The Wedding Read Online Free PDF Page A

sword. Leave the blood upon the blade so Kincaid will see it.”
    â€œFather, none of the MacAlisters will follow me if I go to their enemy.”
    â€œYou will do as I command,” his father said. “You’re too young to understand, and so you must trust my judgment. I want your promise that you will go to Kincaid now.”
    â€œYes, Father.”
    Donald nodded. “The time has come for you to bid me good-bye. We’ve dallied long enough, and I’ve put off dying for as long as I dare. Even now I can feel myself slipping into sleep.”
    Connor tried, but he couldn’t seem to make himself let go of his father’s hand.
    â€œI will miss you,” he whispered.
    â€œAnd I, you.”
    â€œI love you, Father.”
    â€œWarriors do not speak of such feelings. I love you too, son, but I won’t be telling you so.”
    He squeezed Connor’s hand as a way of softening his rebuke, and finally closed his eyes. He was ready to let death have him, for he had seen the fire burning bright in Connor’s eyes, and he knew he would be avenged. What more could a father ask?
    Donald MacAlister died a few minutes later, still clinging to his son’s hand. He died as he had lived, with honor, dignity, and on his own stubborn terms.
    Connor lingered by his father’s side for as long as he could, until he heard someone whispering to him from behind. He turned to see a young soldier struggling to sit up. Connor couldn’t remember his name, and from the distance separating them, he couldn’t tell how serious his injuries were. He motioned to the soldier to stay where he was, then turned back to his father. He picked up the sword resting on his chest, bowed his head in prayer for his father’s soul, and then crawled away, clutching the treasured sword to his heart. He eased over hot, glowing embers that blistered his arms and the bloody remains of friends, which made his eyes fill with tears.
    He finally reached the man who had called out to him and discovered the soldier wasn’t fully grown up, after all. Why, he couldn’t be more than two or three years older than Connor.
    Thankfully, he remembered the soldier’s name before reaching him. “Crispin, I thought you dead. Roll onto your back so I may tend your injuries, or you will surely die.”
    â€œThere isn’t time. They came here to kill both your father and you, Connor. Aye, that was their purpose. I heard one of the bastards boast of it to another. Leave before they come back and realize they’ve failed.”
    â€œThe enemy rests now. They won’t come back until the wine they drink wears off. Do as I command you to do.”
    Crispin slowly rolled over, visibly grimacing over the pain the movement caused.
    â€œIs your father dead?”
    â€œYes,” Connor answered. “He lived long enough to tell me what I must do. He died in peace.”
    Crispin began to weep. “My laird is dead.”
    â€œNay, Crispin. Your laird kneels before you.”
    Connor wouldn’t allow him to argue with him, or laugh over his boast, but gave him duty upon duty while he bandaged him. He told the soldier how he could help to repay their enemy for this atrocity, and when Connor was finished binding his wound, he had given the soldier something more powerful than anguish to fill his mind and his heart. He had given him hope.
    Although it was difficult because of his size, Connor eventually dragged Crispin to safety. He hid him away in the forest, well-protected by thick branches, and went back to the destruction twice more to drag out two others. One was Angus, the loyal soldier to whom his father had entrusted the duty of instructing his son. The other was a boy Connor’s age called Quinlan, who had only just arrived to begin his training the week before. His injuries were severe, and he was in such pain, he begged to be left alone. Connor was deaf to his pleas.
    â€œI decide