No responses came from my letters. There was no sharing of condolences or offering of advice. As time passed, my feeling of foolishness increased to the point of shame. It had been outrageous to think they would answer me. When had anyone considered me? In particular, I was the most embarrassed by my letter to Alex. If I thought about it for too long, my cheeks would burn with humiliation.
Though it was strange. Prior to my plea, we had been communicating regularly. Twice-a-month, letters had passed between us without fault. After my last desperate missive, months passed without a reply. As my humiliation ceded, worry crept in. Had I offended him? Was it too risky to help the daughter of the instigator of this war? Was my note intercepted? Was he now locked up for treason? Had he entered the war after years of neutrality and been injured? Killed?
In my most desperate hours, near mad from hunger and shivering from cold, I prayed. Hidden under the cover of moonlight, I begged any spirit or ghost or god that would listen. Tears streamed down my face and over hands clasped under my chin. I prayed Alex was alive, that some scrap of friendship still existed between us. Demanded signs I would hear from him if only to be told we could no longer be friends. Pleaded to know if he still thought of me. My cries soaked the front of my ragged nightgown and froze beside my cheeks on my pillows. It was easier to pray for Alex; I had long since abandoned hope of my survival.
~
On a brutally frigid afternoon in January I was sitting in the office — my office, no longer my father's — trying to make sense of a ledger of rents and taxes. My father's cribbed handwriting smudged across the page and was difficult to read in the dull winter light. The near-constant state of hunger did little to help my concentration. My eyes kept wandering to a plate placed just out of reach, pushed there to avoid temptation. It only held a few chunks of hard, dry cheese and a shriveled apple, but the food preoccupied me. Was it wiser to eat now or set aside the meager ration for later? Either way, an empty stomach would be my bedfellow come nightfall.
There was no longer enough food to support labor. Around the castle, the women and children hunched and huddled together in tight groups. They tried to conserve their strength and their warmth by sharing blankets and shawls. They looked like strange wraiths placed across the castle in disturbing decoration. For simplicity and to preserve resources, I had converted the great hall into a makeshift dormitory. It was more economical to heat one room instead of many. The body heat helped stave off death by exposure — or so I hoped. It was a miracle that sickness had not ravaged the castle. Thinking that, and spooked, I knocked three times on the wooden desk to ward off further misery.
As I tried to review the figures again, a low, far-off rumbling sound prickled on the edge of my hearing.
"Another storm, no doubt," I grumbled, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I wiggled my toes in my boots to keep them from freezing.
"The last thing we need is more snow," I fumed, flipping a page in the ledger. More smears. More blotted out numbers. To my hunger-addled mind, the obscurification looked intentional. The rest of my father's records had been immaculate.
The approaching storm became a low buzz in my ears. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the sound, which only helped me fixate on it further. Starvation and math had combined to make me irritable. Only... it didn't sound like a storm at all. There were sounds of metal clanking, and wheels turning; horses huffing mingled with lofty, far-away laughter. I stood and opened the window, leaning out over the ledge to peer down at the road. To my surprise, there was a smattering of horses and wagons approaching the main gate.
"What the hell?" I said, squinting against the gray, frosted landscape.
Shuffling footsteps behind me heralded Bess's arrival. She stood very close to me, her warm body pressed against my own. It was an unconscious habit we had all picked up to share heat. Wallis sat perched on her hip chewing on a doll's nose. I had found the toy in my old nursery and given it to her for the winter holidays.
"Who do you think it is?" Bess asked.
"Father?" I said unconvincingly. There were only twenty or so riders in the group. If it was the army returning, they were sorely defeated.
Bess shook her head, "Several letters came in from the front today. The maids with family there mentioned nothing of retreat or surrender."
I grunted, annoyed that others received communications when I did not. "Maybe the Mainland invades us at last. This is just the search party sent to determine if we're a threat." I laughed humorlessly. "What a disappointment we must be. The once-great Stormway, now a fortress of starving women and children."
"That's not funny, Eilean," Bess said tightly, her brows pulled down over her eyes.
I bit back my retort of preferring a swift death by invaders to one of famine.
Bess jostled Wallis on her hip and studied the group, "They aren't flying flags, which is strange."
It was odd. Still, I said nothing as I tried to muster up any reaction besides one of bland disinterest. It should bother me that strangers were approaching my gates. We were defenseless, and it was likely these men had weapons. If they were Mainlanders, their arrival would be an unpleasant experience; but I was too tired or too hungry to care.
We watched in silence as a man swung down from his horse and approached the guard at the gatehouse. If the boy he spoke to could even be considered a guard. Barely twelve-years-old, my only protector could hardly hold his rifle — an ancient, large gun that had been left behind for its lack of accuracy. After a brief conversation between the boy and the man, the stranger offered the guard something from his pockets. I walked away from the window, shivering from the draft.
"I suppose we'll find out soon enough, what hand fate has dealt us." Pinching the bridge of my nose, I wondered if it was better to tell everyone to gather in the main hall or if that would make things too easy for our would-be conquerors.
Bess turned from the window and passed me Wallis. I nuzzled my face into her soft hair. She laughed and slapped my cheek with a drool-covered hand.
"Eeee-eeeee," she said, smiling at me. We had been practicing spelling my name. The first letter was all she could remember.
"Do we just wait?" Bess asked, pacing around the room.
"Maybe they will ride on," I suggested, sitting down behind the desk and settling Wallis in my lap. I pulled her protectively against my chest. "We have nothing to offer them."
My sister-in-law went back to the window, "They are still there."
"I suppose I could go down," I suggested. "I don't know what the rules of hospitality are in wartime. Unless we want to host a dinner party, then I might be of use."
Bess scowled at me, worn down by my ill-humor. I didn't know how else to wade through my fear, hunger, and exhaustion. I offered her a chagrined grimace.
"What if they take you?"
I shook my head, I didn't have an answer. They were not a large party, but we had no protection. And men hopped up on bloodlust or glory could easily overpower a green boy guarding a gatehouse with a gun he couldn't use.
There was a clattering from the corridor. A young girl ran into the study.
"What is it?" Bess asked her, voice tight and high.
"My lady, Lady MacLeod," the girl said, bowing to us in turn. She bent at the waist, as a boy might. It was then I noticed she was not a house servant at all, but a stable boy. Or whatever one might call a girl that worked in the stables.
"There are riders, my lady. They have an Islander sigil. Not a banner, but a ring and a sealed letter. They request entrance to Stormway as our allies."
"What?" I said, launching out of my chair. My hand pressed Wallis' head close to my shoulder to keep her from flailing. My heart fell into my stomach and the world swayed beneath me. Had my father sent help after all?
"Come!" The girl commanded with a bright smile, running out of the room.
Bess extracted Wallis from my arms, and I chased after the girl. My mind raced with possibilities, my thoughts competed against the pounding of my heart and rasping breath as I realized just how weak I had become. The run was excruciating, but I pushed myself to keep pace. Saved. We might be saved.
There were two dozen dirty men outside the castle gates. They smelled terrible — even from a distance. Their clothes were ragged and flea-bitten. The horses they sat atop looked just as underfed as they were. Both men and beast had wild, untamed looks about them.
I halted, stopping short of the iron gates, hoping for a moment to study them and see if I could place their faces. Bess pulled up beside me, panting. Wallis was nowhere to be seen, no doubt being looked after, safe and inside. Servants and tenants filtered into the courtyard to get an eyeful of the travelers. The atmosphere was thick, tense. We hadn't had visitors since at Stormway Walther's false wedding. Snow drifted over my feet and my toes went numb with cold.
The boy from the gatehouse raced to me, handing over a ring and a note. The ring bore the MacLeod crest, though I had never seen the bauble before. Its gold face gleamed in the pale light, the emeralds on the band glinted dully. It was well-worn, the edges soft, and the carving smoothed down, but it looked real enough. The letter was sealed with a sigil I couldn't place, but I knew it as an Islander family's stamp. There was no writing on the outside.
"Let their leader in," I said to the boy, gesturing to the gate. With a nod, he ran off and ushered the man who had spoken with the boy — the one already off his horse — through the gatehouse.
The man swaggered. There was no other word for how he walked. Mud-splattered and filthy though he was, he was disarmingly attractive. Tall, broad, with a wide mouth, large nose, and hair the color of midnight. His eyes were a deep, inky black. He smiled at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling. After a moment, I noticed he had a wooden leg.
"State your purpose," I demanded.
The man stopped short. "I am searching for the Lady Elaine of Ellesmure." He said mildly. His voice was warm and resonant. It reminded me of long-ago conversations shared in low light and with gilded wine cups.
"It's Eilean," I snapped, folding my arms. "And who are you?"
The man frowned as if put off by my horrendous manners. I had little care for his sensibilities. If he stood between me and my castle, me and my island, he could suffer a foul temper. The stranger scanned me from head to toe, knitting his brows as he did so. I hadn't seen a mirror in months. No doubt I looked less like a lady and more like a hag — when had I last brushed my hair instead of sweeping it into a snood? His frank appraisal affronted me.
"You're not too easy on the eyes yourself, you know," I said peevishly, though it was a lie. Even road-weary, he looked elegant. "And we won't discuss the smell."
Bess sucked in a breath. She reached over to my elbow, brushing it lightly to settle me. I looked at her biting the inside of my cheek. No one was going to waltz into my courtyard and find me wanting. The man smiled at our exchange, tilting his head and studying us.
"My apologies, ladies," he said with a deep, courtly bow. "Both for my ignorance of your names and my hygiene. But which of you is Lady Eilean MacLeod?"
"Me," I said stepping forward. When he bowed again, I grumbled and waved away his performance. "Yes, alright." It had been a long time since anyone had bowed to me. "Who are you?"
"I am Calum," he inclined his head, looking at me through long lashes. "I am... well, I was Laird Grant of Istimere's son, though I suppose I am now the Laird Grant of Istimere. My father died a few weeks back." He blinked a few times as if remembering the tragedy anew.
I looked at the letter, the symbols on the wax seal now mapping to a long-buried memory of Island heraldry. "McKerran?" I asked, "That's your family name?"
Bess grunted behind me. I should have made him disclose that information. I should have tested him. Calum nodded.
The name was familiar enough, at least. The McKerrans ruled over the Northern Isles, a collection of larger islands that had always been close friends to Ellesmure. Their stronghold, Istimere, was carved into a craggy mountain range where it reportedly snowed year-round. I shivered just thinking about it and crossed my arms tighter against my chest. I had never seen a McKerran at a Gathering or any other occasion at Stormway. The pledge to my father was an old one, formed before my birth. This man could be anyone.
"If you are who you say, why are you not on the Mainland with my father's campaign?" Too late, I realized I had given away more crucial information. I huffed as I cursed myself.
Calum grinned as if he saw my self-censure and gestured to his wooden leg with a flourish. "I would be, fair lady, but as you can see, I am no longer fit for service."
My face burned, and I stuttered an apology, which he politely accepted. "Did my father send you to help?" I asked, somewhat hopelessly, dropping the pretense of interrogation. Two dozen men were not enough to assist around the estate, but it was more than we had now.
"I do not understand," Calum said. "Help?"
Bess stepped forward, placing her hand on my lower back as she spoke, "Have you come from the front?"
"Yes," he bowed to Bess. There was a twinkle in his eye like he knew her. Maybe he looked at everyone like that. It was infuriating. "We have been traveling for a few months. They released me and my men from service because of our injuries. As I am now Laird of the Northern Isles, I thought it wise to pledge myself to Ellesmure as my father once did." Calum's confidence was as grating as his elegance.
"They are sending men home?" A servant asked, stepping forward. She was quiet but hopeful.
Calum raised his eyebrows at me, surprised I would allow a servant to speak forthrightly. Still, he answered the woman graciously. "Yes, they have sent home many of the injured. Some Islands have even rotated their troops a few times."
"What?" I blurted, stunned. "No one has returned to Ellesmure."
Calum shrugged, "I am but a lowly grunt," he said with a frown. His eyes swept the courtyard, calculating. A crease settled between his eyes at what he likely saw — disarray. "What do I know of the posturing of generals and commanders?"
"How goes the war?" A scullery maid asked.
"It is a stalemate, mistress. The Lairds have entrenched themselves around the capital city and are laying siege. The hope is to sweat the Mainland king off his throne so that," He looked at me deliberately, "your father may claim it."
That sounded like nonsense and therefore precisely like my father. Why stop at being king of the Islands when he could have it all? Why do anything sensible when we were starving and he could play at glory? I surveyed the group of men still beyond the gates, noting their missing limbs and eyes. They did look rather pathetic, not at all like captors ready to lay claim to Stormway. I was already half resolved on letting them in — if only for a harsh scrubbing with soap and water to clear the stink on the wind.
"Do you bring word from my father or mother at all? How are my brothers?" I pushed.
"I believe my note shall explain it, lady," Calum said tenderly, his smile softening. "But I bring nothing more than the clothes on my back and the poor excuses for horses we ride." His eyes flickered to the ground, as if ashamed of his offering.
I ripped open the letter, my knees practically giving out when I saw Ian's handwriting scrawled across the page. The sight of it tore my heart to shreds, I clutched at my chest. Here it was! Proof that he was alive and was well. Proof that I had not been forgotten.
Eilean —
You may trust the bearer of this message. His name is Calum McKerran, Laird Grant of Istimere. He travels with good men from the North. He carries with him an old ring of Walther's, do you know it?
To prove they know me, you may demand the answer to the question: "What is the Lord of the Fist's weakness?" Though I have my own personal answer, I told Calum it was cinnamon buns.
Yours,
Ian
I studied the ring again, glad Ian had provided two options for confirming the identity of this man. I turned to Bess and held out the ring on my palm. "Do you know this?"
Bess took the jewelry from my hand. If she was familiar with it, it would be a truer test than Ian's riddle. Her sharp intake of breath said enough. So was the way her fingers closed around it — squeezing so tight her knuckles turned white. She nodded, her eyes lined with tears.
"What is the Lord of the Fist's weakness?" I asked, looking up to Calum.
He smiled roguishly as if the question was a private joke. His eyes flicked slowly over me once again. "Cinnamon buns," he said in a purr.
I sighed, shoulders sagging. "Alright."
Calum grinned, realizing he had won.
Bess tugged on my arm, pulling me close to her, "You trust him?"
I looked again at Calum, "This note is in Ian's hand." I passed it to her. "And you know the ring. Besides," I gestured to the men beyond, "they all appear to be wounded. If we take their weapons — "
"Remember, we have no guards, Eilean." It was concern, not condescension that colored Bess's words.
"I know. But the McKerrans are bannermen to Ellesmure. I can't refuse them hospitality."
Scanning the note and then weighing the ring in her palm, Bess nodded. With a grim smile, she stepped back.
Speaking to Calum, I offered him a tight smirk. "I apologize for the hassle, but we must take precautions."
"I would have taken offense if I had not been subject to some interrogation, my lady. The war has been tough on us all." He looked around thoughtfully, then took a step closer, speaking to me in a low voice as if we were close confidantes. "A rather foolish endeavor, if I say so myself. I hope you will permit me the liberty of speech. I feel I paid my dues when I sacrificed my leg." He offered me a scandalized wink.
Stunned, I laughed at his irreverence. He beamed. A genuine smile, one that stripped away the haggard unease in his eyes. It made him look much younger and less rakish. By looks, he wasn't much older than me. I felt the slow spread of heat across my cheeks and placed my hand on my stomach, where either a flutter of hunger or amusement danced.
"I would invite you and your men into the castle, but I refuse to do so until I'm sure you are clean and vermin free. Until we can arrange baths and new clothing, you will have to camp out here."
Calum nodded, understanding.
"And you will surrender all of your weapons to me."
"Of course." He bowed and then made quite the show of unbuckling his sword belt and handing it over.
Holding the weapon gingerly, with no idea what to do with it, I turned to Bess and asked her to arrange for firewood, food, and a bathing tub brought to the courtyard. She bobbed her head and ran off across the yard and into the kitchen doors.
"Burn your clothes," I instructed Calum, eyeing his ragged, stained garments. "We have more than enough stock to outfit you all." The thought of raiding my father and brother's closets was dispiriting, but the clothes were going to waste in their wardrobes, anyway.
Calum watched me closely, a sly smile playing on the side of his lips as I braced my hands on my hips and looked at him with what I hoped was a stern expression.
"I will be honest with you, sir. We do not have the food required to keep you and your men as our guests for long. But, once you are clean, you may stay in the castle long enough to rest up for the journey home."
"Thank you, my lady," he said with another full, dramatic bow.
"And stop bowing," I snapped before I could think better of it.
Calum laughed, tipping his head back and enjoying his humor as I jerked my chin to the boy at the gatehouse and told him to let the rest of the riders in — but only after they surrendered their weapons and left them outside the gate.
Ready to relieve myself of this man's presence, I snapped my fingers, getting his attention in the rudest possible way. "I will bring you clothes later, stay here and I will see to the rest of the preparations."
As I turned on my heel, I saw Calum bend in yet another show of deference, chuckling as he dipped his head.