“Traitor,” Many had taken to calling her, along with a number of other choice words.

  Others preferred to dub Kenna guilty, of feminine weakness. Still others grumbled. Those closest to her continued to appreciate her, “Never thought she could have done such a thing, or be capable of such softness, given her treatment of her son.”

  This was the case of Freygil, who had little respect left for the seamstress. In previous days Ida might well have defended her, but in place of arguing with him, she remained quiet.

  It was this last response that stung Kenna, more than any other; the silence of her defenders. A champion could survive a great deal, but what one could not survive is the death of their reputation and the silence of their own defenders. Or so Kenna had observed in her time spent in disgrace after the position of headwoman was removed from her.

  Stripped of her post, by those around her at the insistence of Ealar, who had pushed for an immediate vote, amongst the citizens of Glasvhail, Kenna could do little more than hang her head in shame. To her surprise, and all those of her friends, Arran had not defended her rather he had insisted also upon the people voting as they pleased.

  Only Helga, her sister Doada and strangest of all Salmon had persisted in voting for her and in favour of her to remain Headwoman. They had failed, and though Salmon shunned Kenna afterwards, the lasses did not.

  Eillidh was a little upset later, when she heard of Rhona’s departure, complaining, “Did you have to send Rhona away?”

  “Aye, I did lass, she did not belong herewith us.” Kenna told her not unkindly, full of pity for the lass for she had recently found it difficult to make friends with the other children. Many had lost their parents, or had begun to appear as though they were losing the better part of their innocence.

  It made her feel guilty and wonder why it was that she had begun this journey, in the first place. Such thoughts always made her think back to Cormac, and how much she could have used his cheerful, optimistic unserious nature at her side. He always had the view that all would work itself out, and that all that life necessitated were friends and faith. Two things that to Kenna’s mind, she was in recent days sorely lacking in.

  The countryside of Bj?rndun had been left behind them, far to the west of their current position as they advanced as hurriedly as possible towards Sgain. It was therein the holiest of Caledonia’s cities that they hoped to find solace. To the right hand side of them lay the great Firth of Thern, which was said to have birthed the Caleds themselves.

  Her father always said that it was not the sea that birthed the Caled, but fire itself. Kenna mused to herself, thinking back wistfully to her childhood before Glasvhail.

  To the left hand side of the route they journeyed along, lay the great hills and mountains that Caledonia was so famous for. Or at least a number of them, the great green mountains, every inch the shining emeralds in the crown of the wild-lands of the great north of Bretwealda, appeared to both shield and menace them from a distance.

  These were the pride of the great northerly clans for it was there that they had long dwelt or looked to, to shield them from the south. It was thereupon the peaks of those great majestic mountains that Talorcan first declared his defiance to the legions of Roma, and their ambitions of conquest. There where freedom was declared which was that which no Caled could ever forfeit save with death, and death alone.

  This was the third time that Kenna beheld the mountain chains that had birthed her people. It was thereupon their peaks that she felt she had also lost her father. For he had as all the men of the far north of the Lairdly-Isle held a special love for the fields of the land, the glens, the firths but most of all the Highlands.

  Much as she wished to hold bitterness against them though, she could no more hate them, than she could Cormac or her Murchadh. Those mountains, for all that they had haunted her dreams as often as the sound of the sea did more and more, in recent days, it was nonetheless as much part of her as her arms or legs were.

  It was as she observed those distant mountains; those great prides and joys of so many Caleds, yet that served to divide it in twain; betwixt north and south, east and west.

  Those great mountains that had seen defiance renewed against Roma, against also the oppressive forces of Donnchad and his distant ancestor long before him, Mael-Martin I. Mountains that had also likewise held vile Cormgain and his ilk at bay, along with the likes of Razenth. The foul drake had in spite of finding a fine nesting place in that direction, had found that he could no more dominate the mountains than he could command the seas or the gods themselves. For the mountains’ many caverns were, the abode of the Dwarves of Caledonia.

  Men whom owed their allegiance as much to the High-King of the Caleds as the rest of those who lived south of the Wend and north of the lands of Norlion, and whom were thus more than keen to offer sustenance and safety to the King’s friends. This was one of the many reasons, the dragon had met his ultimate end; he had underestimated the strength of the people of the Mountains and to the north of them.

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  *****

  Arran found his way to her side. By this time Kenna had become enraptured by the mountains, had ceased to trail after her people not that it really made much difference to her. Most wished for naught else but to abandon her to her fate. Helga and Doada, along with Eillidh though were made of a different breed from the rest of the people of Glasvhail. It was they who continued to cling to her, and who understood her decision to free Tormod best of all the travelers.

  Though the old man was far, far taller than she and a-horse he trotted slowly and appeared a little bent in recent days, she had noticed.

  “They are magnificent, are they not?” Arran said to her, in an awkward voice even as the lasses pulled at her arms and called to her to follow after them. Kenna only nodded vaguely, not wishing to move for the moment, though she had no great wish for his company. Sensing this, the chieftain of the Gormcruach turned his attention to the lasses, to ask now of them, “I would like a few words alone with the lady, if you would.”

  “Nonsense, we will remain by her side,” Helga snapped bitterly to the surprise of her sister, Kenna and the surrounding Gormcruach who were at the rear of the long trail of travelers along the Thistle-Road.

  “Helga! Be careful of whom you displease,” Doada warned ever keen to avoid the Gormcruach, and their displeasure. A wise young woman, she had taken upon herself the role of surrogate mother and matriarch of her family and had found it a bitter weight to bear. Especially in recent days, since the seamstress’ disgrace, which had left the older woman almost as listless as Eillidh herself at times wise. The lass, was only of this sort of mind, when separated from Caileann whom she had come to look upon, as a kindly uncle.

  The eldest of Ainsley’s daughters though was betrayed by her youngest sister, who caught sight of the very Wolfram she was fond of. Lurching forward at a dead-run, she succeeded in slipping away from her sister who called after her. Heedless, Eillidh was soon swept up in Caileann’s arms, and hefted up onto his shoulder as he laughed alongside her.

  Furious, Doada hurried thither to give her sister a piece of her mind, with Kenna assuring Helga who appeared divided, in the face of the choices before her; to give chase or to cling to the seamstress.

  Reluctantly she did as bidden, though not without telling the mother of Cormac, “I shall rejoin you soon.”

  “Aye,” Kenna replied quietly.

  Walking slowly with the Gormcruach who lowered himself from his horse, “You should ride him.”

  Kenna laughed without cheer. Her response drew a startled glance from him, wherefore she informed him of the cause for her ribaldry, “If you knew me better, you would not make that offer. I have no great love for horse-riding.”

  “What? When did you renounce horses? I had thought you once loved them,” Arran exclaimed bewildered.

  His words flew over her head, saying in place of questioning of him. “I have not cared for them, since I was a wee lass, for ‘twas on horse-back that my father deserted me in Glasvhail.”

  Once again, she did not know why confided in a man who had usurped her authority and with whom, she had so recently quarrelled with. She had yet to forgive him his horrid treatment of Tormod, and he had yet to forgive her, for freeing the laird’s son. Yet she could not resist speaking to him in confidence.

  “Your father… you said he was a sell-sword,” Arran murmured quietly, “Have you ever spoken of him to your son?”

  The query was a strange one. Kenna shrugged helplessly, unsure of how to answer him. In truth, she had never told anyone save Murchadh and Olith, of how she had been abandoned. She suspected Salmon knew the truth, given how he had been one of those who had arrived to purchase some wool from her master Eachann, while her father was leaving and Kenna had given chase after him.

  “What difference does it make? Why the interest in my father, and Cormac? Nay, I never told the lad of his grandfather,” Kenna snapped as she became agitated by his words. Frustrated, she began to stomp forward away from him, “I have no need for your horse, nor do I have need of your silly words.”

  Arran followed her, if she hoped for his patented silence she was destined to be disappointed, when he continued their conversation. “I ask only out of interest and curiosity. Contrary, to what you may believe lass I bear you no ill-will.”

  “Then why do you insist upon discussing my father?” Kenna demanded in a fit of pique.

  She would never forget the faraway look in Arran’s eyes, avoiding hers he stared far off to the sea, “I simply wish to be your friend if nothing else, Kenna.”

  This truly made her laugh, if bitterly so. He had ruined her, ruined her reputation and reduced her to a near captive amongst her fellows of Glasvhail, and now he wished to be her friend?

  She could well-imagine how mad she must have appeared, to those around her. Chortling with such bitterness until tear sprung from her eyes. Whether they were tears of sorrow or of genuine amusement was a mystery to her, more than any other person.

  Arran only studied her, sorrow etched into his long face.

  “How could we possibly be friends?” She spat, unable to hide her sincere displeasure towards him. “After all that you have done? Nay, I must confess I would sooner forget you Arran of the Gormcruach, than to befriend her.”

  Arran did not answer her. Not for a long time, as was his wont. He was a silent man after-all, and one who had little use for words to communicate with those he was most accustomed to the company of. A warrior of the sort of mettle that Corin could only have envied, she found herself as they journeyed towards a nearby forest, the Thistlewoods if her memory was not mistaken, and he acted faster than thought.

  One moment she was walking a little ahead of him, the next she was seized by the waist, plucked off the ground and almost thrown bodily over the horse. Once astride it with legs upon the other side, he let loose a great laugh. His resemblance to a bear uncanny, just as it had been when she had first met him.

  The shriek that was torn from her lips astounded him. Calling out for all those before them to steer away from the path, Arran tied the reins around her wrists and gave a great slap to the horse’s rear.

  The previous shriek Kenna let slip was naught compared, to that which escaped her now.

  “Hold onto the reins as best you can lass!” Arran called after her with a bark of laughter.

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