The Rose and The Warrior (16 page)

“I'm not fat,” protested Gelfrid. He lowered his sword so he could mop his sweating brow with his sleeve. “I'll have you know this is sheer muscle.” He thumped the generous round of his belly with his pudgy fist.

“More like sheer ale,” countered Ninian.

“Whatever it is, the Viking is saying that I have the advantage,” said Gelfrid testily.

“No, he's saying I'd best not let you sit on me or I'll be crushed,” Ninian retorted.

“Why don't we try it and find out?” snapped Gelfrid, tossing his sword down and stomping toward his friend.

Eric felt the taut thread of his patience snap.
“Enough!”

Every MacKillon in the yard instantly stopped what they were doing and stared at Eric in bewilderment.

“What's amiss, Viking?” demanded Thor, who was seated comfortably in a chair with a cup of cool ale in his hand. “Is the training over for today?”

“No,” said Eric, struggling to rein in his temper. “Everyone continue.”

The thirty or so men who were training resumed their exercises.

Eric fixed Gelfrid and Ninian with a steely stare. “Do you wish to learn to fight, or do you prefer to squabble like a pair of old women?”

The two MacKillons exchanged chastised looks.

“We want to learn to fight,” said Ninian.

“Like warriors,” Gelfrid added.

“Fine. Let us continue.” Eric assumed his braced stance once again. “If your opponent is larger than you, you must make it hard for him to knock you off balance. Grip your sword firmly with your right hand, like so, and keep your left arm out, to help maintain your footing….”

Melantha watched Eric in confusion, her hand still gripping the hilt of her sword. The enormous warrior had a weapon in his hand. This was a perfect opportunity for him. Why didn't he just grab either Gelfrid or Ninian and put the blade to their throat, then threaten to slay them if he and his fellow MacTiers weren't released at once?

“He's very strong, isn't he?”

Melantha turned to see Gillian standing beside her. Her faded gray gown was limp and splattered with grease, indicating that she had been working in the kitchen. Despite the shabby condition of her attire, Melantha thought her friend looked remarkably pretty. Her red-gold hair formed a gauzy veil about her pale face, and her eyes were large and shimmering, like a loch glistening with sunlight.

“Look how effortlessly he wields Ninian's sword,” Gillian commented, her gaze fixed upon Eric. “ 'Tis barely more than a twig to him.”

“Aye, he's strong,” agreed Melantha. “Strong and well trained and a MacTier warrior. That makes him dangerous, Gillian.”

“And yet he has not tried to harm any of us,” she reflected softly.

“He has not tried to harm anyone because he is a prisoner,” pointed out Melantha, “and knows he would be vastly outnumbered were he to raise so much as his hand.”

“Perhaps.” Gillian watched as Eric demonstrated several deadly slicing motions with his sword, then handed the weapon back to Ninian so he could practice. “But why is he helping to train the very people who hold him prisoner? Surely it would be better for these MacTiers if we remained weak and defenseless, in case their clan comes to free them.”

Melantha did not know the answer to that question. All around her, members of her clan were busily digging pits, making weapons, preparing food, and training. Why had Roarke and his men instigated these projects? It could only have something to do with their plans for escape, she reflected darkly. Roarke was far too proud a warrior to placidly bide his time here and wait for his ransom to be paid. But what, exactly, were they planning?

“Do you know where Roarke is, Gillian?” she asked.

“He is up on the wall walk with Lewis and a group of men. They are constructing some kind of platform from one of Lewis's designs.”

“I am going up to see what they are doing. Are you coming?”

“I have to get back to the kitchen,” said Gillian, not taking her eyes off Eric.

“Very well.” Melantha turned toward the keep, noting that her friend showed absolutely no sign of moving.

The wall head was teeming with activity, and she had to step carefully to avoid tripping over a tool or being hit by one of the dozens of heavy planks being carried to and fro.

“Melantha! Look at what I'm doing!”

Melantha turned to see Patrick standing beside the burly form of Myles.

“We're building a wall for one of the platforms,” Patrick informed her, his freckled face beaming with excitement. He eagerly handed Myles a nail.

The MacTier warrior positioned it over one of the boards lying on the ground before him, then drove it in with two powerful swings of his iron mallet. It was a blow that could easily kill a man, Melantha thought. Or crush a child's skull.

“That was a good one,” said Myles, inspecting the sunken scrap of iron with approval. “Find me another like that one, Patty—straight and true with a good, sharp tip.”

His red brows puckered with concentration, Patrick fished through his black pile of nails. “Here's a good one!” he said triumphantly, extracting a dark pin that looked exactly like the rest.

“Perfect.” Myles took it from him and positioned it on the board. Two more powerful raps and the nail had disappeared. “Smooth as a greased dirk.”

“Why would you want to put grease on a dirk?” Patrick wondered.

“ 'Tis an old trick of mine,” Myles explained. “Makes the dirk sink into a man's gut like a blade in warm butter.”

“Really?” Patrick's blue eyes widened with childish fascination. “How many men have you killed, Myles?”

“Come here, Patrick,” said Melantha suddenly.

Patrick turned to look at her. “Why?”

“I have something I need you to do for me,” she replied, giving Myles a disapproving look.

Patrick remained planted beside Myles. “What?” It was clear he was reluctant to abandon his privileged position as an assistant to the forbidding-looking MacTier warrior.

“I need you to—help me find Daniel and Matthew,” she improvised.

“They're practicing their swordplay just beyond the west tower,” said Patrick. “Look, you can just see them.”

Melantha glanced over to see the two boys playfully cracking their wooden swords together.

“Then I need you to help me find Roarke.”

“He's right over there.”

Melantha followed his grubby little finger and saw Roarke standing at the far end of the wall head, directing the efforts of several men who were inserting a square timber through an opening in the parapet.

“Come with me while I go to speak with him.” She extended her hand to him.

“I want to stay here and help Myles,” Patrick insisted. “He needs me.”

“Maybe you'd best go with your sister, Patty,” said Myles, sensing Melantha's displeasure. “I can manage without you.”

“But you told me you needed me.” Patrick sounded crestfallen. “You said my job was important.”

“And so it is,” Myles assured him. “But now that we've got this wall well in hand, perhaps there is someone else needing your assistance—like Lewis.”

“I don't want to help Lewis,” Patrick objected, his expression pleading. “I want to help you.”

Myles gave Melantha a helpless look.

Melantha was on the verge of ordering Patrick to come to her side at once. But something in Myles's eyes caused her to hesitate. They reflected warmth and gentle humor as he looked at her, as if he were saying, Well, what are we to do with this lad now?

He was a MacTier warrior, Melantha reminded herself firmly, who had the strength to kill Patrick with one deliberate blow of his mallet. And yet, despite his forbidding countenance, with his shaved head and his thick arms sheathed in battered metal guards, Melantha sensed no danger from Myles as he towered over the small form of her baby brother. If anything he was being extremely sweet with the lad—giving him a simple task to make him feel needed, and complimenting him on his performance. Patrick was only seven years old, but already he had lost both his parents and seen his clan brutalized by attack and near starvation. If he had found a morsel of pleasure standing in the sunlight passing Myles the very best nails, then what harm was there in letting him do so? The wall head was crowded with her people, any one of whom would intervene if they thought for an instant that Patrick was in danger.

“Very well,” she relented. “You may stay here and help Myles—but no more talk of dirks, understood?”

“Yes.” Patrick's blue eyes danced with delight.

“I am also speaking to you, Myles,” Melantha added in a stern voice.

Myles nodded meekly, then gave Patrick a conspiratorial wink.

Melantha turned and made her way to the end of the wall walk, wondering if she should have included swords and other weapons in her directive.

“A little farther out…a little more…there,” Lewis said, finally satisfied with the position of the beam. “Now place the others parallel to this one, and make sure they are well secured before you nail the planks on top.”

“Are you sure this thing is going to hold the weight of two men and all those stones?” demanded Mungo skeptically.

“Roarke has seen similar galleries built out from some of the castles he has attacked. He has assured me that if they are constructed correctly, they are extremely secure.”

“But how do we know if we're building it correctly?” wondered Finlay. “We've never made one of these contraptions before.”

“I have calculated a man's weight against the strength of the design,” Lewis explained. “It will hold.”

“But how can you know for certain?”

Lewis dropped his gaze to his diagram, uncertain how to convince them.

“Lewis's design is excellent,” interjected Roarke. “He has even improved upon the platforms that I have seen by placing an additional cross piece, here, to better distribute the weight,” he added, pointing this feature out on Lewis's drawing.

“That may be, but I'll not be the first one out to test the thing!” Mungo chortled, shaking his head. “I've no desire to fall through the air and break both my legs, no matter how pretty Lewis's drawing is!”

“Nor I,” added Finlay, laughing.

“You won't fall,” protested Lewis in frustration. “The hoarding will hold you.”

“So you've said,” replied Mungo, “but I'll be keeping my feet on firmer ground, all the same.”

“Once the timbers are in place, I will go out and nail the planks down myself. That way you will see the hoarding is secure.”

Lewis, Mungo, and Finlay looked at Roarke in astonishment.

“You would do that?” said Lewis.

“Of course,” he replied. “Because I have no doubt that your design is sound. Now, if you two are sure enough of what you are doing to carry on, Lewis must check with the men on the other end of the wall—” He stopped suddenly, his thoughts completely arrested by the sight of Melantha.

In the three days since he had addressed her people in the courtyard, Melantha had managed to avoid Roarke completely. He had known she was angry with him for not playing the role of prisoner to her liking, and for convincing her clan to institute some of his ideas. He could only guess what she imagined his motives to be, but he had little doubt that she suspected his assistance was directly entwined with some nefarious plan of escape.

Strangely enough, Roarke had actually missed her glowering presence. At this moment her expression was marginally softer—not precisely welcoming, but not exuding its characteristic scorn and bitterness either. She was garbed in her customary outfit of leggings, high deerskin boots, a loosely fitted tunic of plain brown wool, and a moss green quilted jerkin. Although he would have preferred to see her draped in a richly colored gown of fine silk or soft wool, Roarke found himself admiring the firm curve of her legs, which these particular leggings did little to obscure. Her dark hair was loosely secured with a frayed length of ribbon, but Roarke suspected this was purely for keeping her hair out of her eyes, rather than any capitulation to female vanity. Despite her utter indifference to her appearance as a woman, he found her completely enchanting as she gazed up at him. A honeyed cast of sunlight warmed the chiseled paleness of her cheeks, softening the sharp lines of deprivation that disturbed him so, and her eyes were large and mysteriously veiled, drawing him deeper into their depths as he tried to discern her mood.

“Good afternoon, milady.” He gave her a polite bow.

Melantha frowned, not sure if he was making sport of her or not. She was well aware that her attire made her look anything but a lady. She searched his expression but could find no trace of mockery in it. Instead he regarded her with something akin to warmth, as if he were actually pleased to see her.

“I came to see the progress on the wall,” she said, as if her presence in his company required an explanation.

“It's going very well, Melantha,” said Lewis enthusiastically. “We have cut openings in the parapet to hold the timbers for four hoardings, and now we're just positioning—”

“Look out below!”

Melantha, Roarke, and Lewis peered over the battlements just in time to see a heavy timber sail through the air, effectively scattering the MacKillons working on the ground below before it landed with a heavy crash.

“God's ballocks, Mungo,
are you tryin' to kill someone
?!” shouted Finlay furiously.

“I had to sneeze!” Mungo retorted defensively.

“Well, you might bloody well let me know before you leave all the work to me!” snapped Finlay.

“Did you see that, Matthew?” asked Daniel, climbing into the crenel between the merlons to get a better look. “The timber sank right into the ground!”

Matthew craned his head to see around his brother. “Where?”