Once a Warrior (4 page)

“Rob.”

He stopped but did not turn.

“Thank you.”

He sensed the boy’s surprise. Perhaps Rob thought simple courtesy was beyond the realm of the Black Wolf’s conduct. Given Malcolm’s behavior thus far, the lad had no reason to think otherwise. There was a moment of awkward silence.

“We are paying you well for your services, MacFane,” Rob finally said. “Try not to get killed before you have earned your fee.”

With that he continued toward the camp, leaving Malcolm alone with the dead wolf.

“Today we will learn to attack a man’s most vulnerable areas. Do you know what those are?”

Duncan, Andrew, and Ariella exchanged uncertain glances.

“The heart?” suggested Andrew.

“The heart is vulnerable if you pierce it with a weapon,” agreed Malcolm. “But I mean places you can attack without a weapon, which can effectively disable a man.”

“The eyes,” said Duncan.

“Right.” Malcolm proceeded to demonstrate on Gavin. “Grab your opponent’s head, like so, and sink your thumbs deep into his eyes until he screams. While he is blind, smash your forehead into his nose, breaking it, then immediately raise your knee and crush his ballocks, sending him to the ground. The trick is to inflict each injury in rapid succession, before he has a chance to recover. Once he is down, kick him as hard as you can in either the head or ribs. The head is better. Then take his weapon and slit his throat or stab his chest, being sure to kill him, not just wound him. Any questions?”

He raised his eyes to find his pupils staring at him in mute horror.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s so—so violent,” stammered Andrew.

“That’s why it’s called fighting.”

“But surely one needn’t resort to such brutality,” protested Duncan. “There must be other ways of dealing with an opponent.”

“You could simply ask him to go away,” Malcolm drawled aridly. “I have never found that to be particularly effective.”

Andrew shook his head. “You can’t possibly expect Rob to use such vile methods. He is just a boy.”

“It is because of Rob that I am suggesting these methods,” Malcolm asserted. “He is short and slight, so he cannot defeat a full-grown man using tactics requiring strength. But he can easily gouge eyes, bite flesh, knee ballocks, and pull hair. These are things that will distract your opponent, giving you the advantage. Now, you two start fighting each other,” he ordered, indicating Andrew and Duncan. “Try not to actually kill each other. Rob, you will fight Gavin.”

Andrew and Duncan looked at Ariella, their faces taut with apprehension.

She could not blame them for worrying about her. As the cherished daughter of Laird MacKendrick, she had been gently raised to a life of elegance and beauty. Ariella’s father had never permitted her to be exposed to harsh words or rough behavior. And he certainly would never have allowed her to wrestle with a man. But that was before Roderic, she reflected grimly. Before her father was killed, her clansmen murdered and terrorized, and her home ransacked.

That was a different Ariella.

“Very well,” she said. She straightened her shoulders and walked toward Gavin. “Let us begin.”

In the training that followed, Ariella was dropped on her backside more times than she cared to count. Although Gavin never seriously hurt her, he treated her with the same casual roughness one would use when wrestling with a boy of thirteen years. Fortunately her small breasts were firmly bound against her chest, so the odd time she found herself pinned against him, Gavin did not seem to notice any undue softness. They were not supposed to actually hurt each other, but Ariella’s movements were spontaneous and lacking in control, causing her twice to strike Gavin far harder than she intended. He assured her he was fine, but she adjusted her attacks after that, trying to hit him gently. Duncan and Andrew seemed to have the same problem, as they were constantly stopping and apologizing to each other while they rubbed a bruised knee or rib.

“For God’s sake, how do you intend to learn to fight if you stop every time you inflict one little bruise?” growled Malcolm impatiently.

“I hit him harder than I should have,” explained Andrew, casting Duncan an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell him you’re bloody sorry afterward, but get on with it! And you,” he continued, scowling at Ariella, “I’ve seen children of four summers fight with more conviction. Hit Gavin like your life depends on it.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” objected Ariella.

“You won’t hurt me, lad,” Gavin assured her cheerfully. “Go ahead. Give me your worst.”

Ariella hesitated.

“Do it,” commanded Malcolm, “or I’ll fight you myself. And I vow I won’t be nearly as easy on you as Gavin has been.”

She gave him a withering look.

“Imagine Gavin has come to attack your home,” Malcolm instructed harshly. “He has already butchered two of your clansmen. Now he is about to cut you in half with his sword. After you’re dead, he will ransack your home, brutalize your clan’s women and children, and set everything afire. You have no weapon. What are you going—”

Rage was surging through Ariella long before he finished. Overwhelmed with hideous memories, she flew at Gavin. He waved his sword before him, but Ariella already knew how to deal with the weapon. She scooped up a fistful of dirt and hurled it at Gavin’s eyes. He blinked and shook his head, his sword lowered, and Ariella rammed her knee into his groin. Gavin gasped in pain and dropped to his knees. Panting, Ariella turned to look at Malcolm.

“Very good,” said Malcolm, masking his surprise. “Except you should have taken his sword and run him through.”

Gavin groaned. “I think that’s enough training for today,” he suggested, his voice strained. “The boy can run me through tomorrow.”

Malcolm felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “Help your opponent to his feet, Rob. I think poor Gavin has discovered you are a more formidable adversary than your size indicates.” He began to limp away.

Ariella went to Gavin and offered her hand. “I am truly sorry, Gavin,” she apologized. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

“That’s all right, lad,” he said, rising to his feet. “It was worth it.”

Ariella frowned. “Why?”

“That is the closest I’ve seen him smile in over three years,” he replied, looking almost jubilant. “And for that, I’d gladly let you knock me down again.”

Warm light grazed his face, rousing him. His familiar enemy was there to greet him, hacking through muscles, stiffening his back and limbs. But his head was oddly clear, allowing the cloak of sleep to be torn away despite his exhaustion. He opened his eyes and frowned at the sunlight drifting through the branches above, wondering why he was not experiencing his customary morning haze. Then he remembered there had been no wine for him last night. That was why he was so tired. He had lain awake for hours on this damp, hard ground, battling his pain as he fought to enter the refuge of sleep.

He needed to find some drink soon.

The camp was empty except for young Rob, who was occupied with laying the morning meal. Malcolm watched as the boy carefully spread a cloth upon the ground, smoothed out the wrinkles, and adjusted the corners. He then neatly arranged a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, some dried herring, and a pitcher upon it, and placed some wooden cups around. The lad frowned at the result, cut the loaf, and rearranged it amongst the other food, intent on making the meal look pleasing. Then he produced a kerchief and wiped the inside of each cup. It was clear the MacKendricks were an unusually fastidious clan. Malcolm scowled with impatience. Their time would be better spent turning their young men into warriors.

“Where are the others?” he demanded, rising.

Rob looked up, startled.

“This evening we will be reaching my home,” he said, shoving the kerchief into his saddlebag. “They have gone to the river to bathe and prepare themselves for our arrival.”

Malcolm stretched, cursed at the pain the action caused him, then belched loudly. Seating himself by the cloth, he grabbed a chunk of bread and began to eat. Gavin, Duncan, and Andrew approached from the river, their faces freshly shaved and their hair wet. Malcolm regarded Gavin’s pink cheeks with amusement. It had been a long time since he had seen his friend without the dark growth of a beard.

“Makes you look years younger,” Malcolm commented dryly as Gavin sat down. “I’d never guess you to be past forty.”

Gavin self-consciously stroked his smooth cheek. “I am curious to see what you look like beneath yours, my friend.”

“I have no intention of shaving,” Malcolm assured him, reaching for a chunk of cheese.

“But you must!” exclaimed Rob.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

“What I mean to say is,” the boy hastily amended, “my clan is anxiously awaiting our return with the mighty Black Wolf. They have heard stories of your exceptional courage and strength, and your many glorious feats over the years. They are expecting to welcome the arrival of a magnificent warrior. You cannot possibly ride into their midst looking like a—”

“Like a what?” prodded Malcolm ominously.

“Like a warrior who did not have time to bathe,” supplied Duncan. “We MacKendricks are rather particular on matters of cleanliness.”

Malcolm cast a sardonic eye at Rob. “You would never know it.”

“We are not so particular when it comes to children,” qualified Andrew. “Only adults and warriors.”

“That’s your problem,” stated Malcolm with a shrug. “I have no intention of either bathing or shaving.”

“How do you expect my clan to respect you if you arrive looking like a filthy, savage wild man?” demanded Rob impatiently. “Do you think they will believe you are the Black Wolf?”

Malcolm felt his irritation deepen. “They can believe whatever they goddamn—”

“It is going to be a warm day,” interrupted Gavin pleasantly. “A swim would be good, Malcolm, before we begin our journey.”

Malcolm glared at his friend, furious that he was taking their side. No one said anything in the silence that followed, but Malcolm was acutely aware of their disapproving scrutiny.

“Fine,” he finally growled. “I’ll have a bloody swim.”

A short while later Ariella saw Gavin and Malcolm returning from the river. The Black Wolf’s ragged beard was gone, revealing a strong, square jaw and well-formed cheekbones. He was naked except for the worn plaid wrapped carelessly around his waist. His chest, shoulders, and stomach were thickly muscled, and although his body bore many scars, it was obvious this was a man of considerable strength. It was only pain, she realized, not weakness, that limited his abilities. His dark-brown hair was dripping wet, causing rivulets of water to trickle down his sun-bronzed chest and shoulders. Ariella watched in fascination as the shimmering streams slid across his body before disappearing into the fabric at his waist.

“Better?” demanded Malcolm sourly.

She nodded.

“You might want to try a bath yourself, lad,” he suggested. “A pound of soap and a stiff brush might strip away some of that filth.”

“My clan is uninterested in my appearance,” she replied tautly. “But they will be very interested in yours. Which is why I must trim your hair. If you will permit me,” she swiftly qualified as his newly shaved jaw clenched.

“After you have cut Malcolm’s, you may cut mine,” said Gavin, before Malcolm had a chance to respond. “Living alone for so long, I fear we have neglected our appearance. We do not want your clan to think we are uncivilized.” He gave Malcolm a meaningful look.

“Hurry up and cut it, then,” Malcolm snapped. “The morning is wasted with this nonsense.”

Ariella fetched her comb and scissors and proceeded to give the Black Wolf a good trim. Once she had combed out the tangles and removed a ragged length, his dark-brown hair began to wave as it spilled over his shoulders. He endured her ministrations in hostile silence. Taking courage from his cooperation, however unwilling, she quickly plaited a small lock on one side. Then she wrapped a fresh bandage around his injured arm and declared herself finished.

“Then do Gavin and let us be off,” said Malcolm, reaching for his shirt.

Ariella gazed in disgust at the filthy, worn garment crumpled in his hand. “Don’t you have anything better to wear?”

“When we set out to find you, I did not anticipate needing a fine outfit,” he drawled.

“But I did.” Gavin went to his horse and withdrew some garments and a pair of boots from his saddlebag. “Here.”

Malcolm stared at the clothes in astonishment. They were from his own wardrobe when he had been Laird MacFane. After being cast out, he had abandoned his belongings, even though Harold had generously told him to take whatever he needed. Evidently Gavin had been more prudent. But why had he brought this outfit, Malcolm wondered, when they had planned only to make sure the MacKendricks were all right and then return home that same night?

“A pity you didn’t think to pack more wine for the journey as well,” he commented acidly.

Gavin shrugged. “There wasn’t enough room.”

Malcolm scowled and dropped his plaid.

Cheeks flaming, Ariella turned away. “If you come over here, Gavin, I will trim your hair for you.”

She took her time with the task, wanting to be sure Malcolm was dressed before she looked again. After packing her scissors and comb in her bag, she cautiously turned.

The stranger standing before her bore no resemblance to the filthy, drunken hermit she had met four days earlier. This man was truly splendid in his saffron shirt, leather jerkin, and magnificent plaid of brown, green, and black, which was pinned to his shoulder with an old, battered brooch. A strong belt strapped his sword to his waist, and new deerskin boots were laced up his calves. He regarded her calmly, his blue eyes clear and faintly taunting. Everything about him spoke of power and confidence, the stance of a man who knows he has strength and is ready to wield it. This was the Black Wolf her father and Alpin had spoken of. This was the warrior who led an army of a thousand, who performed deeds of unparalleled bravery, and who emerged unscathed and victorious from virtually every battle.