Isla's Heart

The Request

In the Year of our Lord 1327

"What you need lad, is a good soft woman to thaw that icy heart of yours. That's what ye need."

These words had been said to Conall Cameron many a time over the last six years he'd been waging war across the land that would be Robert Bruce's. The statement was generally said with a slur and while his good friend Gills Owen was well into his cups. Conall merely smiled blandly and continued sharpening his broadsword.

The day had been a victory and most of the men were laughing and drinking their way into a good celebration. Conall, knowing the storm was never far away rarely took part in these moments of calm.

They'd been baiting the English for weeks and had finally taken them in the night at Stanhope Park. Conall did laugh now; the English were such easy game. Asleep in their beds they'd barely opened one eye before Sir James Douglas, Conall's fearless leader, charged the camp. Everyone screaming, "Douglas!". It would be another legend in Sir Douglas' favor. He supposed for himself as well. He'd slain more than his fair share but the victory of the kill no longer fed him the way it once had.

Conall shook his head, clearing his mind of such maudlin thoughts. He was a warrior and a warrior never stopped to give wonder to his deeds, you'd go insane if you took that route. Better to clean your weapons, plan your next move and listen to your drunken lout of a friend ramble on about the charms of a good whore.

"I think that lad wishes a word with you, Con."  Gills pointed at a mess of a little man anxiously standing nearby with a serious expression upon his face. The action sent wine sloshing acrossed Conall's boots but Gills showed no remorse.

Conall looked up with disinterest at the young lad, "What do you want?'

"I've come with a missive from your father, sir." The lad's voice carried a trimmer. 

"I have no father," Conall spit and returned his attention back to his work.

"Oh." The boy took on a pained look, "they told me you were Sir Conall Cameron of Lochiel, son of Laird Alasdair Cameron".

The broadsword fell out of Conall's deft fingers; he looked up at the boy with startled gray eyes. It had been nigh on twenty years since he'd heard that name. His father's name .... God, he'd not even thought the name in as long!  He held out his hand for the missive, with a flinch the little creature flung the parchment at Conall and took to his heels. 

Sobering quickly and seeming to gather his young friend's inability to go further than just holding the surprising message, Gills leaned in and gently took the paper from the trembling hands that possessed it.

"I'll read it first, lad. See if there is anything worth knowing."  

As Gill read, Conall's mind buzzed with mundane thoughts. There were more fires set up around the camp this evening, more men wandered around with self satisfied looks upon their dirty faces, and the first strings of lusty sounds could be heard coming from many a tent.

Ah, the whores that often followed the motley crew were well at work. He should find a nice fair haired wench for sport; it had been awhile since he'd given in to his baser needs. But no, they were never fair enough, never soft enough, never what he really wanted. 

It was Gills aggressively clearing his throat that finally dragged Conall back to the situation at hand. The situation he had no desire to face. He realized then that he'd rather find the ugliest, most ill tempered whore on the grounds rather than hear the words that man had sent him. But he was not a coward, if he'd done anything since being exiled from his beloved Highlands; it was prove that he was scared of no one.