A Soldier's Salvation

by Aileen Adams

  What, then, had Alan to gain? Furthering peaceful relations between the clans? It could’ve been, and had Ross Anderson been alive, he might have advised such a match for that motive alone. The two clans, bordering each other’s lands as they did, had been at one sort of war or another for generations prior to Rodric’s birth. His grandfather and two uncles had, in fact, been killed by members of the McAllister clan.

  That was behind them—at least, it had been Ross Anderson’s chief purpose to make it so. Alan could easily claim that he’d been only attempting to further his father’s cause.

  Why start things anew, then? Why not work with Connor rather than against him?

  Not that Connor McAllister was a man who believed in dealing fairly, of course. Rodric had never borne much goodwill for the man, who he knew had all but abandoned his stepdaughter after practically causing his wife’s death. Any fool could’ve seen the woman wasn’t fit to bear his children—or, seeing as how Caitlin was so healthy and vibrant, that he wasn’t fit to sire living babes.

  A rough creature of slovenly habits, if he remembered correctly. His housemaid and cook had often gossiped about their neighbor, and from what he remembered of the conversations on which he’d eavesdropped, the man had fallen into ruin after Caitriona’s death. He’d stopped caring for himself entirely.

  Because he’d loved her? Because of the guilt he surely had to struggle with? Regardless of the reason why, he’d become a hardened, bitter, slovenly man who was more than likely partly to blame for any inflammation between the clans.

  Rodric could just imagine the two of them going head-to-head. His grim smile set off another twinge of stinging pain from the blow Caitlin had delivered.

  The pain would pass.

  Knowing that he’d hurt her wouldn’t fade so easily.

  He hadn’t been able to help himself, though the knowledge did nothing to ease the crushing guilt at the memory of her crestfallen face. She hadn’t deserved it. He’d been a cruel beast for making it sound as though she’d been little more than a trollop.

  When he thought of her grief at the notion of being sold in marriage to his brother…

  The courage it took for her to run…

  The skill she’d used to survive the journey…

  His heart swelled with pride. His Caitlin, if she still wanted to be his after the terrible way he’d treated her.

  He’d find a way to make it up. He’d express his sorrow and explain that he’d only wanted to see how she’d react. To test how she’d truly felt about her marriage—to understand whether it was simply Alan she’d been opposed to, or the entire idea of marriage to someone other than himself.

  He’d gotten a face full of butter for his efforts, but then he’d never been good at expressing himself in a way which wouldn’t earn a slap in the face. Especially when it came to her and her temper.

  When the house came into view—at a distance—his heart swelled with pride and longing he hadn’t realized existed.

  He did love it so. He had missed it so.

  Perhaps that had been another reason for staying away, one he hadn’t considered a possibility. Staying far away because the thought of returning to a place which held such deep significance in his heart was too much to bear. Knowing he’d have to leave again, that his brother would undoubtedly make decisions which would put the two of them at odds and drive a wedge between them tight enough that it might never be removed.

  The future of the clan and of the tenuous relationship they’d always had were too important to jeopardize over nothing more than a little homesickness.

  The house grew larger as he continued to ride, though at a slower pace than before. He wanted to drink it in with his eyes, to hold it in his mind as there was no way of telling when he’d be back.

  The rock wall had been repaired, he noted, the stones no longer crumbling. Someone had long since patched the thatched roof, too—a good thing, since it had leaked even before he took his leave and like as not would’ve been clear open to the sky by then. So Alan had seen to it that the house was kept in good order.

  The fields were well-kept, too, the hay neatly baled and stacked against one of the barn’s long outer walls where it could quickly be brought into use by the lads who tended the livestock. His shoulders and back ached at the memory of long hours spent with the beasts, cleaning their stalls and ensuring they were fed and watered.

  The sort of work that made a man a man, his father used to remind him with a gleam in his eye and a bit of a smile.

  Would that he were still alive. So many things might have gone differently.

  A game he often played with himself, a habit he’d tried to break long since. The unfortunate habit of wallowing like a pig. How would life differ if Ross Anderson had lived until his middle son returned from war?

  A waste of time to dwell on these matters. Things were the way they were. Nothing could change it. He had only to make the best of what had transpired.

  He reached the split-log fence which separated the pen where the horses took the air and rode along its length, noting the neighs from inside the stables as well as the snorts and bellows from inside the barn. So Alan was indeed responsible for the thriving conditions around the place. It spoke well of his abilities. Perhaps he had changed somewhat over the years.

  Not enough to keep Caitlin from running away, a voice inside his head whispered.

  “Is that young Rodric?” An old woman in a smudged apron and kirtle came on the run from the side door which led to the kitchen. At least, she tried to run, though at her advanced age the attempt was all but futile. Cook had seemed ancient to him even all those years earlier.

  He quickly dismounted, tossing the reins over a fencepost before meeting her with arms outstretched. It sounded as though she were weeping when she fell against his chest.

  “It’s a blessing, to be sure,” she sniffled, shoulders shaking. “We thought the worst many a time, young Rodric.”

  “Not so young anymore,” he chuckled in an attempt to brighten the old woman’s spirits. “It’s been a good many years since last we saw one another.”

  “Too many years.” And now it sounded as though she were accusing him of something. When she straightened up, her watery, faded blue eyes were hard with anger. “What did you think you were about, staying away for so long? Worrying us all near to death. This is your home, young man.”

  Time had not softened her tongue, nor her spirits.

  He winced with embarrassment even as he slung an arm over her shoulders and steered her in the direction of the kitchen door. “You know how it is, Cook. A man’s life doesn’t always follow a straight line.”

  “Nonsense.” She sniffled before blowing her nose on a handkerchief which she tucked back into her sleeve. “There’s no excuse for leaving the ones who love you with no word of your well-being, Rodric Anderson.”

  “Surely you knew I was living.” He chuckled, embarrassment clawing at him in spite of the lighthearted manner he pretended.

  “We knew you were living, aye, but nothing of how you were living. And I thought you’d come back for the wedding feast, too.”

  He froze just before stepping foot over the threshold. “You did?”

  “Aye,” she replied, stepping inside without hesitation. “What with your brother being wed and you and young Caitlin always having been such good friends. When we didn’t receive word from you…”

  She went on, her voice fading into the background of his thoughts.

  He hadn’t gotten word of the wedding until after it had taken place. No one had alerted him to the upcoming event. The sudden knowledge of his brother’s marriage had hit him like a death blow to the chest, as though a bludgeon had caught him at the height of its force and knocked the life from him.

  Yet the household had been led to believe he was aware the wedding ceremony was to take place, that he’d simply ignored the announcement.

  Damn that Alan. Not until that moment was Rodric certain that his brothe
r had understood the full weight of what Caitlin meant to him. What had he expected? A violent brawl on her behalf?

  Cook was unaware of the turmoil in his head, prattling on about everything he’d missed. Who had wed whom, who was no longer in the clan’s service, who had come into the household to replace those who’d left. He wouldn’t have been able to keep track of it all even if he’d been paying attention.

  “The kitchen looks the same,” he observed, looking about himself.

  Unlike the repairs which had been done to the outside of the house, the kitchen appeared just as rundown and overcrowded as ever.

  “No one will be touching my kitchen,” the old woman warned, eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Naturally, she would never have allowed anyone to step in and advise her to run things more efficiently. Several young women bustled about, cutting and plucking and watching him as though he were the first interesting person who’d crossed the threshold in years.

  Perhaps he was.

  “I’d expect nothing less.” He eyed the doorway which led to the great hall.

  She read his gaze. “Your brothers are both at home—I only just served the midday meal,” she murmured. “Late, of course, but Alan rarely rises from bed before late morning. The evening meal is sometimes served close to midnight.”

  “I see. I suppose neither he nor Padraig received word of Gavin McMannis’s passing?”

  “Och, we heard of that,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Your brother instructed that none of us were to leave for the services, as there was more than enough work to be done about the house. I had planned on calling upon poor Sorcha McMannis on my afternoon off.”

  “I see.” It was a stupid thing to do, but well in keeping with Alan’s general disregard for anyone but himself. A graveside appearance, even a brief one, would have spread goodwill. He’d never cared much for behaving with diplomacy.

  One reason of many why it would’ve been better had he not been born first.

  “I suppose I should continue on,” he murmured, rather unsure of himself all of a sudden.

  What would he find when he confronted his brother, who now rarely rose from bed before mid-morning and had refused to pay his respects to a lifelong neighbor? Just how had leadership changed him?

  And what could Rodric possibly do about it?

  11

  The great hall was dark, the drapes pulled closed over every one of the tall, narrow windows which lined both of the long walls. Their home was nothing like the Duncan house, whose great hall could easily have sat one hundred men or more, but the room was just as imposing as he’d remembered.

  The table was still set, the servants only just clearing away what was left of the meal his brothers had shared. So much food for only two of them, with so much left over. What a waste. He picked up a chicken leg and sank his teeth into the succulent, if slightly cold, flesh.

  He left the room through an arched doorway which led him to the entry hall. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting the history of the Andersons. He knew every one of them by heart, having studied them time and again throughout his youth. The glorious history of his clan had always interested him, something which had pleased his father to no end.

  It was one of those tapestries he was examining when Alan’s voice rang out. “You think you’ll find something there you haven’t already learned?”

  He sounded pleasant, perhaps even glad to see his brother, and Rodric turned to face him with a smile.

  What he saw shocked him, though he thought he did a good job of concealing the surprise at what his once-strapping brother had become.

  He’d gained weight. Quite a lot of it. The man wasn’t yet thirty and yet looked at least ten years older. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and a permanent flush colored his cheeks and nose. Too much food and drink. He’d always had a weakness for overindulgence.

  The two clasped hands, Alan holding on a bit longer than he needed to. “Aye, you’re looking healthy,” he observed, his grey eyes shrewd. Waiting to see what his brother’s response would be.

  “And you seem to have taken well to your position in the clan,” Rodric replied as diplomatically as possible.

  It seemed unlikely, his brother’s change in appearance, seeing as how he’d always been rather vain about his physique. Always looking to impress the lasses with his strength, the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his arms and thighs as he rode on the back of his favorite stallion.

  Why concern himself with that anymore? He was head of the clan. That was impressive enough.

  “Aye, I have at that,” Alan agreed, clapping Rodric on the back before leading him to the room just off the entry hall which had served as their father’s study.

  It would be Alan’s study now.

  “The house and fields are well-kept,” Rodric continued, wondering if his ploy to get in his brother’s good graces was as obvious as it felt coming from his tongue. “You’ve truly taken to leadership.”

  “You needn’t sound so surprised.” Alan sat in a high-backed chair behind a long table which Rodric could remember being filled with advisors during clan meetings. It looked strangely empty with only one man seated there, even if that man took of the space of three ordinary men.

  “I’m merely complimenting you.” Rodric noted the absence of an invitation to sit, so he remained standing with hands clasped behind his back.

  Alan shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. One thing Father taught me: leave the work you’re no good at to the men who are good at it.”

  “I see,” Rodric murmured, nodding. “Who have you left this work to, then?”

  “Padraig. He has a genius for such matters. I was never much good at managing the workers,” Alan admitted. “I’m not too big a man that I cannot acknowledge my shortcomings.”

  Rodric bit his tongue at his brother’s unfortunate choice of words.

  Once he was certain he wouldn’t laugh, he asked, “Where is he, then? I would enjoy the chance to speak with him. He’s a man by now, I imagine.”

  “He is, though I make it a point to remind him who’s the youngest son.” Alan chuckled.

  A young woman appeared seemingly from out of thin air, though Rodric knew she must have come through the almost hidden door in the wall between the study and the kitchen.

  “Ale,” he barked. “And be certain to bring a tankard for my brother.”

  Rodric had no intention of drinking, as this was not a celebration or even a mere social call, but he knew better than to refuse Alan. Best not to draw his ire too early.

  “Please, sit, sit, no need to stand there as though you were a mere visitor. This is still your home, whether you choose to treat it as such or not.” A lock of dark red hair fell over his brow when he leaned forward. “And why have you been away so long? Why did you not return at the war’s end?”

  “You ask the question so simply, as though the answer were that simple,” Rodric muttered with a smirk.

  “Why does it have to be complicated?”

  “Because it simply is. I needed something to do for myself, something which didn’t involve the clan.”

  “There was more than enough work here for you, especially as I secured our holdings after Father died.” An edge crept into Alan’s voice which he didn’t try to conceal. The reappearance of the kitchen lass couldn’t have come at a better time. They remained silent as she poured the ale, not speaking again until they were alone.

  “It seems you’ve handled everything very well,” Rodric reminded him, keeping his tone low and light. “I doubt I could’ve done anything to improve upon what you’ve built.”

  “Stop complimenting me as if I were some trollop you’re looking to bed.” Alan laughed, not without humor. “You only see things now, after much work and many sleepless nights. When our father closed his eyes for the last time, the McAllisters took it as a sign that they could step in and take the lands we’ve held for centuries. The filthy bastards.” He slung back his first cup of
ale as easily as though he were drinking water, wiping his mouth on his sleeve once he’d drained the vessel.

  “You managed to hold them off without violence.”

  “Indeed, though not without many rather interesting meetings between ourselves and his men. He lost several to my sword before finally giving in and agreeing to compromise.” Alan snickered. “Old Connor McAllister, the sly devil. He truly believes himself a master of negotiation, thinks he’s the smartest man in the room.”

  “I remember that about him.” Among other things.

  “Lucky for him, I was getting over a fall from my horse and not in full spirits, or I would’ve blackened both his eyes. But as it was, I felt a bit more generous than is normally in my nature, and I allowed him to talk me into an agreement.”

  He cut his eyes to the side, away from Rodric’s, a familiar gesture which told more than he intended to tell. It wasn’t entirely Connor’s idea for Alan and Caitlin to wed, no matter how Alan tried to retell the story. Rodric would’ve bet anything Alan put the idea in the man’s head and then pretended that he’d allowed himself to be swayed.

  “An agreement which, from what I understand, you’ve now forfeited,” Rodric murmured.

  “He forfeited first.” Alan slammed down the pitcher of ale after filling his cup once again and draining it as expertly as he had before. Rodric wondered why he didn’t simply drink straight from the pitcher. “He forfeited when that bitch ran from me. That was the compromise we made. Peace, so long as we united the clans in marriage.”

  Rodric drew in a deep breath, ready to give his brother a talking to—if not a good pummeling, for no man spoke of Caitlin McAllister that way in his presence—when the door behind him opened.

  “I heard of your arrival but hardly believed it.”