Page 6 of My Warrior
“I see no reason to deplete our stores of meat for visitors when pottage and cheese will do,” Cambria snapped.
Katie laughed and blew on the spoonful of broth. “Why, lass, what grudge do you hold against our visitors? Your father wishes to show them every courtesy. Pottage and cheese indeed!” She ignored Cambria’s scowl and sipped at the spoon.
“Mmm, you’ve outdone yourself, Hamish,” she crooned.
The cook grunted, pacified for the moment.
Katie glanced at Cambria. The poor girl’s fingers were worrying her surcoat to rags. She’d never seen her quite so distraught.
All at once, the reason thumped her on the head like an iron pot. “You know, your father has been quite mysterious about these visitors,” she confided. “Is it possible he’s arranged a match for you?”
All the color drained from Cambria’s face. Horror shadowed her eyes. “Not that,” she choked out. “Never that.”
Then Cambria fled, leaving behind the relieved cook, a handful of bewildered kitchen-boys, and one foolish steward’s wife who wrung her hands, wishing she could take back her careless words.
Cambria pulled at the neck of her dark madder surcoat. The heavy wool was stifling in the crowded great hall. The greasy smell of the mutton stew congealing in its doughy trencher turned her stomach, so she only picked at it. The familiar sounds and smells of supper had taken on a sharper cast somehow, making her strangely sensitive to every taste, every word, almost as if it were her last meal.
Her father spoke quietly with Malcolm about the size of the brook trout. Two ladies further down the table discussed remedies for aches of the head. The chatter at the lower tables was raucous and indiscernible. Hounds growled at her father’s feet as he tossed them bones to gnaw on. The pungent smells of robust ale, onions, peppery mutton, and mustard assailed her nostrils.
Today, Cambria felt the hardness of the worn oak bench beneath her cushion, smelled the delicate meadowsweet strewn among the rushes, heard every smack of lips, every swallow of ale. Her nerves stretched taut in anticipation. Each dagger that clattered on the table made her flinch. As she perused the walls along the length of the hall, where the faded shields of the conquered were hung, she wondered how many enemies her father was about to make and whether she had the strength to lend him convincing support.
Finally, rising and banging on his pewter cup with the haft of his knife, the laird commanded everyone’s attention.
“We are all Gavins,” he began, his voice as strong and comforting as honey mead on a winter night, “those of you sprung from the loins of the clan and those of you who’ve chosen to abide within these walls, under the clan’s protection. There is nothing—“he banged his fist on the table for emphasis, and Cambria’s heart leaped into her throat—“nothing more important than the survival of the clan and its claim to this land.”
A few isolated cheers arose at his words, but most waited breathlessly for the crux of his speech.
“I’m a man of little politic. I freely admit I care not who is by rights the king, only that he who rules is just and fair.”
“And distant!” someone cried out.
Chuckles circled the room. The laird smiled. Then he held up his hand for quiet.
“War is imminent between Scotland and England. Those of us in the Borders must choose who we will support.” He cleared his throat and stroked his grizzled chin. “A fortnight ago we lost many fine lads to a battle cry their foolish hearts could not resist. They chose their lot. I bear them no ill will.”
Cambria knew otherwise, but was silent.
“I have chosen as well,” he continued, resting his fingertips on the table before him. “I have done so not from the leanings of my heart, but from the dictates of my head.” He paused a long while, studying the faces of every clan member. “I’ve chosen to ally with the English and Balliol.”
A collective gasp filled the hall, and a low rumbling of exchanges began, which seemed to Cambria like the thunder before a summer storm. The laird needed her now. Glancing nervously about, she rose on quaking legs, acknowledging her father with a formal nod.
“Good folk,” she began tentatively.
No one heard her.
“Good folk!” she bellowed, the sound this time like a chapel bell ringing in a garderobe. The murmuring ceased instantly. Cambria folded her hands before her and tried not to fidget. “Like most of you, I do not wish to see Balliol take the throne.”
Several people nodded in agreement, and she continued in a surer tone. “But neither do I wish to see our clan destroyed and our land divided. The English…will win,” she bit out painfully. “They have greater strength and number, and they have unity, which the Scots do not. Because of the…deserters, our own forces have been diminished. We do not have the option of resistance. They are already upon us, and there is no Scots army to deliver us from siege.”
The voices rose again, some contemplative, some indignant.
“Our only hope,” the laird added, his eyes glowing with pride as he glanced at Cambria, “is to ally with the English. But on our terms. I’ve agreed to the alliance only on the contingency that our holdings remain in the name of the Gavin.” He paused and winked at Cambria. “And they’ve accepted my demand. They wish only to use our fortress and our knights. When they’ve quelled the rebellion, they will go home.” He added with a grin, “They will have to go home. Their lily-white English skin could not endure our winter.”
Everyone in the hall chuckled at his jest. Even Cambria felt the tension ease as a grin stole across her face. She stared in wonder at the twinkle-eyed, gruff-voiced bear of a man who willingly bore the weight of his clan’s troubles on his sturdy shoulders. She was truly proud of her father, and the light that shone back from his eyes proved that he felt the same way about her. Suddenly inspired, she raised her goblet.
“To the Gavin!” she cheered, and all about her lifted their cups. “May the clan forever endure, and may it be the fault of the English that we do so!”
Good humor rang out in the hall long into the night. It was with relief and hope that Cambria ascended the winding steps to her chamber much later to go to bed. She snuggled under the furs to sleep soundly by the crackling fire Katie had laid, alas too soundly to prevent the tragedy that lurked but a few dark hours away.
