Page 79 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Isolde looked around desperately. They had a few goats, but not nearly enough to feed all these children. "Morag, dae we have any goat's milk?"
"A wee bit," the cook replied, appearing with a small pitcher. "But it'll need tae be watered down if we're tae have enough fer all the little ones."
As the morning wore on, more refugees continued to arrive. The great hall filled beyond capacity, forcing Isolde to open thestables and even some of the storage rooms. Families huddled together wherever they could find space, their few remaining possessions clutched tightly in their arms.
"Lady Isolde," an old man called out, his voice cracked with exhaustion. "Have ye word of other survivors from Oakenford? Me daughter lived there with her husband..."
Isolde knelt beside him, taking his weathered hands in hers. "What was her name? Perhaps someone here has news of her."
"Mhairi. Mhairi Campbell. She had red hair and the sweetest singing voice..."
The hope in his eyes nearly broke her heart. She'd already heard too many stories of families torn apart, loved ones missing or dead, entire communities scattered to the winds.
"I'll ask around," she promised, though she knew the chances were slim.
A commotion near the entrance drew her attention. More refugees were arriving, badly wounded, some carried on makeshift stretchers. A man with burns covering half his face was helped through the doors, his clothes still reeking of smoke.
""Hamish!" she called to an old servant. "We need more clean cloths and fresh water. And see if ye can find any of that salve Margot makes fer wounds."
As she tended to the wounded, Isolde couldn't help but notice how quickly their supplies were dwindling. The bread Morag had baked that morning was already gone, distributed among the hungriest children. The small amount of porridge they'd managed to prepare had barely fed half the refugees.
"Me lady," Morag appeared at her side, her voice low and worried. "We need tae talk."
Isolde followed the cook to a quieter corner of the hall. "What is it?"
"Our stores, me lady. At this rate, we'll be out of grain within the fortnight. The salt pork will last a bit longer, but nae by much. And with winter coming..."
The weight of responsibility settled heavily on Isolde's shoulders. These people were looking to her for salvation, but she had no idea how to provide it. Their own clan was barely surviving, and now they had twice as many mouths to feed.
"We'll manage," she said, though the words felt hollow. "We have tae."
But as she looked around the great hall—at the wounded and the hungry, at the children who'd lost their parents and the parents who'd lost their children—she knew that managing wouldn't be enough. They needed help, and they needed it soon.
The solar had never felt smaller than it did that afternoon, with her father pacing like a caged wolf while his few remaining advisors sat around the worn oak table. Isolde took her place beside him, acutely aware that she was the only woman in a room full of desperate men.
"How many fighting men do we have left?" Alistair asked without preamble.
Old Tavish, their captain of the guard, cleared his throat. "Forty-three able-bodied warriors, me lord. Maybe a dozen more if ye count the lads who can hold a sword but havenae seen real battle."
"Against how many of Wallace's forces?"
"Reports vary, but at least three hundred. Well-armed, well-trained." Tavish's weathered face was grim. "They move like a proper army, nae raiders."
Alistair slammed his fist on the table, making the pewter cups jump. "Damn the man! What daes he hope tae gain by destroying us completely?"
"Fear," Isolde said quietly. "He wants other clans tae see what happens when they oppose him."
Her father turned to her, his eyes blazing. "Then he'll have tae kill every last MacAlpin before we bend the knee."
"Faither," Isolde stood, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Pride willnae feed the refugees downstairs. It willnae stop Wallace's army when they arrive at our gates."
"What are ye suggesting?" His voice was dangerously low.
"That we seek help. Form alliances. We cannae stand alone against this."
The silence that followed was deafening. Tavish shifted uncomfortably in his chair, while the other advisors exchanged meaningful glances.
"MacAlpins have never begged fer aid," Alistair said finally.
