Son of the Sword

by J. Ardian Lee

  That brought an appreciative chuckle from the other men, each of whom Dylan figured would volunteer to do the deed if needed.

  Iain continued, “He’s wealthy, and privy to information we can use. We’ll trust him until we have reason not to.” With that, he climbed to his feet and announced they would press on.

  At nightfall they came to a small clutch of houses in a wooded glen. This was still land controlled by Iain, but the tenants here were not familiar to Dylan. Being an entire day’s walk from the castle, these Mathesons came to Glen Ciorram only on the rarest of occasions.

  The hunting party found shelter that night in a peat house occupied by a family with seven children. There were larger families in Ciorram, so Dylan wasn’t surprised to see the seven kids slept in two beds stacked like bunks. The hunting party was fed salted beef and slept on the dirt floor of the public room, wrapped in their plaids. Early the next day they struck out into thick woods where faint trails ran through thickets of ferns, toadstools, moss, birches, prickly gorse, and majestic pines. Everything here seemed covered with moss. As a Boy Scout Dylan had been taught to tell north by checking what side of the trees moss grew on, but here it grew on all sides. The darkness of the thick parts of the woods would make it unutterably easy to get lost.

  Each hunter was armed with a sword, dirk, and bow, but Iain, Coll, and Artair also carried muskets that reminded Dylan of Daniel Boone’s Kentucky Long Rifle. Each gun had a barrel almost as long as a man was tall, and the stocks were inlaid with brass in ornate designs. Coll’s musket was entirely steel, and the stock sported deep, swirling grooves. Raised on TV shoot-em-ups, where guns were supposed to be convenient and rarely needed reloading, Dylan considered the powder horn, wadding, and balls of the flintlock a monumental nuisance, and the single-shot nature of these guns made them a waste of effort and expense. He was just as happy with the arrows and his blades, and would rather eat beef than venison anyway.

  The woods were thick, but the hunters moved with care and in silence. Once Iain found fresh spoor of a quarry, Dylan and Malcolm were placed in a spot overlooking and downwind of the deer track while the other three men circled wide to beat bushes. They were half an hour or so getting into position, and Dylan waited with Malcolm in disciplined silence. Not a word was said, and the men were alert but relaxed.

  Then the noise began, far off in the trees. Swords slapped branches and undergrowth, and loud voices filled the air. Dylan and Malcolm each nocked an arrow in anticipation. A rabbit hurtled past, but they ignored it. Birds rose into and above the trees, out of reach. Another rabbit passed, and Dylan began to wonder if those were all they would find.

  But a larger creature came crashing through the brush as the voices approached behind it, and Malcolm raised his bow to aim. Dylan did likewise, though he still couldn’t see what the animal was. The beaters were hot on the trail of the game. Then a small deer broke from the foliage, reddish-brown and shaggy, fleeing for her life, and Dylan let fly his arrow.

  The next thing he knew he was floating in nothingness, Sinann’s voice was pleading for him to wake up, and his head felt as if it had been cracked open like a coconut. He tried to speak, but could only groan. He found himself lying on the ground, and Malcolm pressed something lightly to the side of his head just above his right ear. Dylan finally formed the words, “Wha . . . happen?”

  “You’ve been shot. The ball put a crease in your scalp and took off the tip of your ear. It’s bleeding like a heart wound, but you’ll live. You were insensible for but a few moments.”

  Dylan grunted and struggled to sit up, then took the cloth from Malcolm’s hand to hold it himself. He looked around at the Mathesons standing over him, all of them white-faced and silent. His eyes narrowed at Artair. “Who . . . ?”

  Iain said quickly, “It was me. My ball is the one that went astray. I’m sorry for it.”

  Dylan knew a lie when he heard one, and it was not in Iain’s nature to lie well. Sinann confirmed it. “Dinnae believe him. It was Artair trying to murder ye. Ask to smell his gun. Go ahead, smell it. Iain never fired.”

  Dylan glanced at her and declined to follow her advice. He knew it had been Artair, but wondered why Iain was protecting him. He also wondered if Malcolm knew what had happened or if he was merely taking Iain’s word on it. But to press these issues would be pointless at least, and possibly even dangerous. His head wasn’t in any condition for thinking in any case. He merely nodded slowly in acceptance of the apology. He then said, “The doe?”

  “Malcolm’s arrow found her, and Coll’s sword finished her. We’ll stay here for a few days while you—”

  “I’m fine. I can make the trip back now.”

  “Would you not rather—”

  Dylan was as firm as he could make his voice, which he heard as if from a distance. “I wish to return to the castle. I’m fine.”

  Iain said, “Very well, we’ll return in the morning.”

  Dylan looked at the unhappy Artair and vowed to keep an eye on him.

  CHAPTER 15

  The walk back to the castle was a hard one. Dylan fought dizziness most of the way. But he concentrated on staying conscious, and putting one foot in front of the other, and gradually the sick feeling cleared as they neared Ciorram. By the time they reached the castle he was fighting only weariness. Artair and Coll carried the doe hung from a pole, and at every opportunity Artair made cracks about himself and his brother being the only fit men in the group. By sunset, Dylan would have been happy to take both their heads, and Iain informed Artair that if he didn’t shut his mouth he might shortly have it full of fist.

  Their arrival in the castle bailey caused great excitement as people came to see the kill, and to query after Dylan’s injury. The doe was hauled away to the kitchen to be butchered by a couple of Dylan’s guardsmen. Artair and Coll disappeared, and Malcolm hung around Iain in the Great Hall as the Laird told the story of the hunt. Dylan shrugged at the exclamations of concern and distress over the bloody bandage around his head while he searched faces for Cait.

  Then a shriek drilled his brain, and he turned to find Sarah wide-eyed and pushing her way through the onlookers. “Dylan! Oh, no! Dylan!” When she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck and began to sob.

  “Sarah . . .” He pried her arms from his neck and held her hands together where they couldn’t grab him again. “Sarah, don’t be so upset.”

  Her sobbing was loud. “You’ve been hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” He wanted to tell her she had no business being this upset, but that would seem cold. He was touched by her concern, but her wailing was inappropriate and an embarrassment. He looked around for Cait, desperate to break free of Sarah. “Where’s Caitrionagh?” he asked.

  “I’m here.” Cait was right behind him. He let go of Sarah and turned to take Cait into his arms. She said into his good ear, “Are you sure you werenae too busy for me?”

  For a moment he wasn’t sure she was joking, but when she smiled he did also. He kissed her, then murmured into her ear, “I was nearly too dead for you, and it’s a good thing your uncle is a lousy shot.”

  “I was told my father—”

  “No, it was Artair.”

  That gave her pause, and her voice went low and frightened. “If that one wants to kill you, he won’t stop until one of you is dead.”

  Dylan kissed her and squeezed her hands. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen.” He kissed her hand, but her eyes were still worried.

  Later that night, after blowing out the candles in his chamber, he lay in the dark, thinking about Sarah. Something was wrong there, something off-kilter, and he figured Sinann was behind it. He said into the darkness, “Tink.”

  No answer.

  He repeated, “Tinkerbell.”

  Still no answer.

  “I know you’re there.” She’d followed him in before disappearing, as she had always before followed him to bed. He never knew if she stayed the night, but she was always there when he fell
into his bed.

  Her voice came from the curtain frame above, “What is it?”

  “What did you do to Sarah?”

  There was a long silence. Just when Dylan was about to repeat his question, she said, “She would have fallen in love with you regardless.”

  He sighed. “What did you do?”

  “It was only a slight charm.”

  “You put a love spell on her?”

  “A small one.”

  Now he groaned. “Why?”

  “You needed a reason to want to stay. I couldnae let you spend your life here without a family, and there were Sarah and her boys, all right there and perfect for you. How was I to know Her Highness would tumble for ye?”

  “And by the time you saw that Cait and I were in love, it was too late. You’d already done it.”

  “True, and you know what happens when I try to undo what I’ve done. I wouldnae wish to see you murdered.”

  Dylan was suddenly very tired and sick. “Is she going to be like that forever?” He felt like he’d just run over a puppy.

  “I cannae say. She can shake it off if she’s a mind to, but I daresay she isnae inclined to fall out of your spell.”

  “Your spell.”

  “It’s you she loves.”

  “It was cruel. You shouldn’t have done it. Now I’ve got to do something to make up for this.”

  “You could marry her instead of Her Highness. That way, perhaps Artair will stop shooting at you.”

  “Shut up, Tink.” Dylan rolled over to sleep. But he did not sleep well.

  During the next few days he settled into his new job as sergeant of the guard. Brought up in a world where the concept of military meant strict discipline, close-order drill, and uniformity, he had to make a conscious shift to thinking in terms of an eighteenth century Scottish guard. These were not the crack Highland troops that would later become the pride of the English army. The nine men under his charge were independent, belligerent, and naturally violent, more like pro wrestlers and street punks than soldiers. On the plus side, these qualities became assets when coupled with strong loyalty, bravery, and work ethic. They would do their job, but it was up to Dylan to figure out how to tell them what that job was at any given time.

  Kung fu training was made optional for the Tigh guard. Since the Chinese mindset of calmness and economy of motion and energy was diametrically opposed to the full-on berserker approach common to Scots of the period, there was no sense in forcing the lessons on anyone. Only two of the men, Robin Innis and Marc Hewitt, came on the first morning Dylan offered instruction during his workout. Both were in their twenties and of open-minded, better than average intelligence. Also, they were both men Dylan already liked.

  For the sake of leaving room in the Great Hall for the women preparing breakfast, the men conducted their sessions of a morning in the bailey outside. Spring rains would be a hazard, but even Dylan knew by now that in Scotland one got rained on or one got nothing done at all.

  On the second morning some boys came to line up in the bailey beside Robin and Marc. Sarah’s son, little Eóin Matheson, came; an older boy named Coinneach Matheson, who was the son of a tenant; and a teenager named Du`ghlas Matheson, who was either Coinneach’s brother or first cousin, Dylan couldn’t remember.

  So as not to pick on the littlest, he addressed all five students as he had the men the day before. “You understand, now, that this isn’t a sometimes thing. You can’t learn it all in a day and you can’t learn it by coming only on some mornings.” The boys and the men all nodded. Dylan continued, “Also, in order to learn this you’ve got to forget everything you’ve already learned about fighting. That doesn’t mean you can never do those things again, but for now, while you’re learning, you have to start from the beginning.” Again, they all nodded. A slight breeze kicked up and he was glad for the bandage around his head, which kept his hair out of his eyes. A crowd was gathering in the bailey as they had before, and now Dylan noticed Sarah with an injured look about her. He needed to do something about the situation, though he had no idea what.

  He started his students from the beginning, with the horse stance, feet at shoulder width, knees slightly bent, shoulders back, arms relaxed. “See,” he demonstrated, “like this you become harder to knock over. Your balance is under control.” He walked up to Robin and gave his shoulder a push. Robin rocked back, but maintained his footing. Dylan continued, “See? He’s relaxed. Now watch.” He stepped to Marc and shoved, and Marc was forced to take a step back to keep his balance. Dylan’s voice lowered so he was talking only to Marc. “You’re too stiff. Too tense. Relax your joints. Feet pointing the same direction.” Marc relaxed. “Yeah, like that. You’re getting it.” He shoved Marc again, and this time the young man held his ground.

  Dylan stepped back to the front, but Eóin shouted, “You didn’t shove me!”

  “Oh.” Everyone snickered and Dylan smiled, then went to give Eóin a tiny shove. The boy held his ground like a hero. For the sake of form, Dylan also shoved the other two boys.

  On the third day the class was joined by Artair. Dylan touched the strip of linen bandage around his head and had a bad feeling of what the snotty teenager might be up to, but today Artair’s unruly tongue was still. He learned the moves with an intensity and aptitude that gave Dylan even worse misgivings. He didn’t like this one little bit. Nevertheless, he taught Artair as he did the other students.

  Over the next two weeks Artair did his best to ingratiate himself with Dylan. Dylan saw what Artair’s game was. All along the kid had aligned himself with his older brother in order to be close to the lairdship once Iain Mór was gone and Malcolm would be out of the picture. He would probably not inherit, but he could have the power and business advantages of being Coll’s right-hand man. And that would also give him an edge for a successful clan uprising if Coll proved weak enough. But now that Dylan was an important factor, Artair aligned himself with the new heir presumptive. If there should be another attempt on Dylan’s life, suspicion wouldn’t fall on him. And, if Dylan lived to become Laird, he would be his right hand man. Dylan played along, waiting to see what more might happen.

  Preparations for the wedding geared up a week before the event. Everywhere he saw Cait, she shone with a happiness that made him want to laugh aloud. When they held hands at supper he kissed her palm and thought he might die of impatience before they were married. His joy was almost unbearable, and the waiting was sweet torture.

  He occupied himself with his new job and with the business of securing the property he and Cait would live on. In the interest of keeping Cait close to home and Dylan where he would be of use and visible, Iain agreed to sell Dylan a piece of a small glen adjoining Glen Ciorram, next to Alasdair’s former property. Dylan wasn’t sure he wanted the land that would surely be next on the Whig agenda of creeping expansion, but it was better land than the MacLeod property he’d been negotiating for. It was also nearer the Tigh, and wouldn’t involve a labor debt. The land was set to change hands after the wedding.

  Once he and Cait were married, the house would be raised by the clan. Like every other young man approaching marriage, Dylan now had to ask around for his stock: roof tree, household items, and livestock. Cait’s dowry was a few head of cattle, a pair of sheep, and Sigurd the Collie. Nobody started with nothing, but even with the dowry it would take hard work to start the farm, and more hard work to maintain it. The day after his wedding he would be a landowner with a family to support, and as poor as everyone else. He couldn’t wait.

  Meanwhile, Sarah’s broken heart was apparent to everyone, and there was talk that Dylan had made promises he’d not intended to keep. He approached her in the Great Hall one morning after breakfast to straighten things out with her. People were still coming and going, and most of the women were clearing breakfast.

  “Sarah, might we talk?”

  She carried several dirty bowls and spoons, but stopped when he spoke to her. He wished she would look up, but her g
aze stayed on the floor.

  “Sarah, I have a feeling there has been some misunderstanding between us.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He watched her struggle with her emotions, patient but wishing he were anywhere else.

  A shout went up from the hearth and a toddler, screaming with laughter, went tearing past with a knife in his hands. “Whoa!” Dylan blurted and bent to scoop up the little boy and disarm him in one motion. The little one kicked and screamed at his capture, but Dylan held him around the middle with one arm and looked around for a responsible party. Seonag hurried up in bustling skirts to retrieve the squalling boy and the stolen kitchen knife, and returned to the kitchen, scolding.

  Dylan returned his attention to Sarah, who finally was able to say, “Nae misunderstanding. It’s nae your fault. I’m the silly one to think a one such as yourself could ever want a widow with three . . . two wee sons.”

  Dylan stifled a groan. He groped for a reply, unable to look her in the eye, mentally cursed Sinann, then finally said, “Not silly. Just unlucky that things worked out differently than what you’d hoped. For what it’s worth, I care deeply for you as a cousin and have high regard for you as a woman and a mother. Your boys are fine lads and will grow up to make you proud.” He made himself look into her face.

  She finally looked at him and smiled, but there was still pain in her eyes. Her mouth opened to speak, then closed. It took a moment, but she opened it again and said, “I wish yourself and Cait all luck and happiness, and many healthy children.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sarah then hurried away with the dirty dishes, leaving him to feel like he’d just backed over the dead puppy.

  That Sunday Dylan was free to take some instruction with Sinann at the broch. It was a rainy May day, but Sinann promised to keep him dry. True to her word, no rain came into the broch. It all collected and ran off somewhere at the height of the oak tree, and the ground inside was dry. Dylan poked with the toe of his shoe at the blood-red grass and wondered if it ran red when wet.