Page 25 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)
A murmur of assent ran through the riders, men peeling off already toward the lochside road that wound down toward the cluster of huts and barns below the keep.
They knew the routine well enough; Caeravorn had been their refuge more than once, its villagers hardened to the sight of soldiers bedding down near their crofts.
Alaric shifted his reins as the column began to break apart, men guiding their mounts down toward the village with the ease of long practice.
His officers drew in close, waiting for his lead, but his gaze searched the line until it found her—her warm, soft gold hair, slight frame, watching men and horses move all around her.
“Ivy,” he called, his voice carrying easily across the din of shifting horses. He lifted a hand, beckoning her forward.
She hesitated only a moment before urging her mare through the press. When she reached him, he gave a curt nod and turned his stallion toward the yawning gate. “With us,” he said blandly.
The iron portcullis loomed above, its teeth catching the light of torches within. The bailey opened wide ahead, alive with torchlight and the noise of a garrison at dusk. As he passed beneath the arch, he felt again that old, welcome certainty: within Caeravorn’s walls, a man could breathe easier.
The doors to the keep were thrown wide to spill light across the trampled yard. From that glow stepped a tall figure, broad-shouldered but leaner than Alaric, his stride carrying the same self-assured ease that had marked him since boyhood.
Ciaran Kerr.
His green eyes caught the torchlight as he came forward, surprise flickering first across his face before it broke into open pleasure. “Alaric,” he said, the name let loose on a laugh. “By God’s bones, your timing is perfect. I’ve only just returned myself, a matter of days ago.”
Alaric dismounted and they clasped forearms hard, a thud of leather and flesh between them. Alaric felt the strength in his grip and returned it with a grin that came more easily than he’d thought it might.
“Fortune smiles on us both, then,” he answered.
Ciaran released him, turning his easy smile on Mathar, clasping the older man’s arm in greeting before nodding to the others who had ridden in close.
Only then did Ciaran’s gaze slide, just briefly, to the woman who still sat her horse among them.
He asked no question, only showed a flicker of curiosity before it was gone.
Alaric turned, letting his expression cool into something more neutral. He moved to her side and reached for the mare’s reins, steadying the horse before lifting his hands to Ivy. “Come.”
She looked down at him, hesitation plain in her hazel eyes, but leaned into him, placing her hands on his shoulders. He closed his hands under her arms and drew her down, her slight weight—bairn included—no burden as he set her on the ground at his side.
“This is Ivy Mitchell,” Alaric said to Ciaran, his voice even, offering no more and no less. Then, to Ivy, he added, “Caeravorn’s mormaer and laird of the Kerrs, Ciaran.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Ivy said, her voice quiet but steady.
She tipped her face a little, something between a nod and a bow—respectful enough, Alaric supposed, though he doubted she’d done the like before.
“As it is you, lass,” Ciaran returned warmly. “Caeravorn welcomes ye.”
His green eyes lingered only a moment longer before shifting, first to the swell at Ivy’s middle, then to Alaric. No word passed his lips, but the look carried an unspoken question plainly enough.
Alaric held his gaze without flinching, his own expression deliberately neutral. He hadn’t given thought to this, that Ciaran, whom he’d not encountered in half a year, might assume the child was his.
Before the silence could stretch, Ciaran gestured them forward and turned toward the hall doors, drawing them inside.
The doors groaned shut behind them, muting the quiet noise of the bailey.
Within, Caeravorn’s great hall opened wide, its vaulted roof lost in shadow above the glow of torch and hearthfire.
Rushes softened the flagstone floor, and long trestle tables lined the chamber, benches shoved back for the evening.
At the far end, the hearth blazed, flames casting a restless light on the carved stone mantle.
Above it hung the ancient Kerr banner, black and bold, its edges frayed from wind and war.
Ciaran led them across the hall, his stride easy, pausing only to exchange a word with a passing servant who nodded and then bowed before scurrying away.
When they reached the high table, Ciaran gestured to the long benches set before it. “I’ve asked for food and drink to be made ready,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the vaulted space. “You’ve ridden hard—sit and be welcome.”
More servants appeared, hurrying to lay trenchers and pitchers along the board, the smell of roasted fowl and fresh bread drifting up as lids were lifted. Ciaran’s green eyes turned briefly to Ivy, who lingered at Alaric’s side as though uncertain of her place.
“Have ye need of aught, lass?” Ciaran asked.
Ivy hesitated, her hazel gaze flicking first to Alaric, as though uncertain if she ought to answer without his leave. He gave a short, silent nod, and only then did she turn back to Ciaran.
“A bed, perhaps,” she said haltingly. Quickly, nervous now, she added, “If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Nae in the least,” Ciaran replied at once, a hand flicking toward a waiting servant. “See her to a chamber, and see it made warm.” Then, more directly to Ivy, he offered, “I’ll have a tray provided anon. Would a bath also be to your liking?”
Her hazel eyes widened, almost childlike in their surprise. “Oh, my God—would it ever!” she blurted, then turned instinctively to Alaric again, as if to share her joy at such an unexpected boon.
Ciaran laughed, the sound easy and unforced. “Then it will be so.” He nodded to the hovering servant, a young, dough-faced lass who smiled pleasantly as she approached Ivy.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” Ivy said, genuinely grateful, before she followed the girl away from the table.
Alaric’s gaze lingered as she crossed the length of the hall, her slight form dwarfed by the soaring walls and heavy beams overhead.
At the far end, just before she vanished through the doorway, she turned back.
Her eyes found his across the distance, as though she sought only to make certain he was still there.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and not entirely unwelcome. He gave another nod and held her gaze until she slipped from sight.
Ciaran drew out a chair at the far side of the high table himself and once all his guests were seated, dropped onto it with the easy grace of a man at home.
He reached for the pitcher of ale and filled a cup, handing it to Alaric, and then filled another for himself before passing the pitcher down the table.
“It is guid to see ye within these walls again, my friend. Though I confess, I dinna expect it.”
Alaric took the cup, settling heavily into the chair at his side, his officers crowding in along the board. “Nae did I. Yet the times make wanderers of us all.”
Ciaran’s smile faded. “Aye. And now Wallace is gone, the times grow darker still.”
The words fell into the hall with the weight of stone, and for a moment no one spoke. The fire popped, throwing sparks up the chimney, and Alaric felt again the ache of loss, though his jaw set hard against it.
Alaric let the silence rest only a heartbeat before he broke it with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“In truth, the lass is what brings us here. She canna abide with us, nae any longer as her time grows near.” He took a long swallow of Kerr’s fine ale and then turned to his friend.
“I was hoping she could abide here, bear the child here.”
“So it will be, but God’s bluid, man, I’m left to wonder,” he said, his tone lighter, though his gaze was sharp as ever. “Who is she? Why is she garbed so strangely? And”—his eyes flicked once more toward where Ivy had departed—“have you fathered a bairn since last we met?”
Alaric’s jaw tightened, and his answer came sharper than intended. “We came upon her in the aftermath of a skirmish with the English. Lost, alone. I dinna ken her before then, a fortnight ago.” He shrugged, indicating he knew little else. “The child is nae mine,” he stated emphatically.
The words hung there a moment, with enough finality that even Ciaran let them be. Yet as Alaric lifted his cup again, the taste of the ale seemed less satisfying than before.