by Cathy MacRae
“Well?”
The red-headed lad sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, nudging Bram’s arm. Bram nodded, but did not meet the boy’s gaze, his jaw clenched, clearly unappeased.
“Scrapping in the yard is for dogs. If ye have hurtful thoughts ye consider speaking aloud, come to me and I will keep ye too busy to share them.” Arbela sent each a quelling look.
“Aye.”
“Nae, my lady.”
Murmurs drifted about the small group. Arbela shooed them away. “Be gone before I task the blacksmith with giving each of ye a job.”
The boys scattered like sheep before a wolf. Bram lingered, Arbela’s fingertips on his shoulder. “Care to tell me what that was about?”
Bram shrugged, not quite hard enough to dislodge her hand, but his reticence was clear.
“Have we not spoken of the warrior’s rules of conduct?” Arbela asked gently. “It does not require ye to tell me what this brawl was about, but it does require ye to not take matters into your own hands.”
“He said ye were black-skinned, like a Moor.” Bram lifted his gaze. “I thought a moor was a bit of grassland. But Aiden said it in a mean way and that ye werenae fit to be Lady MacKern.”
“Well, I agree ye should not speak ill of someone. And ’tis clear his claim is faulty. Do I look black-skinned to ye?” She filed away the comment, wondering which adult was responsible for putting such ideas in the boy’s head. Who among the MacKerns found her lacking?
“Ye are darker than me,” Bram answered honestly. “But ye arenae black, are ye?”
Arbela laughed. “Nay. I have seen people of many colors, from pink-white albinos to those so black ye cannot see them on a dark night.”
Bram’s eyes widened.
“I am not that dark,” she teased him. “And a Moor is someone of possibly Arab or Berber descent, who may live in northern Africa, Iberia or other areas such as Sicily or Malta. Many Moors have very dark skin. I was born in a castle on the road between Tripoli and Beirut, but my mother was Armenian, and my father a Scot. I am not a Moor.”
Two young boys crept back to Bram’s side. Arbela recognized them from the small group that often gathered when she told Bram stories in the evening by the hearth. One elbowed Bram. “Ask her.”
Bram frowned. “They dinnae believe ye are a princess.”
“Oh? Then I will tell ye my story, for my mother was a royal princess of Armenia, but being the youngest of four, she was much petted and loved. When she declared she had fallen in love with the Baron of Batroun—a Scotsman!—her parents were horrified. But there were no royal princes of an age to marry her, as her sisters had snatched them all up. And so, seeing how much in love she and the baron were, and what a very good man he was, they allowed the marriage.”
“So, ye are a princess?” the smallest of the lads asked, eyes wide.
“I am. Though not one in any danger of inheriting the throne of Armenia,” she laughed. “I am quite settled here. My aunt will be here in a sennight, and she is a royal princess, raised in a palace of unimaginable beauty, where flowers and fountains abounded, and everyone ate off silver and gold and drank from jeweled goblets.
“She was not blessed with children, and when her husband died, my brother and I were newborns. She decided to live with and help care for us. Since my older two aunts have scores of children and grandchildren between them, Aunt Zora is not expected to inherit the crown, either.”
The boys gazed at her, adoration on their faces. Though that had not been her intent, it hopefully meant they would strive harder to behave—at least in her presence.
“Come, Bram. We will continue our lessons.”
* * *
Arbela thumped the surface of the small shield. “Ye have done excellent work, Bram-jan.” She eyed the narrow strip of leather that encircled the shield, held in place with sinew lacings. “The leather will help hold the slats in place, as will the sheet of linen—which ye did a grand job gluing to the boards.” She turned the piece over, inspecting the leather grip on the back. “The small bowl made an excellent boss and ye helped pound the flange, aye?”
“’Twas hard work,” Bram admitted, but his eyes glowed. “But fun!”
“The iron nails will hold it in place, and your fist will fit just so.” Arbela nodded. “I believe any dragon will think twice before confronting Bram the Brave!”
Bram could scarcely contain his excitement. He bobbed up and down, accepting the shield from Arbela in a mix of enthusiasm and reverence for the evidence of his hard work.
“Ye became quite good at measuring and counting,” she teased him. “Do ye see why such things are not mere work to annoy your brain, but skills ye will use daily?”
“Aye. Though this was much easier to learn than counting rocks.”
“Ye can do both, but this was mayhap a more interesting route. Let me see your sword.”
Bram slung his shield over his shoulder as if born doing so, and drew his short wooden sword from a leather sheath at his belt. Pleased that he remembered to hand it to her hilt first, despite the fact it was of no actual danger to her, she accepted it solemnly, checking the ‘blade’ for nicks or other defects.
“Ye have a fair piece for practice, now, Bram-jan. And ye are learning to respect it, even if ’tis made of wood. Ye crafted it yourself, and I am very proud of ye.”
They practiced holding the sword, both defensively and a few parries and lunges, then moved to footwork, instilling balance in the young lad. Arbela was pleased to note he was quick, and eager to learn.
“Do ye think Da would like to see me do this?” Bram asked, executing a forward roll, his sword and shield tucked away. He sprang to his feet and immediately focused on the line Arbela had sketched in the dirt, arms outstretched as he walked quickly down its length, toe to heel.
Arbela laughed. “’Tis not something I’ve seen warriors here practice,” she told him. “They seem to rely on brute strength to gain the upper hand. But as a boy these skills ye are learning will be of more use until ye are a man grown. Even then, ye will be more agile than your opponents. Practice, practice, and more practice,” she admonished, demonstrating a back flip in perfect parallel to Bram’s line, and falling smoothly into a crouch, sword arm at the ready.
“I want to learn that,” Bram insisted, awe etched on his face. With careful guidance, Bram practiced leaping up and back into Arbela’s arms.
“I am glad ye are no older, Bram-jan,” she teased after a short time. “My arms grow weary of catching ye. I believe ’tis time to show me what ye remember of throwing a dagger.”
His attention immediately captured by the promise of more lessons, Bram caught her hand, dragging her to the small grove just outside the keep where they practiced. Men at work on the wall waved as they passed and Bram tossed a brief wave at them as he hurried to the wooded copse.
Arbela drew a slender dagger from the sheath under her sleeve and held it flat. Bram held his fingers back, though they tapped against his trews, impatient to touch the smooth steel. He recited the rules of handling the blade in a clear voice, then took it gently from her hands. Stepping to their practice area, he placed himself at an angle to the target. Once again, he recited the steps for throwing the blade, walking slowly through the paces, dagger firmly in his hand.
“Well done,” Arbela approved, her eye keen for any misstep. “Ye may practice.”
Bram’s first throw flew slightly off the mark and landed with a thud on the leaf-covered ground. He darted off to retrieve it, then paced back, dagger at his side. He drew a deep breath and set himself again for the next attempt.
“Imagine exactly the path your blade will take,” Arbela murmured. “It is an extension of your arm, of your mind.”
His next throw pierced the thin wooden target inside the outer circle. He spun about, quivering with excitement. “I did it!”
“Ye certainly did. Your aim and strength improves daily. Fetch it again, and this time, count off your paces. Ye must learn to judge your dista
nce.”
Shouting his numbers aloud, Bram stalked to the tree, not missing a beat.
* * *
Caelen reined his horse to a stop. Ahead lay fields planted by the men Alex had sent, straight lines of new green growth pleasing to the eye as the oats burst from the plowed ground. Four boats bobbed gently on the water of the loch where only one had sat only a few weeks earlier, fishing for the evening catch. Meals had improved, as fresh fish and the occasional hart graced the tables, and the herbs and spices Arbela brought with her lent the dishes an exotic but tasty flavor.
She also brought new life to Bram, who now rarely spent time with Ilene, his ma’s elderly nurse. He’d never seen the lad so eager to learn. He knew Arbela taught him basic sword drills, though he had not sanctioned it, and it would soon be time to turn Bram’s training over to Rory with the rest of the young lads who would become warriors. He thought of their last conversation. Bram’s split and swollen lip had caught his attention, though Bram’s nonchalance told him he had not been seriously injured.
He defended my honor, Arbela had said. Though the other lad started the argument, and was the larger of the pair, Bram had the upper hand. Her faint smile flashed and was gone. I do not believe the boys will be squabbling again soon, though I seem to recall idle hands make the greatest mischief. I have offered to send the next batch of miscreants to the blacksmith for extra chores should they feel the need to roll about in the dirt.
Things had certainly changed since she arrived at Dunfaileas.
“’Tis not a sight I thought to see at the turn of the year,” Rory said, as though reading some of Caelen’s thoughts.
“Aye. ’Tis a welcome sight,” Caelen agreed.
“Warms a man’s heart,” Rory replied. “Yer wife brought new life to the clan.”
“Her dowry is much appreciated.” Caelen’s voice, flat and pitched low, did not invite further comment.
“Yer wife is much appreciated,” Rory returned, ignoring Caelen’s implied request to drop the subject. “Och, there are those who see her as foreign, but others who are coming to appreciate the Scots side of her.” He stacked his hands over the pommel of his saddle. “The question is, do ye appreciate her?”
Caelen’s scowl darkened, calculated to elicit an apology from Rory for asking such a personal question, but the man simply lifted an eyebrow, challenging Caelen to answer.
“What a daft question,” he snorted. “Of course, I appreciate Arbela.”
“Ye seem to spend a lot of time avoiding her.”
It was Caelen’s turn to raise his brow. “Ye remember the bargain between us, aye?”
Rory shrugged and grinned. “I have known ye to be persuasive. And the lass is comely. Bram likes her. Yer clan likes her a bit better each day.” He pinned Caelen with a stare. “Why does it appear ye merely tolerate her?”
“She scarcely invites my attentions,” Caelen retorted.
“Have ye asked?”
“Asked? Have I asked a woman—my wife—if she would welcome my attention?” Caelen sent Rory a disbelieving look. “I groveled enough with Ruthie. Arbela and I have made our wishes clear, and we will abide by our agreement.” He scowled. “I willnae beg a woman for her favors,” he muttered.
“I dinnae say beg. But getting to know yer wife a wee bit better isnae a bad thing. The two of ye may decide to give a real marriage a try.” Rory’s grin did not improve Caelen’s bad humor. Rory made an exasperated sound. “Ye are aptly named, Bull,” he growled. “Bullheaded ye are in truth.”
“Do ye believe I should have a desire for such a foreign wife?” Caelen challenged. “She was not my choice. I had no desire to marry again, but circumstances forced my hand. Ye have seen her, dressed in trews like a man. Painted eyes. Dark skin. She is nothing like other Scottish lasses.”
Rory hooted with laughter. “I have seen yer wife! And if ye think she looks like a man in her trews, ye and I need to have a different conversation. Aye, her eyes are painted, though I would argue they are mysterious, not foreign. And praise St. Andrew’s favorite hound she isnae like the other lass ye married.”
“Enough! We have an agreement, and it suits us both,” Caelen insisted stubbornly. “You and I have better things to do than discuss my married life.” He urged his horse forward, ignoring Rory’s grumbled reply.
“Wait!” Rory lifted his voice. Caelen turned in his saddle. Rory pointed to the loch where galley ship, ten oars to a side, rounded the shoreline and approached the beach.
Caelen stood in his stirrups, straining for a better view. The ship landed and a breeze caught the flag hanging from the top of the center mast. His gut clenched as he recognized the bright red and blue pattern.
MacGillonay!
Chapter 19
Crouched low over his horse’s neck, Caelen drummed his heels against his mount’s sides, sending him down the rocky trail at breakneck speed. Surefooted, Addis plunged over fallen limbs as he swerved off the path, picking a more direct route down the hillside. Rory’s horse’s hooves clattered behind, then pulled alongside as they raced neck-and-neck to the gates of Dunfaileas.
“A MacKern!” Caelen shouted, seeing the gates swing closed. The men at the wall changed direction, bracing against the heavy doors to halt their inward track. The opening between the doors was enough to admit Caelen and Rory as they rushed inside amid a thunder of hooves and shouts.
Caelen swung from the saddle, reins flying through the air as a stable lad struggled to capture Addis who still clattered across the yard. “Close the gates. Place guards on the walls. No one enters without my command.”
“It is already done, Laird.”
Caelen pivoted to face the calm, but firm voice. “Where is my son?”
Arbela tilted her head to the tower house. “Inside with Ilene. I have placed most of our soldiers, including our knights from the MacLean, at the front wall, bows at the ready. There are others watching the rear approaches. Though MacGillonay comes from the loch, in broad daylight, I do not trust him to not flank us whilst our attention is on the beach.”
Caelen opened his mouth, torn between startled appreciation for her clear thinking, and anger to find her outside instead of with Bram. “Thank ye,” he managed, distracted by a call from a soldier on the wall. “I now have command. I need ye to see to Bram.” Not waiting for her response, he strode to the rock stairway leading to the parapet. Attaining the heights, he peered at the orderly line of men striding the path to Dunfaileas. MacGillonay sat astride his unmistakable gray horse, his men maintaining pace with him on foot. Caelen’s gut twisted, hatred for the man boiling through his veins.
MacGillonay halted several lengths from the gate and glanced up, his gaze sweeping the walls before lighting on Caelen. A wolfish grin split his face.
“Caelen! Son by marriage! Is this any way to greet yer wife’s da?”
“I no longer claim ye as kin—as ye well know,” Caelen replied.
“And I know ye have taken a new wife—a Saracen, so the rumors say,” MacGillonay shouted back.
“Zadeh….” A hiss of sharply indrawn air told Caelen his wife had followed him to the parapet rather than doing as ordered—and disapproved of MacGillonay’s comment. Caelen wasn’t certain he would approve of Arbela’s reply, and perhaps it was as well he didn’t understand the language. Given the circumstances, he let it go.
“Hie yerself inside,” he told her. “Protect Bram.”
The very air around Arbela bristled at his brusque command. She hesitated only a moment before replying, her eyes flashing her displeasure.
“As ye wish.” Reaching the first step on her downward trek, she paused, casting a look over her shoulder that burned with the intensity of an unguarded flame. “If he persists, I will be happy to instruct him on the difference between a Saracen and a Christian.”
Realizing the depth of her passion on the subject, Caelen merely gave a small shake of his head. “Heed him not, Arbela. He is an old wolf who causes what mischief he may with
his words.”
“A wolf whose hide can be stretched on our outer wall in warning to others,” she countered, eyes dark with warning.
Caelen hid a smile. “Care for the lad. I must know he is safe.”
Arbela’s boots made little sound as she raced into the keep.
“Yer wife doesnae like being compared with a Saracen,” Rory noted, his voice a carrying whisper from the corner of his mouth.
Caelen tore his gaze from Arbela as she entered the keep. “Nay,” he agreed thoughtfully. “I made the mistake once, and she ripped into me. I, for one, willnae make the same mistake a second time. I wager, if allowed, she would make MacGillonay pay dearly for shouting it so all could hear.”
Rory raised a brow. “Mayhap ye should turn her loose on yon wolf. I have little doubt she would come out ahead. His hide would make an interesting addition to our new wall.”
Caelen shot Rory a quelling frown then turned his scowl to the gathering clouds overhead. The first drops of rain spattered on the stone. More followed.
“Is this Highland hospitality?” MacGillonay called. “To leave kin standing outside whilst a storm brews? I have come to see yer new wife—the woman who has the care for my grandson. I wish to give her my blessing.”
“Even if she is a Saracen?” Rory chuckled under his breath.
The wind picked up, wrapping cloth about bodies, snapping the pennant on the distant ship. Rain began in earnest, a drumming sound on the stones.
“Shite.” Caelen started down the stairs. “Strip the inside of the keep of anything of interest—let none linger who are not required to serve,” he called to Rory over his shoulder.
“Ye’ll let the bastard in? On the grounds of hospitality?”
Caelen grunted, too angry to speak further. “Aye.”
* * *
Arbela stormed into the keep, boots pounding the stone floor, her anger carrying her past the startled soldiers at the door.
“Clear the room,” she commanded, her voice crisp and carrying. “I want no unnecessary people visible. If ye can wield a weapon, get it and keep it at your side. Wrap others in blankets and place them in the corners out of sight. Set a guard on the stair.”