The Rock (9 page)

The bastard was toying with him. Thom attacked from the left and then from the right, but each time the captain deflected Thom’s sword with a deft twist of his hands, first slapping—hard—the flat of his blade to Thom’s shoulder and then his thigh. Letting him know that were they not sparring, his blade would have cut.

Thom didn’t need to look at his opponent’s face to know that he was gloating. The captain had been his enemy since Thom had stopped him from accosting Eoin MacLean’s wife last year. The bastard should be thanking him. The captain—Sir John Kerr—had suffered a beating at MacLean’s hands, instead of the slow death he would have had had Thom not intervened before he did more than grope.

But the captain didn’t see it that way, and he looked for any opportunity he could to make Thom look bad—especially, like now, when their lord was watching.

Over the past three years Thom had quietly been making a name for himself, and Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick, had taken notice. The king’s only remaining brother had taken a personal interest in Thom’s training, and let him know that despite his late start and humble beginnings, Thom could rise high in his army. This offended the captain’s sense of order, and the earl’s favoritism only increased his resentment.

Thom had suffered for it. And not just from the captain. For the past three years he’d been subject to every kind of humiliation, heard countless crude comments about his birth, and endured every kind of drudgery and physical demand that were calculated to wear him down—to prove that a “peasant” couldn’t compete with men who’d been born to the battlefield. He’d wanted to quit more times than he could remember—usually when his bruised and battered muscles were burning, sweat was pouring from every orifice of his body, and he had taken another mouthful of dirt—but the thought of returning home in defeat had always stopped him. So he’d suffered and endured and eventually he’d earned their grudging respect. Most of them, at least.

“Perhaps you should stick to the hammer,” the captain taunted. “The sword is the
noble
weapon of a knight. Brute strength won’t get you very far if you don’t learn how to use your edge.” Thom was used to the snide remarks about his birth and didn’t rise to the bait, which only served to annoy the captain. “Again,” Kerr (or as the men aptly called him, “Cur”) demanded, holding his sword out in front of him in a defensive position. Thom clenched his jaw and raised his hands to the right of his temple, preparing to attack.

“Don’t think so much,” one of the men gathered around watching suggested.

It was exactly Thom’s problem. He was not without strength or skill, but even after three years of constant training, he had not found the instinctive movements that seemed burned into the muscle of men who’d held a sword since youth.

As much as Thom hated to say it, the captain was right: brute strength would only take him so far. Which was why he was subjecting himself to Kerr’s humiliation at every opportunity. The captain might be a bastard, but he knew how to wield a sword.

Thom didn’t want to just be good, he wanted to be among the best. If that meant cramming fifteen years of training into a handful of years and listening to the captain’s slurs and taunts, he would suffer it gladly. He would do whatever it took.

With grim determination, Thom heeded the advice of the man who’d spoken and tried not to think too much as he stepped forward. He turned his hands, as if he meant to swing underhanded across, but then at the last minute, he rolled his wrist and used a downward motion. The captain was too good to be fooled. He blocked the blow, but when he did, Thom reacted, using the edge of the blade to roll over the captain’s sword and tap his ribs, signifying a cut.

Thom betrayed none of his satisfaction, but it was there in Kerr’s furious expression.

A few of the men clapped and cheered. Despite his rank, the captain was a crude braggart and not popular around camp.

The most important spectator clapped among them. When he finished, Carrick called Thom over. “Not bad, MacGowan. I see you are improving in your sword skills.”

Thom accepted the compliment with a nod. “The captain has taught me much.”

Carrick lifted a dark brow. “I see you’ve learned some diplomacy as well. You may become a knight yet.” His mouth twisted with amusement. “Assuming your horsemanship skills have progressed, that is?”

Thom didn’t bother hiding his grimace. His lack of fondness for horses (and theirs for him) wasn’t exactly a secret. He rode, but through sheer grit and determination. “I’m afraid not, my lord.”

Carrick laughed uproariously and clapped him on the back. “We’ll find you a sweet filly to tame yet. Which reminds me . . .” He gave Thom a knowing look. “You made quite the impression on our hostess with your heroics a few days ago.”

Thom winced a little at Edward Bruce’s attempt at humor. Like most men in camp, Carrick could be crude when it came to talking about women. Big Thom would have skinned him alive, if he’d heard Thom say half—a quarter—of the things that were said about women at camp. Thom might be of low birth, but he’d been raised to treat lasses—all lasses—with respect. Despite their supposed code of chivalry, from what Thom had seen, not all knights took it to heart.

But Carrick wasn’t all bad. Thom knew that many men didn’t like the king’s second-in-command, but he wasn’t one of them. Edward Bruce could be hotheaded and impulsive, but he was also bold, fierce, and aggressive on the battlefield. If he was in the shadow of his older brother and at times jealous, perhaps Thom understood. He knew what it was like to always be looking up.

“It was nothing, my lord,” Thom said.

“Well, Lady Marjorie doesn’t think so. I wish I’d seen it. Did you really climb all the way up there?” The earl pointed to the spine of the pitched roof of the tower house.

Rutherford Castle was of the simple stone peel tower construction that was common in the area. It had served as a base for the earl and his men as they raided England and harried the garrison at Jedburgh to prevent any provisions from getting through.

“It’s easier than it looks, my lord.”

Edward Bruce glanced at him as if he were crazed. “How the hell did the cat get up there anyway?”

Thom shrugged. “Lady Marjorie said one of the children was chasing him around the ramparts and the cat was trying to escape. He was probably too scared to try to come down.”

“I wonder why,” Carrick said dryly. “I sure as hell wouldn’t risk my neck for a cat, but Lady Marjorie is grateful.
Very
grateful. The lovely widow has requested that you be among the men to provide her escort to her lands in Yorkshire.” When Thom didn’t immediately respond, he added, “She specifically asked me what your position was in the army, and whether you were wed. I told her you were one of my most promising soldiers, and that you were as yet unmarried. The lady is definitely interested. Move your pieces right, and you’ll capture your ‘queen,’ and be lord of this castle in a few months.”

With the amount of attention Lady Marjorie had been showing him the past few days—and the suggestive touches and brushes—Thom wasn’t completely surprised by the earl’s news. “Thank you, my lord. I will do my best. When do I leave?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“You do not need me here for the raids?”

Carrick shook his head. “We’ll be leaving for Stirling by the end of the week. You can meet us there.” The earl paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. “You surprise me, MacGowan. I thought you would be more excited by the prospect of a rich wife. You’ve made no secret of your ambition. The alliance will elevate your standing among the men and make your path to knighthood much easier. ’Tis a good match. Better than most in your position could hope for—although I suspect your countenance helps. I’ve noticed how popular you are with the lasses.” Thom withheld comment, as there wasn’t much to say about that. Carrick frowned. “Is there another match you hoped to make?”

Thom shook his head. “Nay, my lord. I am pleased—
very
pleased,” he added, furious at himself for his reaction. Carrick was right: he should be cheering from the rooftops at his good fortune. Lady Marjorie Rutherford was the widow of a respected knight with significant dower lands on both sides of the border, including this castle near Peebles. For a man in his position, it was a good match—a
spectacular
match—indeed.

If the lady herself was a little bold in her advances and reminded him of the feline to which she was so attached (more than her children, he couldn’t help noticing), she was reasonably young, attractive, and, from what he could tell, an excellent chatelaine. Lady Marjorie was more than he could have hoped for.

He wasn’t a lovesick fool anymore. A broken heart had proved to be a powerful eye-opener, curing him of all his illusions. He knew exactly where he stood, and what he needed to do to move up the ranks. A good marriage—a good
alliance
—was part of that.

Elizabeth had taught him well. Thom didn’t think much about the past. He’d moved on. But when he did think of her, it was no longer with anger and hurt. It was no longer a raw, festering wound upon which the slightest touch would make his insides scream in agony. Nay, now it was more of a dull sense of loss and disappointment. A hole in his heart that would never be filled.

Not that he blamed her. He must have been half-crazed to ever think she would look at him as a potential suitor—even if she had returned his feelings. Elizabeth wasn’t the widow of a minor baron. She was a
Douglas
. With everything that meant.

His mouth fell in a tight line. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to put all of his past or all Douglases behind him. It seemed like every time he turned around, he was running into his former friend-now-nemesis or being forced to listen to some tale of whatever amazing feat the Black Douglas had managed on the battlefield. He was damned tired of it.

Joanna might have forgiven “Sir” James, but Thom wasn’t as forgiving.

Perhaps the journey to Yorkshire would prove a boon in more ways than one. In England the Black Douglas was feared, not revered, playing more the role of bogeyman than great hero.

“I will be ready, my lord, and I look forward to escorting Lady Marjorie,” Thom said with much more enthusiasm this time. “You can be assured, I won’t waste this opportunity.”

Carrick nodded. “Good. Resume your training.”

A squire ran up and handed a missive to Carrick as Thom started to walk away. He took only a few steps before Carrick called him back. “MacGowan, wait.” He finished reading the piece of parchment and lowered it. “I’m afraid your pretty widow is going to have to wait.”

“My lord?”

“It seems Douglas has performed another miracle.” If there was anyone who enjoyed hearing about Douglas’s feats less than Thom, it was Edward Bruce—and perhaps Thomas Randolph. “He’s taken Roxburgh Castle, and we’ve been ordered to help him destroy it.”

A
RCHIE CERTAINLY WAS
going to have some explaining to do. Elizabeth was exhausted by the time she and Joanna’s brother, Richard, rode through the gate of Roxburgh Castle late the following morning. She dropped off the horse before someone could help her down and winced, putting her hand on the small of her back. The sixteen-year-old scamp had much to atone for, indeed. Not just for her exhaustion, but also for the crick in her back after one of the most horrid nights of sleep in recent memory. The ground had been about as warm and comfortable as a block of ice. Had she known what she was in for, she might not have been as eager to follow her runaway brother to Roxburgh.

Her mouth twisted. Who was she trying to fool? The long ride, ache in her back, and lack of sleep were well worth the prospect of a little excitement. She wanted to retrieve her miscreant of a brother, of course, but if there
happened
to be a feast or two to celebrate Jamie’s taking of the important castle while she was here, she wouldn’t be
too
disappointed.

Upon learning that Archie had ridden out shortly before the messenger had arrived, Elizabeth had called immediately for her horse and gone after him. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to hunt down one of her half brothers and drag them back by the ear (fifteen-year-old Hugh was proving just as stubborn and muleheaded as other Douglas males). The difference this time was that she knew where Archie was going.

She did not consider it dangerous. What was left of English authority in Scotland had been whittled down to a few castles: Bothwell, Berwick, Jedburgh, Dunbar, Stirling, and Edinburgh. Bruce’s and Randolph’s siege blockades around the latter two castles, preventing the garrisons from leaving, made it the safest time around them in years. At least until June, when Edward II had threatened to march on Scotland again.

Nonetheless, she’d taken an escort, which was a good thing, as they’d seen a party of English knights on patrol east of Selkirk. Joanna’s eldest brother (another Thomas) was fighting with Jamie, but twenty-year-old Richard was one of the handful of warriors Jamie had left behind to defend the castle.