The Highlander's Iron Lady by Lydia Kendall

Author:Lydia Kendall
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Highland
Published: 2019-08-03T16:00:00+00:00

It was fever that gripped Camden in the wake of his wound. The surgeon had done what he could, and now it was left to the judgment of whatever deity one subscribed to. The puncture itself was healing itself back together with great speed, but the infection in Camden’s blood raged on, seemingly determined to snuff the life out of the great warrior.

But Camden, not ready to sail into that wild sea, would not suffer it to consume him. So as his body raged against itself within, Camden slept and writhed and sweated.

Camden drifted in and out of consciousness as people came and went from the hut, changing the blankets around him and wiping his brow with cold water. They rubbed droplets on his lips to stem the dry cracking, and all the while he shuddered against the storm that raged within him for a fortnight.

He could see a brilliant field, lit up in the bright stare of the sun, and on the grass before him a great army was assembled, a Scottish army. He walked slowly down from his vantage point, meandering through the rigid ranks of pike-wielding Scotsmen, standing at attention and not seeming to notice him.

At first he was bewildered and awed by the host, but as he walked onward through the lines he became cold and frightened. Their faces were that of dead men, and their coats of arms were those of dead Houses, and Camden began to run. He ran and clawed his way through the assembly, brushing past glittering mail and creased tartans, shoving through the shimmering shields, and barreling past complacent warhorses.

The sky darkened, and the clouds came together above him in a great, black mass. Rain began to fall, and it quickly turned to hail, sending an endless chorus of clattering as the rocks of ice struck against the dead mens’ mail and bascinet helmets.

Camden whirled about, panicking, terribly frightened now. He could see nothing but the stark faces of the dead, and their indifference to him only made matters worse. Frantically he pushed onwards, scrambling against the tide as the rain poured down, until he fumbled and fell in the quickening mud, and began to sob there at the feet of a dead man.

But a hand reached down and touched beneath Camden’s chin and all the rain stopped in an instant. It was a hand he well knew, and it lifted his head to look upwards. His father looked down at him, his smile soft and somber.

“Me lad,” his father said, crouching down to Camden’s level. “Get up.”

“Faither,” Camden cried out, reaching upwards in glee. His father took his arm and helped haul him to a crouch, and the two squatted among the ranks of still soldiers.

“All the way,” his father said, and hoisted Camden to his feet. As they stood, all the dead soldiers faded away, and the two were left alone in the field, again bright from the quickly quit clouds. “There ye are.”

“Ye came for me,” Camden could not help but smile.

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