“I’d wager I’m not the only one,” Kenneth replied. “Did you tell the king what you had planned, or did you come up with this little disguise all on your own?”
He could see the other man’s eyes harden through the steel slits in the helm. “I told you you’d have to get past me first.”
“Beating you will only make victory that much sweeter.”
“You sound confident for a man who’s already suffered a few blows today.”
MacKay feigned a step toward him as if he meant to attack, but Kenneth wasn’t fooled into taking the opening as MacKay quickly retreated.
“What are you talking about?” He’d won all his contests so far.
“Why, Lady Mary, of course. I assume that since she’s still leaving, you did not convince her to marry you. The king will not be pleased.”
Kenneth didn’t need to see his face to know that MacKay was grinning. He could hear it in his damned voice. He wanted to lunge at him, but forced himself to get a rein on his temper and stay back. Be patient, he told himself. Don’t let him get to you. But MacKay was a provoking bastard. “You let me worry about the king.”
“It won’t be necessary.” MacKay made the first move. It was a good one. He stabbed a hard punch with his right and then threw a low uppercut with his left. When Kenneth moved to block it, he attempted to get a lock on him by twisting his body and locking him in a stranglehold. But Kenneth read the move and rallied with one of his own, hearing the satisfying crunch of MacKay’s jaw as his fist connected with his chin under the helm to snap his head back.
MacKay swore, and that was the last recognizable sound they made for a while as the two men launched into a fierce battle. Nothing was off limits. They pounded with their fists, kicked with their feet, pummeled with their bodies. They took turns at wrapping one another in deadly holds and fighting to break free.
They were evenly matched. Too evenly matched in both strength and stubbornness. Neither of them would give up.
And they both knew how to fight dirty. MacKay lost no opportunity in targeting Kenneth’s bad side, landing whatever punches he could on his bruised ribs. “How are those ribs feeling, Sutherland?” he managed to taunt through deep breaths. “I hope nothing is broken.”
If they hadn’t been, they were now. But Kenneth didn’t care. All he could think about was seeing that bastard on the ground, and finally putting the matter of who was best behind them.
And he was close, damn it. He could feel it. One mistake, that was all he needed. One little opening and he’d have him.
“The ribs are fine,” he managed, his breath just as short as MacKay’s. “How’s your jaw?” Kenneth feigned with his right and landed another satisfying uppercut with his left to MacKay’s jaw. “Helen isn’t going to be too happy if it’s broken for your wedding.”
Something flashed in the other man’s eyes.
Guilt? Kenneth shook his head. “She doesn’t know about this, does she?” He laughed. “Maybe there won’t be a wedding to worry about.”
MacKay swore and launched himself at Kenneth, pummeling and swinging with a violent ferocity that took every ounce of his skill to defend against.
MacKay had to tire eventually. Kenneth just had to be patient awhile longer.
Finally, they broke apart, both bending over heaving great gulps of air as they fought to breathe.
Unconsciously, Kenneth glanced toward the castle and stiffened. A handful of guardsmen were gathered in the yard, and a small figure had just emerged from the donjon and was making her way down the tower stairs.
He looked away quickly, but it hadn’t been quick enough. He’d made a mistake. MacKay had caught the movement and recognized what was happening. “If you want to go after her, I’ll wait,” he taunted.
Kenneth bit out something foul, telling him he could go do something that was physically impossible.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” MacKay added. “Don’t tell me you actually wanted to marry the lass.”
Kenneth felt his blood spike but tamped it down. Stay cool. But his fists clenched at his sides with the urge to retaliate. It wasn’t in his nature not to fight back—or to be patient, for that matter.
MacKay let out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day. I guess the lady wasn’t impressed?”
“Shut the hell up, MacKay.”
“Or what?”
Kenneth held himself still, refusing to be baited. But the urge to wipe that taunting grin off the face behind the helm was nearly overpowering.
“Or maybe that was all she wanted? Is that it, Sutherland? Tell me, do you get paid a fee like a prized steed? Aye, a stud fee.” He laughed.
That was it. The last thread Kenneth held on his temper snapped. He lunged toward MacKay, not thinking about anything other than shutting him up.
He lost control, and with it, the battle. MacKay took full advantage of his anger, lulling him into a false sense of victory before snatching it back at the last minute. MacKay feigned submission, bending over and letting Kenneth pound on him until he was exhausted. Then he rose from the apparent dead and attacked, striking blows against Kenneth’s weak side until he collapsed on the ground.
He must have passed out. Either that or he was deaf to the cheers of the crowd, because he never heard the call for MacKay’s victory.
He’d lost. Lost!
He stayed on the ground, not wanting or having the strength to get up.
MacKay stood over him, looking down on him with that superior smirk of his. “Your temper, Sutherland. It will get you every time. Until you can learn to control it, you’ll never be one of the best.”
The worst part was that he was right. Kenneth had let his temper get to him. Had let her get to him.
He picked himself off the ground and struggled to his feet, as he’d done many times before. Too many times. The knowledge burned in his gut. He’d been so close …
But this wasn’t over. He wasn’t going to give up. He’d find a way into Bruce’s army, if it killed him.
And heaven help Mary of Mar if their paths ever crossed again. He would teach the wanton little siren in nun’s clothing a lesson she would never forget.
Nine
Mid-January 1310
Black Cuillin Mountains, Isle of Skye
Kenneth was going to be the last man standing if it killed him. And it seemed the others were determined to do just that. Perdition? That was putting it mildly. He’d rather spend an eternity of punishment in the fiery pits of hell than another two weeks of Tor MacLeod’s “training” in the wintry bowels of the Cuillin mountain range.
They’d been climbing up the icy, desolate mountainside for hours at a pace that might as well be called a run. He couldn’t ever remember being this cold and tired. Every muscle, every bone in his body hurt—even his teeth. Although that was probably because he’d been grinding them so hard trying to keep a rein on his temper. Sangfroid! It was so damned cold he should have ice in his veins, let alone “cold blood.”
But unfortunately, his blood was still running hot. It wasn’t just MacKay testing him now; he had ten of the fiercest, most highly prized warriors in Christendom doing everything they could to get to him. To make him quit. But no matter how unpleasant or harassing the task, how difficult the ordeal, or how many irritating names they called him, he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it. He’d been given one more chance, and nothing was going to stop him from earning a place in Bruce’s secret army.
Of the handful of potential recruits who’d started with him over three months ago, only two remained in the war of attrition that was MacLeod’s training. One had quit the first week; the other two had lasted the first few months of training, only to fall in the first few days of Perdition once training had resumed after an all-too-short break for Christmastide, the twelve days from Christmas Eve to Epiphany.
Apparently MacLeod was human after all; he’d wanted to spend the holidays with his expectant wife and young daughter. Otherwise it was sometimes
hard to tell. Over the past few months of training, MacLeod had pushed Kenneth and the other recruits to the edge of their physical and emotional limits. Kenneth might have come to despise him if “Chief,” as he was known among the men (to protect their identities, the members of the secret army used war names), hadn’t done every task he’d asked of them right beside them—usually better than all of them. Even now, when most of the men appeared ready to collapse, Chief barely seemed winded. Kenneth respected the hell out of him.
MacLeod’s endurance nearly matched MacKay’s. After living side-by-side for nearly three months, MacKay, too, had Kenneth’s grudging respect. The skills that had brought each team member to Bruce’s attention had become apparent, and his brother-in-law’s (the wedding had gone on, although Helen had been nearly as furious as Bruce, which had resulted in Kenneth being given another chance) ability to navigate the Highlands, his physical endurance, and his toughness were extraordinary. It was MacKay’s place as the best all-around warrior on the team that Kenneth intended to challenge.
His efforts to perfect the recipe for black powder had not progressed much beyond unstable, inconsistent, and dangerous. He could manage to put together something that would cause damage, but he was hardly at the level Gordon had been. Unfortunately, his friend hadn’t thought to leave any notes behind.
Finally, MacLeod called a halt to the march. “We’ll stop here for the night.”
Kenneth wasn’t the only one to heave a sigh of relief. He shrugged off the heavy pack he wore strapped to his back—the terrain was too steep and rocky for goats or deer, let alone horses—and collapsed on the nearest rock. A quick glance at the other weather-beaten faces, mostly hidden by various forms of wool and fur, told him the rest of the men were doing the same.
Even Erik MacSorley, known as Hawk, was quiet—a rarity, indeed. Some of the men were still a mystery to him, but Hawk wasn’t one of them. The gregarious, quick-with-a-jest seafarer could always be counted on to lighten the mood. He was an easy man to like. Much like Gordon, he thought sadly.
Kenneth bent over, leaning his forearms on his thighs and willing his body to recover. If he’d learned anything in the past few months, it was that when he was at his weakest point—when he most needed a rest—he was sure not to get it.
He had all of five minutes to recover before MacKay proved his point. Kenneth didn’t need to glance up—the large, looming presence had become instantly recognizable. A bit like the shadow of the grim reaper.
“Rest time is over, Recruit. You’re on watch tonight,” MacKay said. “Unless you’re too tired?”
Admitting that would give the whoreson too much bloody satisfaction. Kenneth clenched his jaw and used what little strength he had left to drag himself to his feet. “Not to do my duty.”
Kenneth couldn’t bring himself to use MacKay’s war name of “Saint.” The appellation couldn’t be farther from the truth. “Satan’s spawn” suited him much better. Kenneth’s longtime nemesis might have been forced by Bruce and Helen to let Kenneth join the men who would battle for a position on the team, but that didn’t mean he had to like it—or that he would make Kenneth’s path an easy one.
But as much as Kenneth would like to claim otherwise, MacKay didn’t single him out for extra torture. Nay, the torture was spread around evenly and thickly. Even when he was a squire he hadn’t been forced to do so many menial tasks. He’d never dug so many cesspits, fetched so much wood or peat for a fire, cleaned armor until his fingers were raw, and even washed soiled linens. Yet ironically, the tasks that he looked down upon as beneath him a few months ago had become his moments of peace and relative relaxation.
“Good,” MacKay replied. “You, too, Recruit,” he addressed the only other man unfortunate enough to still be around to answer to that name. Kenneth had come not to mind it. It was a hell of a lot better than some of the other names they called him.
The first time Hawk had seen him taking a piss, he’d taken to calling him The Steed. Kenneth was used to the jests about the size of his manhood, and normally he would have shrugged it off, if Steed hadn’t transformed into Stud thanks to MacKay. Though his brother by marriage hadn’t shared the origin of the name, the private jest was enough to set his teeth on edge every time he heard it. It was also a constant reminder of exactly who was to blame for his current predicament.
He was sure that was why he thought of her so often. Even more than four months later, Lady Mary’s easy dismissal of him as a potential husband stung. His own reaction to her, he tried not to think about. He was sure it hadn’t been nearly as incredible as he remembered. Surely he’d had better, even if he couldn’t remember a specific instance. He would prove it, just as soon as he finished his training. Profligate? More like monk, of late.
But just because he chose to accept a few of the offers thrown his way didn’t make him a profligate. He was glad she’d refused him. The last thing he needed was a wife who didn’t understand a man’s needs. But why had it seemed to bother her so much?
“You need to see to the evening meal,” MacKay was saying to the other recruit, “starting with a fire. Then you can find us something to eat. I think we could all do with some fresh meat tonight.”
Although he knew everything about him as a warrior, Kenneth knew little personal information about his fellow recruit other than that he spoke and dressed as if he were from the Isles. He was certainly large and fair enough to have some Viking blood in him. His brother-in-hell was unable to stifle a groan. Kenneth didn’t blame him; finding something to eat in these stark, frozen mountaintops was going to be a Herculean—if not Promethean—task.
Watch suddenly seemed like a pleasure jaunt by comparison. Kenneth pulled a few things from his pack, and as he started away to take his position on the outskirt of camp, he wondered at MacKay’s unusual generosity.
But the voice that was anything but saintlike stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going, Recruit?” Kenneth turned around slowly, dread seeping through every inch of his aching limbs. “You’ll watch from up there.”
Kenneth followed the direction of his hand to the peak of the mountain above them, still a good two hundred feet up. Straight up. It wasn’t the distance as much as the steep, sheer facade that made dread settle in his gut like a stone. To reach the place MacKay indicated, Kenneth was going to have to scale the rocky peak with his hands and feet, a task that would be difficult even were he well rested and able to feel his fingertips. Pulling his body up with his already weary limbs was going to be next to impossible.
For the past few weeks, he’d swum until he thought his lungs would give out, been pushed over varying terrains at a pace that would kill most men, fought with every kind of weapon imaginable, and had even been buried to his waist and had to defend himself with just a shield as spears were tossed at his head by a circle of warriors. He hadn’t balked at any of it, no matter how impossible it seemed. But this was too much.
The two men faced off in the near darkness. Though it was only a few hours past noon, daylight was already slipping away. Kenneth could feel the scrutiny of the ten other men as they waited in silence for his response, but none of them would intervene. This contest was between MacKay and him alone.
Every instinct in Kenneth’s body urged him to tell McKay to bugger off. To refuse.
To quit.
Going up there right now would be a suicide mission. One slip on the icy rocks and Kenneth would fall to his death. MacKay knew it as well as he did. Kenneth could see the challenge in the other man’s gaze, not daring him to refuse as much as daring him to accept.
How far will you go? he seemed to be asking.
To the death. That was what was required of them. Chief had told them many times before. If you want on this team, you have to be willing to sacrifice your life for the good of the team. Did Kenneth want it that badly?
He thought he did, but it wasn’t until that moment that he knew it for a certainty. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to be part of somet
hing that was not just important but also historic. He’d been working for this moment his entire life, and he wasn’t going to turn back now.
“Aye, you’re right,” he said equitably. “I’ll be able to see much better from there.”
Something flashed in the other man’s eyes. Respect? Kenneth didn’t know. Truth be told, he no longer cared. He wasn’t proving anything to MacKay, he was proving it to himself. He turned and started toward the peak. Almost impossible wasn’t impossible. He would do this, damn it.
He’d reached the base of the area from where he would start his ascent when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. It was bloody disconcerting how he knew who it was. Apparently, he didn’t even need a shadow to recognize his old nemesis.
“Have you learned nothing in three months?”
Kenneth turned slowly to face his brother-in-law. He bit back a few choice replies, and simply stared at him. For once he didn’t feel like fighting, even with MacKay—he was too bloody tired.
MacKay gave him a long look. “If you’re going to get yourself killed, don’t do it without your partner.”
“Aye, well you sent my partner on a fool’s mission for fresh meat.”
He couldn’t bite back all the sarcasm, and MacKay shook his head. “You had me worried for a minute. I’ve grown so used to seeing that belligerent, ‘I dare you to try’ look on your face, and I thought we’d actually beaten it out of you. Hell, without the prickly attitude I could actually learn to like you.” He gave a dramatic shudder from behind the long wool scarf wrapped around his neck and lower face. Like the rest of them, he hadn’t shaved in nearly two weeks and tiny droplets of ice clung to his face. They had all begun to look and smell like wild beasts. “And you never know, the recruit might find something. You just have to know where to look.”
Belligerent? What was he talking about?
MacKay had retrieved a rope from his pack and had started to tie it around his waist. He handed him the other end.
“You’re going to be my partner?” Kenneth couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.
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