Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior Page 2
Garik nodded at both men.
Then Logan stepped forward. “Ye’ve now been introduced to my guest, but what manner of men have ye brought?” Logan said, jerking his head toward the two lowlanders who stood silently behind the MacDonalds.
“’Tis my honor to introduce Lord James Douglas, one of our king’s lieutenants,” Angus Og said. The younger and less finely dressed of the two men stepped forward and dipped his head in greeting.
“I bid ye welcome,” Logan said.
“Indeed, you are most welcome,” Garik said with a bow. Now that he had a proper look at James, he was struck by the man’s youthful eyes. “Forgive my candor, Lord Douglas,” Garik began, “but you seem rather young to be a lieutenant.”
James smiled at Garik, but it was the wealthy man at his side who stepped forward with an answer. “He is one and twenty, no doubt only a year or two older than both of you, but let it be known that I trust no one so well as I do James. His instincts and mind for strategy have no equal. If you have come, young Garik MacKinnon, late of the Orkney Islands, to join my cause, know this—you will be taking your orders from him.”
“Your cause?” Garik said, his eyes wide. He whirled around and met Logan’s equally stunned gaze.
A slight smile played at Angus Og’s lips. “Ye’ve not let me finish the introductions.” He turned and swept his arm in a grand gesture toward the man who Logan and Garik now knew to be the king of Scotland. “Before you stands Robert the Bruce,” Angus Og said. Then he turned back to face Logan and Garik. “Men, ye owe him your allegiance.”
Garik and Logan both dropped to their knees, folding their hands as though in prayer, and vowed to be true and faithful to their king.
The Bruce accepted their homage and bid them rise once more.
“Has the time come?” Garik asked. “Is that why you are here? Do we go to battle?”
Garik looked to his king, but it was James who answered. “Aye. War is at hand, and we’ve something special planned for the Mull MacKinnon.”
Chapter 2
Riding in the lead, Garik was the first to crest the steep hillside that led down into a valley on the outskirts of Gribun. Scanning the huts scattered about the plain, Garik raised his hand to signal danger. Horses grazed in a distant field while five warriors crawled on their bellies toward one of the huts with blades drawn.
“MacLeans,” Logan growled. He reached behind his back to free his blade, but the king stayed his hand.
“Hold, Logan. The MacLean’s son, Balfour, swore fealty to me at Scone two years ago. Make my presence known and I shall restore a peace.”
Garik had no interest in exposing the king’s presence on the isle to the blackguard MacLean, and by the looks on the rest of the men’s faces, they agreed.
“Nay, my liege. I dare not test the MacLean’s love for ye against his hatred for my clan. Our feud is old,” Logan said.
“I implore ye to heed Logan’s caution,” Angus Og said. “’Tis a band of five men. Wait here. We shall subdue them with ease and then continue on to Gribun.”
“Five men and one lass,” the Bruce said.
“What?” both Garik and Logan said in unison as they whirled around. A lass with wild, black hair came out from behind the long, thatched hut, charging toward the MacLeans on a fine, black palfrey. She reached behind her back and drew a sword that she brandished high and from her lips came forth a chilling battle cry.
“God’s blood, Nellore,” Logan cursed as he kicked his horse in the flanks.
“He appears to be familiar with the lass,” James said to the king with a grin.
“Did I not tell ye of the fierce Mull MacKinnons?” Angus Og chuckled. “Even their women are cutthroat.”
“That is no woman. She is naught but a wee lass,” Garik said. With his eye trained on the girl, he raced after Logan, sounding the battle cry of the MacKinnon. He could not believe one lass could be so spirited or so deadly. As soon as she was close enough, she leapt from her horse, pinning a man more than twice her size to the ground—not with her weight, for she was a wisp of a lass. It was the steel pressed against the vein in his neck that made him lie so still and her green eyes that flashed with blood lust.
“Move and I will cut ye open,” she taunted.
Garik’s eyes widened with astonishment.
“For the love of all things decent, Nellore. I did not teach ye that,” Logan said with a grimace. Then he turned to look down upon the MacLean warrior who lay disarmed at his feet. “We will spill no blood here today, but listen well, ye spineless coward. Any crime carried out by a MacLean on MacKinnon soil shall be returned ten-fold.”
The enemy tried to struggle to his feet, but Logan pressed him back into the dirt with his foot. “Ye can leave the same way ye came—on your bellies like snakes. Now, be gone from our land.”
The lass replaced her blade in the scabbard strapped to her back with what appeared to be a look of regret upon her face. She then joined Logan in watching the progress of the MacLeans as they scrambled toward their horses. It was not until the warriors were mounted and racing back to their own territory that Logan turned to address the child.
“I did not teach ye to wield that blade so that ye could put yourself in harm’s way,” Logan said, his silver eyes flashing. Garik was reminded of Logan’s grandmother, the lady of their clan, whose coloring Logan had inherited. On the few occasions Garik had crossed the Lady Bridget in his youth, her queer, silver eyes had gleamed like polished coins just as Logan’s did now. Equally as difficult to offend as his grandmother, it was not often that Garik saw Logan’s eyes flash, and although it was a chilling sight, apparently, Nellore thought differently. She appeared unaffected. The scowl that distorted Logan’s handsome features would have made many men step down, but the recipient of his anger was no man. Garik choked back laughter as she turned and flung a finger in Logan’s face.
“Ye taught me to defend myself and my own, which is what I just did,” she snapped.
“What ye just did was almost get yourself killed. Ye aimed to take on five grown men. Ye have skill, Nellore, but ye’re a child,” Logan said.
“And a lass,” Garik could not resist adding. Angry, green eyes flashed his way before they turned back to glare again at Logan. “I’ve twelve years to my credit. I’m no longer a child. Besides, I intended to ride for aid, but then I saw ye. So I turned my horse around and attacked.”
Logan raised a skeptical brow.
“I speak the truth,” she said. Several moments passed while she withstood the might of Logan’s scrutiny, but she gave him no further opportunity to scold her. Garik grinned with pleasure when, apparently having decided the matter should be dismissed, Nellore threw her arms around Logan’s neck.
“Where have ye been, Logan? I’ve not seen ye for days and days.”
Garik could not believe Nellore’s transformation from shield maiden to child. An endless string of questions gushed forth from her lips at a dizzying rate.
“We’ve been on a hunting party, and then yesterday Garik’s ship drew into port so I’ve not had a chance to visit ye. Do ye remember Garik at all?”
She turned to scrutinize Garik with wide, green eyes and a face smudged with dirt. She continued to stare at him but shook her head in reply.
“You may not remember me, lass, but I remember you. You used to follow us about, but not with a rag baby in your arms like the other girls,” Garik said, laughing. “No, not you. You would proudly
tout a wooden sword in your tough grip. It would seem little has changed.”
Nellore continued to stare at him. He thought he might have angered her youthful heart with his earlier quip, but then at last she spoke. “I do not remember ever meeting ye, but I do like how ye speak. What are ye then?” Suddenly, her eyes danced with excitement. “Are ye a Viking?”
“Not exactly,” he replied with a smile. Then Logan cut in.
“What are ye doing out here alone?” Logan asked.
“I was visiting Mary,” she said.
“But who rode out here with ye? Ye ken ye aren’t meant to—” A throat clearing behind them pulled Garik and Logan’s attention away from Nellore.
“Logan,” the Bruce said. “Will you not make introductions?”
“Of course, my liege,” he said as he turned Nellore about to face the king. “Your majesty, this is Nellore, daughter of Duncan and Brenna MacKinnon. She is my sister in all ways but blood.” He then motioned to the Bruce. “Nellore, ye’re standing before the king of Scotland.”
Garik had to suppress a chuckle when Nellore dipped into a confused curtsy. She truly was an impressive sight. Her hair fell about her head in wild disarray. Thick brows framed what he decided would be lovely eyes when she was grown. A shadow of dirt seemed to cover every inch of her.
“Is it your practice to train your women in skilled combat?” the Bruce asked Logan.
Garik turned an eager ear to hear Logan’s response.
“Over this last decade, by the urging of my grandmother, the Lady Bridget, all of our women have become trained archers. She thought it wrong to leave them defenseless if our men were overrun in battle. Some are more capable than others, but all are able to hit their mark. The bow is where their training begins and ends. Nellore is an exception,” Logan smiled sheepishly. “I am to blame for her skill with a sword.”
“’Tis just like ye, Logan, to claim ownership over what is mine,” Nellore said, scowling. She turned to the king. “He trained me, but only because I showed such promise.”
“Indeed,” the King smiled. “A braver or more clever lass I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting, and I am the father of three fine daughters.” The Bruce extended his hand toward Nellore. “May I hold your sword?”
Garik laughed outright when she clutched her sword tighter and retreated steps away from the men. Once again, her green eyes narrowed on him. “The king only wishes to admire your blade, little one,” Garik said.
Much to Garik’s surprise, she stretched to her full height and stalked right up to him. “I am many things, sir—disobedient, willful, ill-mannered, and ugly, but little I am not.”
She stared up at him, her bright green eyes unafraid amid tangled black hair. Indeed, she nearly came up to his chest, which was impressive given he was tall and she still not fully grown. He scrutinized her features once more: thick brows, pert nose, and wide full lips. She bore the awkwardness of youth but he predicted one day she would be an unusual beauty. Her features would never appear refined, but she would captivate those men daring enough to see beyond convention.
“You are a tall, fine lass,” Garik said softly. “Now, give the king your sword.”
A blush tinted her cheeks as she handed her blade to the Bruce. Still, she guarded her weapon with possessive eyes. Like most warriors, Garik could tell she did not like another’s hand gripping her sword. “What a queer, little minx you’ve become,” Garik said with admiration. Her eyes tore away from her blade and met his with naked aggression. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “My words were not meant to sting,” he said. “I think you are the finest, wee lass I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I only wish my own sister had a drop of your gumption. She is as thin and flimsy as a morning breeze.” At his words, those green eyes softened and her wide, full lips parted as a dazzling smile stretched across her face. Her smile nigh stole his breath. “You are prettier than you think, child,” he said.
“I’m not a child,” she declared, thrusting out her chin.
“Ten and two does not a woman make,” he replied.
“Enough with your frivolities,” the king interrupted. “Garik, you are undermining the courage of my newest warrior.”
Nellore’s head jerked up and she stared at her king with mouth agape.
“’Tis a fine blade,” the Bruce said as he slashed the air with her sword.
“I had it made to suit her,” Logan said. “Although her father was displeased to say the least, as was my chieftain. ‘Tis lighter and shorter than a normal blade, yet still quite strong.”
Her fingers reached out and stroked across the steel of her sword. “Am I truly counted among your warriors?” she asked of the king.
“Aye, lass. You are a shield maiden of Scotland,” he answered.
“Then I can march with ye?” she said.
The Bruce chuckled and ruffled her mussed hair. “Nay, lass. Mayhap when you are grown. For now, I need you here to protect your kinfolk while Logan, Garik, and the others are away.”
“Do not fash yourself, lass.” It was Hamish who spoke. Garik turned, surprised to hear the older man speak for the first time. His fierce scar might have scared another lass, but not Nellore. She looked up at Hamish with hopeful eyes. “I could be your squire,” she said.
Hamish laughed. “I’m no pampered knight,” he said. Then turning to the king and James, he muttered, “begging your pardon, my lords.” Then he turned back to Nellore. “I too must remain behind.”
A loud sigh of dejection passed from her lips as her head hung low. Clearly, she had hoped Hamish had found a solution that had her marching off to battle.
“But ye can help me defend your home. ‘Tis why I’ve come. To offer the Mull MacKinnon my sword and one good eye for the defense of your people while so many of your warriors are called away.”
Logan put his arm around her shoulder. “Ye know ye cannot go to battle, Nellore,” he said. Then he swept her up in his arms and spun her around until she laughed with girlish delight. “But ye still wield the fastest blade on Mull,” he said, laughing.
“Faster even than ye?” she said.
“Faster even than Garik,” Logan said. Garik smiled at Logan, remembering how he had bested the future chieftain that morning when they sparred.
Nellore scrambled out of Logan’s arms and hurried to Garik’s side. Her gaze traveled over his leather jerkin and wool pants. She liked the look of him. His hair was as black as the chough bird’s feathers, and his skin was stark white like the snow that still clung to Benmore Mountain. But it was his eyes that made her forget to breathe. They were ice blue in color but held none of winter’s cold. In fact, they shone with warmth and humor.
The Bruce drew her gaze away from Garik’s when he stepped forward. “Nellore, I am compelled to tell you that if you were my daughter, I would chain you to a chair in your room until you were old enough to wed. But since you do not belong to me, I choose instead to encourage your fierce nature. I can only pray the men under my command have even half your valor.”
Nellore beamed as she mounted her horse. “Did ye hear what the king said?” she whispered in the palfrey’s ear. Her horse skippered beneath her as powerful and hell bound with vigor as she.
She galloped across the moors toward Gribun with the men at her side. Exhilaration coursed through her akin to nothing she had ever experienced. With the king and so many warriors surrounding her, it was easy to imagine she was every part the warrior of her dreams. She met Garik’s smiling eyes and laughed. Beyond anything, she wished she were grown and could fight alongside her king and kinsmen.
Chapter 3
The MacKinnon warriors were in the midst of training when they approached Gribun. Garik watched as each man balanced a massive caber in their arms while they crossed the wide plain. Youthful memories of dragging his weary and aching body into the great hall of Dun Ara Castle only to fall into an exhausted stupor during the evening meal rushed to the fore of his mind. By the bone-tired expres
sions worn on all of the warriors’ faces, he could surmise that Ronan was as ruthless as ever. According to his grandfather, Aidan, Ronan had always pushed the men to the point of breaking. More than once, Aidan had affectionately referred to Ronan as ‘that tyrant’.
Now, at nearly seventy-one years of age, Ronan’s strength had at last diminished. While Garik watched the training, he noted that Ronan did not participate in some of the drills; whereas, when he had fostered with the MacKinnon, Ronan would have matched his warriors move for move. Still, for a man of Ronan’s advanced years, Garik was impressed by the drills his trimmer yet still sinewy physique managed to complete.
Garik chuckled as Ronan barked at the men to keep moving. One thing he could say for certain was that the years had done nothing to soften Ronan’s voice. But no one uttered a single complaint. Everyone knew that Ronan’s unrelenting demands and brutal tactics were behind the renowned skill of the Mull MacKinnon warriors. Garik did not doubt that Ronan’s despotic role on the training fields and the resulting discipline of his men were the very reasons the king of Scotland stood nearby watching the Mull warriors with avid interest.
Much to the apparent relief of his men, Ronan dismissed the warriors to the keep and strode toward his audience. He first approached Angus Og. Garik could tell by the warmth of Ronan’s greeting that he held the laird of the Clan MacDonald in very high esteem. Angus Og returned Ronan’s welcome with the same open affection, and then straightaway he introduced the Bruce.
A flash of surprise passed over Ronan’s face, and a glint of excitement lit his amber eyes. He knelt and kissed the Bruce’s hand. “Long have we prayed for a true king to claim Scotland’s throne,” he said. Then Ronan stood and introduced the man at his side.
“This is my second in command, Duncan MacKinnon,” Ronan said.
Duncan came forward and knelt before the king, also swearing his allegiance. When Duncan rose to his feet, Nellore rushed to his side. He smiled down at her. “Look at how filthy ye are, lass, and in front of the king no less,” he said before pressing a kiss to her head. “Ye’ve met my eldest lass then?” Duncan said to the Bruce.