The Rose and The Warrior (9 page)

It had been several days since the memory of either his little daughter or his wife had permeated his thoughts. The realization filled him with guilt, for it demonstrated that he had abandoned them in death the same way he had abandoned them in life. He had not meant to, but there it was. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard—salubrious traits in a warrior, but utterly despicable in a husband and father.

I am sorry.

He knew his apology was pathetically insufficient. Not that they could hear him, anyway. They lay cold and stiff under the ground, forever sealed in a simple pine coffin, with Muriel holding their tiny daughter in her arms, their faces pale but serene. At least that was what Laird MacTier had told Roarke on that terrible day he returned from his raiding to find his small family dead and buried.
They are at peace,
his laird had assured him.
They are with God.

Roarke had failed to see how his wife could be at peace. Despondent after the loss of her beloved three-year-old child to a fever, she had taken her own life by eating poisoned berries. But at the time he had not questioned MacTier's description. There had been a modicum of comfort in imagining sweet Muriel at peace, with little Clementina safely wrapped in the loving hold of her mother's arms. He still tried to imagine them lying so, as if they were merely sleeping, and would open their eyes and smile at him if he but chose to wake them. It was ridiculous, of course. A life of raiding and battle had left him intimately acquainted with death, and he knew its foul stench and rotting ugliness too well to believe such a fanciful tale. But during those first few months the image of his wife and daughter lying in gentle slumber had soothed him, and helped to alleviate the unbearable guilt that had threatened to crush him from within.

He swallowed thickly, watching as the torchlight blurred to a watery wash of gold.

All his life he had longed for nothing other than to be a warrior. And that was exactly what he had become, God help him. As a lad it had seemed a life of unparalleled wonder, filled with adventure, daring, and exotic travel. From the time he had first swung the crude wooden sword his father crafted for him, he had known that he was destined for greater things than staying caged within the boundaries of his clan's land. Farming held no appeal for him, and the idea of living his life trapped in a dark, smoky cottage with a shrewish wife and squalling babes had terrified him. And so he had pursued his training with relentless determination, excelling at every exercise, until finally Laird MacTier realized there was nothing to be done except send him off to fight. Over the years Roarke had grown from a green, arrogant lad with more strength than brains into an experienced, arrogant warrior, who loved battle and thought no further than the next conquest. His sworn duty was to his laird and clan. All who knew him understood that. Even Muriel, who had fallen in love with him at the tender age of seventeen and begged him to marry her. Roarke had been all of twenty-nine, and had just been given command of a small army of a hundred men, which at the time was heady stuff indeed. He had informed Muriel that life as a warrior left him no time for the burden of a wife and family, and that he could not possibly be expected to stay at home to tend to them. Muriel assured him that it did not matter, for she loved him and wanted to be his wife.

To have you with me some of the time is far better than not sharing my life with you at all,
she had said.

And so he married her, planted a child in her belly, and left, foolishly believing that all was well and she would be content.

Instead he had destroyed her.

“Be quiet, Patrick, or they'll hear you and cut off your head with a giant sword!” whispered an agitated voice.

Suddenly alert, Roarke shoved aside his thoughts and quickly scanned the dimness of the hall.

Three small shadows of varying height were tentatively creeping toward him. It was clear by their careful, if not entirely graceful, movements, that they were trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Why would they do a mean thing like that?” asked the smallest figure. “I haven't done anything.”

“They're thieving, bloodthirsty MacTiers, aren't they?” demanded the tallest of the three shadows. “That's what they do for sport—chop the heads off small boys and take them home and eat them!”

Both the middle and small shadows halted.

“H-how small?” stammered the middle shadow.

“You needn't worry, Matthew,” the tallest shadow said. “You're too quiet for them to take any notice of you. It's Patrick here who had better watch out!”

“You said it would be safe to look at them, Daniel,” the small shadow protested accusingly. “Now you're saying they're going to eat me!”

“I didn't say that,” snapped the tall shadow. “I just said you have to be quiet!”

The midsized figure banged into a table, sending a pitcher crashing to the floor.

All three shadows froze.

The racket was enough to rouse the dead, but miraculously, Roarke's men continued to snore. Evidently the ale had impaired their hearing along with all their other senses.

Stricken with terror, the three small shadows remained rooted to the spot. Finally, unable to detect any movement from either Roarke or his men, they exhaled the breaths they had been holding.

“That was close,” breathed the tallest shadow. “Do that again, Matthew, and we'll all be dead!”

“We shouldn't have come, Daniel,” Matthew whimpered. “Melantha told us not to go near the prisoners!”

“Melantha never lets us do anything,” complained Daniel. “If she had her way we'd be locked in our chamber until we were old men!”

“She just wants us to be safe,” Matthew countered loyally.

“Fine,” said Daniel, exasperated. “You two stay here and be safe. I'm going to look at these MacTier murderers.”

“I want to see them as well,” chirped Patrick, which struck Roarke as remarkably courageous, given that this little one believed he was in danger of being eaten.

“I—I do too,” stammered Matthew, although he didn't sound entirely sure.

Daniel sighed. “Very well—but don't make a sound!”

A little late for that, thought Roarke, watching with amusement as the three shadows began to creep toward him and his men once again.

“Are you sure they're asleep?” whispered Matthew worriedly.

“Of course they're asleep,” said Daniel. “You don't think they snore like that when they're awake, do you?”

“They sound just like Thor does when he's sleeping,” Patrick observed. “I thought he made that disgusting noise because he's so old.”

“All men snore when they sleep,” Daniel declared authoritatively. “Even our da used to.”

Matthew giggled. “It sounds like they've got something stuck up their noses.”

“Why doesn't the noise wake them up?” wondered Patrick.

Daniel shrugged. “I expect they're used to it.”

They crept a little closer. Roarke lay perfectly still, watching them through a barely cracked eyelid. Patrick emerged from the darkness into the wavering torchlight first. He looked to be about seven years of age and sported a wildly disheveled bush of bright red hair.

“Which one do you suppose is the leader?”

“It must be that fair-haired one,” decided Matthew, inching hesitantly beside him. “Just look at what a great giant he is!”

This light-brown-haired lad seemed a little older than Patrick, although his frame was slight and his legs were painfully thin, making it difficult to assess his age. Nine, Roarke decided—certainly no more than ten.

“That isn't the leader,” scoffed Daniel, joining the other two.

He was lean and long limbed, with sable hair and elegantly arched brows that struck Roarke as oddly familiar. Roarke guessed his age to be about thirteen, though it was possible he was older and a lack of food had arrested his development. Given sufficient quantities of meat and exercise, the boy might grow to an impressive size.

“Melantha said the leader's name is Roarke, and he has hair as black as night, with horrible eyes as cold and lifeless as two frozen stones. And she said when he looks at you he can make your heart stop,” he warned direly, “so hideous is his face.”

Now, that was a bit insulting, Roarke decided. Although he had never wasted much time considering his appearance, he certainly didn't think he resembled a gargoyle.

“I'm leaving,” said Matthew, afraid. “I don't want to see him.”

“Stay where you are, Matthew,” ordered Daniel. “If you knock into something else you'll get us all into trouble.”

“I don't want my heart to stop,” he squeaked.

“Melantha just said that so we wouldn't come down here and try to get a look at them,” Daniel assured him impatiently.

“How do you know?”

“Because Melantha is always making things sound much more dangerous than they really are, so we won't do them. Remember when she told us we couldn't try archery because we were likely to shoot each other?”

“But when she finally said you could, you did almost shoot me,” pointed out Matthew.

“That was an accident,” Daniel scoffed. “It never would have happened if Melantha hadn't kept yelling at me to be careful. She ruined my concentration.”

“But then you shot Ninian's cart and startled his horse, so it ran off and the cart turned over with Ninian still in it,” Patrick added. “He was sorely mad.”

“Ninian shouldn't have driven his cart in front of me.”

“The cart wasn't moving,” countered Matthew.

“Do you two want to see these murdering MacTiers or not?” huffed Daniel, irritated at having his past transgressions recounted.

“I do,” Patrick chirped.

“Then keep quiet!”

The two smaller boys obediently fell silent.

Roarke shut his eyes and lay motionless as the three lads cautiously approached.

“Look at the size of this one,” Daniel whispered.

“Do you suppose he's the leader?” asked Matthew.

“His face is mean enough,” Daniel decided.

“If he's the leader, then this is the one Magnus shot in the bum,” said Patrick.

“That must have hurt,” reflected Matthew sympathetically.

“He deserved to be shot in the heart.” Daniel's voice was tight and savage. “And he's lucky he's sleeping, or I would take Da's sword and spear it through his evil, murdering—”

Roarke's eyes snapped open.

Except for the terror clenching their white faces, one might have thought the three lads were about to burst into song, so wide did their mouths gape. Roarke waited for them to flee. Instead they remained frozen to the spot, apparently paralyzed with fear.

“Well? Any of your hearts stop?”

Confusion marginally eased their terrorized expressions.

“Since you remain standing, I shall assume that your hearts are still beating,” Roarke continued, amused. “It's a relief to learn that I am not quite so hideous as you were led to believe.”

Daniel found his voice first. “Don't try anything, MacTier, or I'll skewer you with my sword!”

Roarke raised a quizzical brow. “What sword?”

The boy groped vainly at his side. Realizing he carried no sword, he clenched his small hands into bony fists. “The sword I'm going to get and drive through your foul, rotting heart!”

“Now, that hardly seems a fair encounter,” mused Roarke, “since I am lying here bound hand and foot, and could not so much as lift a finger to defend myself.”

At the mention of his helplessness, the three boys visibly relaxed.

“It's a lucky thing for you that you're bound,” Daniel told him, “because if you weren't, you'd be dead by now.”

Little Patrick eyed Roarke nervously. “Are you going to cut off my head and eat it?”

“Of course not,” replied Roarke, sounding offended by the suggestion. “I'm a warrior, not a wild animal. Whoever told you such a ridiculous thing?”

Patrick cast an accusing look at Daniel.

“Don't try to make us think you aren't evil,” said Daniel. “You MacTiers attacked us last autumn and tried to butcher every last one of us, so we know exactly what kind of vile savages you are! You deserve to have your eyes burned into steaming black holes with a hot shaft, and then be slowly flayed until you're begging for death!”

Laird MacKillon had forbidden anyone to discuss the subject of the MacTier attack during dinner, deeming it too unpleasant for dining. This had prevented Roarke from learning any further details. But it had been clear from the animosity he had encountered since meeting Melantha and her band that the attack had been brutal. The dilapidated state of the castle and the near-starving condition of most of the people here further demonstrated that the MacKillons had suffered greatly, and continued to suffer. He endured Daniel's glare with something akin to shame, as if he were somehow responsible for the lad's misery. That was ridiculous, he told himself impatiently. He and his men had been far to the south at the time of this attack. He was guilty in that he shared responsibility for the actions of his clan, but he could not be held personally accountable for what had transpired here.

He had been too busy raiding other holdings on behalf of his laird and clan.

“You're lucky Melantha didn't slay you, because that's what she has sworn to do to all MacTiers, until every last one of you lies drowning in your own blood, and our brave da's murder has been avenged!” hissed Daniel fiercely.

Our brave da.

Of course, Roarke thought, studying the boy's finely chiseled face, his elegantly winged brows, and the dark fury smoldering in his eyes. Standing before him was a smaller, younger version of Melantha. He shifted his attention to the other lads. Matthew's features were softer, but his eyes were the same, although they lacked the bitter hatred that burned in his brother's. Little Patrick, however, was a mystery. His hair grew in a thick, wild tangle, and although it was dark Roarke could see that his skin was generously splattered with freckles, which bore no resemblance to the milky clear faces of the other two.