Page 37 of So Close To Heaven
“There,” she murmured, inspecting her work with a mix of pride and satisfaction, the latter borne from having gotten her way for once. “Stitched tight. Easy-peasy.”
He nodded rigidly, didn’t even raise his hand to inspect her work for himself, and stood from the log.
Ivy sighed. No, she hadn’t really expected a spokenthank you.
***
The pathway became less friendly as the column wound its way higher into the hills the next day, the horses’ hooves ringing sharp against stone. The air had cooled since midday, thin and brisk, carrying the damp tang pine and the scent of imminent rain. Alaric lifted his gaze from the twisting road ahead and saw at last the crown of Caeravorn rising over the crag like a fortress hewn from the mountain itself. Removed from the main roads and guarded by sheer slopes on three sides, Ciaran Kerr’s keep was as secure a stronghold as any Alaric had seen.
The approach curled around a dark loch, its still surface mirroring the sinking light, broken only by a line of waterfowl that lifted in startled flight as the riders passed. Beyond the loch, scattered dwellings and barns crouched close together, their thatched roofs tucked low against the wind, which was fierce in these parts. He caught sight of figures pausing in their labors, women herding children out of the road, men straightening from fence-mending to watch the riders climb. The weight of their gazes followed, cautious but not unfriendly, likely having no cause for alarm as they began to recognize the MacKinlay plaids draped over so many men. Caeravorn’s folk knew their laird kepthis gates well and his allies close. More importantly, few knew of the stronghold’s presence, nestled so securely beyond hard-rock beinns, with the Firth of Lorn at its back.
At the last bend, the keep revealed its full might. Its curtain wall was high and thick, the stone dark with age and lichen, and towers jutted at the corners like blunt spears. The gatehouse stood forward on its rock ledge, a choke point no army could breach without paying dearly. Behind it rose the hall itself, a massive block of stone set near to the precipice.
He slowed his horse, letting the column draw closer, his gaze traveling the battlements. Guards stood posted at every vantage, their cloaks snapping in the wind, and braziers burned along the wall walk, signaling readiness even as the day waned, but hardly signifying if the Kerr laird was in residence or not.
There was no need to announce himself, he was known to the Kerr army, had fought beside them often enough. He tipped his head upward, revealing his face, and soon a welcome was called down and the iron portcullis began its slow roll upward while cranks were heaved in the background.
Soon the gate was pulled open, and Alaric raised a hand, drawing the attention of the army behind him.
He turned in his saddle. “Ye ken the order,” he called, his voice carrying down the line. “Foot and rank’ll find quarter in the village. Post guards and make the camp in the south field, if it be fallow.”
A murmur of assent ran through the riders, men peeling off already toward the lochside road that wound down toward the cluster of huts and barns below the keep. They knew the routine well enough; Caeravorn had been their refuge more than once, its villagers hardened to the sight of soldiers bedding down near their crofts.
Alaric shifted his reins as the column began to break apart, men guiding their mounts down toward the village with the easeof long practice. His officers drew in close, waiting for his lead, but his gaze searched the line until it found her—her warm, soft gold hair, slight frame, watching men and horses move all around her.
“Ivy,” he called, his voice carrying easily across the din of shifting horses. He lifted a hand, beckoning her forward.
She hesitated only a moment before urging her mare through the press. When she reached him, he gave a curt nod and turned his stallion toward the yawning gate. “With us,” he said blandly.
The iron portcullis loomed above, its teeth catching the light of torches within. The bailey opened wide ahead, alive with torchlight and the noise of a garrison at dusk. As he passed beneath the arch, he felt again that old, welcome certainty: within Caeravorn’s walls, a man could breathe easier.
The doors to the keep were thrown wide to spill light across the trampled yard. From that glow stepped a tall figure, broad-shouldered but leaner than Alaric, his stride carrying the same self-assured ease that had marked him since boyhood.
Ciaran Kerr.
His green eyes caught the torchlight as he came forward, surprise flickering first across his face before it broke into open pleasure. “Alaric,” he said, the name let loose on a laugh. “By God’s bones, your timing is perfect. I’ve only just returned myself, a matter of days ago.”
Alaric dismounted and they clasped forearms hard, a thud of leather and flesh between them. Alaric felt the strength in his grip and returned it with a grin that came more easily than he’d thought it might.
“Fortune smiles on us both, then,” he answered.
Ciaran released him, turning his easy smile on Mathar, clasping the older man’s arm in greeting before nodding to the others who had ridden in close. Only then did Ciaran’s gaze slide, just briefly, to the woman who still sat her horse amongthem. He asked no question, only showed a flicker of curiosity before it was gone.
Alaric turned, letting his expression cool into something more neutral. He moved to her side and reached for the mare’s reins, steadying the horse before lifting his hands to Ivy. “Come.”
She looked down at him, hesitation plain in her hazel eyes, but leaned into him, placing her hands on his shoulders. He closed his hands under her arms and drew her down, her slight weight—bairn included—no burden as he set her on the ground at his side.
“This is Ivy Mitchell,” Alaric said to Ciaran, his voice even, offering no more and no less. Then, to Ivy, he added, “Caeravorn’s mormaer and laird of the Kerrs, Ciaran.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Ivy said, her voice quiet but steady.
She tipped her face a little, something between a nod and a bow—respectful enough, Alaric supposed, though he doubted she’d done the like before.
“As it is you, lass,” Ciaran returned warmly. “Caeravorn welcomes ye.”
His green eyes lingered only a moment longer before shifting, first to the swell at Ivy’s middle, then to Alaric. No word passed his lips, but the look carried an unspoken question plainly enough.
Alaric held his gaze without flinching, his own expression deliberately neutral. He hadn’t given thought to this, that Ciaran, whom he’d not encountered in half a year, might assume the child was his.
