Once a Warrior (9 page)

“A terrible thing for that to happen,” commented Dugald, clicking his tongue sympathetically. “That was Kenneth’s best shirt.”

“Glynis will fix it for him,” Angus assured him. “The woman is wonderful with a needle.”

“You will try again,” said Malcolm, struggling for patience, “only this time—”

A barrage of arrows suddenly flew over the outer wall, cutting short his directive. The astonished MacKendricks turned and ran, yelping as the shafts rained down on them. Unfortunately, Gordon did not move fast enough and was hit in the backside. Another arrow skewered the earth scant inches from the front hoof of Malcolm’s horse, causing the animal to toss his head and dance backward.

“What the hell is going on?” roared Malcolm, laying a calming hand upon Cain’s neck.

The shower of arrows stopped.

After a moment a sheepish-looking Gavin appeared through the gate.

“Sorry about that. The women kept shooting too low and missing the targets. I told them to aim higher than they thought they needed to.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And they did.”

“Well, now, you can’t blame them for that, lad,” said Angus.

Dugald nodded in agreement. “After all, they were only doing as they were told.”

“It seems they take instruction very well,” remarked Alpin brightly.

“You’re right,” said Angus, suddenly elated. “Who would have thought the lassies would shoot so high on their very first lesson?”

His jaw clenched, Malcolm watched as Gordon was slowly helped off the field. There were now four men gone, and they had been training for only ten minutes.

At this rate the entire clan would be incapacitated by the end of the day.

“I say we don’t need him,” announced Niall flatly. “What did we learn today, except that endlessly lifting and thrusting a weapon makes your arm throb?”

“I learned that women are better suited to a needle than to a bow,” grumbled Gordon, shifting painfully on his cushion.

“We were doing much better by the end of our session, Father,” pointed out Elizabeth defensively. “Once the targets were moved away from the castle wall.”

“He is trying to make archers of women, while he has us hacking and thrusting at empty air,” continued Niall, his tone thick with scorn. “Now every one of you is aching and weary, and what do we have to show for it? Does any man here feel better prepared to face an attacker?”

“I’m too tired to face anything but my bed,” grumbled Ramsay.

“My arms are as weak as a babe’s. If someone came through that door right now, I doubt I’d be able to lift my sword,” said Graham.

“A sore arm?” scoffed Hugh. “That’s nothing. You should see the scrape on my thigh.” He began to raise his plaid. “I’d wager it’s longer than—”

“You call that wee scratch a scrape? I’ve a cut on my shoulder as wide as a loch,” declared Bryce, loosening his shirt.

“A cut? Why I’ve a broken rib, I’m sure of it, and you don’t hear me crying about it,” boasted Ramsay.

“You were crying hard enough when I ran into you,” pointed out Graham. “I thought I was going to have to fetch your mother.”

“This training is a waste of time,” continued Niall, trying to recapture their attention. “We are deluding ourselves if we think MacFane can turn us into warriors.”

“It’s not our business to fight,” agreed Gordon irritably. “We should leave it to others.”

“Exactly,” agreed Niall. “So what is MacFane doing here? One only has to look at him to know he is not the next laird—”

“He’s not, is he, Alpin?” demanded Bryce, sounding horrified by the possibility.

All eyes turned to Alpin, who was seated at the laird’s table. A hush descended over the hall as they anxiously awaited his response.

Alpin rose from his chair and calmly regarded the clan, his black eyes sharp and knowing. “If I showed you a single, tiny seed, and told you that within its fragile walls lay endless shade in the summer, bushels of fruit in the autumn, and ample wood to furnish your homes and warm you in the winter, would you believe me?”

The silent clan stared at him, awestruck, contemplating the wisdom of his words.

Alpin nodded with satisfaction and slowly left the hall, his scarlet robes dusting the floor behind him.

The moment he was gone, the clan erupted in a baffled cacophony of questions.

“What did he say?” demanded Angus.

Dugald shook his head, bewildered. “Something about seeds.”

“I think he means we need to collect more seeds to replant what we felled last autumn,” suggested Graham.

“Seems an odd time to be concerned about seeds,” mused Angus. “I thought we were talking about the Black Wolf.”

Dugald leaned into his friend and whispered loudly, “He’s not the same as he used to be, you know. Getting older. I’ve noticed quite a difference since he turned one hundred and forty.”

“The Black Wolf was supposed to come with his great army,” declared Niall, trying to regain his audience’s attention. “Instead he arrives alone, weak, and pathetically unfit for the role of laird. Because of him, MacKendrick and many others were slain, including poor Guy and Marcus, who were finally buried just today. Why are we dishonoring their memory by wasting our time with this man?”

“Even Ariella realizes he’s not the one, or she would have given him the sword,” pointed out Agnes hesitantly.

“Why did she bring him, then?” wondered Helen.

Duncan rose from his chair and solemnly regarded the clan. “She brought him because she believed he could be of help,” he explained. “And although he is scarred, MacFane is not as weak as you seem to think.”

“That’s true,” agreed Andrew. “On our journey home we were—”

“If he’s not the one,” interrupted Niall, “then we should be spending our time trying to find the right laird, not performing foolish antics in the courtyard. We need a chief who leads a strong army that can defend us. And if we must train, let us find someone who is not so crippled with injuries, he can barely limp across the hall without eliciting pity.”

“Then don’t pity him.”

All eyes turned to Ariella as she descended the staircase. She swept her gaze disapprovingly over her clan before fastening her attention on Niall.

“I realize you mean well, Niall, with your attempt to incite the clan to reject MacFane,” she began, her voice reproachful. “But as I made clear yesterday, I have not brought him here to assume the position of laird. I have brought him here because I believe he can train us to better defend ourselves.”

“How is he training us by having us knock each other down and stab at empty air?” demanded Niall.

“You don’t see him running and jumping and fighting air,” added Ramsay. “How can he teach us to do things he can’t even do himself?”

“MacFane has fought countless great battles and never lost one,” stated Ariella boldly. She had no idea whether that was true, but the amazed faces surrounding her told her she had captured their attention. “He has trained thousands of men,” she exaggerated, “turning the simplest of farmers into the finest warriors in all Scotland. These things more than qualify him to be our teacher.” She paused, allowing her remarks to penetrate their disgruntlement.

“Yes, his once perfect body has been weakened by the terrible toll of fighting many successful battles,” she admitted. “But do not think for a moment MacFane is in any way helpless. On our journey home Andrew, Duncan, and I were attacked by eight savage thieves. At the very moment we were to be brutally slaughtered, MacFane burst from the darkness on his magnificent horse. He expertly killed all eight of the murderers before any of us could so much as lift a sword to come to his aid.” She paused again, giving her people time to imagine the highly exaggerated but glorious scene she had described.

“So, you see, even with his scars, even with his body racked with pain, with his injured arm and leg, the Black Wolf is still a great warrior. He could easily defeat five of you at the same time, with or without a sword. Given this extraordinary ability, I have no doubt he will be able to train us to defend ourselves, until we find the next rightful laird of our clan.”

Her clan stared at her in spellbound silence, their eyes wide and grave. Ariella nodded with satisfaction. It was clear she had been exceptionally convincing.

“I am flattered by your faith in me.”

She gasped and whirled about.

MacFane stood tall on the steps behind her. Anger chiseled the lines of his face into deep grooves, and his eyes smoldered with fury. Whether it was directed at her or her clan, she could not be sure.

He jerked his gaze from her to address the others. “Training will resume at dawn,” he announced harshly. “I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

He gave her a scathing look before turning and slowly mounting the steps, leaving Ariella no doubt he had heard far too much of their discussion.

“Go to bloody hell.”

The knocking continued, loud and determined.

“I have retired for the evening,” snarled Malcolm thickly. “Whatever it is, it can goddamn wait until morning.”

The heavy door swung open. Rob eyed him warily from the corridor.

“Gavin already brought me a tray,” Malcolm said, gesturing at the untouched food on the desk. He drained his cup and collapsed against the pillows propped behind his aching back. Suddenly he noticed a pitcher on the tray the boy carried. “Is that wine?”

“Water,” replied Rob, placing his tray beside the other. He peered into the three empty jugs on the desk. “It seems you’ve had enough wine for the evening.”

“I’ll decide what’s enough,” Malcolm snapped. “Next time you feel sorry for me, bring wine or don’t bother me. Is that clear?”

“I don’t feel sorry for you, MacFane.”

His expression, or what one could see of it beneath the layers of dirt streaking his face, was intense. Malcolm fixed a bleary stare on those cool gray eyes, determined to root out the pity he knew was buried beneath their depths. Rob folded his arms across his narrow chest and returned his scrutiny with utter indifference. He was telling the truth, Malcolm decided after a moment. The lad did not feel anything akin to pity for him. Contempt, certainly. But not pity. He grunted with satisfaction and closed his eyes.

Contempt was far easier to endure.

“You should have left me where I was,” he growled, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “As soon as you saw what I had become, you should have just left and let me be.”

“I did leave you, MacFane. You came after us.”

Malcolm frowned, trying to remember. “I came after you?”

“Actually, it was Gavin who was worried something might happen to us,” Rob qualified. “You just decided to go with him.”

Malcolm considered this a moment. The memory swirled within his pounding brain, just eluding his grasp. It seemed logical, though. Finally he nodded. “I went after you because of Gavin.” He closed his eyes again, satisfied that the matter was now clear. Then his brow creased and he lifted his lids once more. “But you convinced me to come here. You made me think it didn’t matter about—this.” He gestured in disgust at his battered body. “But it does matter. They look at me, and they know I am unfit. They watch me move, and their eyes are filled with pity.” Anger flooded through him. He hurled his empty cup against the room. It did not shatter as he had hoped. The wooden vessel hit the wall and fell whole to the ground, making him feel even more impotent.

“You should have bloody well left me alone,” he finished bitterly.

“So,” drawled Rob, his voice steeped in scorn, “this is how the mighty Black Wolf rises to a challenge. Tell me, MacFane, did you always feel this sorry for yourself when you faced something you could not immediately overcome? It’s a wonder you were able to forge such a magnificent reputation for yourself. Or did each legendary feat of the Black Wolf happen easily, with no effort on your part?”

“There were no legendary feats!” roared Malcolm, infuriated by the youth’s insolence. “It’s all lies! What once might have been truth is so buried beneath fantasy and exaggeration, even I can’t goddamn well remember what really happened.”

He paused, fighting to stifle the despair rising fast in his chest. Finally he murmured in a hollow voice, “Was the truth of my past so inconsequential, it had to be embellished until even I don’t believe it anymore?”

“No,” said Rob quietly, shaking his head. “It was not.”

Malcolm considered this a moment, wanting to believe him. Then his eyes narrowed. “You say that, yet you did not tell the truth to your own clan.”

“That was wrong,” he admitted. “But if they are going to permit you to train them, they have to respect you. That is why I made it eight thieves, instead of four.”

“Three,” Malcolm corrected. “Gavin killed one.” He snorted. “Hardly the tale of a great warrior.” He flung his arm over his eyes.

“If you don’t like that one, MacFane, and if your victories in battle do not count, then look at that tapestry above the bed,” Rob suggested. “It shows you and a party of ten men coming upon a village under attack by nearly fifty Munros. The people of that village were not part of your clan. You were vastly outnumbered. Yet you and your warriors drove the Munros away with such ferocity, no one has dared harass that village since.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of response. Malcolm lowered his arm but refused to look at the tapestry. The story was familiar, but the actual memory was veiled.

Was it really only ten men he had led that day?

“Then there was the night you came upon a burning house,” continued Rob, gesturing to the tapestry hanging on the opposite wall. “Five children and their parents lay sleeping within. Do you remember that night, MacFane? They say the flames parted each time you went in, allowing you to carry the children into the night without the fire so much as scorching their nightshirts. Finally the building began to collapse. Yet you went back and fetched the last child, shielding him with your body as you carried him outside. The child emerged unscathed, but you suffered a bad burn to your hands.”

Rob stood in front of the fabric rendition of the scene, his fists on his small hips as he waited for Malcolm to confirm or deny the tale. Malcolm resisted the impulse to look at his hands, afraid the scars would not be there.