Page 27 of The Guardian

Two more horsemen approached at a slower, deliberate pace. One was Laird Alexander Ross, regal and unyielding. His very presence cloaked in the authority of his station. But it was the man beside him who stole her breath.

Hendry.

He looked every inch the warrior he’d always been, broad-shouldered, battle-hardened, silent. But something was different now. The way he sat his horse, so still, so composed, like a beautiful statue. Almost as if he was hollow inside.

His face was unreadable. No anger. No satisfaction. Then she noticed it, he was devoid of emotion. The hard line of his jaw and the dead calm in his eyes were the epitome of a hardened warrior.

When the laird and Hendry reached the front, both men reined in their mounts and turned to face the gathered crowd. Behind them, the prisoners were yanked from their horses like sacks of grain. The laird’s warriors moved with brutal efficiency, dragging the condemned toward the gallows. Their struggles pathetic against men trained for war.

Ailith flinched as one of the prisoners was hauled up by the arms, his feet scraping against the wooden steps of the platform. The air grew heavier with every moment, the hush spreading like a blanket over the villagers.

Laird Ross raised a hand, and the murmurs stilled.

“Today,” he said, voice carrying over the heads of the crowd, “justice will be served.”

Ailith felt her sister tense beside her.

“These men,” the laird continued, “attacked the innocent. Defenseless. They killed without mercy, and now they will receive none in return.”

A wave of murmured approval swept through the crowd like a breeze, though it was tinged with sorrow, not triumph. Some cheered. Others cried.

The laird lifted his hand again. Silence returned like a breath held tight.

“The punishment will be named by my warrior, Hendry McNichol, who was left for dead by these very men.”

The prisoners turned in unison, three broken faces staring at the man who now held their fate. But Hendry didn’t meet their eyes.

He sat motionless, as if carved from stone.

No flicker of emotion crossed his face. No sign of hesitation.

“Death by hanging,” Hendry called out, in a deep flat tone.

A ripple of sound followed, cries of relief, of grief, of anguish. Some wept for the lives lost. Others, perhaps, for the ones about to be hung.

The nooses were lowered. The man who had cried out moments earlier sagged, his legs giving way. Whether from fear or unconsciousness, Ailith couldn’t tell.

She looked away.

She couldn’t watch death unfold, even if it was deserved. She had seen enough sorrow. Enough pain. Her heart was already fraying at the edges.

Beside her, Erin let out a soft gasp. In her arms, the bairn cooed. A gurgling sound that didn’t belong in a place like this, so pure, so unaffected by the violence of the world.

Ailith reached over and gently touched the child’s cheek, soft and dewy with the cold. The baby blinked up at her and then curled its tiny fingers around hers.

Ailith smiled, though it trembled on her lips. In the shadow of gallows and grief, life clung fiercely to the edges.

Ailith and Erin made their way toward her sister’s home. Ailith took the bairn so that Erin could duck into the bakery to purchase bread for their last meal. Teller trailed behind, in hopes of getting scraps of fresh bread.

The dog exited first, a hunk of crusty bread in his mouth.

“Elias is always so kind to ye,” she said to the dog, who chewed the treat.

She looked to the village square where the gallows still loomed.

After lingering to watch the now dead men being lowered and placed on the back of wagons, the crowd had begun to drift away in slow waves, some subdued, others weeping.

Ailith stood unmoving, her gaze fixed on the earth beneath her boots.