Valknut

CHAPTER|2 Of Mothers and Memories

“Whit’s meant to happen will happen!”   

As Lady MacShane tried desperately to console herself and her son with those words, she knew she lacked in conviction. Her attempts to hide her own grief had, at best, been weak. Seven nights had passed since the incident and they had ridden at every sundown and hidden during the day. McDermott was not known for his merciful ways and they knew that every outpost and every village would have spies looking out for them. They hid their identity as best as possible; removing all colors of their clan, dressed as villagers, and free of war armor. 

Sir Connor had followed the pair with nothing more than 15 horsemen and barely a handful of villagers. The convoy thinned with each passing day, as the injured either died of their wounds or from the fever that followed. With no healer to lend their craft, the party continued to bid farewell to loved ones despite the war being left behind. 

Over the past week, some of the horses and armor from their dead had been sold to buy food and supplies for the trip. When they ran out, they compensated with futile hunting efforts. Many a night they went without. 

The boy hadn’t eaten in days and slept but a wink. “It’s going be alright ance the pain has dulled" she tried again. When the boy continued to stare into emptiness, she closed her eyes and mumbled a silent prayer. 

Having ridden through the borders between Fortriu, Fotla and Circind, they began making their way towards the much sought after shores of Fidach where they hoped to hail a small vessel that would carry them further North of Cait. 

Lady MacShane had aged considerably in this time past. Although she had never been a striking beauty, she had pleasing qualities. Her long black silken hair, straight and untouched by curls and ringlets had been the envy of every woman. Her skin although pale, had never burnt regardless of the hours she spent working in the sun. Her hands had stayed soft as if untouched by the rigors of her chores. Her feet, dainty and her gait unaffected by childbirth. 

Only thirty winters old, she now seemed well past forty. Her hair hadn’t seen a brush in days. Her dress was now tattering at the hem and blackened with stains from the mud. Her eyes and mouth were riddled with lines from grieving. The blush and glow of her skin robbed from her the day her lord husband perished. 

Simple sights that had earlier brought her childish pleasure, no longer did. The beauty of the land failed to captivate her. The vast stretches of green pastures interspersed with blooming flowers signaling the return of spring did not catch her attention. The clear blue skies with wispy clouds offered her no comfort. 

The journey North of Cait would be long and Sir Connor was mindful of their need to stock up. As they rode towards a small village, Connor dismounted his horse and gathered his men. Quickly they spoke, each knowing what was expected of the other. While half the men ventured into the forest to hunt, three followed Connor into the village. The few remaining, rested with Lady MacShane and Kieran. 

They solemnly went through their tasks of feeding and brushing down the horses, making a fire for the upcoming meal and setting up a single tattered tent for their Lady and young Lord. The women that followed, began meal preparations. Some wandered to the outskirts of the forest searching for berries and herbs while others tended to the Lady.

The boy lay on the grass looking up at the skies. He couldn’t decide which was worse. The clouds during the day, the dark nights or the star-filled skies. For each time he looked up at the expanse, heavenly bodies floating above seemed to warp into ghastly figures that bore menacing grins and yielded blood soaked swords. With the skies a perpetual black to Kieran, filled with terrifying images, he had lost all sense of time. Each day bled into night and each night bled into the next day.

He accepted that like everything else, this too was his fault. He knew he was desperately clinging onto horrifying memories that he ought to be banishing from his mind. What unsettled him the most was the guilt that he was feeling. Slowly, for what seemed like the hundredth time, his tiny hand made its way into the folds of his cloak. As his fingers rested on the cool surface of the blade hidden within, his eyes closed and again, he was transported back in time.

As the war drew nearer to the keep, his father had ordered all women and children to take shelter in the secret passage just inside the inner bailey. “Keep the heid!” (Stay calm) his father had said to him. “Stay close to your mither and look after her. I shall return to ye soon.” And with that his father had left, ridding off on his beast with his army following. 

War cries penetrated the stone walls of the keep and Kieran imagining the worst, snuck away from his mother. Something had caught his attention and he remembered his father’s words … look after her He held close the carved dagger his father had given to him, swearing under his breath to cut down those that came their way. Bold words for a frightened boy of only six winters. 

As he peeked through the space between the stones in the wall, enemy soldiers spotted him. Word spread quickly to Lord MacShane that the women and children had been discovered. Instructing Sir Connor to follow with the cavalry, Lord MacShane rode with all his might fearing for his wife and son. 

Being the first to reach, he had died protecting his wife and child and the families of his men. Kieran faulted himself. As the events of the day wore down his mental strength, Kieran felt only one miserable tear roll down his cheek. It was as if he was made of stone, lost to all those that he had loved.