Scotland 1446
"Pintle head!"
"Dog droppings!"
Cormac Armstrong almost laughed as the angry childish
voices halted his slow, resigned descent into
unconsciousness. It seemed a cruel jest of fate that he
would slowly bleed his young life away to the sharp sounds
of bairns taunting each other. The sound filled him with
an overwhelming melancholy. It stirred memories of all the
times he had quarreled with his brothers, painfully
bringing him to the realization that he would never see
them again.
"Ye are ugly!"
"Oh, aye? Hah! Weel, I say that ye are ugly, too, and
stupid!"
The sound of a small fist hitting a small body was swiftly
followed by the raucous sound of children fighting. More
young voices cut through the chill, damp morning air as
the other children cheered on their selected champions. It
sounded as if there was a veritable horde of children on
the other side of the thicket he hid behind. Cormac prayed
that they would stay where they were, that none of them
would cross to his side of the thicket and innocently
become involved in his desperate troubles. A heartbeat
later, he cursed, for he realized his prayers were to go
unanswered.
Huge brilliant green eyes and a mass of thick raven curls
were the first thing he saw and a thin, small girl
wriggled through the thicket and knelt at his side. She
was an enchanting child and Cormac desperately wished she
would go away, far away. He did not think his enemies were
still following his trail, but he could be wrong, and this
fey child would be brutally pushed aside by them, perhaps
even killed or injured.
"Go, lassie," he ordered, his voice little more than a
hoarse, trembling whisper. "Take all your wee companions
and flee this place. Quickly."
"Ye are bleeding," she said after looking him over.
His eyes widened slightly as she began to smooth her tiny,
soft hand over his forehead. Her voice was surprisingly
deep for such a wee lass, almost sultry. More voice than
girl, he mused.
"Aye," he agreed, "and I will soon be dead, which isnae a
sight for those bonny, big eyes."
"Nay, ye willnae die. My mither can heal most any hurt, ye
ken. I am Elspeth Murray."
"And I am Cormac Armstrong." He was startled when he found
the strength to shake the tiny hand she thrust at him. "Ye
must nay tell your mother about me."
"Ye need my mither to make ye stop bleeding."
"Lass, I am bleeding because someone is trying verra hard
to kill me."
"Why?"
"They say I am a murderer."
"Are ye?"
"Nay."
"Then my mither can help ye."
Cormac desperately wanted to allow the child to fetch her
mother to heal his wounds. He did not want to die. He
certainly did not want to die for a crime he had not
committed, at least not before he could clear that black
stain from his name. It was all so unfair, he thought,
then grimaced. He realized that he sounded very much like
a child himself.
"Ah, poor laddie," she murmured. "Ye are in pain. Ye need
quiet. I will tell the bairns to hush." Before he could
protest, she rose and walked back to the edge of the
thicket, thrusting herself partway through. "Ye can all
just shut your wee mouths," Elspeth yelled in an
astoundingly loud, commanding voice. "There is a poor mon
bleeding o'er here and he needs some peace. Payton, take
your wee thin legs and run. Find Donald or my fither. Get
someone, for this laddie sore needs help."
The only thing Cormac could think of to say when she
returned to his side was, "I am nay a laddie. I am a mon,
a hunted mon." He softly cursed as he watched other
children begin to wriggle their way through the thicket.
"How old are ye?" Elspeth asked as she began to smooth her
small hand over his forehead again.
"Seventeen." Cormac wondered how such a tiny hand could be
so soothing.
"I am nine today. Tis why so many Murrays are gathered
together. And, ye are a lad. My fither says anyone beneath
one and twenty years is a lad or a lass and some are ne'er
any more, e'en if they grow as old and bit as he has. Tis
what he told my cousin Cordell when he turned sixteen and
was boasting of what a fine, grand stallion of a mon he
was."
"Aye," agreed an amber-eyed child who was even smaller
than Elspeth, as she sat down next to him. "Uncle Balfour
says a lad needs to gain his spurs, get himself a wife and
bairns, and bring honor to both duties ere he can prance
about and declare himself a mon. Why is he bleeding,
Elspeth?"
"Because he has a few muckle great holes in him, Avery."
Elspeth briefly grinned when the other children giggled.
"I can see that. How did he get hurt?"
"Someone is trying to make him pay for a murder he didnae
commit."
"Lass," Cormac glanced around at what was an astonishing
array of eleven beautiful children then fixed his gaze
upon Elspeth, "I said I was innocent, but ye cannae be
sure I was telling ye the truth."
"Aye, ye are," Elspeth said firmly.
"No one can lie to Elspeth," said a tall, slender boy
crouched to the left of him.
"I am Ewan, her brother, and 'tis a most troublesome
thing, I can tell ye."
Cormac almost smiled, but then fixed a stern gaze on the
lad who looked to be a little older than Elspeth. "Then
she will also ken that I speak the truth when I tell her I
am naught but trouble, deadly trouble, and that she should
just leave me to my fate. Ye should all hie away home ere
the danger sniffing at my heels reaches your gates."
The boy opened his mouth to speak then rapidly closed it.
Cormac followed his wide gaze to his sister and his own
eyes widened slightly. She was sitting very straight, her
beautiful eyes fixed unwaveringly upon her hapless
brother. There was a very stern, very adult look upon her
small face. Cormac could easily sympathize with the boy's
reluctance to argue with that look. "Ewan, why dinnae ye
and the other laddies see if ye can find something to make
a litter," Elspeth said. "Oh, and ere ye skip off to do as
ye are told, ye can give me that wineskin ye took from
Donald."
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