Page 39 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

A dair still lay asleep in Bradana’s arms when the call sounded from outside the door of her quarters.

It seemed a terrible intrusion, an abomination, for they’d stayed late at their wedding feast last evening and made love for a long while after. It did not seem the morning could already have arrived.

Yet when Adair pried his eyes open one at a time, he saw that aye, light came in around the chamber door.

Bradana lay sprawled across his chest, still sleeping, her breath deep and even and those glorious eyes of hers closed tight. Her hair covered him—his only covering, in fact—and in that moment his heart clenched with love for her, so fierce it hurt.

Surely this was still the tail end of their wedding night. Who would come to disturb them?

“Bradana,” he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered but she did not wake. Aye, they had expended all their strength in loving. And she felt safe in his arms.

A sudden thought occurred to him: he must keep her that way even if it cost him his life.

His life so far—apart from his assignment to Alba and the events that found him here—had been a carefree one. Full of many pleasures and few enough responsibilities. He’d never thought on marriage. Never expected to take on the safety and welfare of another. Yet here he lay with his whole world in his arms.

The call came again, closer now so that he could identify it as a cry of alarm.

“Master Adair?”

It sounded like Morag. If it were, why would she be calling on him and not Bradana? If Bradana’s grandsire had taken a bad turn…

He began to wiggle out from under Bradana and she came awake. Great, slumberous eyes opened. She reached for him.

“Not now, love. There is someone at the door.”

“Eh?”

She drew up one of the blankets. He, naked, took another to cover himself.

Morag stood outside the door, her face stark white, her mild eyes full of fear. At that moment, Adair felt certain Rohracht’s health had failed him.

Behind Morag, he could see people hurrying about. Men at arms. Distress flared within him.

“Mistress MacFee, what is it?”

“I am sorry to disturb ye at such a time, but—”

“Is it the chief?”

She shook her head and stole a look over her shoulder.

“Come in, pray.”

The woman did, standing just inside the door with her hands twisted in her smock and that awful look on her face.

Bradana, now sitting up, responded to that look. “My grandsire?”

Morag shook her head again. “A party o’ men has been spotted. They approach through the forest—from the south. Mican, it is. Our guards, out on patrol, recognized him.”

Bradana gave a soft exclamation of dismay and Adair felt her emotions spike. So well connected were they, he could almost tell the thoughts in her mind.

“How many men?” he asked. “Did the guards say?”

“A goodly number, though no’ an army. Heavily armed.”

Adair reached for his clothing, the same he’d worn the day before and which had mostly fallen near the bed. Ignoring the presence of the woman, he began to struggle into it. “How far off?”

“At the border. They must ha’ traveled all night.”

To be sure, they would have. Or they had camped there, just beyond Rohracht’s lands. Mican would want this visit to be a surprise.

As it was.

Adair’s mind raced, considered options and possibilities. “The chief will have to receive him.” Politely, if the old man could manage it. “It may no’ come to a fight. If Mican does no’ learn we are here…”

“Aye. The healer is with Rohracht now, trying to get him up. He is very tired after yesterday, and spent.”

Bradana made a sound of distress and got up, her hair and the blanket trailing her. “How dare Mican come here and cause Grandfather distress?”

Kindly, Morag told her, “I doubt Mican knows your grandfather is ill. He must have chased down the fact that ye ha’ blood relations here, though, lass. He’s come looking, I do no’ doubt.”

Adair froze in the act of reaching for his sword. “Then he cannot find us here. Bradana, we must sail at once. If Mican finds that Rohracht is giving us sanctuary, he may destroy the dun and the settlement.”

Bradana said nothing, but her face paled.

“Rohracht asks ye to come to him,” Morag told Adair. “At once.”

“To be sure, I will. But we must hurry.”

“Then go on ahead o’ me.”

“I will follow,” Bradana gasped even as Adair went out.

It was a beautiful morning with clear sunlight flowing over the hills to the east and the sea lying calm in a sheet of silver-blue. The settlement should have been calm also. Instead, the word had gone out. Men scrambled for their weapons, and women gathered their children close.

The very feel of it struck on something deep inside Adair, as if he remembered times like this. He had prepared before for such an attack, long ago—only he had not. His father’s lands had never come under attack, not in his lifetime.

Still and all, a feeling filled him, one of determination. Of desperate courage. A man fought in such circumstances. He fought for what he loved.

He came upon the old man still in the act of rising, helped by his faithful manservants and the healer. He groaned as he moved, his wasted form showing beneath the robe they wrapped around him. All yesterday’s buoyant strength and happiness had deserted him.

But his gaze fastened to Adair the moment he entered the chamber and did not waver, save to travel swiftly down to the sword in Adair’s hand.

“There he is. And aye, ready to battle.”

“Chief Rohracht—”

“Grandfather. Ye maun call me Grandfather now.”

“I suppose there is no chance this is not Mican coming?”

One of the manservants answered, “None. Dabhor, who has encountered him before, saw him wi’ his own eyes.”

Adair knew Dabhor, a sturdy, levelheaded warrior of middle years. If the settlement possessed any man who might be considered a war chief, or head of the guard at least, it was he.

Adair’s heart fell a little farther.

“I ha’ sent men out,” Rohracht gasped against the act of moving his old bones, “to escort them in. We shall know much by whether they offer us fight, or come in willingly.”

“Aye.” Adair thought rapidly upon what he must next say. “Chief—Grandfather—this is my fault. ’Tis my head Mican wants in revenge for the death o’ his son. I who have brought this trouble to your door. The way I see it, we have two courses o’ action.”

Everyone in the chamber eyed him.

Determinedly, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword, he went on. “I can leave here—Bradana, Wen, and I can at once—by sea. If Mican does no’ find us here, he cannot retaliate against ye and yours. Or I can turn myself over to him. ’Tis my head he wants.”

“And ye would do that, would ye? Turn yoursel’ over to the man? Knowing ’twould mean yer certain death?”

“To save Bradana, and the settlement, I would.”

Rohracht stole a deliberate look at his men. “Did I no’ tell ye o’ what he was made?”

Adair did not know what to say.

“Aye, well, lad,” Rohracht said, his voice a bit stronger, “there is—as I see it—one more course we can steer. We can fight.”

Adair blinked at the old man, barely on his feet. “Fight.”

“Aye, so. Repel the bastards. Mak’ sure they do no’ again set foot on our land.”

It would have been laughable, were the old man not so earnest.

“Master, have ye the men to put up a fight? Men enough, that is.”

“Do we ha’ the men to fight? Aye, I believe we do. Mican has no’ come wi’ an army. Just a stout band. I ha’ trained warriors and men skilled at farming the land or sea who will down tools and up weapons.” Rohracht bent a look upon Adair. “I ha’ you.”

Dismay momentarily robbed Adair of all breath. “Me.”

“Aye. My grandson now. A man who has already defeated the redoubtable Earrach. A man who, if I am no’ much mistaken, has the makings o’ a warrior beyond compare.”

“Master, ye are much mistaken. I trained at arms back home, aye, but I am but a third son. ’Tis my brother, Baen, who is the warrior.”

“I ha’ no’ met your brother. So I canna say what sort o’ man he is. Whether he has the fire in him. Ye ha’ that fire, lad. What I used to have. My men will follow ye.”

Adair stepped forward, imploring the old man now. “Grandfather, I cannot help but think the best thing I can do for ye and yours is vacate this place. That way, Mican can find nay fault in ye. He cannot raze your holding and come back wi’ an army.”

“That is what ye want, is it? To tak’ my granddaughter and sail off? To Erin, is it?”

“’Tis no’ so much what I want. But it may be the safest for all o’ ye.”

Rohracht did not reply at once. He fastened the belt at his hips and said to one of his men, “Bring me my sword.”

Love for the man—this valiant, wasted man—flooded Adair’s heart so that for the moment he could not speak.

“Lad, either ye stand wi’ me or no’, but I am standing.”

“I still feel, master, ’tis an unequal battle.”

“Such has been won before now. They ha’ been won by heart and by the grace o’ the gods.”

“Aye.”

Rohracht took a step toward Adair and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Grandson,” he said deliberately, “stay and fight wi’ me, fight for this holding, and when I die, ’twill be your own. I ha’ no heir, save my granddaughter. And now, ye.”

“Grandfather,” Adair returned, “I am no’ worthy.”

“Then prove yoursel’ so.”

Slowly, Adair said, “A man does no’ fight for land or for a holding. At least, no’ to my mind. He fights for those he loves.”

“Then come, and we shall both do just that.”