Page 38 of The Heather Wife
“It’s no idle matter,” Duncan said, breaking the quiet. “I’ve heard the whispers myself. The lasses asking Sorcha to teach them the bow. The laundress, the miller’s girls—and…” He hesitated, glancing at his laird. “Even Ailis — Iain’s sister.”
Calum’s jaw tightened. He had not expected that name, yet it did not surprise him. He thought of Ailis with her stubborn chin and quick hands. She would not be content to hide behind walls if danger came.
“Aye,” Iain said at last, voice low. “She was one of the first to ask.” His gaze fell to the map, the candlelight trembling over its worn surface. “When we rode to Glenbrae, I left my mother and Ailis behind. And while we were defending them, the raiders struck here— we left our kin vulnerable. Had Sorcha not been here, had she not been so skilled, they’d have had naught but the old and the bairns beside them. That thought has kept me awake since we returned.”
The men shifted uneasily, but none gainsaid him.
“So be it,” Calum went on. “If the women will train, they’ll not do it in secret corners. We’ll give them the yard. And more—we’ll give them guidance. Each of ye ken your weapons. Duncan, your sword-work’s the best in Strathloch. Iain, you’ve the patience of a saint with the stave. Ewan, no man draws a bowstring truer. I’ll have the three of ye share the teaching alongside Sorcha.”
Iain frowned. “It’s no common thing, laird. Women with steel in hand—folk will talk.”
“Folk will talk louder if our wives and daughters die screaming in the next raid,” Calum snapped, then tempered his tone. “This isna about pride, or old ways. It’s about survival. If the clan is to endure, every arm must be ready. Even the smallest.”
The silence that followed was agreement enough. At last Duncan gave a sharp nod. “Then we’ll see to it.”
Relief eased the knot in Calum’s chest. For the first time in months, he felt the stirrings of purpose again—not bluster, not anger, but something steady.
That evening, the great hall buzzed with its usual noise of clattering trenchers and low voices. Sorcha sat further down the bench than he liked, but tonight he did not linger in silence. He rose, goblet in hand, and walked the length of the hall until he stood beside her seat. The talk dimmed, heads turning.
“I’ve made the arrangements,” he said quietly enough for her alone at first. Her grey eyes lifted, cool but attentive. “The training yard will be open, with weapons ready. Duncan, Iain, and Ewan will stand beside ye. If ye still mean to lead the women, you’ll not do it alone.”
Something unreadable flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, though she masked it swiftly. He drew a breath and raised his voice so all could hear.
“Tomorrow,” Calum said, his voice carrying through the rafters, “I ask the clan to gather in the courtyard at first light. There we will speak of what comes next.”
Murmurs broke out, curiosity rippling through the hall. Calum let them speak, let them wonder. He sat beside Sorcha, his presence a silent promise.
This time, he would not leave her to bear the weight alone.
***
Sorcha
Sorcha sat rigid as Calum’s words rolled through the rafters, the hall erupting into murmurs and sidelong looks. She kept her face still, composed, but her hands itched against the wood of the bench. When Calum lowered himself beside her, a silent promise in the set of his shoulders, the weight of it pressed hard against her ribs.
She broke her bread, chewed, swallowed—none of it settling. Her body felt too tight, too restless to remain under so many watching eyes. Rising with quiet dignity, she excused herself from the board. The hum of voices followed her, curious and cautious, but no one dared bar her way.
The moment the hall doors closed behind her, she let out the breath she had held. Her steps carried her swiftly down the passage toward the warmth and clamor of the kitchens. The smell of bread and broth hit her like balm, more honest than the smoke-stained air of the great hall. Here, she was not a Regent, nor a Lady forced into battle with stares and whispers—she was Sorcha, with flour on her hands and purpose in her bones.
She pressed her palms to the worn table where loaves cooled, grounding herself against the solid grain. Calum’s words echoed still:If ye still mean to lead the women, you’ll not do it alone.
It rattled her, more than she wished to admit. For so long she had borne the weight herself—scorn, duty, defiance. Now he would stand beside her? She should feel relief. Instead she felt the stirrings of something she had tried hard to bury—hope, sharp and dangerous.
She busied her hands with straightening the trenchers, though the task had been done already. Movement was better than stillness; it kept her from turning his promise over and over until it cut her.
Tomorrow would tell if Calum truly meant the words he had spoken before them all.
For tonight, she kept her doubts and her restless heart among the bread and the fire, where no one but the kitchens could hear her silence.
Chapter 34
Calum
The courtyard filled slowly, the grey of dawn not yet burned away by the sun. Frost clung to the stones, each breath rising in white clouds as the people gathered—farmers with rough hands, serving lasses with their aprons still damp from the morning wash, smiths with soot at their brows. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts, wide-eyed, as the murmur of voices grew louder.
He stood at the foot of the broad steps, Duncan and the others at his back. He could feel the weight of every gaze upon him, heavy as mail across his shoulders. His palms itched, though no sword rested there, and the ache in his gut was worse than any wound he had carried from battle.
He had stood before his clan a hundred times, but never like this. Never with shame sitting so near the surface.
