The Striker (4 page)

A
RE YOU SURE
about this, Maggie?”

Margaret took that as a rhetorical question. She was sure about everything, as her oldest friend well knew. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Brige?”

Margaret's question was a rhetorical one as well. Of course her friend hadn't. Like Margaret, Brigid hadn't traveled more than twenty miles from her home in the Rhins of Galloway in the remote southwestern corner of Scotland. A place that was so far away it seemed almost another world. God's bones, it had taken them nearly two weeks to travel here with carts, and it wasn't a journey she was anxious to repeat anytime soon.

If she was successful—
when
she was successful—she might not be going back at all. Though the gathering at Stirling was an attempt to make allies of Scotland's rivals for the crown to form a unified force against England, her father had another purpose in being here. He intended to propose a marriage alliance between Margaret and young John Comyn, the son of John “the Red” Comyn, Lord of Badenoch. It was her job to win over the young lord and make him eager for the match. As winning over men was something she'd been doing since she could talk, she would probably be betrothed in a fortnight.

Margaret spun around. “Isn't it magnificent? Look how high the rafters are! The Hall is so large I'm surprised the ceiling does not come tumbling down. How do you think they built it to stay up there like that?” She didn't bother waiting for an answer, she was already racing across the room to examine the enormous fireplace. “I can stand up inside!” she said, ducking under the colorfully painted mantel.

Brigid laughed as she peeked back under. “Careful,” her friend warned, suddenly sober. “The embers are still glowing from this morning. You'll light your skirts on fire.”

“That would make an impression, wouldn't it?” Margaret said with an impish smile. “No one would forget me then. The girl who caught her skirts on fire.”

“No one will forget you anyway,” Brigid said with a fond—if slightly exasperated—shake of the head.

But Margaret wasn't listening; she'd already moved on to the next discovery. Since they'd arrived at Stirling Castle a few hours ago, it seemed every minute had been filled with them. She'd barely taken time to wash—in the finest tub she'd ever seen—change her clothes, and run a comb through her still damp hair before she'd dragged Brigid off to go exploring. They could rest tonight.

Margaret put her hand on one of the walls. “It
is
plaster! I wasn't sure. The painting of the arms is so exquisite I thought it might actually be a shield! Can you believe they painted the whole room with this brick and vine pattern? There isn't a surface that hasn't been decorated in here. I've never seen a more colorful room. And look at these curtains.” She moved toward one of the windows and pulled the heavy scarlet velvet around her. “It's fine enough to make a gown.” Glancing down at her plain dark brown wool kirtle, she grinned. “Actually it's finer than any of my gowns. What do you think? Will someone notice if we take it?”

Brigid shook her head with amazement. “Can you imagine using fabric as fine as that for curtains?” Suddenly, her face drew tight with consternation. “Do you think our gowns will be very different from the other ladies?”

“I should hope so,” Margaret said with a proud squaring of her shoulders. “We are wearing some of the finest wool in all of Scotland. There are no finer weavers than from Galloway. I should think the other ladies will be very envious indeed.”

Brigid bit her lip, not looking convinced. This time it was Margaret who shook her head. Her friend worried about the silliest things. They were just gowns, for goodness' sake!

Margaret walked past the wooden screen of the dais into an antechamber. “Look at this, Brigid. It's some kind of private solar. Holy cross! Do you see these candlesticks? They must be solid gold!” She plopped down on one of the benches around the edges of the room. “There isn't a chair without a pillow in this place. I believe I'm going to be busy when I return to Garthland Tower making cushions for all the benches.”

“You shouldn't blaspheme, Maggie, and you don't sew.”

Margaret replied to this minor detail with a stuck-out tongue. Leave it to Brigid to point out the realities. But maybe that's why they were such good friends. Brigid was the riggings to her sail. She didn't let her get carried away. Well,
too
carried away. As for the blasphemies, her brothers said far worse. If anyone was going to hell, it was them.

“Very well, I shall have Marsaili make them then.”

“I don't think she likes to sew any more than you do.”

“Well, at least she knows how,” Margaret said, grinning.

She stood and walked over toward a table. On it was some kind of checkered board arranged with tiny carved pieces. She picked up one of the figures to examine it, noticing that it appeared to be made out of ivory. There were all kinds of different-sized figures in two colors. Some were arranged on the board, and some were off the board on opposite sides of the table. “Maybe this room is for the bairns,” she said. “It looks like some kind of a game.”

“That's a fine-looking game for a child.” Brigid frowned when Margaret picked up another piece. “Do you think you should be touching that, Maggie? What if someone gets upset?”

Margaret looked at her friend as if she were daft. “It's just a game, Brige. Why would anyone care about that?” She picked up two of the biggest pieces. “Look at these—they are adorable. It looks like they have crowns. They must be a king and queen.”

Brigid wrinkled her nose. “They look scary to me.”

Margaret shook her head. “They should go in the middle.” Realizing there wasn't a space in the middle in the checkerboard pattern, she improvised and put the queen in the center of the four spaces. “Well, the queen will go in the middle and the king will have to stand to her left.” She grinned and moved the pieces around. “With all these men on horses around them.”

“I take it the queen is you?” Brigid laughed. “Ruling over the men like you do at Garthland?”

“Well someone needs to,” Margaret said matter-of-factly. “As much as my father and brothers are away, nothing would ever get done if I didn't take care of all those ‘minor details.' ”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing, knowing that Margaret handled far more than the “minor details” for which her father liked to give her credit.

Brigid picked up a few of the pieces to examine them, and then a small flat piece of wood that Margaret hadn't noticed before. It had something written on it.

“What do you think this says?” she asked.

Margaret looked at the lettering and shrugged. Like her friend she had no idea.

Not knowing how to play the game, they giggled as they took turns arranging the pieces in humorous formations.

“Do you hear something?” Brigid said. “I think someone is coming.” She gasped in horror. “It can't already be time for the midday feast? We aren't ready!”

“I'm sure we still have plenty of time. It can't be that late—”

Margaret stopped, turning as a group of men walked into the antechamber. There were at least a half-dozen of them, but they seemed to be following one man. At least she assumed they must be following him, as he had the noble bearing of a king and was one of the most richly attired men she'd ever seen.

Probably a good ten years older than her eight and ten, he wore a dark green velvet mantle lined with fur, secured by an enormous jeweled brooch of silver. His surcoat was so richly embroidered it also looked jeweled. He was tall—about six feet—and sturdily built with dark hair and a neatly trimmed short dark beard.

“Friends of yours, Carrick?” one of the men asked with a speculative lift of his brow. He gazed at Margaret with unabashed interest, his eyes lingering over her hair. “Not the entertainment I was expecting, but I'm not complaining.”

Margaret didn't realize what the man meant at first. She was too surprised to hear the identity of the young nobleman. This was the infamous Earl of Carrick and Lord of Annandale, Robert Bruce? From her father's description, she'd been expecting a forked tongue and devil's horns, not this impressive, handsome young man.

Entertainment
? Her eyes narrowed back on the man who'd spoken. The man was older than the earl, shorter, and not nearly as handsome, although there was a brute strength to him. His eyes were fixed speculatively on her chest. He couldn't think . . .

He did! The man thought they were bawds! She almost burst out laughing. Wait until her brother Duncan heard this! He was always telling her she was as wicked as a French strumpet.

Carrick shot his companion a quelling stare and turned to Margaret and Brigid. “Are you lost, lasses? Did you become . . . uh, separated from someone? One of the ladies, by chance?”

Obviously the young earl was just as surprised to find them in here, but more subtle in his wondering of who they were. If she wasn't mistaken, he thought they were tiring women to one of the noble ladies in attendance—which offended her more than being thought a strumpet. The MacDowells were one of the oldest clans in Scotland. They been ruling this country—at least the southwest part of it—before these Norman lords crossed the channel to England.

But she had to concede that Brigid might have had a point about their gowns.

She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and met the young earl's stare with a bold challenge. “We are not lost, my lord. We were exploring the castle before the feast. We just arrived this morning with my father.”

He quirked a brow, obviously surprised. “And who is your father?”

“Dugald MacDowell, Chief of MacDowell of Galloway,” she said proudly, knowing exactly what kind of reaction that would provoke.

She wasn't disappointed. More than one man swore at the revelation that she was the daughter of their enemy. The earl hid his surprise well, though she could tell he was. “Lady Margaret,” he said, with a short bow.

Margaret wasn't as adept at hiding hers. “You know of me?”

His mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were fighting a smile. “I suspect there are very few who haven't heard of the ‘Fair Maid of Galloway.' ”

Margaret frowned. She certainly hadn't. And why did she have the feeling there was more than beauty that he'd heard about?

The man who mistook her for a strumpet spoke. “Ah hell, Carrick. Look at that.”

When he pointed in the direction of the game, and
all
the men started cursing, Margaret suspected Brigid had been right about something else, too.

She bit her lip. Perhaps touching the game
hadn't
been such a good idea.

I have him!
Eoin knew just what he had to do to win.

He didn't smile much, but he couldn't prevent the one that lifted his mouth as he strode purposefully across the courtyard and into the Great Hall of Stirling Castle.

For two days he had been locked in a fierce battle of wits with Robert Bruce, the young Earl of Carrick, over a chessboard, but the answer had come to him last night, and victory would soon be his.

A victory that would bring him one step closer to the
real
reward.

He still couldn't believe it. His illustrious kinsman—his and Bruce's mothers were half sisters—was considering Eoin for an elite secret guard that Bruce was forming in the event he made a bid for the throne.

To have been singled out and chosen by Bruce was an honor for any young warrior, let alone the twenty-four-year-old third son of a Highland laird, as Eoin's father, Gillemore MacLean, Chief of MacLean, was quick to point out with a puff of pride.

But that wasn't why Eoin was so excited by the prospect. His kinsman hadn't given him many details, but those that he had were like holding out sweets to a bairn. A secret, highly specialized elite guard used for reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special—in other words, the most dangerous—missions? For a man who had lived, breathed, even slept “pirate” warfare since he was seven years old and had helped his older brothers get back some fishing nets stolen by lads from a neighboring clan (
after
the lads had been good enough to fill it for them, of course), the prospect of bringing that style of warfare to a war against the most powerful army in Christendom was a challenge too great to resist. That Eoin would be fighting alongside a handpicked group of the most highly skilled warriors in all of Scotland was like sprinkling sugar on top of a trifle—heaping the sweet upon the sweet.

He was determined to win a position in the secret guard as a battle tactician, and besting his kinsman at chess—Bruce was known for his skill with the game—would help him in that regard. That the game was relatively new to Eoin, while Bruce had been playing for years, didn't concern him. Thinking two, three, or four steps ahead was something Eoin did all the time on the battlefield. Once he'd learned the rules, he could look at the board and see the moves played out in his head. Again, just like with battle—except that in the case of Highland warfare, there were no rules.