Page 35 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

S o great was Bradana’s relief as they picked their way down off the brae, she felt as if she walked on air. Her grandfather, so she told herself, would remember her. He would welcome her. Offer the hospitality they so desperately needed.

As unannounced visitors, however, they were first met with suspicion. The settlement not being a large one, they tramped some distance before reaching the first of the outlying huts, guarded by a drystone wall with an open gate. The residents stared. Some went pelting off to summon members of the guard, who came at a run.

The guards raised their weapons, looking at Bradana’s party unhappily. She could only imagine how they must appear—injured, filthy, her wedding finery in shreds, with two exhausted ponies and a limping hound.

She made haste to identify herself. “I am Bradana MacCaigh, granddaughter to Rohracht MacFee. Is he here?”

Great confusion ensued. The guards held them at the gate—with wary courtesy—while another man went running. A crowd formed in the almost magical way that happened when such things occurred.

Bradana expected her grandsire to come, figuring the guards had sent for him. Instead, a woman soon came walking up.

A tall woman she was, with red hair gone mostly to gray. She moved proudly and with some confidence, though her clothing appeared plain. She stared at Bradana and her companions with considerable astonishment but smiled as she paused at the gate.

“Mistress Bradana. Do ye remember me?”

Bradana did, and she did not. The woman’s appearance rang a distant bell of memory. She had been very young the last time she’d been here, but remembrance came fast.

“My grandsire’s wife?” she half guessed.

“Aye. My name is Morag MacFee. Lass, what brings ye here and in such straits?”

“I come seeking refuge wi’ my grandsire.”

For an instant, the woman’s kindly blue eyes clouded. “He is ill, my lass, and has been for some time. But to be sure, ye are welcome here. Come awa’ in.”

Bradana hesitated. She cast a look around at all the staring faces, avid and curious, and another at Adair. A miracle, this. But she owed these people a warning.

“I maun say—we are in trouble and may have danger on our heels.”

“Ah, well.” Morag smiled. “There will be a story in it.”

“Aye, mistress. A long one.”

“I love a good story, me.”

*

Morag possessed a calm, reassuring manner and seemed welcoming. She had their ponies led away, promising they would be given the very best of care, and exclaimed over the limping hound.

Yet Adair sensed something in her manner and the very air of the settlement—about half the size of Kendrick’s to the south—that put him on edge. All was not as it seemed here at Fee.

Mayhap, he told himself as Morag led them to a sturdy if modest roundhouse, it could be placed at the feet of the chief’s illness. For surely naught could throw off the wellbeing of a clan more than that.

Still and all, Morag’s hospitality seemed genuine. She conducted them to the fireside in the hall and sent servants hurrying with low-spoken requests. Bring food. Hot water. Bring the healer.

Bradana collapsed beside the fire, looking as dazed with relief as Adair felt. Morag hastened to pour drinks of heather ale. She drew up a rug for Wen and looked them over carefully.

“Bradana, lass, ’tis plain some terrible misfortune has befallen ye. How d’ye come to be here, so far from home?”

“That, mistress, is the tale.”

“How is your mother?”

“She—” Bradana stumbled, no doubt recalling all that had occurred when they left. “I am no’ certain. She is carrying Kendrick’s child, a late pregnancy, and no’ an easy one.”

Morag looked concerned. “And how is it your stepfather has let ye travel all this way, to arrive in such a condition? But ah, here is me asking another question when quite clearly ye must recover before ye can tell me aught. Drink up. Rest. The healer should be along soon.”

Bradana eyed her hostess. “How sore ill is my grandsire?”

“’Tis bad, lass.” For an instant, Morag’s calm expression wavered. “So bad, he is no’ expected to live.”

Bradana took the blow bravely, but could not contain her dismay. Too many and too swift had been the blows of late, and Adair felt for her.

Servants began to return with hot water, cloths for bandaging, and food. As soon as they had washed, they fell upon the meal, and Bradana began to tell her tale.

She stumbled a bit over it, introducing Adair as her stepfather’s nephew from Erin and visibly agonizing over whether she should dub him her lover also. She did not, but Morag, hearing the rest of it and being no fool, doubtless did not need the clarification.

She proved a good listener and did not exclaim till she heard the account of the ill-fated attack in the forest, the injuries, and their struggles since.

“A miracle ye ha’ reached here,” she cried then, “in truth!”

“But as ye can see, we bring trouble wi’ us,” Bradana reminded her, “and may be followed. Tell me, mistress, hearing all, are we still welcome? If not, I shall surely understand. We will tak’ our rest and leave.”

Adair spoke for the first time. “Indeed, if ye might spare the lend o’ a boat, we could sail home to Erin.”

That made Morag’s eyes widen and caused Bradana to steal a look at him. Did she not understand that would be their safest course, safest for everyone?

Morag contemplated before answering. She had a gravely ill husband and a clearly reduced clan, but she rallied to say, “To be sure, Rohracht’s granddaughter is welcome here always.” Her gaze moved to Adair. “All we have is yours.

“But I maun provide ye wi’ a bit o’ a caution. Our own fate has no’ been easy of late. Bradana, your Uncle Darroch perished in fighting last year. He was to take the place o’ chief in your grandfather’s stead, ye understand, and his son died wi’ him. Not much older than yoursel’, was Eobhan. We are engaged in clan fighting.” Her gaze met Bradana’s. “Against Mican MacGillean.”

Bradana caught her breath, and Adair’s stomach turned over within him, the food he had just consumed so ravenously not sitting well.

“Och, nay,” Bradana exclaimed. “Are we to find nay refuge even here?”

“I offer to ye what refuge we have.” Morag added dryly, “I must say, ’tis a bit of welcome news to hear that Earrach MacGillean has been taken from the world. ’Twas he who killed young Eobhan.”

Again, her gaze flicked to Adair. “Ye, Master Adair, have done us a service.”

“And stirred up a cauldron o’ trouble,” he added. “As if ye needed more o’ that.”

“Trouble,” she pronounced, “is a drink always in abundance. Let us see ye healed and rested, and we shall take stock o’ what needs to be done.”

“Aye, thank ye,” Bradana said gratefully.

“Ye will want to see your grandfather.”

“I will.”

“I shall tak’ ye there myself. But first, let us provide ye with clean clothing and mayhap a brush-up. We do no’ want ye frightening the man off to Tìr na nòg.”

“Do I truly look so bad as all that? And is he truly so ill?”

“Aye to both, lass,” Morag said. “But there is always hope. And is your arrival here no’ proof o’ how swiftly things can change? For good or ill.”

The healer arrived then, an aged man who wore a grave expression. It altered to one of concern as he examined the filthy wound at Adair’s shoulder. Aye, Bradana had done her best to keep it clean, but when even the bandaging was soiled, the task was impossible.

He gave Adair an assessing look before he said, “Well, Master Adair, ye must possess the strength of a warrior, that ye are no’ flat on yer back wi’ fever o’ this.”

“I had not the opportunity to give way,” Adair told him honestly.

“Well, if ye have lived this long, I predict a full recovery. The arrow must ha’ hit bone, for it did no’ burrow in so deep as it might ha’ done. Ye will heal.”

Adair nodded. “So long as I can fight, if I need to.”

“Amazing,” said the healer, “what a man can do when he must. And”—he eyed Wen, who sprawled on the rug that had been provided for him—“I collect this is to be my next patient?”

“If ye will no’ mind,” Bradana said softly.

“That is a very large hound. He will no’ bite me, will he?”

“Wen? Nay, he is good of nature and wise as any man.”

“Wiser, let us hope.”