Page 32 of A Constant Blaze

“That does give me a little extra cachet,” she allowed. “We shall consider it on the way.”

“Lady, please,” he said earnestly. “Why undo all the good you have just done in securing the release of your husband and son? Why hand them yourself on a platter?”

“I have no intention of sitting on anyone’s platter. On the other hand, neither have I any intention of letting Mairead suffer for what she has done for us.”

“And if she isn’t suffering? If this is a lie, a trap?”

“Then we’ll discover it and take ship for the Isles as originally planned.”

It was, of course, the first time Muiredach had heard of any Isles plan, and it at least had the effect of stilling his tongue.

“It’s an adventure, Muiredach,” she said. “And it’s so long since I’ve had one of those.” Not since she and Malcolm had played hide-and-seek with the king’s army and sent them home with nothing. Not since the royal troops came back and won the last battle. “I shan’t allow any of us to be taken. But if Mairead is anyone’s prisoner, I will free her.”

“How?” Muiredach demanded helplessly.

“I shan’t know until I get there,” Halla said. She even smiled into the wind, because her spirits had suddenly risen. This was better, much better, than sailing the long way around to the Isles.

It reminded her forcefully of another time she’d broken away from her people and done the unexpected. Although new love and boredom had played their parts then, too. By the time Malcolm had made her his wife in every sense, she’d been hopelessly in love with him, and the wondrous physical joy he’d taught her had only dragged her deeper. Yet, bewildered still by the speed of these changes in her life and emotions, she’d been unprecedentedly docile and stayed hidden in Brecka most of the time, with her new house guards while Malcolm led his men across Ross, pushing out the king’s troops in battle and conducting lightening-swift raids into the royal territories to keep him busy.

She’d lived only for the stories borne back to her and his whirlwind visits home for a day or so of wild passion and laughter that cocooned her in happiness. Until he left again.

She’d woken up quite suddenly while gazing into the hall fire one morning.

I am the Lady of Ross.

For a few moments, she couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t a child or a maid or a favored pet dog to be kept safe and given orders, to be confined in a box and given the odd sweetmeat on her master’s return. She was Halla of the Isles. She was the Lady of Ross, and no one could say her nay.

She turned to the woman beside her. “Astrid, pack some things for a few nights and send me the captain of the guard. We’re going on a journey.”

The whole household had been uneasy, of course, because they’d known it wasn’t Malcolm’s wish. However, since they’d seen at once she was quite capable of going alone, they’d all obeyed her, and they’d set out to find Malcolm.

Even then, she hadn’t been stupid. She’d known not to draw the attention of the enemy and lead them to her or her husband. Her guards were well trained, and she’d used that, learning from them as she went. Her spirits had soared along with her excitement as they’d drawn closer to where he’d last engaged the enemy. He and his men had gone to one of his own halls in the Strathvaich glen, no doubt preparing for another attack from the Black Water, which flowed south through the valley.

She’d thought at first it was mist that filled the valley. The pungent smell of smoke was so unexpected that, foolishly, it took her several minutes to recognize it. But her soldiers did. They’d halted, surrounding her and sending scouts ahead before they advanced slowly down the slope.

The hall was burned to the ground. And there were bodies. While she sat white-faced upon her horse, her men raked through the still-smoking ashes and charred remains until Torcul, her captain, walked slowly back to her with a piece of singed fabric in his hands. Attached to it, almost unharmed, was Malcolm’s brooch of silver and enamel, depicting the Lion of Scotland and the word Ross in clear black letters around the edge.

“No,” she’d whispered. “I won’t believe it.”

“Lady—” Whatever Torcul might have said was lost in the shout from the hill above. Approaching enemy soldiers.

“Why could you not stay put?” Astrid raged.

Halla ignored her. Even then, she’d understood Astrid’s anxiety was not for herself but for Halla. Torcul swore between his teeth, then issued swift commands to his men.

“We’re trapped down here,” he said in frustration.

“Can we fight them?” Halla asked, her voice hard and cold.

“Not with you here. We need to get down the river to—”

“If he’s dead, I’m nothing,” Halla interrupted. She knew the tears were there, buried beneath a pyre of fury and pure hatred for the men who’d taken her husband, her lover. “Kill them.”

And so, with fierce joy, Torcul had gathered his men in front of her and Astrid, and they’d battered their swords and daggers on their shields and yelled for the king’s men to come and die for killing their beloved lord.

The day taught Halla many things, among them the dangers of making decisions to fight while full of rage and grief. Despite the ferocity of her men who carried vengeance in their hearts, she knew almost at once, as she watched the king’s men pour down the hill, that they were seriously outnumbered and could not win.

Torcul knew it, too, but still he fought. He would have done so anyway, without her orders. It was only her presence that had held him back. But he was losing. And Halla knew that hand in hand with her grief, she would have to carry the guilt of her guardsmen’s deaths. If she lived.

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