Stephen never saw Chris alive again.
The winter sun was just setting when four of Bronwyn’s men rode through the gates at the mouth of the peninsula. Their clothes were torn and bloody. One man bore a long, jagged gash across his cheek.
Stephen was on the training field, listening to Tam instruct him in the use of the lochaber axe. Bronwyn stood close by, watching the men.
Tam was the first one to see the disheveled and wounded men. He dropped the axe and ran forward, Stephen and Bronwyn close behind him. “What is it, Francis?” he gasped, pulling the young man from his horse.
“MacGregor,” he said. “The hunting party was attacked.”
Stephen was on his horse before Francis had dismounted. The boy looked up at Stephen. “Two miles past the loch on the East Road.” Stephen nodded once before he rode away. He didn’t seem to be aware that both Bronwyn and Tam were trying to keep up with him.
The fading sunlight flashed off Chris’s armor as he lay so still on the cold Scots ground. Stephen leaped from his horse and knelt beside his friend. He tenderly pushed back the face plate.
He didn’t look up when he heard the voice of one of Chris’s men over his shoulder. “Lord Chris wanted to show the Scots how the English could fight,” the man said. “He put on his armor and planned to meet the MacGregor face to face.”
Stephen glanced down at Chris’s quiet form. He knew the heavy armor had made his friend immobile, and the MacGregor had been free to hack at Chris at will. There were places unprotected by the armor, and now there were dents and mutilations in the steel.
“They tried to save him.”
Stephen noticed for the first time the three Scotsmen who lay beside Chris. Their strong young bodies were bloody and ugly.
Stephen felt rage well up inside him. His friend! His friend was dead. He stood, then grabbed Bronwyn, turned her so she faced the four dead men.
“This is what has happened because of your escapade. Look at them! Do you know them?”
“Yes,” she managed to whisper as she stared at them. She’d known the young men all her life, for all their short lives. She looked away.
Stephen buried his hands in her hair, pulling her head painfully back. “Do you remember the sound of their voices? Can you hear their laughter? Do they have any family?” He moved her head so she looked at Chris. “Chris and I were fostered together. We spent our childhoods together.”
“Let me go!” she said desperately.
Abruptly Stephen released her. “You drugged me and led your men in a cattle raid, and you carved your initial on the MacGregor. Stupid, childish actions! And now we have paid for your actions, haven’t we?”
She tried to hold her head high. She wouldn’t believe he was right.
Douglas held his Claymore aloft. He’d ridden to the scene behind Bronwyn and his father. “We must revenge this act,” he said loudly. “We must ride now and fight the MacGregor.”
“Yes!” Bronwyn shouted. “We must repay him now!”
Stephen took one step forward and sank his fist into Douglas’s face. He grabbed the Claymore just before Douglas fell.
“Hear me and hear me well,” Stephen said in a quiet voice that carried to all the men. “This will be settled, but not by more blood being shed. This is a useless feud, and I’ll not retaliate by drawing more blood. More deaths will not bring these men back.” He gestured to the four bloody corpses at his feet.
“You’re a coward,” Douglas said in a low voice as he stood, rubbing his bruised jaw.
Before Stephen could speak, Tam stood next to his son. In his hand was his dirk. He held it low, aimed at his son’s ribs. “Ye may disagree with the man, but ye’ll not call him a coward,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice.
Douglas locked eyes with his father, then he nodded once before he turned to Stephen. “We’ll be willin’ to follow ye,” he said after a while.
“Follow him!” Bronwyn fairly shouted. “I am the MacArran. Are you forgetting that he’s an Englishman?”
Tam spoke for his son. “I don’t think we’ve forgotten so much as we’ve learned,” he said quietly.
Bronwyn didn’t ask what he’d learned. She looked at the faces of one man after another, and she could see they were changing toward her. Had it been a gradual thing, or did they too blame her for the men’s deaths? She took a step backward from them, feeling as if she should put her hands up in protection. “No,” she whispered before she turned and ran for her horse.
She didn’t care where she went or how far. Tears blurred her vision so badly she could barely see. She rode for miles, across the hills and lochs. She never even noticed when she left the MacArran land.
“Bronwyn!” someone from behind her screamed.