Warrior Reborn Page 6

  As always, she was only partially successful.

  When Jamesy returned, the foul MacDowylt laird of the northern clan would be made to pay, even though Malcolm would do nothing to avenge her father’s death.

  Jamesy would return. Any day now. He would.

  “If,” she hissed into the wind, her fists clenched at her side. If Malcolm had told her the truth. If he had actually sent word to Jamesy of what had happened to their father.

  But what if he hadn’t? What if Malcolm had lied and Jamesy had no knowledge of their father’s murder? It was a possibility she had to face. If her brother didn’t return, it was up to her to set the grievance right on her own. Whatever it took, she’d make her way to Tordenet Castle and seek vengeance against the vile Torquil herself. One way or another, he would be made to pay for the crime he had committed against her family.

  “By the Seven,” she vowed, stopping as her attention fell to the clanging of the heavy chains raising the gate to give someone entrance to Castle MacGahan.

  Could it be? Her heart pounded as she rushed to the opposite side of the wall walk to peer down to the road below, holding back her disappointment at the sight greeting her eyes.

  Not her brother, but a distraction nonetheless. Tinklers!

  She raced back across the wall walk to look down on the courtyard. As if word had spread by magic, inhabitants of the castle streamed from the keep and outbuildings, all hurrying to reach the Tinklers’ wagons as they pulled into the bailey.

  Though this was the first visit Tinklers had made in the year she’d lived at Castle MacGahan, she’d heard the stories of how they’d long been refused entry to the castle grounds. But all that had changed thanks to Laird Malcolm’s first wife, the Lady Isabella.

  These days the Tinklers and the wares they carried were welcomed. One who appeared to be their leader, a man by the name of William Faas, if Brie remembered the stories correctly, jumped down from the lead wagon before reaching up to assist a woman to the ground beside him.

  Cook weaved her way through the gathering crowd to speak to the man. With Cook’s silver tongue, there’d likely be new pots in the keep’s kitchen before day’s end. The Tinkler woman did not join in the conversation with Cook, but hurried away from the wagon, directly toward the stairs where their laird and his lady waited with Lady Danielle’s friend, Mistress Syrie.

  As soon as the Tinkler reached the group and made her greetings, she and Mistress Syrie moved away from the others, their heads bowed close together in conversation.

  Fair odd, that. But from what Brie had seen of Mistress Syrie since her arrival at the castle, she shouldn’t be surprised. That woman was fair odd, herself. Every bit as odd as her aunt had been, before she had left to be replaced by Syrie as Lady Danielle’s companion.

  Brie would have loved to be close enough to hear the conversation shared by those two, but she had little time to dwell upon that curiosity, because more visitors climbed down from the second wagon. Visitors who did not dress the same as the Tinklers. It wasn’t so much the people themselves that interested her as what they carried. One man held a drum, another a set of pipes and within the blink of an eye, the men began to play while a woman danced behind them.

  That was enough for Brie. Down the narrow stairs she ran, not stopping until she reached the edge of the crowd that had gathered. To her disappointment, she’d no more than arrived when the music ceased.

  “A taste, good people, only a taste. We’ll share the full of our talents this very night in yer own hall. All we ask is a few paltry coins to cross our palms in payment for the pleasure of our talent.”

  Murmurs of the crowd buzzed in Brie’s ears as Laird Malcolm himself made his way through the people gathered around the newcomers.

  “Welcome, friends. I’m sorry to say there’s none here what can afford to cross yer palm with anything, minstrel. Though yer welcome to take yer night’s rest within the safety of these walls and we’ll gladly share our evening meal with you.”

  “Done!” William Faas agreed. “And perhaps these minstrels who travel with us as our guests will agree to repay your kindness with a few songs!”

  It didn’t look as if the minstrel standing next to William was any too pleased with that idea, but the cheers of the crowd perhaps encouraged him to relent.

  “As you will it, Master Faas,” he agreed. “Our journey north continues on the morrow only due to your kindness. A small performance for these people tonight seems a price well paid for the transport you provide us.”

  They journeyed north on the morrow? Brie’s mind churned with a fast-forming plan. It was almost too perfect to believe.

  North was exactly where she needed to go if she was to avenge her father’s murder.

  Ten

  TORDENET CASTLE

  NORTHERN HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

  THIS WILL NOT do.” Halldor slapped the mare on her hindquarters and stepped back from the stall. “Not at all. This horse is no better than that reject from the peat bogs Ulfr thought to pass off as a sword.”

  As promised, Ulfr had provided Chase with new clothing and boots on the first day, soon after assigning them their spaces in the barracks. A weapon and mount had been much slower to come. Days, in fact. And when Chase found the weapon Ulfr had left, even he thought it must be a joke of some sort.

  The sword he carried on his back was really a weapon in name only. It looked as if it had been dug up from under a rock somewhere or, as Halldor liked to claim, out of the peat bogs. Rusted and chipped, it would do him little good in battle.

  The horse, though, wasn’t all that bad.

  “She looks to be a healthy animal.” In much better shape than many of the wild horses Chase had rounded up back in Montana.

  Back in another life. The knowledge that Faerie Magic had transported him seven hundred years into the past still rattled his brain if he thought on it much.

  He tried his best not to think about it at all. Very quickly, he’d learned that ignoring his past made facing each morning easier. If this was where he belonged, then this was where he’d make the best of being.

  No, the horse wasn’t all that bad.

  “She’s a gentle one, too,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Halldor’s response was a rude snort.

  “Gentle is the last thing you want in battle, my friend. This is a woman’s beast. A palfrey. What you want under you when you ride against a field of men is a destrier, like my own.”

  Point well taken. The difference between the horse Ulfr had picked out for him and a war horse like Halldor’s would be the equivalent of a moped versus an armored Humvee.

  “I suppose that means we’ll need to speak with our friend Ulfr.”

  Halldor snorted even louder than before.

  “That we will. And I suppose it goes without saying that it would be a mistake to think Ulfr our friend. He’s not a man to be trusted.”

  “It goes without saying,” Chase agreed, exchanging a grin with Halldor as they left the stable.

  Some things didn’t change, no matter what century you were in. Brownnosers and backstabbers weren’t confined to any particular period in time. People were people everywhere. Everywhen.

  They made their way around the animal pens and past the men training in the lists in time to see a familiar figure hurrying across the courtyard toward the keep.

  “Isn’t that your little healer?”

  It was indeed Christiana. Funny how just seeing her at a distance could bring a smile to Chase’s lips and set his heart racing. It was as if the sun shone a little brighter for her.

  The woman had been extraordinary over the past few days in treating his blistered feet. He’d always healed quickly. His mother had claimed he could thank his Faerie blood for that, but he’d had his doubts about the process without the benefit of modern medicine. If he didn’t know better, he’d be tempted to claim there were magical powers in those herbs she’d used.

  The only drawback to her skills
was that now that he was better, he had no reason to visit her. And visiting her was something he very much wanted to continue to do.

  “Looks like she’s headed into the keep,” he observed. “Hey. Didn’t Ulfr say that was where he was going, too? To meet with Torquil?”

  “I believe he did, at that,” Halldor responded, a wide grin spreading over his face. “And since we absolutely need to get this horse business settled so that we might attend to other matters, it appears to me as though we’ve no choice but to follow the lady.”

  “No choice whatsoever,” Chase agreed, his steps already leading him in that direction.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Halldor cleared his throat.

  “I should mention that I have sensed a . . . what did you call it before?” His forehead wrinkled and then smoothed. “Yes. A vibe. A vibe that the Lord of Katanes may not welcome the intrusion into his keep of two lowly soldiers such as ourselves.”

  Chase snorted this time. He didn’t care what century it was, his personal code didn’t change. “First off, Torquil is not my lord. He’s just my employer. And if I’m not good enough to pass through his doorway, maybe I’m not good enough to wield my sword in his name. Maybe that means I’m outta here.”

  Though the thought of never seeing Christiana again bothered him a little more strongly than he would have expected. “As soon as I’m sure my wounds are completely healed, that is.”

  Halldor slapped him on the back. “Then we go together,” he said, leading the way up the stairs to the massive doors. “As soon as the little healer has finished with you, of course.”

  Why Chase’s face heated was beyond him. It just made good sense not to set out into the world until he was sure there was no residual chance of infection. He was only thinking of the logic of the situation.

  The door ahead of them opened to two guards, swords held at the ready.

  “What business have you here?” one of them asked.

  “We’re here to see a man about a horse,” Chase answered, catching up to Halldor’s side.

  When his friend lifted an eyebrow in question, Chase shrugged. It was a line he’d always wanted to use and there would likely never be a better time than right now.

  “We seek Ulfr,” Halldor clarified.

  “And there he is,” Chase pointed out, pushing past the guards and into the entryway where Ulfr stood beside Christiana, his hand gripping her elbow. And not in a good way, from where Chase stood. “Are we interrupting something?”

  “Yes,” Ulfr barked, drowning out Christiana’s quiet denial. “What do you want?”

  “We’re here to see a—” Chase began, feeling quite pleased that he could use the catchphrase twice, when Halldor interrupted.

  “We’ve a problem that could prevent our being able to remain in service to the MacDowylt.”

  As Halldor spoke, the door next to Ulfr opened and Torquil stepped into the hallway.

  “There’s a problem?” he asked.

  “No, my lord,” Ulfr hurried to answer.

  “Begging your pardon, Laird MacDowylt, but I’m afraid there is.” Halldor stood his ground, ignoring Ulfr’s angry glare.

  Torquil studied each of them in turn, then stepped back inside the room. “I’d have you join me in my solar so that we might get to the bottom of this. All of you.”

  “My lady?” Halldor offered his arm to Christiana, nudging Ulfr aside as she accepted.

  Chase swept his hand in invitation for the captain of the guard to enter ahead of him.

  No way he wanted that man at his back.

  Inside, his eyes immediately sought out Christiana, as he found himself doing each time he was in a room with her. She stood apart from the others, her hands clasped at her waist. Perhaps it was only the swords and scabbards hanging on the high stone walls that made her appear so small and out of place, but he found himself fighting the urge to go to her side and reassure her. She looked every bit as uncomfortable as he felt in here.

  From the moment he’d entered, it was as if the walls were closing in. Not that the room was small by any means. It was more a matter of the feel of the room, as if something in it weakened him and sucked the air from his lungs.

  “Show him that piece of bog trash you carry on your back.”

  Chase’s attention snapped away from the woman, and he found Halldor and Torquil staring at him.

  “Go on. Hand it over to the laird.”

  “It mayhap need a wee touch of a polish by the metalworker,” Ulfr offered, his voice trailing off into the oppressive silence.

  Chase pulled the rusted weapon from the scabbard he wore on his back and stepped closer, dipping his head respectfully as he passed it to Torquil. Once the other man accepted, he stepped away, his own gaze once again sweeping the room, lighting on Christiana only briefly before he forced himself to study the weapons hanging on the walls instead.

  This wasn’t the twenty-first century, where a man could gawk at a woman with impunity. Things weren’t done that way here. Now. No matter how much he was drawn to her.

  “A good weapon was the terms of our agreement,” Halldor reminded. “This does not fulfill those terms, any more than the palfrey they’ve tried to give my brother fulfills our agreement for a suitable mount.”

  Torquil barely glanced at the sword before dropping it to the table next to him.

  “It does little good to spend my silver in hiring talented swordsmen if they’re ill-equipped,” Torquil murmured, his eyes boring into his captain.

  Chase almost felt sorry for the man. Almost felt compelled to speak up in his defense. Almost.

  Then he spotted something hanging on the wall he never thought he’d see again. A sword so like the one his father had owned it could have been the same weapon. He was drawn to it immediately, crossing the room to run his finger down the blade.

  “Here now, O’Donar!” Ulfr called after him. “Dinna be thinking to handle the artifacts what belong to Clan MacDowylt.”

  “You’ve a good eye.” Torquil had moved to stand beside him. “That is a weapon of distinction. An ancient weapon forged by some long-forgotten MacDowylt ancestor, hung upon this wall for who knows how long.”

  “My apologies if I offended, my laird.” Chase dipped his head once more. “It’s only that this sword bears a remarkable resemblance to the one my father had when he first taught me the use of such a weapon.” Such a remarkable resemblance, in fact, he half expected to see his father stroll into the room at any moment.

  “No offense taken, I assure you. Please, take the weapon into yer hands if you like. Test the feel of it.” Torquil moved behind his table and took a seat, very much like a man waiting to be entertained.

  Chase lifted the sword down from its mountings. In his grip it felt different from his father’s, but good all the same. He laid the sword across his palm to feel its weight. Admiring the fine balance, he peered at the markings on the blade. Made in the fires of the ancient Celts, his father had claimed of his own. Holding this one, Chase didn’t doubt it.

  “Ulfr!”

  Torquil uttered his captain’s name like a man commanding a trained animal and Chase looked up to find Ulfr charging him, teeth bared, his sword leading.

  Instinctively, Chase raised the weapon he held, just in time to meet the downward blow of Ulfr’s sword. The leaf-shaped weapon felt natural as metal clanged on metal, as if it were an extension of his own arm. The lessons with his father rushed back to him. His vision tunneled on the man in front of him and he twirled, dodging the next attack, blocking from his mind Christiana’s scream and Halldor’s shout as the big man threw himself in front of the healer. Chase pivoted under Ulfr’s strike, slicing upward at the last minute. A thin red line appeared on his opponent’s forearm as he glided past.

  Ulfr screamed, backing away, his free hand tightly clenched over the dripping wound.

  “Excellent!” Torquil rose from his seat, clapping his hands in appreciation. “Expertly done, indeed. You wield that weapon as i
f you were born to it, O’Donar. The sword you hold is meant to be used, no to decorate a wall. It’s yers to keep, and the sheath, as well. As to a horse, take yer pick of any from my stables. Satisfactory?”

  Chase’s heart pounded in his ears from the adrenaline pumping through his system. It had been a long time since he’d felt the rush that accompanied hand-to-hand combat.

  “Satisfactory!” Halldor boomed.

  “Noble,” Chase corrected quietly, turning to face the MacDowylt laird. This part of their charade had come to an end. Dishonesty didn’t sit well on his shoulders. He didn’t like pretending to be something or someone he wasn’t. He never had.

  “What did you say?” Torquil stared at him, his lack of expression concealing his thoughts.

  “My name is Noble, not O’Donar. Chase Noble.”

  “My brother speaks truly. We do not share the same father,” Halldor interrupted with a shrug before throwing an arm around Chase’s shoulders to usher him from the room. “Why else would I have had to come all the way to Scotland looking for this one, eh?”

  Chase considered refusing the offer of the weapon, but only for a moment. Torquil was correct. The sword was never intended to be a decoration gathering dust on a wall. It was meant for the hand of a warrior, and it fit his as if they had been made for each other.

  He pulled away from Halldor’s grip and turned to face Torquil, lifting the sword in salute.

  “My thanks, Laird MacDowylt. I pledge to use this weapon to the best of my ability.”

  “If you use it half so well in yer service to me as you did a moment ago, I’ll consider it a gift well given.”

  Chase dipped his head one last time and walked out of the room.

  He’d pledged to use the weapon to the best of his ability. But he wasn’t yet completely sure that would mean using it in the service of Torquil MacDowylt.