The door to the cottage was open, and as he approached he heard the suffering moans of a woman and Zia’s comforting voice.
“It won’t be long,” he heard her say, and hoped it was true. He wanted to get Zia out of there as soon as possible.
“Zia,” he said, entering the cottage cautiously.
She turned, and while her eyes brightened, she didn’t smile. “I don’t have time for you right now.”
“We need to speak; it’s urgent.”
Zia handed a mug to one of the two women in the room with her. “Make sure she drinks this. It will help dispel the babe.”
Artair walked outside with her and kept his voice low. “You need to leave here.”
Zia looked appalled. “You can’t expect me to leave this woman now.”
“You are in danger.”
“So is she, and what danger?” she demanded.
“You are being investigated for witchcraft thanks to the village of Lorne. I need to take you somewhere I know you will be safe.”
“I cannot nor will I leave this woman.”
“How long?” he asked, having expected her response and prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe until she was ready to leave.
“Two maybe three days.”
He nodded, not believing it a problem, since it would take time for someone to be sent to investigate. He believed he would be able to get her safely to his home before then. In the meantime, he and his men could protect her.
“We will leave for my home when you finish here,” Artair said.
“Are you certain?”
He took gentle hold of her face. “Why would you ask that?”
It bothered him that she stepped away as if she wished to distance herself from him.
“I do not wish to bring trouble upon your family.”
He smiled, reached out and drew her into his arms. “My brothers relish a good fight.”
“But this is a different type of battle.”
“A battle nonetheless, and one we will win,” he assured her.
An agonizing scream ripped through the air and all but ripped them apart.
“I must go,” she said, already turning away.
“Can I help?”
Zia stopped at the open door. “Can you find a way to feed these people? They are starving.”
“Already done,” he said.
She smiled then, and it overwhelmed him, but not near as much as when she declared, “You’re my hero.”
He never considered himself a hero, but he liked the idea of being her hero.
His men were welcomed with tears and cries of joy when they returned with sufficient game for the whole village. It wasn’t long before the scent of roasting meat peppered the village and smiles decked most faces.
Artair spent his time between helping his men and checking to see how Zia was doing. She worked tirelessly, limp curls plastering her perspiring brow. She encouraged the laboring mother with soft words and assured her repeatedly that all would be fine.
Artair found the husband camped out on the side of the cottage, face in his hands, sobbing. He was barely old enough to be considered a man, but a man he needed to be.
“Crying will not help her,” he said, reaching his hand down to the lad.
The scrawny young man looked up, startled, wiped at his tears, then hesitantly grabbed for the offered hand. “I am Albert.”
Artair yanked him to his feet. “Albert, you’re a man who is about to be a father. You must be strong for your wife and child.”
“She suffers and I can do nothing,” he said.
“She needs your strength.” Artair grasped his shoulder. “Come eat and strengthen yourself. Then clean up and be ready to go to your wife a man.”
The lad nodded and stood a little taller as he walked with Artair to the roasting pit.
The villagers feasted, laughed, and offered prayers for mother and child and the healer who had brought them such fortunate luck.
That is until the feudal lord arrived with six of his men.
The villagers grew quiet and huddled close to each other when he and his men rode up to the roasting pit and stared at what was left of the carcasses.
His dark narrow eyes warned that he was not pleased and the tight set of his thin lips showed he fought to hold his tongue. He and his men looked well fed and their garments freshly woven. They obviously lived well off the sweat of others.
Artair stepped forward before any could be accused of theft. “I am Artair, brother to Cavan, laird of the Clan Sinclare of Caithness.”
The man’s eyes rounded and his demeanor immediately changed. “I am William, laird of the Clan MacWalter. You are most welcome on my land.”
Artair knew the Sinclare clan would be recognized and respected, actually feared by some. His clan was known for its fierce and noble warriors, and many paid homage to them in hopes of earning them as friends rather than foes.