Once a Warrior (6 page)

“Absolutely identical,” Malcolm assured her.

Her frown curved into a smile. “Good. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

With that she slipped her tiny hand into his, as if sensing how badly he needed an ally.

The sight of Catherine holding the Black Wolf’s hand snapped Ariella out of her uncertainty. She had hired him knowing exactly what his limitations were. He was here to try to help them. She had no illusions that he could turn her people into an invincible army. But he could teach them something of defense while she continued to search for the rightful bearer of the sword. Once that man was found, she would pay MacFane and send him away.

It was as simple as that.

She climbed onto the platform beside Catherine and regarded her people solemnly.

“I ask you to welcome Malcolm MacFane, the great warrior known as the Black Wolf, and his chief warrior, Gavin. They will be our honored guests for a time. During his stay MacFane will train us to defend ourselves. We must cooperate with him in every way, so we can benefit from his vast knowledge and experience.”

Her proclamation was met with silence.

“And so we shall,” announced Angus, squinting with disapproval at the clan. “We will do whatever we must to make the Clan MacKendrick strong.” He handed a cup of wine to Malcolm. “Welcome, MacFane,” he said, lifting his cup.

A few halfhearted
welcome
s filtered through the crowd. It was clear her people were hopelessly disappointed in the man Ariella had brought home. Although they were relieved she did not intend to marry him, they had no faith whatsoever that he would be able to help them. The clan began to disperse, no longer in the mood for celebration.

“Come, MacFane,” said Ariella, “let us show you the castle. Maybe you can tell us how we can make it stronger.”

Malcolm nodded, anxious to escape the disillusioned stares of the MacKendricks.

Ariella bent down and brushed her grimy knuckles against Catherine’s cheek. “Go with Agnes,” she ordered softly. “I will see you later and tell you about my journey.”

Catherine hugged her, then obediently went to find Agnes.

“She seems fond of you,” observed Malcolm.

“She is my sister,” Ariella replied, stepping off the platform. “This is Niall. He is in charge of restoring the damage done to the castle.”

A handsome, strong-looking young man regarded him with barely disguised hostility. He folded his arms across his chest, enabling Malcolm to see the healing scars of a burn on his hands.

“How did you burn your hands?”

“There was a fire in the south tower,” Niall replied brusquely.

Malcolm looked at the charred remains of the dismantled structure, which were piled in a corner of the courtyard. The new tower was being built of stone. The rest of the hall was stone, which was why the fire had not spread through the entire building.

“That wooden tower must have belonged to the earliest part of the castle,” he mused. “From now on everything must be built of stone.”

“Thank you for that brilliant insight,” drawled Niall.

“The attackers came through the gate,” explained Ariella as Gavin, Duncan, and Andrew joined them. “Then they swarmed the castle.”

Malcolm lifted his gaze to the iron bars suspended above the entrance to the courtyard. “How did they get through the gate?”

“Why, they just rode through, lad,” replied Angus, as if the answer were obvious. “That opening is more than big enough to accommodate a horse.”

“I mean, how did they get the gate open?” qualified Malcolm.

Angus and Dugald looked bewildered.

“It was closed, wasn’t it?”

Dugald shook his head. “It’s never closed, lad.”

“Why not?”

“The chains are badly rusted,” explained Gordon. “The last time we lowered it was, let me think—nearly twenty years ago.”

“I remember that,” said Dugald, chuckling. “We had a terrible time trying to get the bloody thing back up again.”

Malcolm stared at them in disbelief. “You haven’t lowered the gate in twenty years?”

The three council members shook their heads.

“There’s been no need, lad,” explained Dugald. “We’re a clan of peace. No one ever bothers us.”

“Until now,” observed Gavin.

“Aye,” Angus agreed. “Until now.”

Malcolm put the issue of the gate aside for a moment and assessed the height and depth of the curtain wall surrounding the castle. It was sufficiently high, but the parapet lining the wall head was ridiculously low, and it had no crenellations from which an archer could shoot.

“Why is the parapet so low?”

“For the view,” explained Gordon. “We’ve put benches up there, and it’s a marvelous place to sit and look at the mountains. Wonderful for writing poetry or music. You can see just about forever,” he assured him enthusiastically.

“Which means your attackers can get a perfectly clear shot at you,” Malcolm pointed out, trying to be patient.

Dugald looked mildly outraged. “No one ever shoots at us.”

“Until now,” said Gavin.

“Aye,” Angus agreed, nodding. “Until now.”

“Perhaps we should show MacFane the inside of the castle,” suggested Ariella.

Malcolm followed as they moved toward the entrance, where a pretty honey-haired girl was waiting.

“Elizabeth, this is MacFane and his chief warrior, Gavin,” said Gordon. “This is Elizabeth, my daughter.”

“Welcome, milords,” she murmured, curtsying. She glanced nervously at Malcolm, then Gavin. He smiled and she shyly lowered her lashes.

The group advanced into the great hall, an enormous room of gray stone with two massive, elaborately carved hearths at opposite ends. Four large arched windows flooded the space with light. A minstrel’s gallery built of alternating dark and pale wood spanned one end, where a man on a ladder was carefully repairing a damaged section. At the center of the room stood the laird’s table, set upon a scarlet-draped dais, with a dozen or so side tables arranged around it. Lengths of fabric lay in colorful heaps upon these tables as a group of women sat busily cutting and sewing. Others tended spinning wheels in the corners, while a little group positioned near the windows worked on intricate tapestries. The floor was covered with rushes and sweet-scented herbs, which mingled with the fragrance of roasting meat emanating from the kitchen beyond the room. The hall was not nearly as large as his own had been, Malcolm reflected, but it was far brighter and more pleasing.

“What are all these women sewing?” he asked, wondering at their industry.

“They are working to replace the banners and tapestries stolen during the attack,” explained Niall. “They had hoped to have them ready in time for your arrival with your great army.”

His tone was openly scornful. Malcolm chose to ignore it. It was clear this man resented his presence. Perhaps, like Rob, he believed Malcolm should have prevented the assault on his clan.

They continued their tour, which included the kitchen, the storerooms on the lower level, and the chambers above. Everywhere they went, members of the clan were weaving, painting, carving, and repairing, trying to restore the castle to its former condition. Overall, Malcolm’s view of the building was heavily critical. It had not been constructed as a fortress, but as a home of beauty and light, with great attention to aesthetic detail and virtually none to defense. He grew increasingly exasperated when he made suggestions to improve its defense, only to be told that iron grilles on the windows would restrict the light, or the addition of archers’ slits in the towers would let in a draft. Yet he could not help but admire the uncommon skill and artistry of these people. In every room intricate stonework framed the windows, fireplaces, and doorways, and elegantly carved panels of sweet-smelling wood covered the ceilings, lending warmth and beauty to each chamber.

“Where does that passage lead to?” he asked, pointing to an arched doorway with a heavy rope strung across it.

“That is the staircase to the south tower,” replied Gordon. “It is roped off because we are still rebuilding it.”

Malcolm frowned. “This tower is not a point of entry,” he observed. “If your attackers just came through the front gate as you say, why did they set fire to this tower?”

The MacKendricks regarded each other uncertainly.

“Was there something in that tower they wanted to destroy?”

No one answered him.

“If I am to help you, I need to know what happened in this attack,” he persisted, exasperated. “Why did the warriors burn what they were trying to capture?”

It was Rob who finally spoke. “The tower housed the room of MacKendrick’s daughter,” he explained. “If the warriors’ leader forced her to marry him, the clan would have had no choice but to accept him as chief, because she would have provided the bloodline to our ancient chief. That would have established his son as the next blood heir.”

“What you are telling me makes no sense,” Malcolm argued, shaking his head. “Why would this man burn the tower if he needed this girl for his bride?”

“He didn’t burn the tower,” said Niall. “After mortally wounding our laird and killing many, he locked Ariella in it. He then swore to slaughter her clansmen one by one until she agreed to marry him. Ariella elected to burn to death rather than expose her people to his brutality.”

Malcolm stared at the elders. “She killed herself?”

The council members looked away, clearly finding the subject too painful to discuss.

“I have seen enough,” said Malcolm, appalled by this unexpected revelation. “I would rest awhile.”

They led him down the corridor to an enormous chamber. A large, handsomely carved bed gleamed with the luster of fresh oil and was made up in a soft plaid of crimson and gold. The room also featured a fine table and two chairs set by the hearth, a chest, a stone sink, which was built into the wall and drained to the outside, and a doorway leading to a garderobe. Unlike the rest of the castle, the walls of this chamber were covered with glorious tapestries, each depicting a tale of one of the Black Wolf’s feats. Malcolm went to the window and gazed uneasily at the valley and woods below.

He knew he was not worthy of these accommodations.

Anger flooded through Ariella as she studied the new furnishings in her father’s chamber. Her clan had painstakingly prepared it for the man they assumed would be their laird. But MacFane was not that man. He was the man who had failed to come when he had been desperately needed. Now he was here as a hired warrior, nothing more. He did not deserve the honor of staying in this room. She glanced at Niall. The hostile set of his jaw told her he was thinking the same thing.

“This was MacKendrick’s room,” she began, struggling to keep her voice even. “I do not think—”

“He will stay here.”

Alpin stood in the doorway watching her, his withered face calm yet resolute.

“Very well,” she said tautly. She tossed MacFane a disapproving look, silently letting him know he had no right to this chamber. Then she left, unable to bear seeing him in it a moment longer.

“You must forgive the lad,” said Angus. “He was very fond of MacKendrick.”

Malcolm nodded.

Dugald gestured to the fragile stick of a man who had entered the room. He was garbed in a voluminous robe of sapphire trimmed with gold, and he leaned heavily upon a tall staff. “This is Alpin. He is our seer.”

Malcolm lifted a skeptical brow at the white-haired apparition, wondering what fantasies he had told these people to make them believe such nonsense.

Alpin chuckled. “MacFane does not believe in seers,” he informed them. “But you do believe in the power of fate, don’t you, milord?”

His black eyes sparkled knowingly against the folds of his chalky flesh, indicating an active mind lived within that extraordinarily aged body.

“There are things that happen which are beyond our control,” said Malcolm. “If some wish to call that fate, so be it.”

“But there are also things that happen because we allow them to, aren’t there, MacFane?” Alpin demanded. “Things that are within our control?”

“Of course. Much of a man’s actions determines his future.”

Alpin’s sparkling eyes narrowed. “Or chains him to the past.” He waved his hand and chuckled again, breaking the stillness of the moment. “How do you like your room, MacFane? Is that desk large enough to accommodate your unusual size?”

Malcolm cast an uninterested glance at the desk. “I am sure it is more than—”

He frowned.

Upon the desk sat a statue, which he did not recall having seen earlier. It was the head of a young woman, reverently sculpted in luminous gray rock. Her features were delicate, almost childlike, yet Malcolm knew she was no child. Her eyes were large, her cheeks high, her nose small and straight. Her lips were soft, even in stone, and her chin was thrust slightly forward, a pose of defiance, or perhaps playfulness, suggesting she had found the task of sitting for the sculptor rather silly. He felt a strange, instant affinity toward her, as if she were an old friend, yet Malcolm knew he could not possibly know her. Long curls were etched around her face and over her shoulders. He found himself contemplating her hair’s color and weight, and wondering what it would be like to plunge his hand into that silky mass, were it not stone.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

“That is Ariella,” Alpin replied quietly. “MacKendrick’s daughter.”

“Our laird had that statue sculpted just over a year ago,” said Gordon. “It was one of his favorite possessions.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought it was stolen during the attack,” he remarked, looking pointedly at Alpin.

Ariella. The girl he was supposed to marry. The girl who had expected him to come with his great army, certain he would rescue her and her clan from their brutal assault. How long had she waited for him, Malcolm wondered, before setting her room afire? Five minutes? Ten? How long had she stood at her window and desperately searched the horizon for some sign of the Black Wolf? An hour? No, not an hour, he realized grimly. The attackers’ leader had murdered her father and threatened to slaughter her clansmen one by one until she submitted to him. This woman before him would not have waited an hour to kill herself.