Once a Warrior (8 page)

The insult forced his heavy lids open. Rob’s gray eyes were burning with a fury that Malcolm found disconcerting in a mere lad of thirteen.

“You have been hired to teach us to defend ourselves, and you’re being well paid for your trouble,” the boy continued fiercely. “Since you ordered everyone to assemble at first light, I suggest you quit drinking and get some sleep. In the morning I will wake you.”

“I can bloody well wake myself,” Malcolm snapped.

“Not at dawn you can’t,” Rob scoffed.

The door slammed shut before Malcolm could further argue. His mind clouded with alcohol, he took another drink, dismissing the insolent lad. His eyes fell upon the tapestry hanging above his bed. The Black Wolf was defeating an army of fifty warriors with only ten men. He stared at it in sudden fascination, wondering if he had ever really performed such an incredible feat. He could not remember. Depressed by his inability to recall it, he pulled himself out of the chair and doused the candles, veiling the tapestry in darkness.

Then he collapsed against the bed and finished his wine, bitterly wondering if all the stories about him were so exaggerated, none of them were true anymore.

C
HAPTER
4

Her fist pounded against the dark panel several times. Finally she jerked up the latch and threw the heavy door open, prepared to drag MacFane from his bed if necessary.

He was not there.

Frowning, Ariella moved along the corridor. Muffled yawns and the splashing of water filtered from behind each door she passed. Downstairs she found Duncan and Andrew grabbing a chunk of bread from a table as they hurried outside. She followed them into the smoky light of early morning, where the rest of her clan were yawning and adjusting their clothes as they sleepily gathered before MacFane.

He sat high atop his powerful black charger, calmly watching the MacKendricks slowly appear. Once again he was dressed in his neatly arranged plaid, oiled-leather jerkin, and saffron shirt, which bore no trace of the wine he had carelessly spilled on it the previous night. His chiseled face was freshly shaven, his dark hair combed, his bearing utterly awake and sober. If anything, he appeared far more alert than her people, who were unaccustomed to assembling at this early hour and were obviously feeling the effects of last night’s merriment. Ariella studied him in confusion, unable to comprehend how he had managed to rise and prepare himself so early when he had been so sodden with alcohol the night before. MacFane had always been the final one to rise during their journey home. Gavin rode over to him, and the answer was suddenly clear. MacFane had not risen unassisted. His friend had roused him early, so the proud Black Wolf would not further humiliate himself in front of her clan.

“He is a fine-looking man, is he not?”

Ariella regarded Elizabeth in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought you would be attracted to one so harsh looking.”

“I don’t find him harsh at all,” Elizabeth countered, her eyes dreamy. “I think he has a kind, gentle face—especially when he smiles.”

Ariella returned her attention to Malcolm, bewildered. His expression was calm, but even in calmness his features remained hard and heavily creased. It was the face of a man who found no pleasure in life, and it bore no trace of gentleness. “You have seen him smile?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth assured her. “He smiled when we were introduced, and my heart very nearly stood still. Then he smiled often during the meal last night, and each time I felt as if I couldn’t draw another breath.” She raised her hand to her throat and sighed.

“You are imagining things, Elizabeth,” Ariella told her, shaking her head. “I traveled with the man for three long days, and I promise you, MacFane never smiles.”

Startled laughter bubbled from Elizabeth’s throat. “I don’t mean MacFane. I’m sure that man never smiles, especially since those horrible injuries destroyed his body. I am speaking of his chief warrior, Gavin.”

A stab of irritation pierced Ariella at hearing MacFane described so. She quickly suppressed it, wondering why it should bother her when she had thought the same thing many times. She focused her attention on Gavin, who was speaking to MacFane as people continued to stream through the gate. He was pleasant enough to look at, she supposed. He had good, even features, straight teeth, and thick black hair that was lightly threaded with gray. There was certainly nothing unattractive about him. And he did smile often. But fine?

“He is far too old for you, Elizabeth,” she observed. “He is well past forty years, and you have only reached twenty-two. Besides, when MacFane leaves, he will go with him. You must be careful to guard your heart.”

“My heart has been guarded far too long,” Elizabeth murmured. “And no MacKendrick has managed to capture it.” A faint smile curved her lips as she continued to watch Gavin.

Ariella contemplated her pretty friend in silence. Because the MacKendricks kept themselves isolated, the young women and men found their mates within the clan. When she was a little girl, Ariella had wondered which of the boys she played with would ultimately become her husband. But after her mother died without giving birth to a son, Ariella had learned she had an enormous obligation to her clan in the selection of her husband. Quiet and headstrong as a boy, Niall had grown into a tall, handsome, rather serious young man, and Ariella knew his fondness for her was deep. The moment she realized his feelings were evolving into more than friendship, Ariella had gone to Alpin and asked if Niall was the next bearer of the sword. Alpin informed her the next MacKendrick would not be found within the clan. Although they remained good friends, no other woman had since captured his eye, and Ariella knew Niall was not anxious for her to find a husband, even though it was her duty to do so. The day she found Roderic wounded in the woods and brought him back to the castle, Niall had instantly sensed her attraction to him. After a brief meeting with Roderic, he had taken Ariella aside and told her this comely stranger was not to be trusted.

Ariella had foolishly dismissed his advice as jealousy.

“Men move to the west side of the courtyard, women to the east,” ordered Malcolm.

The bleary-eyed MacKendricks slowly complied, unaccustomed to moving sharply at this ungodly hour of the morning.

As was he.

“Now, both sides divide into four equal groups. The first three groups of men are assigned to the duties of constructing the new gates, building the parapet, and making weapons. The first three groups of women will prepare food for storage, make bows and arrows, and attend to household duties, including the preparation of the day’s meals and watching over the children. The rest of you will remain here for the first session of training.”

If any of them questioned his orders, they did not use this moment to debate it. Nevertheless, their expressions were sullen as they dispersed to carry out his bidding.

“Those of you who have brought bows and arrows, give them to the women,” Malcolm continued. “They will begin their training by practicing archery outside the curtain wall with Gavin.”

Once they were armed with their new weapons, the women proceeded to file out the gate. Rob casually slung his bow over his shoulder and began to follow them.

“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Malcolm.

“I’m going to assist Gavin instructing the women,” Rob told him.

“Gavin is quite capable of handling the women on his own. You will train with the men.”

“He can’t train with us,” protested Niall, looking outraged. “He is just a lad.”

“He will train with the men,” repeated Malcolm firmly.

Rob hesitated, then reluctantly moved to join the rest of the men.

“Now then,” began Malcolm, “the first thing I want to do—”

“Don’t start!” shouted Angus as he emerged from the castle, dragging an old sword. “We’re coming!”

A puffing Dugald followed slowly behind him, wielding his rusted sword only marginally better than Angus. Finally Alpin appeared, garbed in a magnificent emerald robe, bearing no weapon other than his staff. Angus and Dugald took their place in front of the men and immediately began to quibble over who carried the heavier sword. Alpin waved cheerfully at Malcolm, then moved to the side to watch.

Malcolm stared at the snowy-haired elders in disbelief. “What on earth are you doing?”

Angus and Dugald looked up in surprise.

“We’re here to train, lad,” Angus informed him, as if the answer were obvious.

“To be warriors,” clarified Dugald, lest Malcolm think they were training for something else.

His pale, brown-spotted arms straining with effort, Angus raised his ancient weapon for Malcolm to see. “I brought my father’s sword, lad,” he announced proudly. “Over one hundred years old, and it’s never been used.”

“Mine is heavier,” boasted Dugald. He grunted as he attempted to lift the weapon, his bent frame quivering. Unable to raise it past his waist, he gave up, allowing the dull tip to fall heavily to the ground. “They were making swords far better sixty years ago than they were before.”

“You don’t know that,” Angus retorted, “since you’ve never had cause to use it.”

“I have cause now, and any fool can see it’s a heavier sword,” declared Dugald testily. “Just ask MacFane.”

The two men looked at him, expecting him to resolve the matter.

Malcolm stared back at them in bewilderment. The two old men regarded him with utter gravity, forcing him to accept the fact that they were serious about training with the others.

“Your desire to train pleases me,” he began, swiftly searching for a way to exclude them without injuring their feelings. “It inspires the determination of every man here who thinks he cannot learn to fight because of his size, or strength, or fear.” He was careful to avoid the mention of age. “However, you would honor me far more, Angus and Dugald, if you would join me at the side and help direct the training. I am certain we can all benefit from your many years of experience, and the wisdom that comes with it.”

A beam of pleasure lit Angus’s wrinkled face. “Of course, lad. Excuse me, Dugald, but the Black Wolf needs my help.” He shuffled forward, carelessly dragging his father’s sword behind him.

“I can help the lad just as well as you,” huffed Dugald, whose weapon was instantly relegated to a crutch.

“Let’s stand up on the platform, so we have a good view,” suggested Angus.

“You know I can’t stand for long,” Dugald reminded him. “It makes my ankles swell.”

“Someone bring them chairs,” ordered Malcolm, trying to remain patient.

Three chairs were quickly procured. When Angus, Dugald, and Alpin were finally settled on the platform, Malcolm returned his attention to the group of would-be warriors before him.

They were of every size and shape imaginable, ranging in years from twelve to sixty. As instructed, the MacKendricks had rooted through their cupboards and chests for any weapon they could find. The result was not auspicious: rusted, pitted swords that had probably been wielded by their great-grandfathers, axes blunted by years of chopping wood, dirks with blackened blades well used in the skinning of animals and carving of furniture. A few particularly industrious men had created colorful shields from twig frames covered with brilliant, if useless, swatches of fabric. Others wore assorted buckets and bowls on their heads, which kept slipping down and covering their eyes. The entire assemblage was so thoroughly ridiculous, Malcolm had to lower his gaze and cough, suddenly fearing he might actually laugh.

“To begin, we will train without armor or weapons,” he announced, deciding that was a way around the problem. “Put them aside, and divide into two lines, facing each other from a distance of ten paces.”

Disappointment washed over their faces, followed by some grumbling. Evidently they believed they were ready for swordplay. Malcolm did not know whether to be encouraged by their enthusiasm, or appalled by their naïveté.

“When I give the command, I want you to charge each other and bring your opponent to the ground.” He paused, making sure they were ready. “Attack!”

The two lines of MacKendricks charged.

In the crash that followed most of them simply bounced off each other and dropped to the ground. Others fell and, in a surge of profound irritation, grabbed their opponent’s ankles and brought him down as well. This led to much rolling and scrabbling in the dirt, and a few cross words. One man repeatedly shouted he was winded, and had to be carried away. Another claimed to have hurt his shoulder in the fall and was instantly surrounded by a sympathetic group of onlookers, each offering to rub it for him.

“Can’t see how that taught them anything, lad,” commented Angus, shaking his head. “I say let them take up their weapons and really go at it.”

“Don’t tempt me,” muttered Malcolm.

“What’s that?” asked Dugald, cupping his hand to his ear.

“I said not just yet.” Malcolm returned his gaze to his men, who were pulling themselves up and meticulously dusting off their shirts and plaids.

“Separate yourselves and try again,” he ordered. “And remember, your partner is your enemy. When you attack, be determined it is you who will emerge the victor.”

The two lines charged once more, only this time with far more aggression. The results were impressive. Over a dozen men lay upon the ground, groaning, while their partners inundated them with apologies and asked how badly they were hurt. Two men hobbled swiftly away, neither seriously injured, but clearly unwilling to continue. The rest were absorbed with examining a bevy of minor scrapes and scratches, and in one case a badly torn sleeve.