Page 32 of Rebellion's Fire

Adam kicked out, sending his opponent staggering back, perhaps to prevent any possibility of treachery, for at the same time, he lowered his sword and swung his ferocious gaze on Cailean, who understood.

Cailean said hoarsely, “We yield.”

*

Sigurd, the shepherd’sson, was crossing the yard toward the kitchen, a chicken in either hand, when the soldiers rode in with their captives drawn along beside them by a rope. Sigurd, his heart sinking at the unnecessary cruelty which had been brought to this land, paused to gape. He doubted he could have prevented his anxious stares, but at least he made them as foolish as possible, opening his mouth like an idiot as the cavalcade approached.

There were two prisoners. One, a filthy, gangly fellow almost entirely covered in mud and blood, carried the other on his back. Over the big man’s shoulder, Sigurd saw a shaggy brown head and a young face he’d come to know well recently.

Cailean mac Gilleon. Damn. The young lord needed to be told. Sigurd hoped he wasn’t dead. He looked dead…

Sigurd lifted his gaze to the dirty, unfamiliar man who carried Cailean mac Gilleon. He wore no cloak, no weapons, no signs of rank. Another man of Ross, a soldier, probably, one of Cailean’s. For the tiniest instant, their eyes met, and Sigurd’s heart lurched impossibly. No two men in the world had eyes like that.

Sigurd turned away and clumped into the kitchen with his dead chickens. The men of Ross here in the hall would know. He had to make sure they all knew, also, to keep their mouths shut, because, at all costs, this must be kept from the foreigners.

Sigurd dumped his chickens in front of the frightened kitchen maid to be plucked. “Not a word,” he breathed and grabbed a bucket and cloth from the shelf before plodding back out to the well. Having collected his clean water, he went straight to the main hall. If Lanson or the captain were there, he’d clean tables until they left.

It could have been worse. He knew the foreigner who skulked at the front of the hall, flirting with the girl who was removing cobwebs with a brush on a pole. He wasn’t a cruel man, for a soldier, and Sigurd was pretty sure he’d have no complaint about someone tending the captives’ wounds.

The captives were chained by the ankles to rings already fixed to the hall’s stout wooden wall for the purpose of punishing peasants who denied tribute to the new Lord of Tirebeck, usually because they had none to give. At least the straw on the floor was clean and their hands were free. The large, muddy man sat propped against the wall with Cailean mac Gilleon lying beside him. Both had their eyes closed. Sigurd dropped to his knees in front of them and pulled back the mud- and blood-soaked layers of fabric from the young lord’s shoulder.

A hand closed around his wrist. Sigurd’s gaze flew at once to the young lord’s face. Adam mac Malcolm’s eyes were open, and though perhaps he hid it from everyone else, Sigurd could see his physical pain.

Low-voiced, Adam said, “Him,” and moved his gaze to the youth beside him.

And perhaps he was right. Though he couldn’t see Adam’s injury for the mud, at least he was conscious. Obediently, Sigurd shifted closer to Cailean, who also, suddenly, opened his eyes.

“Make it fast,” Cailean breathed. “He needs help, and no one must know—”

“I know,” Sigurd said. The trouble was, he didn’t have his mother’s skills, and he’d no real idea what to do about such awful wounds.

*

Cailean had beenin agony in the short, terrible journey to the hall. Not so much from his wound as from the horror of being carried by a more severely injured comrade, who happened, also, to be his captain and the son of the earl. But Adam was right. It was the only way to carry this off with any hope.

And so, he suffered the shepherd’s son to hastily bind his wound before turning his attention to Adam. The young lord held himself rigid as Sigurd bound the wound with his own shirt and helped Adam pull his tunic back on, still anxiously observing him.

“You understandheismyman?” Cailean muttered urgently.

“He understands everything,” Adam said, and for the first time, the shepherd’s son smiled, before leaping to his feet and running off with his bloody bucket.

Adam’s eyes looked glazed, although whether with pain or foresight or whatever else went on behind there, Cailean had no idea. As if he forced them, Adam’s eyes refocused, meeting Cailean’s worried gaze.

“I told you to go,” Adam said clearly, the first time he’d spoken directly to him since he gave his sword to the Norman captain. “You came back.”

“It seemed a good idea at the time,” Cailean muttered, dropping his gaze. “Only now we’re both captive, and no one knows we’re here. Will Sigurd be able to get word—”

Adam’s hand jerked dismissively. “That doesn’t matter.”

Annoyed, Cailean opened his mouth to explain exactly how much it mattered, and how much he’d wanted to help Adam, who’d risked his life for surely the least significant of his men. Then the faint gleam in the dark, pained eyes gave him the hint of a reason of Adam’s acceptance of his situation, and he let out a half laugh. “Don’t tell me you have a plan for this, too.”

“I always have a plan,” Adam said mildly. “This was hardly an impossible outcome. The secret is to make the most of every situation.”

“And how do we do that, injured as we are, and chained here like dogs?”

“Learn.” Adam closed his eyes.

*

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