Once a Warrior (3 page)

Duncan’s and Andrew’s faces went even paler. Glancing nervously around them, they swiftly pulled on their boots and hurried over to Gavin, who was single-handedly hoisting one of the dead thieves onto a horse.

“It is clear you three haven’t spent much time sleeping outdoors,” observed Malcolm.

Ariella retrieved a pitcher of water, a wooden bowl, and the leather bag containing her medicines. She seated herself beside him, poured water into the bowl, and began to scrub her filthy hands with a small lump of soap. “Why do you say that?”

“Because only a goddamn fool would build a fire this size in woods where he could not be certain of his safety,” he snarled. “You might as well have sent those men an invitation to come and rob you. And why the hell wasn’t one of you standing watch?”

“We didn’t know it was necessary,” she admitted, feeling foolish. He was right. They had not understood the dangers of building a fire in the woods. None of them had ever traveled so far from home, and on MacKendrick lands there was no threat of being attacked.

At least there hadn’t been, she amended bitterly, until Roderic had come.

She poured water from the pitcher onto his arm, causing a scarlet fall to splash against the ground. As fast as the blood washed away, new blood pulsed to the surface. Ariella swiftly wrapped a clean cloth around his arm and gripped the wound with gentle pressure. “Hold fast here,” she instructed, “so the bleeding will slow while I thread my needle.”

His hand looked large and dark as it pressed against the pale cloth. It was a strong hand, bronzed by the sun and sculpted by the weight of wielding a heavy weapon. The pathetic, broken man she had met that afternoon bore little resemblance to the murderous warrior who had thundered into their camp to help them. But now, as he sat there breathing deeply, his jaw clenched and his forehead lined with pain, she recognized that injured man once more. An image of him, guiding his horse with his legs as he used both hands to wield his sword, swept into her mind. She glanced at his wounded right arm and noticed a thick, pale scar snaking across the length of it. It started just above his elbow, disappeared beneath the cloth he was holding firm, and reappeared over the smooth, round bone of his wrist. Something had sliced the hard muscle of his forearm, splitting the tissue open like the soft belly of a fish. The line was slashed with large, uneven stitch marks. The wound had been deep and had probably needed to be closed quickly. Seeing his other arm adjacent to it, it was apparent that his right arm was slightly smaller than his left. The laceration had robbed it of its strength and agility, forcing him to use his left arm, or both, when necessary. Ariella wondered how much more damage this new gash would inflict upon the scarred, atrophied muscles.

“You may take your hand away now, MacFane.”

“I am no longer MacFane,” he informed her stiffly as he lifted his hand. “Address me as Malcolm.” It was a command, not a request.

Ariella considered this as she gently dabbed at the blood coating his wound. The new MacFane, Harold, had told them the Black Wolf had been relieved of his position as laird and cast from the clan in shame. There had been no trace of fury or condemnation as he had relayed this news. Instead, his expression had been veiled with regret, as if he’d wished he could somehow change what had passed. She knew better than to ask what the Black Wolf had done to merit such an appalling punishment. It was the affair of the Clan MacFane, and for an outsider to question the matter would have been an insult. The Black Wolf’s physical condition and thirst for alcohol were clearly reason enough to replace him as laird. But to strip a man of his name and banish him from his clan was a sentence inflicted only for the most horrendous crimes. She pressed her needle into his flesh, wondering what unforgivable offense the Black Wolf had committed to be condemned so harshly by his own people.

“You learned your mother’s skills well, Rob,” commented Malcolm, watching the boy as he carefully stitched the wound closed. The lad’s hands were small and soft, a testament to his youth and to a lack of familiarity with heavy chores. “It is obvious you have had some practice.”

“There were many wounded after the attack on my clan.”

Guilt slashed through Malcolm. He could think of nothing to say, so he remained silent.

“Why did you come to help us?” asked Rob after a moment.

Malcolm shrugged, then winced at the streak of pain that flashed down his neck.

In his letter MacKendrick had described his clan as peaceful, and completely unskilled in the ways of warfare. That and the knowledge that the previous messengers had never made it home had grated incessantly on Malcolm throughout the day. By the time darkness was falling, his unease had been worn raw. He had told Gavin he was in need of a ride—which was ridiculous, of course. Gavin knew Malcolm’s battered body ached far too much for him to find pleasure in the sport of riding anymore. Nevertheless, his friend had not questioned him but swiftly saddled their horses and solemnly produced their dirks and swords. It was Gavin’s habit to keep the weapons polished and sharpened at all times, ready for battle at a moment’s notice. This was the mark of a good warrior, Malcolm had thought ruefully as he accepted his glimmering, heavy blade. Gavin was older than he by over a decade, and his career as a warrior had been that much longer. Evidently his training was more firmly ingrained.

“Gavin convinced me you were likely to find trouble and not know how to defend yourselves,” he lied.

“It was fortunate he decided to come after us,” commented Rob, tying the last stitch into place. The boy opened a small jar from his bag and smeared a foul-smelling substance on Malcolm’s arm. “You are far stronger than you appear.”

“I’m not,” countered Malcolm. “We were lucky those men were so inept. Arrogance made them careless, and fear made them weak. Had those men possessed even a vague understanding of what it is to be a warrior, the encounter could have ended very differently.”

“Are you saying that with proper training those men could have defeated you?” she asked curiously, wrapping a bandage around his arm.

“Proper training,” affirmed Malcolm, “and attitude. From the moment we charged into the camp bellowing and swinging our swords, those men believed they were finished. That made them easy to kill.”

Ariella frowned as she considered this. There was no denying that the Black Wolf was severely injured. His right arm was all but useless. He walked with a limp. His stiff movements and constant grimaces suggested he suffered from acute back pain. On top of that, he had no army, and he was clearly dependent on alcohol, probably to help deaden his pain. Yet he and his friend had ridden hard for many miles, then charged in and defeated four armed thieves who had been about to kill her, Duncan, and Andrew.

Training and attitude.

“Can any man be trained to be a warrior?” she demanded.

“Perhaps not a warrior,” qualified Malcolm, “but any man can be trained to fight better. Training is trial and error and exhaustive repetition. If a man is well trained, he reacts instantly and lethally, without the fatal weakness of hesitation. He learns not only how to wield a weapon, but how to make
himself
a weapon. When he is attacked, he responds not from fear, but from the deeply entrenched methods of his training. This makes him far more dangerous to his enemy.”

“And when you were called the Black Wolf and had your great army, were you the one who trained them?”

His expression grew shadowed. “When I was MacFane, I had a thousand men under my command,” he stated, his voice resonant with bitter pride. “And I trained every last goddamn one of them.”

He looked beyond her, into the darkness, remembering. A pale wash of firelight flickered across his face, which was mostly hidden beneath a dark growth of unkempt beard. His tangled hair was also excessively long and in need of washing—the hair of a man who has withdrawn from society and is uninterested in matters of appearance. But in that hushed, firelit moment, it was his eyes that held her captivated. They were illuminated by the glow of the flames, or perhaps by the memory he was reliving in his mind. As they glittered with the bittersweet reminiscence of his past, Ariella suddenly saw a flash of pain within the depths of blue. It startled her, to recognize such vulnerability in the man who had been so disgustingly drunk and self-absorbed earlier that day, and then so powerful and ruthlessly savage. Before she could study him further, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I need a drink,” he stated harshly. “Then Gavin and I must be on our way.” He awkwardly moved to stand, bracing his hand against his aching back as he rose.

“I have something to ask you, MacFane.”

“I am no longer MacFane,” he growled. “And if you are thinking you would like to squire, I have no need for one. Besides, I doubt your friends would approve if you told them you wanted to come with me.”

“I do not want to go with you,” Ariella assured him. “I want you to come with us.”

He shook his head. “I already told you, I cannot help your clan.”

“MacKendrick hoped you would come with your great army and assume the position of laird,” she continued, ignoring his refusal. “Obviously, that isn’t possible. But you could still come and train us in the ways of warfare. If what you say is true, any man can be trained to fight, as long as he has the right teacher. Even me,” she finished hopefully.

“You could be trained to fight,” agreed Malcolm. “But not by me. My days of training and battle are over.” He began to limp toward Gavin.

“You have trained a thousand men,” she persisted. “You have led armies to countless victories. You could help the Clan MacKendrick learn to defend itself until we find a new laird.”

“No.”

“Why not?” demanded Ariella. “You have nothing here.”

His expression grew dark. “You are right,” he agreed brusquely. “And that is how I choose to live my life now. Without responsibilities.”

Anger flared within her. Alpin had sent her to find the Black Wolf, despite her hatred of him. At first she’d been convinced there was nothing this drunken, crippled hermit could do for her clan. But after witnessing the brutal efficacy with which he had dispatched those thieves, Ariella was no longer certain this broken warrior had nothing left to offer.

Beyond that, he owed her something for failing her so completely.

“The Clan MacKendrick was assaulted because you were unable and unwilling to come to its aid,” she stated, her voice hard. “Now we are dangerously vulnerable. Until we find another laird with an army, we must learn to defend ourselves. We cannot do that without an experienced warrior. You owe it to my people to help us, MacFane.”

“If you are trying to appeal to my innate sense of honor, don’t bother,” he drawled. “As for guilt, I have so much already, I barely notice when more is added to the flames. Gavin,” he growled, “it is time we left.” He moved toward his horse.

She was losing him. She cast Duncan a desperate look.

“We will pay you,” he swiftly offered.

Malcolm hesitated.

“Handsomely,” added Andrew, realizing they had captured his attention. “In gold.”

His expression hovered tenuously between rejection and intrigue. “How much?”

Ariella opened her mouth to speak, but Duncan lifted his hand, throwing her a warning look.

“Your fee would depend,” he began, “on how long you stayed with us, and how satisfactory a job you did. I would think to help us with our fortifications and train our men would require a commitment of no less than six months.” He flashed a covert glance at Ariella.

She imperceptibly tilted her head in agreement.

“Too long,” replied Malcolm flatly. “I could not possibly stay more than two months. If the MacKendricks manage to learn something in that time, fine. If not, I get paid anyway.”

Ariella lifted four fingers and began to casually scratch her face.

“Four months,” countered Duncan, “and you get paid according to the performance of the men.”

“Three months,” returned Malcolm, “and I get paid one hundred gold coins, regardless of their performance. And Gavin gets paid a fee as well,” he added. “Equal to mine.”

Duncan glanced at Ariella, who barely nodded. “Done.”

Malcolm scowled, suddenly irritated that he had permitted himself to be hired. “You,” he snapped, pointing to Andrew. “You will begin your training tonight by taking the first watch. If anything moves, shoot it, then come and tell me. Is that clear?”

Andrew nodded blankly and went to retrieve his bow and arrow.

Malcolm eased himself down by the fire, resting his injured arm in his lap as he stared moodily into the flames. “Gavin,” he called brusquely, “for Christ’s sake, bring me a drink.”

Ariella moved to the opposite side of the fire, putting distance between herself and her hired warrior. She arranged her blanket around her shoulders and lay down. After a while Gavin and Duncan also settled on the ground. MacFane remained upright, drinking and contemplating the dying fire as it hissed in greedy protest at the shrinking black embers. For the next hour Ariella watched him sink deeper into drunkenness. Finally he collapsed with a groan and began to snore. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the uncertainty of what she had just done plagued her mind.

She had found the Black Wolf. He looked and acted like a savage, he was badly disabled, he had no army, and he was an appalling drunk. To crown it all, he was not coming out of any desire to help, but only for the greedy desire for gold.

How she would get her people to accept him as their leader, even for a short while, she had no idea.

C
HAPTER
2

Pain again.

The fog in his brain had cleared enough for him to realize he should try to remain still and keep his breathing shallow. There. That seemed to help. But the pain in his leg…He groaned and shifted his weight. Pain surged over his arm as it touched the ground, and a small sound escaped his throat, part curse and part sob.

“Get up, Malcolm. It’s time to go.”

He opened his eyes. “Go where?” he mumbled thickly.

He followed Gavin’s gaze. The MacKendricks were mounted on their horses, regarding him with impatience.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, closing his eyes once more.

“It won’t seem so bad once we’re on our way,” Gavin assured him. “But they’ve been up since sunrise, and by the looks on their faces I’d say they’re rather anxious to leave.”

Then let them go,
Malcolm thought acidly.

He rose, trying to suppress his grimaces as his body protested. He walked stiffly to his horse and heaved himself up, clenching his jaw. He was acutely aware of being watched and had no desire to reveal how difficult even the simplest of movements were for him upon waking. It had been his custom as the Black Wolf to rise well before first light, using the morning stillness to practice with his weapons before his men wakened. He had loved the clarity of morning, the quiet solitude of waking and preparing to face the day. His current lack of discipline was embarrassing. He was supposed to be leading these men, and a leader did not sleep the morning away.

“Let’s go,” he ordered brusquely, as if it were they who had kept him waiting. He dug his heels into his horse and headed north, leaving them to follow.

Tomorrow he would try to waken earlier.

It was well past midday when Malcolm finally surrendered to his weariness. The MacKendricks immediately went to their saddlebags and began to unpack bread and cheese to lay for their nooning meal.

“Never mind the food. It is time to begin your training.”

The trio looked at him in confusion. “Training?”

“Yes, training.” He handed his sword and dirk to Gavin. “You first,” he said, pointing to Andrew. “Remove your sword and dirk, and attack me.”

Andrew appeared dumbfounded. “Attack you?”

“I am not in the habit of repeating commands,” Malcolm warned.

“Forgive me,” Andrew hastily apologized, “but I have no wish to hurt you.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” he replied dryly. “I am ordering you to attack me all the same.”

“But you are unarmed.”

“And you will be as well,” he pointed out, “as you all were last night.”

Andrew cast Duncan and Rob a questioning glance. Duncan shrugged his shoulders. The boy nodded. With obvious reluctance Andrew removed his weapons and hesitantly moved toward Malcolm, his arms outstretched.

“You move like a lovesick suitor,” Malcolm said impatiently. “Are you attacking me or asking me to dance?”

His insult pierced Andrew’s caution. With a huff of determination Andrew ran toward him.

Malcolm grabbed Andrew’s arm and spun him around, imprisoning him against his body as he hooked his aching right arm under Andrew’s neck.

“One strong pull and your neck is broken. You moved too slowly, and your attack lacked surprise. I had decided how to deal with you before you were halfway here.” He released his grip, setting Andrew free. “Now you,” he said, looking at Duncan.

Duncan quickly shed his weapons and sprinted toward Malcolm. As he approached, Malcolm took one step back, leaving only his leg in place. Duncan tripped and went sprawling onto the ground. Malcolm stood over him and pressed his foot into his back.

“Were I your enemy, this would be a sword carving your ribs. Your attack had speed but was still too obvious.” He lifted his foot from Duncan’s back. “Now you,” he commanded, glancing at Rob.

“No!” exclaimed Duncan, horrified. Realizing his protest might seem strange, he hastily added, “Rob is just a boy. Barely more than thirteen years of age. He cannot be expected to fight.”

“Of course he can,” countered Malcolm. “Those men last night made no exceptions for his youth, and neither will I. If he is old enough to be in danger, he is old enough to learn how to get out of it. Come on, lad,” he said. “Try to attack me.”

The boy bit his lip, evidently afraid. “I do not think—”

“Does the Clan MacKendrick wish to learn how to defend itself or not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then attack me!” Malcolm growled. “Before I give up on all of you and go home!”

The boy’s gray eyes grew cold. With a fierce shout he flew toward Malcolm, his hands balled into fists. Malcolm wrapped his good arm around the youth’s slight frame and easily plucked him off his kicking feet. His waist was small and soft, betraying his coddled lifestyle. Malcolm deposited him on his backside in disgust.

“Get up and try again. And this time surprise me.”

With Duncan and Andrew watching anxiously, Rob slowly got to his feet.

“It is obvious you and your clan are accustomed to a life of little more than eating and resting. That is about to change. Now, attack me.”

Rob hesitated.

“Now,” commanded Malcolm, growing impatient.

The boy regarded him with huge, pleading eyes. Finally he shook his head. “I cannot,” he whimpered. He hung his head in shame.

“God grant me patience,” muttered Malcolm darkly. He turned to Gavin. “I suppose that is all I can expect from them today. Give me my weapons and let’s eat.”

Suddenly something plowed hard into his back, wrapping him in pain as he lurched forward and landed facedown in the dirt.

“There,” huffed Rob, triumphant. He stood and brushed off his filthy plaid. “I surprised you.”

Malcolm glared at the boy, struggling to control his fury. “If you ever do anything like that again,” he warned, his voice dangerously low, “I will make sure you cannot sit for a month.” He knocked away Gavin’s proferred hand and awkwardly rose on his own. Then he faced his three pupils.

“During the time it will take to reach your lands, you will train twice a day, at noon and at dusk, before eating. Though you will not be warriors when you arrive home, at least you will have some limited understanding of what it is to fight. And if we are attacked again along the way, perhaps you will be of more use than you were last night. Now, go and eat.” He moved away from them, seeking solace beneath the shade of an enormous pine tree.

Ariella went to her horse and unpacked some bread and cheese from her saddlebag. She was glad she had knocked him to the ground. He had been trying to humiliate them, and it did her good to see a little of that humiliation on his astounded face.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Duncan, worried. “You cannot be expected to train like a man.”

“I will not train like a man,” she replied quietly, seating herself beside him. “I will train like a boy.”

“But he dropped you on the ground!” protested Andrew, clearly horrified.

“I wasn’t hurt,” pointed out Ariella, trying to calm them. “Besides, he is right. We have hired him to teach us to fight, and what better time to begin than now? When we get home, we will need everyone who is able to train, and that will include boys of thirteen. Therefore we cannot argue that Rob is too young.”

“But if you are hurt—”

“I don’t believe he will allow us to actually get hurt,” interjected Ariella.

Andrew regarded her curiously. “Why do you say that?”

She shifted her weight on her bruised backside and glanced at Malcolm, who was drinking heavily from a wineskin Gavin had brought to him. Despite his admirable performance during their training session, it was clear his body was protesting the long hours spent in the saddle.

Because,
she reflected silently,
he knows too well what it is to feel pain
.

Malcolm stared up at the cool black tent of night.

He was drunk, but not nearly as drunk as he would have liked. Gavin had not realized they would be gone for so long and had packed only enough wine to last him a day. Malcolm had drunk most of it last night and had needed to start drinking again that afternoon to control the discomfort of riding. By evening there had been only one wineskin left, which he had quickly finished. It had blunted the edge of his pain, but it was not sufficient to deaden the throbbing in his back, leg, and arm. His suffering kept him from retreating into sleep, and so he lay awake, his senses only blurred as he fought the despair that rose within him at night when his mind remained chained to his aching body.

He wished Gavin had let him die.

He had never imagined it would be like this. In truth he had not expected to live, so he’d had no concept of what his future would be at all. After that final, brutal battle, as he lay with his leg shattered and his body gashed by sword thrusts, he had simply thought he would die. His initial feeling was more surprise than anger. After six years of service in King William’s army, he did not know why the idea of dying should seem so foreign. He had seen scores of men suffer the most appalling ends, and had no reason to think his turn would not come. The ground had grown warm with his blood, and hazy, pleasant reflections of his clan and Marrian had swirled through his head. There was pain, but it was not intolerable.

Until someone suddenly hauled him up, threw him onto a horse, and took him away from the battlefield. Then there was pain unlike any he had ever known.

And it had never abated.

Gavin had done his best to heal him. He had bound his leg between two strong, straight lengths of wood. He stitched the wounds in his sides and chest, and closed the deep, jagged gash in his right arm. And then he took him home. When they arrived, Malcolm had been overcome with suffering and fever. But he was lucid enough to understand that his father had died, and the clan was anxiously awaiting his return as chief. As was Marrian.

The horror in her eyes when she saw him would haunt him forever.

Uneasiness swept over him, clearing the mists of his reflections. He gazed around the camp, trying to determine what had disturbed him. Gavin, Duncan, and Rob were asleep by the fire. Andrew, who was supposed to be on watch, sat slumped against a tree, snoring. Malcolm strained to listen but heard nothing unusual.

Taking up his sword, he slowly moved into the surrounding woods, searching the darkness. His feet made a rustling sound as they crushed leaves and needles. He attempted to lighten his step, but his limp made this impossible. Other than the occasional chirp of a bird and the uneven drag of his footsteps, the woods were silent. Moving deeper into the shadows, he listened to the quiet. His senses were heavily fogged by wine, and he suspected his uneasiness was likely his imagination. Nevertheless, he continued to explore the darkness, electing to trust his instincts. At one point he was strangely aware of being watched. He whirled about, his sword raised menacingly in front of him. Nothing but trees and blackness.

Cursing, he lowered his throbbing arm, wondering what the hell was the matter with him.

A savage roar split the air. Malcolm whipped about to see an enraged wolf hurtling toward him, its massive jaws locked in a snarl. Before he could lift his sword, the animal howled with pain and dropped to the ground. Malcolm stared at it in astonishment.

Then he turned to see Rob standing behind him, another arrow aimed at the luckless beast in case he stirred again.

“You shouldn’t go off in the woods alone,” observed the boy, lowering his bow.

“Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”

“My father. He insisted I practice often so I could hunt with him.”

“But that wolf was racing through blackness,” Malcolm pointed out, amazed. “Even my best warriors would have had trouble making a shot like that.”

Rob shrugged. “I am quite skilled with a bow.”

“Evidently your father taught you something of tracking as well,” observed Malcolm, realizing it was Rob who had been following him. He glanced at the lifeless form of the wolf. “I look forward to meeting him when we reach your lands. Perhaps he can assist me in training others.”

“He is dead.” The boy jammed his arrow into his quiver. “He was killed in the attack.” His tone was void of emotion, but it seemed an accusation nonetheless. He turned and began to head back to the camp.