Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (11 page)

Mist Warrior

D
ays passed since the memorial, and it had helped Branan heal, although he was not sure about Catriona and Gavin. They had thanked him for a beautiful ceremony, but otherwise did not speak of their loss. He resolved to keep a close eye on both of them.

Although most of the work at Thistlewood concentrated on rebuilding the tower, Branan did not ignore their military purpose. Each day, he gathered the men to work in the lists. Most were quite competent and Branan found himself enjoying the sparring. Branan also worked extensively with the younger lads. If the situation had been normal, young noble sons would foster with their laird, learning to fight, just as he had fostered with the de Reignys. It was a common practice and one that strengthened alliances between households, sometimes with marriages as the lady of the house not only raised her own daughters, but also fostered other girls.

Branan made sure the youths’ education lacked for nothing. Yet this situation offered a rare opportunity. Because of Thistlewood’s unique community, Branan trained any youth who wished to learn. It mattered not if they were serf or peasant, freeman or journeyman, tradesman or noble, he taught them all and he taught them well. Perhaps, those of lower rank could use his lessons to reach for a better life.

“An interesting technique you have, MacTavish,” de Courcy said as he approached the lists.

Branan told the lads to keep working and strode across the field to de Courcy. He glanced at the mercenary knights sparring a short distance away. Duguald and Gavin had joined them.

“The Scottish claymore has a different strategy than the English broadsword,” he said.

De Courcy nodded, his eyes glinting in a manner Branan did not like. He drew his own weapon, leaning against it like a cane. “And you mostly practice with whalebone or blunted weapons?”

“Aye. Especially with the youths. I dinna need anyone felled by a simple cut which might grow gangrenous.”

“Still, a man goes soft if he does not face a real weapon from time to time.” He paused and lifted his sword, gazing at it critically. “What say you, MacTavish, care to try that claymore of yours against this Englishman’s broadsword?”

Branan scowled. He had a feeling de Courcy hoped to embarrass him publicly and prove he was the greater swordsman. A sideways glance told him their conversation had gained the attention of the mercenaries. Branan knew he could not refuse the challenge, especially with such a stern lot of hired swords watching. “Verra well,” he said softly. “I shall try no’ to hurt ye.”

With a bitter smile, de Courcy stepped onto the list field. Branan hefted his claymore and followed.

Everyone stopped their work and gathered in a circle around them. Soon, they drew the attention of the women and children in camp and the crowd increased. Branan listened closely, and sure enough, the wagering began. The odds favored him, but many did not underestimate de Courcy.

De Courcy gave him a quick salute and immediately lunged, trying to drive his sword into Branan’s gut. Branan quickly slapped the man’s blade away and stepped to the side. He arched an eyebrow. Neither wore armor. Even though they worked with real weapons, this spar should not be as intense. “Be cautious, de Courcy, or one may think ye have it in fer me.”

De Courcy charged again, his broadsword lighter and faster than Branan’s claymore. Cautiously, Branan continued to defend. He had not achieved his physique lazing around his keep in Scotland. Hours upon hours of blood and sweat had forged not only his strength and stamina, but also a formidable defense that allowed him to wait until his opponent exhausted himself.

Silently they moved across the field, the only sound the ringing of their weapons. Branan maintained his defense and sensed de Courcy growing more desperate, struggling to find a way to breach it and failing, exhausting himself in the process. Branan waited patiently for the proper timing.

He again deflected de Courcy’s blade, but this time it went wide on the return stroke, leaving an opening. Branan instantly changed the tempo of the fight and launched his attack. De Courcy barely managed the block, staggering backward. Branan used the greater weight of his blade and his strength. Each blow drove de Courcy backward and opened his guard just a little more. De Courcy’s wasted energy now became a serious liability as his muscles could not find the strength to maintain his defense correctly.

Although the claymore was slower than the broadsword because of its heft and size, Branan demonstrated that it could still be wielded with amazing speed as he snapped it out and around, clearing de Courcy’s block completely. Branan lunged, holding the heavy blade in one hand is if it were as light as a feather, the weapon an extension of his arm. Branan’s size and reach, combined with the length of the claymore, allowed him to close an expansive amount of distance. De Courcy had no choice but to throw himself backward. He fell, knocking the wind from his lungs. Branan slid to a stop, his blade pointed at de Courcy’s throat. Unlike his opponent, Branan’s breathing, while heavier than normal, was still even and controlled. The tip of his sword remained rock steady.

The crowd that had gathered roared their approval, cheering for Branan. Only a few grumbled over lost bets.

“It seems ye are in a bit of a fix,” Branan said. He hesitated another moment, but de Courcy said nothing, simply staring at the glittering weapon that could end his life in a heartbeat. Hopefully, the sod had just learned his lesson. Branan lowered his weapon and turned his back, striding from the field. He spotted Catriona watching. Suddenly, her eyes widened in horror and her face lost all color. He heard the noise of a heavy footfall behind him.

“Branan!” Catriona screamed.

His heart lunging in his chest, Branan spun, barely bringing up his sword in time. De Courcy’s blade crashed down on his and Richard stepped in and met him with a knee to the groin.

Shock and agony coiled through Branan as he dropped like a stone. This was only a practice spar, but now de Courcy was out for blood. A booted foot caught Branan in the jaw and snapped his head back. He found himself sprawled in the dirt, his sword gone.

De Courcy hesitated only an instant, a maniacal smile on his face. Horrified, Branan watched him lift his sword for the death blow.

“Richard,” Catriona screamed, rushing toward them. “Nay!”

De Courcy froze for a heartbeat and Branan saw his struggle plain on his face. Kill Branan now and be done with it—though that would destroy the betrothal contract. Or allow him to live and maintain the threat of Branan winning Catriona’s heart.

A roar resounded and a dark blur passed over Branan’s vision. A man plowed into de Courcy, knocking him into the ground. Branan blinked and saw Gavin. He drew back his fist and let fly, slamming it into de Courcy’s jaw.

Catriona slid to her knees and tried to throw her body over his.

“Nay, Catriona,” Branan growled, shoving her away, but she clung to him with surprising tenacity as the pain still radiated from the core of his being. “If he slips away from Gavin, I dinna wanting him hurting ye.”

“You bloody, cur!” Gavin bellowed and Branan abruptly realized de Courcy was not going anywhere. “Have you no honor? This was a spar and you turned it into a brawl. You attacked when he showed you mercy. You were going to kill an unarmed man!” He slammed his fist into de Courcy’s nose.

Catriona also realized her brother had things well in hand and moved away enough to help Branan sit up.

His eyes watered and anguish continued to course through him. Dear God, the sod had probably ruined him for siring children.

Someone handed Catriona a bowl of clean water and a cloth. She dampened it and used it to clean the dirt from Branan’s face. “Are you all right?”

Branan fought to grab a breath. “I...I think so, lass. I should have ken no’ to drop my guard.”

Duguald joined him with his flask. Branan took it and drank deeply. The mercenaries gathered around Gavin and de Courcy. Angry shouts rose against de Courcy’s dishonorable conduct.

Gavin lurched to his feet, hauling de Courcy with him. Blood streamed from de Courcy’s nose and his eye rapidly darkened and swelled. Gavin had probably broken his nose.

“I should flay your hide,” Gavin snarled. “If you ever try anything like that again, I don’t care who you are, I will kill you.”

De Courcy appeared appropriately cowed. “Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”

Gavin shoved him off the list field. “Get the hell out of here.”

De Courcy shuffled away.

Gavin faced Branan. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. Thank ye, brother.” Branan held out his hand.

Gavin smiled and easily pulled him to his feet. “I couldn’t believe what I saw. What in the hell was he thinking?”

Branan swayed, waiting for his vision to clear.

“I think I ken what that was about,” Duguald said. He looked pointedly at Catriona.

Fortunately, Catriona’s attention was focused completely Branan and she did not see Duguald’s gaze.

“Aye,” Gavin said tightly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Branan.”

As they walked away, Branan heard Duguald curse softly under his breath. “I warned that ye might find yer bollocks on his plate and ye didna listen.”

HHH

The next morning, needing a distraction from her chaotic emotions, Catriona headed for the tower. Branan was no worse for yesterday’s events and already working. Why had Richard done such a terrible thing? He almost killed an unarmed man in the lists. She sighed, trying to force her thoughts away. One of the women had tended to Richard’s broken nose; Catriona had been so angry with him she refused. But instead of leaving, as Catriona had hoped, he had stayed in one of the extra shelters.

Inside the tower, workers tore out the rotted wood, tossing it in piles on the ground while some women and children picked up the broken pieces and carted them out. Catriona spotted Branan with a huge beam balanced on his shoulder as he carried it into the keep.

He smiled and winked at her. “I feel as good as new, lass.”

“Good,” she replied.

Branan leaned the beam against the wall and shouted up at the workers on the scaffolds above him. They lowered ropes. He tied the beam securely and three of them hauled it up.

Catriona shook her head. “You carried that beam in here like it was nothing, but it takes three men to haul it up.”

“’Tis a bit more difficult when trying to heft it from a scaffold, but...aye, ye have it aright.” His grin turned wicked.

Her stomach did a funny flip, but she returned his smile.

“I jest, my sweet,” he continued. “It’s all a matter of balance. If I had to pick it up straight from the ground, it would be a different story.”

“I see,” Catriona replied. She turned to the work at hand. Moving a pace away, she found a pile of debris and put it in a basket to be hauled away.

Branan proceeded to carry out the heavier pieces that were too large for the women and children.

Next to Catriona, an elderly matron also grabbed handfuls of rotted wood, filling a basket.

Above Catriona heard sudden curses. “Watch that rope!”

She flinched, looking upward.

“Don’t worry, m’lady,” the matron said, “they do that all the time.”

“I have it now,” a voice barked.

Catriona sighed in relief and returned to her work.

Richard appeared in the doorway, his expression as dark as a thundercloud, and it was not from the two black eyes he possessed courtesy of his broken nose.

“Catriona, why did you insist on this foolishness?”

By the saints, she was tired of this. “Richard, leave me be. Until I become your wife, I shall live and work as I please.”

Branan approached Richard from behind. Although he could not see Richard’s face, Branan’s expression turned flat and his nostrils flared.

“God’s wounds!” a voice barked from above. “I told you—”

Catriona heard a sharp snapping sound and jerked her head up.

“I got—”

“Idiot!”

One of the ropes on the huge beam had snapped. It shifted violently. One end dipped and the beam slid out of the other two ropes. It crashed through the rotted floor above, plummeting straight for Catriona.

Suddenly, a body collided with hers. Richard tackled her. She would never forget the look of terror she saw in his eyes. The beam descended and slammed onto his back, its full weight falling on his shoulders. He uttered a strangled cry and went limp on top of her.

Debris poured down around them, raising a thick cloud of dirt that choked her throat.

“Richard!” she screamed. “Oh God, Richard!”

The shower of wood and dirt ceased, but Richard didn’t move. Catriona tried to squirm out from under him, but his body, with the broken beam still on his back, pinned her in place. He had taken the full force of the blow that surely would have killed her. She stared in horror at his dirt-covered face, resting so still against her. Oh God, was he dead?

The tower exploded with activity. Suddenly, Branan stood above her with Duguald, Jamie, and Gavin right behind. “Catriona, are ye hurt?”

“Nay,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “It landed on Richard.”

Branan reached down, wrapping his arms around the huge beam. “Sweet Mary,” he whispered. Catriona remembered his words only a moment ago and wondered if he intended it as a prayer.

Muscles in his arms and chest corded as his grip tightened. With a primal groan he lifted. The wood creaked, but slowly Branan, his body straining its limits, lifted the beam. “Now, Duguald,” he snarled, his face red and contorted. “Get them out now.”

Duguald and Gavin both moved, dragging Richard off of Catriona as quickly and as carefully as they could.

Jamie reached down and grabbed Catriona, yanking her free. The moment she cleared the beam, Branan dropped it. He staggered and fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

“Branan?” Catriona asked.

“I’ll be all right,” he panted. “See to de Courcy first.”

Catriona distantly noticed that others helped people who had been partially covered in the debris, but Richard seemed to be the only one injured.