Page 6 of Steel & Surrender

The moment she uttered those words, her heart kicked.

Why the devil had she said that? She’d just given him an opening.

Ian’s eyes widened, and a slow smile spread over his face. “I would.”

They stared at each other, and sweat slid down Brìghde’s spine. She’d had enough of this conversation, and she now felt cornered.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to this man’s relentless interest, or how to extricate herself.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to, for a lad, all gawky limbs and messy white-blond hair, appeared next to Ian. Eòghan’s face was flushed, his eyes wide.

Ian scowled at the sight of him, while Brìghde stepped forward, alarmed at the flush on her brother’s face, his shocked eyes. “What is it? Is Ma or Da—?”

“They’re all right,” he cut her off, breathless. “I’ve just come from the village well,” he added. It was Eòghan’s job each morning to draw water and bring it home so that their mother could begin her daily chores. “There’s been an attack … out on the Sound.”

Ian turned to him, his irritation at being interrupted vanishing. “What?”

“The clan-chief sent out a birlinn to escort a merchant cog bound for Craignure from Oban … but two MacDonald galleys descended upon it. There was a fight.” Her brother paused then, his iron-grey eyes guttering. “Alistair Maclean is dead.”

They buried him four days later.

Brìghde and her family attended, as did everyone in Duart, from the village and castle alike. Brìghde dressed in her only good kirtle for the occasion, removing her leather apron for once and washing the soot off her face and hands. She even braided back her hair neatly and pinned it beneath a linen veil, a small gesture of respect.

She walked with her father, her arm looped through his. Breac Boyd was completely blind these days and didn’t venture often from his bothy.

But to show his respects, today he would.

Their pace from home was slow, weighed down by the grief that had settled like a heavy blanket over Duart. Now and again, Brìghde inclined her head to neighbors as others joined them along the narrow path that led across to the graveyard, speaking little. The mourners made a somber group; even the children were quiet this morning, subdued by the grief that hung over Duart.

The graveyard lay on the northern outskirts of the village, a circular space ringed by a stacked-stone wall with two wind-beaten yew trees growing in the center. The deceased villagers all had simple graves around the outside of the cemetery, whereas the ruling family of Duart had their own special plot in the center of it. Here lay the graves of the clan-chiefs of Duart, and their wives, and children.

The villagers made their way to the heart of the space, halting under the shadow of the yews.

Waiting on the fringes of the crowd, Brìghde glanced over her shoulder. A procession was making its way from the castle itself. Duart rose high against the morning sky behind them, its massive western curtain wall a dull gold in the spring sunlight. The castle perched on a headland, looking over the Sound of Mull.

In many villages, a kirk sat next to the graveyard, but at Duart, the burial ground stood alone, and the chapel lay inside the castle walls. The procession was coming from there, although the chapel doors had remained closed to anyone but kin this morning.

As the family drew closer, Brìghde’s chest tightened at the sight of their haggard faces and hollowed eyes. She could almost taste the bitterness of their sorrow. Instinctively, she lowered her gaze as the coffin approached and clasped her hands tightly before her, raising her eyes only as it drew nearer.

The procession entered the graveyard. The young chaplain led the way, murmuring a psalm and swinging a censer of incense to purify the air and ward off evil as he went.

There were four casket-bearers: Loch Maclean and his son Davy at the front, and the Captain of the Guard, Finn MacDonald, and another warrior at the back.

Brìghde’s attention rested on Loch’s face, lingering there. The clan-chief was around fifty these days, yet she’d never really thought of him as old. He was too strong, too masculine for that. But this morning, every single one of his years, and more besides, was etched upon his face. His shoulders seemed bowed beneath more than the weight of the coffin.

The rest of the family followed close behind.

Mairi, Loch’s wife, moved slowly, her face drawn, eyes downcast. Brìghde’s chest constricted. It was an awful thing for a mother to lose her child, especially so young. Alistair was only twenty. He’d had his whole life before him, before the MacDonalds had stolen his future.

Mairi walked with the eldest of their sons, Greig. His sharp, hawkish face was set in severe lines this morning. He used a stick, limping heavily, yet his free arm looped through his mother’s.

And despite that he was maimed, it looked as if he was supporting her, not the other way around.

Brìghde had never liked Greig Maclean much.

He was just a couple of years older than her, and so she’d seen him grow from lad to man. And in the few instances when their paths had crossed over the years, she’d found him arrogant and dismissive. She’d much preferred his younger brother Alistair, who’d often stopped by the forge to talk to her.

But, watching Greig now, steadying his mother despite his lameness, she softened her opinion of the man a little. Pity stirred in her breast then. He’d been brought low by a grievous injury in battle nearly a year earlier. How galling it would be for him that he wasn’t able to carry his brother’s casket. By rights, he should be up front instead of Davy.