Page 41 of Rebellion's Fire

Henry bent at the first body and hauled back the blanket.

Oh, teeth of God!“Awake!” Henry yelled. “Everyone rouse! Now!”

*

Donald MacHeth dismounted,unable to speak, and walked with dread toward the still figure in the shelter of the trees, and the familiar gray horse that stood beside him, occasionally bending to nudge his head.

Behind Donald, the men were silent, perhaps with dread, like him. Or grief.

Oh no…

Cailean mac Gilleon gazed at him, wide-eyed, ashamed of something. That he’d let Donald’s brother die?

“Is he dead?” Donald asked harshly. There was no other way he could speak.

Cailean shook his head. “Asleep.” It was no more than a whisper, but the relief seemed to unhinge Donald’s knees, and he fell rather than knelt by his brother. There was blood all over him, and an impossible caking of mud.

He took a handful of the mucky hair and tugged. “Adam, you bloody idiot, wake up.” Fear, only just relieved, galloped back. “Why isn’t he waking? Cailean, for God’s sake, how badly is he hurt?”

Cailean swallowed, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t think it’s the wound. I think it’s sheer exhaustion. The lady gave him poppy tears for the pain, and he wouldn’t sleep. He insisted on escaping in the night before you turned up and fired the place.”

Donald held the younger man’s gaze, aware he’d already made too much of this in front of the men. Fear of losing Adam had made him stupid, careless. Silly when Adam had faced worse danger every day, surely, with Somerled. He’d seen the scars on his brother’s body.

“My brother is asleep,” he announced. “I suppose we’d better carry the lazy bastard home. Until he wakes up, whenhecan carryme.”

The men laughed, surging forward to help. Findlaech was first, his fierce eyes almost weeping with fear. He didn’t believe a word of Donald’s nonsense, but he knew what to do and how to play the game. A stream of rough, obscene idiocy fell from his lips as he lifted Adam with the tenderness, almost of a mother.

“What happened?” Donald asked Cailean, drawing the boy to his feet.

Cailean turned his face into the wind, away from the men, and told him.

*

“I don’t care,”the Lady of Ross said adamantly. “I will not risk him so soon. Donald must take the galleys. One of the other captains can lead the land attack.”

Adam had been home for three days and sat now in the private corner of the hall leading to his mother’s bedchamber, which she had turned into a snug little area with a couple of chairs and benches. In the sunshine, she’d opened the shutter to let the fresh air and warmth in. It was very comfortable and pleasant, and Adam was glad to be alive.

It didn’t stop him feeling caged, not just by the care of his mother and sister. And brother. And Findlaech. And the maidservants. The hazy memories of his escape from Tirebeck made him restless, frustrated, unsure what had been dream and what reality, and whether or not he should be ashamed or glad or neither. He needed peace and action at the same time. At sea, he could lose himself in the illusion of being alone in the ocean’s vastness. And plan his part in the triple attack which would heap pressure on the King of Scots.

And then he could fight. Once, he’d taught himself tobearbattle; now, it seemed, he sought it with longing, needed it. Another oddity of life.

“Donald lead the galleys?” he said to his mother. “Donald couldn’t sail down the river.”

“Wrong and insulting as he is,” Donald said, “he has a point. It’s Adam and the men who fought with Somerled who have to be in the galleys. Plus…the men need to see him fighting, Mother.”

Her gaze fell. She knew Donald was right in that, but she was a mother before anything else. “Youare your father’s heir, Donald. The heir to Ross and to our claims to Scotland.”

“Only if we allow ourselves to follow the modern obsession with primogeniture,” Donald said wryly, “which would be ironic since our claim to Scotland is through the old traditions.”

His mother curled her haughty lip. “Don’t try to outsmart me with such babble.”

“I’m not,” Donald assured her. “But in the absence of my father, our claim, our fame, has always stood together. We are the sons of Malcolm MacHeth. ‘Donald MacHeth is here’ just doesn’t strike the same terrible note as ‘The MacHeths are coming!’”

“I’m almost healed,” Adam said abruptly. “I can rest another day and night at sea, and then I’ll just wave my sword around and let Findlaech do my killing for me.”

His mother looked at him, and his heart curled up at causing her pain. He looked away. “I won’t die. There are things still to happen.”

“To you?” his mother almost whispered. Her hand caught his, drawing him back to her. He allowed it because he loved her.

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