‘Twas impossible to keep a note of defeat from his tone. Let his men think ‘twas because he dreaded marriage to Lady Elspeth… When Robena met his gaze, he knew she understood the truth.
Their here and now would only last a few more days.
A new voice drifted from the shadows. “Only a few more days until the piping competitions.”
‘Twas Pudge, who’d been scouting for places to stand watch. Now he melted into the firelight, holding Robena’s gaze. “Ye think ye have a shot at winning, lad?”
Kester watched Robena swallow then nod.
“Well….” Pudge folded his arms and leaned his hip against the same boulder. “We havenae heard ye pipe yet. We ken ye’re skilled with yer fingers and voice, but can ye pipe?”
“Aye, Robbie!” Giric nudged her with his boot. “Let us hear some piping!”
She swallowed again, glancing around the circle of firelight at each of the men. Her gaze landed on Kester and hesitated. Finally, she nodded and stood.
As the men called out encouragement and mockery, she carefully unwrapped her pipes from their bundle. ‘Twas obvious she cared deeply for them.
With a strong stance, she settled back on her heels beside the cheerful fire, took a deep breath, inflated the bag….
And the notes swept around their little camp.
The song was low and soft and haunting. Something a man could listen to as he drank quietly on a winter’s eve. ‘Twas easy to imagine the mournful tune as a dirge, or mayhap a lament for times gone by.
The men sat or stood silently, their attention on the auburn-haired, mustached beauty who played with her eyes closed.
The song changed, wrapping them in a beat—which should be impossible with only the pipes and no accompaniment. Kester saw horses thundering into battle, and comrades lost, and swords put aside. He saw a life growing old, mourning what was gone, disappointment at chances missed.
Across the circle, Mook dropped his head to his forearms. Auld Gommy stared at the fire, blinking fiercely. Weesil and Giric watched with mouths agape as Robena swept them all into another sound, this one more celebratory.
This sound was for dancing and loving and laughter, a pretty lass on a cold night, and all the ale one could drink. ‘Twas joy and hope and the laughter of bairns, of knowing your life was as good as you could hope, and that you were safe.
It hurt just as much as the mournful dirge.
Because Robena had opened her eyes. She’d opened her eyes and looked right at him, and Kester knew this song was for him. They all were.
Because their time together was nearly over.
When Robena finally blew her last note, silence descended over the circle of firelight.
There were one or two sniffs from Mook, and someone cleared his throat once, twice.
And then Pudge took a deep breath. “Aye, Robbie,” he finally said, exhaling. “I think ye might just win.”
“Where’d ye learn to play like that?” Giric whispered, eyes still wide.
Robena’s fingers trailed over the pipes, her chin ducked low, as if she would rather still be playing. “I-I practiced atop the battlements,” she confessed. “Where I couldnae bother anyone.”
The mystery of the ghostly piper is solved, then.
Kester nodded. “Ye have a real talent, la-lad.” His throat felt thick and his eyes burned.
She ducked her head as she turned away. “Thank ye. Ex-excuse me.”
When she dropped her pipes near her saddle, ‘twas with less care than they’d been given before. Kester could tell she was hurting and pushed himself to his feet, staring after her as she escaped into the darkness, before he realized what he was doing.
He took a step toward the woods where she’d disappeared, and then Pudge was beside him.
“She’ll follow the stream,” he murmured, low enough the others wouldn’t hear him. “She’s shite at woodlore.”