty yards away. Her fingers tightened around the damp bundle of clothing she still carried against her chest.

“Come,” he said. “Muir will need help.”