Page 28 of The Heather Wife
His silence stretched, long enough for the air to shift.
A low murmur rippled through the courtyard, growing louder, turning from a whisper to a frustrated groan—the sound of a clan losing faith.
Then a voice rang out, clear and commanding.
“Lady Sorcha! We look to you!”
The cry struck like a thrown stone. Others joined in, their shouts swelling until the stones themselves seemed to carry the sound:
“Our Lady! Our Shield! Give us justice!”
Calum’s head snapped toward her. Sorcha’s expression was not triumphant, but watchful—bearing the quiet memory of every slight, every scornful glance she had endured.
She stepped forward, between Calum and the people.Her gaze swept the crowd, her voice not loud, yet edged with steel.
“I will not act on a whisper or the fever of the moment. If you would have me lead, say it. Speak, so there is no doubt in my mind—or in yours.”
The roar came, fierce and unanimous.
“Aye! We do!”
Calum felt it in his chest like a blow.The very stones seemed to shake beneath their voices, and he knew the sound would haunt him longer than any battle cry. His people—his by right—had been claimed by another.Fury and humiliation knotted within him. Before his eyes, the people who were his by right had been claimed by a woman he had once scorned. And she had not even asked for them—she had made them choose.
The roar of the clan's support vibrated through the stones, a promise of loyalty that settled on Sorcha’s shoulders. She held up a hand, and the sound faded into a tense, expectant silence. She turned to face her new people.
"I thank ye for the trust ye have placed in me this day," she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "But I will not act on emotion alone. Justice is not a sword raised in anger. It is a weight to be balanced, a truth to be found. The clansmen who lie cold in their graves deserve no less."
She glanced at the elders and then, pointedly, at Calum. "I will seek the counsel of the elders who have lived and bled for this clan. I will hear the words of our laird, Calum, that he might give wisdom in this time of trouble."
Her eyes then swept over the crowd, a clear and steady gaze that met the eyes of the laundress, the Tanner, and the young men who had fought beside her. "I will make myself available to all of ye who wish to come to me with yourthoughts and your grief. My ears will be open, and I will hear all that is said. But know this: The final judgment will be mine to bear alone, as you have requested that of me here today. I will take all that I have heard, and I will act as is right for Strathloch."
A hush fell over the yard, deeper than before, as if even the wind held its breath. Calum scanned the crowd and saw no doubt in the faces turned toward her. Only trust.
With that, she turned and descended the steps, leaving Calum and his father standing alone above the silent, watching crowd. Calum watched her go, his mind reeling. He had been given a chance to speak, and he had been silent. Now, his voice would be only one among many—and the people of Strathloch had already chosen whom they would follow.
Chapter 22
Elder Domnhall MacRae
The last echoes of the clan's roar faded from the courtyard, swallowed by the stone walls until only silence lingered—a silence so heavy it pressed against the skin. The wind rose through the ramparts, sharp and cold, as one by one the clansfolk drifted away, their voices low, their eyes alight with something Domhnall had not seen in months: unity. Hope.
Domhnall stood upon the broad stone steps, a hand on his son's shoulder, feeling the rigid tension in Calum's frame. He saw the fire in the lad's eyes—a mix of fury and humiliation. He knew that look well. It was the look of a man who had watched his birthright slip from his grasp in a single, painful moment of indecision.
"Ye should have spoken," he said, his voice low, edged with weary sorrow. He was no longer the public voice of an Elder before the clan—just a father, stripped bare, speaking plain to his son.
Calum turned, jaw tight, fists clenched tight enough to crack, the tendons in his neck taut as bowstrings. "They went against me, Father! They… they chose her. She doesna even belong here—everything was fine until our marriage."
Domhnall’s gaze hardened, his voice like stone. "Strathloch has chosen, aye, and they did so because their Laird would not. For a month now, ye’ve hidden from what must be done. Do ye think your silence went unnoticed? The air in this keep has been thick with unrest—aye, with anger. It has been near two months since the raid, and still ye let grief fester like an open wound. I begged ye, Calum, again and again, to mete out judgment, to see the six below dealt with. Ye would not, and so the people were left to stew in doubt, fear, and rage.”
He drew a long breath, the sound of it rattling in his chest. His cane thudded against the stone as if to drive the truth deeper. “There were whispers, lad. Whispers of rebellion. Men ready to take matters into their own hands, to break open the cells and deliver justice themselves. I stayed them as best I could, but ye near drove this clan to ruin with your blindness. I hoped, prayed even, that ye would see sense and act. But ye did not. And so it fell to Sorcha.”
The name hung between them like a bell tolling.
Domhnall sighed heavily, the weight of the moment pressing upon him. "I gambled, son. I stayed my hand because I hoped ye would come to your senses. I wanted ye to do what was right. But your refusal... it put the very soul of this clan at risk. They would have splintered, Calum. Torn apart from within, all because ye could not bear to look upon the truth."
He paused, shoulders bowed beneath the years, feeling the sting of having hoped his son would finally see the wonder Sorcha truly was.
"And Sorcha," he said, voice softened now, tinged with awe, "that lass… even with all that this clan has done to her—what we have done to her—she still stood. She held them together with the sheer force of her will. She gave them hope. She didn't have to do that, Calum. She could have walked away and let this clan tear itself apart. All she did was her duty, she said—and that is what she has been doing since she arrived: her duty. And duty, lad, is all she has given since the moment she stepped foot in this keep. She married you. She cared for your people when you would not. She faced their cruelty and your neglect, and still she rose.”
