Page 77 of The Mad Highlander
When they all looked up, the mood in the cavernous room had changed. Anxious faces looked back at them—the prayer had not helped to lift the mood. If prayer was needed, then something must be really wrong.
“I dinnae ken if I have the strength for this,” Margot admitted. “I want to help them and assure them everythin’ will be fine, but any words I offer will sound hollow. We have nay idea what is happenin’ up there,” Margot moaned.
Iris knelt down before Margot, and they looked into each other’s eyes. She shared Margot’s loss and let Margot share hers. They had both lost people, and there was one man out there who meant the world to both of them. Iris had a lot she wanted to say, but she couldn’t vocalize it—it would not help.
If he dies out there, it will break the both of us and mean the end of the clan. Tristan was like a brother to me, but I dinnae want to ken what he will do to me if he makes it down here. I would rather use the dirk on meself.
Margot blinked away the tears. Neither woman had said anything, but they both understood each other.
Iris offered a tight smile before she stood up. She might not be hand-fasted to the Laird yet, but it was as good as done if he won the war, and that meant she was as good as the lady of the castle. It was not Margot’s responsibility to keep everyone’s spirits up; it was hers.
She looked around the room, seeing ghosts of former women. They had felt the atmosphere before coming down, and they knew what might come to pass. Some paced while others muttered to themselves.
Iris looked around, trying her best to look into the eyes of each and every one of them. She opened her mouth, willing some form of comfort or consolation to emerge, but her mind faltered. She opened her mouth a second time, and a song flowed from her like water poured from a jug, a song that had been sung previously to remember the fallen at the Battle of Flodden.
“I’ve heard the lilting, at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting, before dawn of day;
But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning;
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.”
Iris did not have the best voice in the world, but it was good enough, and the words echoed around the room like a cricket leaping through the long grass. Iris looked at the faces, all eyes pinned on her, and she did not know if she had helped at all.
She was about to turn away when a voice rose from within the women and children to sing the second verse.
“At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.”
Astrid walked toward Iris, and it brought tears to Iris’ eyes. Iris watched Astrid sing, locking eyes with her and hearing the voice of an angel. Iris had not lost her love yet, but Astrid had lost her love many years ago.
Astrid stopped beside Iris and took her hand. “Together,” Astrid said. “We do this together.”
Iris nodded, and they broke into the third verse.
“In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and grey;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching,
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.”
Iris cried as she sang, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Astrid squeezed her hand tightly, and the pain and suffering she had endured over the years flowed into Iris—they shared the pain of what was and what was to come.
The others in the room joined in with the song.
“At e’ene, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie,
