Page 56 of So Close To Heaven
“Go! Go!” Alaric roared, and the command cut through the din.
They peeled away in scattered groups, up the slope, back into the hills. An English captain—brave or witless—tried to rally men for a chase; two of Ciaran’s infantry raced across the trail and plucked him from his saddle like a goose, and the notion died with him. The forested hillock swallowed the Scots as if it were its job to do so.
They didn’t stop running until the hill had them safe. Horses blew hard, men spat blood and wiped mud from their faces. Mathar came at a half-jog, bow over his shoulder, three fletchings snapped. “We’ve two down that willna rise,” he said, breathing steady, grief tucked tight where it belonged. “Four hurt. Ruadh’s leg’s nicked—nae to the bone, though, thank God.” He eyed the glow below. “And the English will sleep cold tonight.”
Blair trotted up, hair singed at the ends, grin white in the gloom. “They’ll ken our names by dawn,” he said. “Did ye see that captain with the boar badge? I’ve nae heard shrieking like that since—” He caught himself, sobered, and dragged a hand through his hair. “We hit well.”
Alaric slid from the saddle and let his sword hang point-down as he listened to the sounds below—the confused bellow ofoxen trapped in their own traces, dying men crying out for help for an army that had deserted them.
“Nae well enough to grow drunk on it,” Alaric said to Blair.
Alaric wiped his blade on the damp heather and sheathed it. His shoulders eased, just barely, as if the weight never left, only shifted. The men saw only command, the unbending edge that never turned from blood. They cheered him in their rough way, because such nights belonged to them. He gave them a nod; leaders always gave nods when victory, however small, had been won.
Nearby, Ciaran likely did the same.
Inside, the familiar weariness stirred. Not the kind that bent a back, but the kind that sat behind the heart. He had ridden on nights like this more years than he cared to number. He had burned wagons, cut men from saddles, left widows in his wake—he was good at it. Small victories, like this one at the tail but not the entire beast, never truly satisfied. But they kept the greater fight alive.
Alaric wiped his brow, reminding himself that if such skirmishes meant he would live to see his own keep again, perhaps they were victory enough. Perhaps they would carry him back to the woman who, against his better judgment, had begun to thread herself into the spaces a greater weariness used to claim.
“Shift the camp,” he said, voice sharp again. “We hold the pine hollow till midnight, then cross the burn and take the high path. Nae fires. Water the horses deep.”
Mathar added, “Ruadh, ye ride nae farther than the ash stand; if that leg protests, I’ll bind ye to the saddle myself and send ye home.”
A few fatigued laughs answered.
“Mungan,” Ciaran called, “count what we took.”
Mungan had the tally at the ready. “Six carts ruined proper, two teams away into the hills, a crate of crossbow windlasses smashed, and their oats scattered for the birds—though three we claimed as our own.”
“Guid.” Alaric lifted his chin toward the dark road below. “We’ll do the same at the next narrows, when they ken they’re safe again.” Hopefully, by weeks’ end, the English army would be reduced by hundreds, as the Scots kept trimming their tail. By the time the lion reached Urquhart, it would be limping.
“See the men fed,” Alaric said, turning away.
He walked to the trees’ edge and stood a moment alone, watching the English struggle to knit their column back together far below. Removed from the brief fight, Ivy’s face slid into his thoughts once again. And then her voice, exasperated, her mock complaint that he’d waited until the moment of leaving to kiss her. The memory tugged at his lips, curling the corners. He let that small flash of her settle in his chest, a steadier kind of strength than iron or fire before he returned to his men.
***
The sea wind curled around them, sharp with salt from the Firth, snapping at their borrowed wool skirts and tugging loose strands of hair from the braid Ivy had taken to wearing. The sky was pale and restless, clouds sweeping low. Today, the gulls’ cries were muffled and carried off by the wind.
Claire had apparently decided she’d had enough of the silence and self-inflicted solitary confinement. She’d appeared at Ivy’s chamber door that morning, knocking impatiently just after the maid had delivered a breakfast tray.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she’d declared, her tone brisk and yet sulky. “I have to get out of here. I tried to go outside yesterday, but some kid told me I couldn’t leave.”
“That was my idea,” Ivy admitted quickly, hands lifted in apology. “Not because I mean to hold you hostage or anything, but because it isn’t safe to wander beyond Caeravorn. But...” she’d hesitated, then offered, “would you like to get some air? We can walk the cliffs again. And maybe... we can talk. I know you must still have questions.”
Claire’s nod had been swift.
They’d strode together through the bailey, Claire’s sharp eyes darting about, lighting on the stables with their empty stalls, the cold forge, the shuttered outbuildings, before the two women passed through the side gate and onto the cliff path beyond.
“Why is it so quiet?” Claire asked, her tone edged with criticism. “I mean, if this is supposed to be a real, living, breathing medieval castle?”
“Most of the men have ridden out,” Ivy explained. “There’s a large English force moving north. The laird here, Ciaran Kerr, and his friend—Alaric—took their men to scout and harry them. Only the house guard stayed behind... and two younger men I trust.” She hesitated, then added gently, “You don’t have to hold onto all of that right now.” A wry thought slipped out before she could stop herself. “Honestly, it would probably be more convincing if the armies were still here. Hard to argue with hundreds of medieval soldiers in one place.”
“I still can’t believe it.” Claire shook her head slowly, gray eyes narrowing at the horizon as if the truth might be written there. “Actually, no—I refuse to believe it. I just haven’t figured out your motive yet, for making it up.”
“I understand,” Ivy murmured. A small, helpless laugh escaped her. “Claire, I still say that to myself sometimes—and it’s been nearly a month.” She studied the other woman a moment, then asked carefully, “Would it help if I told you what happened to me? How I came to be here?”
Claire’s dark expression said she doubted it, but she gave a shrug, her voice still sharp with anger. “I can’t stop you.”
