Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (3 page)

“Not exactly,” he replied with a smile. Then Logan cut in.

“What are ye doing out here alone?” Logan asked.

“I was visiting Mary,” she said.

“But who rode out here with ye? Ye ken ye aren’t meant to—” A throat clearing behind them pulled Garik and Logan’s attention away from Nellore.

“Logan,” the Bruce said. “Will you not make introductions?”

“Of course, my liege,” he said as he turned Nellore about to face the king. “Your majesty, this is Nellore, daughter of Duncan and Brenna MacKinnon. She is my sister in all ways but blood.” He then motioned to the Bruce. “Nellore, ye’re standing before the king of Scotland.”

Garik had to suppress a chuckle when Nellore dipped into a confused curtsy. She truly was an impressive sight. Her hair fell about her head in wild disarray. Thick brows framed what he decided would be lovely eyes when she was grown. A shadow of dirt seemed to cover every inch of her.

“Is it your practice to train your women in skilled combat?” the Bruce asked Logan.

Garik turned an eager ear to hear Logan’s response.

“Over this last decade, by the urging of my grandmother, the Lady Bridget, all of our women have become trained archers. She thought it wrong to leave them defenseless if our men were overrun in battle. Some are more capable than others, but all are able to hit their mark. The bow is where their training begins and ends. Nellore is an exception,” Logan smiled sheepishly. “I am to blame for her skill with a sword.”

“’Tis just like ye, Logan, to claim ownership over what is mine,” Nellore said, scowling. She turned to the king. “He trained me, but only because I showed such promise.”

“Indeed,” the King smiled. “A braver or more clever lass I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting, and I am the father of three fine daughters.” The Bruce extended his hand toward Nellore. “May I hold your sword?”

Garik laughed outright when she clutched her sword tighter and retreated steps away from the men. Once again, her green eyes narrowed on him. “The king only wishes to admire your blade, little one,” Garik said.

Much to Garik’s surprise, she stretched to her full height and stalked right up to him. “I am many things, sir—disobedient, willful, ill-mannered, and ugly, but little I am not.”

She stared up at him, her bright green eyes unafraid amid tangled black hair. Indeed, she nearly came up to his chest, which was impressive given he was tall and she still not fully grown. He scrutinized her features once more: thick brows, pert nose, and wide full lips. She bore the awkwardness of youth but he predicted one day she would be an unusual beauty. Her features would never appear refined, but she would captivate those men daring enough to see beyond convention.

“You are a tall, fine lass,” Garik said softly. “Now, give the king your sword.”

A blush tinted her cheeks as she handed her blade to the Bruce. Still, she guarded her weapon with possessive eyes. Like most warriors, Garik could tell she did not like another’s hand gripping her sword. “What a queer, little minx you’ve become,” Garik said with admiration. Her eyes tore away from her blade and met his with naked aggression. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “My words were not meant to sting,” he said. “I think you are the finest, wee lass I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I only wish my own sister had a drop of your gumption. She is as thin and flimsy as a morning breeze.” At his words, those green eyes softened and her wide, full lips parted as a dazzling smile stretched across her face. Her smile nigh stole his breath. “You are prettier than you think, child,” he said.

“I’m not a child,” she declared, thrusting out her chin.

“Ten and two does not a woman make,” he replied.

“Enough with your frivolities,” the king interrupted. “Garik, you are undermining the courage of my newest warrior.”

Nellore’s head jerked up and she stared at her king with mouth agape.

“’Tis a fine blade,” the Bruce said as he slashed the air with her sword.

“I had it made to suit her,” Logan said. “Although her father was displeased to say the least, as was my chieftain. ‘Tis lighter and shorter than a normal blade, yet still quite strong.”

Her fingers reached out and stroked across the steel of her sword. “Am I truly counted among your warriors?” she asked of the king.

“Aye, lass. You are a shield maiden of Scotland,” he answered.

“Then I can march with ye?” she said.

The Bruce chuckled and ruffled her mussed hair. “Nay, lass. Mayhap when you are grown. For now, I need you here to protect your kinfolk while Logan, Garik, and the others are away.”

“Do not fash yourself, lass.” It was Hamish who spoke. Garik turned, surprised to hear the older man speak for the first time. His fierce scar might have scared another lass, but not Nellore. She looked up at Hamish with hopeful eyes. “I could be your squire,” she said.

Hamish laughed. “I’m no pampered knight,” he said. Then turning to the king and James, he muttered, “begging your pardon, my lords.” Then he turned back to Nellore. “I too must remain behind.”

A loud sigh of dejection passed from her lips as her head hung low. Clearly, she had hoped Hamish had found a solution that had her marching off to battle.

“But ye can help me defend your home. ‘Tis why I’ve come. To offer the Mull MacKinnon my sword and one good eye for the defense of your people while so many of your warriors are called away.”

Logan put his arm around her shoulder. “Ye know ye cannot go to battle, Nellore,” he said. Then he swept her up in his arms and spun her around until she laughed with girlish delight. “But ye still wield the fastest blade on Mull,” he said, laughing.

“Faster even than ye?” she said.

“Faster even than Garik,” Logan said. Garik smiled at Logan, remembering how he had bested the future chieftain that morning when they sparred.

Nellore scrambled out of Logan’s arms and hurried to Garik’s side. Her gaze traveled over his leather jerkin and wool pants. She liked the look of him. His hair was as black as the chough bird’s feathers, and his skin was stark white like the snow that still clung to Benmore Mountain. But it was his eyes that made her forget to breathe. They were ice blue in color but held none of winter’s cold. In fact, they shone with warmth and humor.

The Bruce drew her gaze away from Garik’s when he stepped forward. “Nellore, I am compelled to tell you that if you were my daughter, I would chain you to a chair in your room until you were old enough to wed. But since you do not belong to me, I choose instead to encourage your fierce nature. I can only pray the men under my command have even half your valor.”

Nellore beamed as she mounted her horse. “Did ye hear what the king said?” she whispered in the palfrey’s ear. Her horse skippered beneath her as powerful and hell bound with vigor as she.

She galloped across the moors toward Gribun with the men at her side. Exhilaration coursed through her akin to nothing she had ever experienced. With the king and so many warriors surrounding her, it was easy to imagine she was every part the warrior of her dreams. She met Garik’s smiling eyes and laughed. Beyond anything, she wished she were grown and could fight alongside her king and kinsmen.

The MacKinnon warriors were in the midst of training when they approached Gribun. Garik watched as each man balanced a massive caber in their arms while they crossed the wide plain. Youthful memories of dragging his weary and aching body into the great hall of Dun Ara Castle only to fall into an exhausted stupor during the evening meal rushed to the fore of his mind. By the bone-tired expressions worn on all of the warriors’ faces, he could surmise that Ronan was as ruthless as ever. According to his grandfather, Aidan, Ronan had always pushed the men to the point of breaking. More than once, Aidan had affectionately referred to Ronan as ‘that tyrant’.

Now, at nearly seventy-one years of age, Ronan’s strength had at last diminished. While Garik watched the training, he noted that Ronan did not participate in some of the drills; whereas, when he had fostered with the MacKinnon, Ronan would have matched his warriors move for move. Still, for a man of Ronan’s advanced years, Garik was impressed by the drills his trimmer yet still sinewy physique managed to complete.

Garik chuckled as Ronan barked at the men to keep moving. One thing he could say for certain was that the years had done nothing to soften Ronan’s voice. But no one uttered a single complaint. Everyone knew that Ronan’s unrelenting demands and brutal tactics were behind the renowned skill of the Mull MacKinnon warriors. Garik did not doubt that Ronan’s despotic role on the training fields and the resulting discipline of his men were the very reasons the king of Scotland stood nearby watching the Mull warriors with avid interest.

Much to the apparent relief of his men, Ronan dismissed the warriors to the keep and strode toward his audience. He first approached Angus Og. Garik could tell by the warmth of Ronan’s greeting that he held the laird of the Clan MacDonald in very high esteem. Angus Og returned Ronan’s welcome with the same open affection, and then straightaway he introduced the Bruce.

A flash of surprise passed over Ronan’s face, and a glint of excitement lit his amber eyes. He knelt and kissed the Bruce’s hand. “Long have we prayed for a true king to claim Scotland’s throne,” he said. Then Ronan stood and introduced the man at his side.

“This is my second in command, Duncan MacKinnon,” Ronan said.

Duncan came forward and knelt before the king, also swearing his allegiance. When Duncan rose to his feet, Nellore rushed to his side. He smiled down at her. “Look at how filthy ye are, lass, and in front of the king no less,” he said before pressing a kiss to her head. “Ye’ve met my eldest lass then?” Duncan said to the Bruce.

“Aye. In fact, I had the privilege of observing her skill with a blade,” the king replied.

Garik did not envy the look Logan received from Duncan before Duncan turned his attention once more to the Bruce. “I face the English without fear, for I ken Nellore will be the death of me.”

Duncan continued to lament Nellore’s preference for daggers and swords over cooking ladles and sewing needles, but Garik could sense underneath it all, he was proud of his daughter’s exceptional skills.

“Let us retire to the keep,” Ronan said. “I admit I grow impatient to hear the news that brings the king of Scotland to my shore.”

*

The Bruce stood at the head of a long, rough-hewn wooden table that stretched nigh the length of the great hall. His hands rested on the surface as he leaned forward, meeting the gaze of every single warrior, one by one. “If we are to reclaim the glory of a united and free Scotland, I need warriors with skill and fury in their hearts to match the demand of my ambition. I need warriors willing to sacrifice everything to win—their lives, even their honor.”

“Your majesty,” James interrupted, “forgive me, but mayhap, you should start at the beginning.”

The Bruce nodded. “You are right as always, James. Before I ask them to break knightly codes of conduct, they should know why.”

Ronan was quick to reply. “I would hear your tale, my liege, but know this—there are no knights on Mull, only warriors.”

“It would seem I’ve come to the right place,” the Bruce said, smiling. Then he stood and began to pace the room as he spoke. “Two years ago, King Edward gave Aymer de Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, orders to raise the dragon banner against me.”

“What does that mean?” Garik asked.

It was Ronan who answered. “It means Valence was ordered to give no quarter, no mercy, take no prisoners. The dragon banner does not honor knightly codes.”

The Bruce nodded. Then he closed his eyes, seemingly to gather his thoughts.

Silence resounded in the great hall as all eyes turned expectantly to the one man with the will and bloodline to unite a nation divided and fight for Scotland’s independence.

At length the king spoke. “With an army of more than four thousand strong, we marched to Perth to call Valence out to battle, but he refused.” His lips curled with contempt. “And so I led the men to Methven to make camp.” He closed his eyes once more, but this time Garik could tell he did so to garner his strength. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and moved to stand before James. “Lord Douglas had advised me to heavily guard the camp, arguing Valence was not to be trusted. But my foolish heart still beat to the rhythm of valor and honor and the knightly codes Lord Valence himself had also sworn to uphold.” Disdain flavored the king’s voice, leading Garik to guess the Bruce’s anger was as much with himself as with Valence.

“I was mistaken,” the Bruce said. “Just as James had predicted, Valence attacked. Under the cover of darkness, the enemy gathered around our camp in the night, surrounding us. Then, like savage beasts, dark shadows came alive and devoured our defenseless camp. My men were pulled from their sleep and butchered. Many fled into the woods, but there was no place to run. The trees released only their screams. Surrounded, outnumbered, and caught unprepared, my hard-earned army was slaughtered.”

Garik watched pain and regret pass like shadows over his contrite leader’s face. He knew the Bruce blamed himself for the death of so many. Such a burden he could only imagine would weigh heavily on one’s soul.

“They captured my nephew, Thomas Randolf. I can only pray he lives, imprisoned somewhere despite Valence’s order to show no quarter. They took my wife and daughters shortly after that. They are being held in a convent. Those of us that survived were forced west to take refuge. I believed the mountains of Argyle would cradle my broken army. The narrow, steep passes would keep Valance’s cavalry at bay, but once more I was proven wrong. As we climbed higher and higher, a battle cry descended from near the top of the summit. Hell rained down upon our battle-weary bodies. You see, I had underestimated the English king’s reach. The clan MacDougall attacked, and my tired army was no match for the fierce Highlanders. The only reason James and I still live is because of Angus Og. At the time of the attack, he had been leading his men in a march to join my army. Crossing the Argyle Mountains on his way east, he heard the battle and took up the fight, forcing the MacDougalls to scatter once more up the mountain pass.”