Page 13 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

The convent no longer smelled of smoke so much as men.

The burnt essence lingered, yes—charred stone and scorched wood—but the stronger scent was of unwashed bodies, sweat, leather, and blood.

The corridor echoed faintly with snores, groans, and the muffled shuffle of boots from below as Ivy made her way along the hall and toward the stairs.

Below, the great hall where she’d seen the mouse skitter across the floor last night, had been transformed.

The largest part of the undamaged priory had been claimed for necessity.

Pallets of straw lined the floor, filled with men who bore the marks of yesterday’s fight.

Slashes were bound in rough linen, legs were splinted, and shoulders were swathed in strips of cloth already stained dark.

Voices muttered, prayers and curses, punctuated by the occasional raw groan while more than one able-bodied man walked and worked among them.

Taken aback by the sight but knowing she wouldn’t have the stomach to be of any use—and while yesterday’s wary stares were not forgotten—Ivy kept one hand pressed to her belly, a kind of shield, and shrank against the wall, careful not to draw attention.

Some of the men looked up at her anyway—suspicious, hostile, or merely curious—and she ducked her head, suddenly conscious of her modern clothing, of how different she must appear to them.

She moved quickly, weaving past the wounded and the men tending them, until the door gave her blessed daylight.

Outside, the air was crisp, washed clean by the night’s rain.

Ivy paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.

What she’d glimpsed in darkness last night unfolded starkly before her now.

Though the convent’s stone chapter house still stood solid, if scorched in places, around it stretched the blackened skeletons of additions and outbuildings, charred beams jutting like broken ribs, collapsed walls reduced to heaps of sodden ash.

The ground between was littered with splintered timbers and shattered tiles, a graveyard of what had once been a holy community.

Yet life filled the ruins. Dozens of MacKinlay men moved about, their voices low, their boots crunching over wet stone and ash.

Some hauled away charred debris, piling the wreckage at the edge of the yard.

Another group of men were propping up a sagging doorway with salvaged timber, as if they might rebuild what appeared to have been the stables.

Others swept out blackened debris from corners of the barn where the rain had not reached.

Horses stood tethered beneath the dripping trees, their tack being scrubbed and mended, while outside the immediate yard, a few men tended kettles and appeared to have lain out plaid blankets to dry.

Out there near that fire, a few MacKinlay men sat in small groups, eating from wooden bowls. Laughter wafted through the air to Ivy, muted but unmistakable, as though battle and ruin had not managed to strip them entirely of spirit.

She tugged her jacket over her belly and scanned her eyes over the faces of the MacKinlay men, near and far.

She discovered Kendrick first, his shock of red hair easily recognizable.

He was well beyond the inner yard, beyond the fire and the drying blankets.

His sleeves were rolled back, shoulders bunching with every heavy swing of an axe.

Logs split beneath his strokes, sharp cracks echoing into the morning.

Without hesitation, Ivy made her way to him.

She ignored every glance thrust at her as she walked but then hesitated when she drew near to Kendrick, who had his back to her. She waited until he had completed a swing of the axe before she spoke. “Um—Kendrick?”

Still, the axe bit clean through another log before he turned, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. His expression softened when he saw her, though it carried a trace of caution.

“Um, hi. Good morning,” she said, wearing a self-conscious smile. “Alar—I mean, the laird said I should find you for anything I need and well,” she shrugged and flashed a smile at him, “I have needs—a few, anyway.”

Kendrick lifted his tunic, using the bottom hem to wipe his face now, scrubbing it over his mouth and jaw, revealing a taut but pasty abdomen in the process.

He grinned when he dropped the shirt, letting it fall back over his hips. “Ne’er met a lass who dinna.”

Far different from his laird, Ivy liked that he was genuine, kind, and had this little teasing streak in him.

She lifted her hand, about to tick off her needs, but then thought better of it, imagining it would come across as bossy or pompous.

Instead, she joined her hands behind her back.

“I’d like to wash my face and brush my teeth, but I’m not sure how to go about doing that, how that might happen.

And,” she continued, bringing her hands around to smooth them over her rounded belly, “I need to eat something.” Before he could answer, she thought she should offer something in return, and said, “Also, I’d like to help.

” She pivoted a bit, waving her hand across the scene of so much labor around the shell of the priory.

“Seems there’s plenty of work to be done. ”

Kendrick eyed her a long moment, then rested both hands atop the axe haft, as it sat on the chopping block log. “Help, is it?”

“Yes. I don’t want to just... I can’t do nothing , can’t just sit in that little room all day. It’ll drive me insane. And honestly, I’m stronger than I look.” She gave a hopeful smile, aware that wasn’t saying much in her state. “So, maybe you have some ideas of how or where I can be useful?”

Kendrick leaned his weight on the axe handle, studying her with the squint of a man trying to gauge whether she was serious.

“Ye’d help, then,” he mused. His gaze swept over the yard as though picking from the dozens of small labors underway.

“Och,” he said suddenly, turning back to Ivy.

“I recall Tàmhas saying he was running low on a few plants and such. Said he was short on what he uses to soothe fever. Chamomile, yarrow, willow bark—anyone of those or all would serve.”

Ivy blinked at him. “Right. Plants.” She nodded as though she understood, but was forced to confess, “Okay, full disclosure— I wouldn’t know any of those plants from any common weed unless it was in a jar and labeled.”

Kendrick’s brows lifted, then knit together in obvious confusion.

Playfully, trying to make light of her inadequacy, she put her hand to the side of her mouth. “I’d probably end up poisoning half the army.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Aye, then we canna have ye do that. Ye’re bonny, wouldnae look so fine with yer head on a pike.”

Ivy’s jaw dropped while her eyes widened. “Wow. That escalated quickly. Instant beheading. I’ll make note of that.”

Kendrick only shrugged, with still only the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “We like to keep our punishments tidy.”

Ivy shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Tidy. Right. Nothing says neat and orderly like a severed head on display.” She cleared her throat. “All right. Any other ideas of how I might be helpful?”

He thought again, tapping the axe haft. “We can always use more bread, lass. Or oatcakes. Cook took a blade through the gut yesterday, God rest him. Laird hasn’t yet assigned who will replace him.”

“Oh. Bread?” Ivy echoed weakly. “Like... from scratch?”

Kendrick tilted his head, as though perplexed by her question.

“Oh, um—yeah, no. I don’t... bake.” She gave a nervous laugh.

“I mean, I wouldn’t even know where to start.

” She spun around again, considering the stone priory before facing Kendrick again.

“Like, did the kitchen and ovens survive the fire?” She waved her hand, dismissing her own question.

“Sorry, it doesn’t matter—I have no clue how to make any sort of bread. ”

This time, he did laugh, just once, low in his chest, before shaking his head.

“So nae plants or roots, nae foraging. Nae bread, nae baking. I see. Aye, we have a constant need for water, but I’m loath to have ye hauling buckets.

Like as nae, the laird would have my head if he kent I put ye up to that. ”

While Kendrick stared off blindly, appearing to wrack his brain for any other ideas, Ivy pressed her palms to her hot face, wishing the earth would swallow her. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “You must think I’m completely useless.”

“Useless?” He leaned down to grab another log, setting it on the stump. “Nae, lass. Mayhap... misplaced?” The axe came down in a clean, ringing crack. He straightened, knocking the split piece that hadn’t fallen off the block into the growing pile.

“Oh, gosh, Kendrick,” she all but moaned, “you have no idea.”

Kendrick seemed to make nothing of this hint of a confession.

“There is one task ye can do that will serve well enough. The laundry. The soiled bandages pile high already, and as a marching and movin’ army, we go through ?em quick.

It would be helpful if the used ones were washed, dried, and ready to use again. ”

Relief flooded her. “Laundry, great. That, I can do.”

“Good.” Kendrick gave her an approving nod, already setting another log in place.

He pointed with his free hand toward a copse of trees, where beyond Ivy could see what she hadn’t noticed before, the shimmery blue of water.

“There’s the loch, nice sandy bank it has.

All the bandages needing laundering will be in there with Tàmhas,” he said, tipping his head toward the stone priory.

“Might scrub up yerself there as well—at the loch. There’ll be nae fresh water delivered to ye, I ken that. ”

“Thank you, Kendrick,” she said, genuinely pleased with his kindness and patience.