The Saint (13 page)

The leader of the Highland Guard and famed trainer of warriors came at him again, wielding the two-handed great sword as if it weighed no more than a stick. Striking first to the right high above Magnus’s head and then to the left, MacLeod forced Magnus to move his arm and shoulder in every direction to deflect the powerful blows.

It hurt like hell, but Magnus gritted his teeth and forced his body to fight through the pain, fending off every strike. Not any easy feat against the greatest swordsman in Scotland, especially for a man whose arm and shoulder had been severely broken only months before. But he was tough enough to withstand anything MacLeod threw at him.

Magnus knew he should be grateful that his arm had healed as well as it had, but the forced weeks of inactivity
had been its own kind of pain. Eight wall-crawling weeks before he could remove his arm from the splints and sling. Another four before he could even think about picking up a sword.

His arm had been as weak as a damned Englishman’s! For the past two months, he’d thrown himself into a training regimen to rebuild his strength with the single-minded purpose of a zealot. He didn’t have time to think about …

He stopped himself, irritated by the lapse.
Focus
.

Now that his arm was healed, it was just a matter of pushing through the pain. Something that MacLeod seemed intent on maximizing.

Chief swung again with a crushing force that would fell most men. Magnus blocked the blow with his own great sword. The shattering clash of metal reverberated in the air and down the entire left side of his body. MacLeod pressed down so hard, Magnus could read the inscription on his sword:
Bi Tren
. Be valiant. Be strong. The motto of the MacKays, and fitting as hell right now. The pain was excruciating, but he pushed the fierce swordsman back.

“I think he’s getting tired, MacLeod,” MacGregor observed from the gallery—in this case a bale of hay, turned-over crates, and an old barrel that were set out near the section of the castle yard where they practiced every morning. A few other warriors had gathered around to watch as well. Other than offer the occasional encouragement, however, they were content to watch the two men battle in reverent silence. Except for MacGregor: he wouldn’t shut up. “You probably should go easy on him.”

Magnus shot him a nasty glare. “Go to hell, MacGregor. I didn’t hear you volunteer.”

But MacGregor was used to his foul temper, having borne the brunt of it for the past five months.

Like Magnus, MacGregor was fully healed from the arrow that should have killed him. Other than the angry red scar where the hole had been burned shut—which
eventually would lighten—he bore no signs of his ordeal. He’d even managed to avoid a fever.

Because of Helen.

Damn it, don’t think about her
.

Magnus’s jaw clenched against the reflexive surge of emotion. When he thought of Helen, inevitably he thought of Gordon. The two were forever linked in his mind. The shock of Gordon’s death had faded, but not the guilt. Helen was caught up in that guilt.

He was grateful for what she’d done for him—and for MacGregor—but there was nothing left between them.

Watch over her
.

The promise he’d made to Gordon haunted him. He had nothing to feel guilty for, damn it. No link had been made between Gordon and the already legendary attack of the Highland Guard at Threave.

He wasn’t breaking his vow to Gordon. There was no threat. No
real
threat, at least. And there wouldn’t be any at all if her brothers would keep their mouths shut. The earl and Kenneth Sutherland had made trouble at the king’s first Parliament in St. Andrews a couple of months ago with their dangerous questions about the circumstances of Gordon’s death. Questions that were also being raised by Gordon’s English-loving family in the south.

It was the timing of the mission with the wedding that had created problems. Too many people were aware of exactly when they’d left. Usually the Highland Guard missions were undertaken with few people aware of their comings and goings. Admitting to being in Galloway would be too risky, so they’d claimed to be in Forfar laying siege to the castle, which had been taken for Bruce. Supposedly, Gordon had been killed in an attack by freebooters on the way home.

Helen was perfectly safe.

But Magnus wasn’t. He was distracted when MacLeod came at him again, nearly taking off his head.

“He’ll get his turn,” MacLeod said, referring to MacGregor. “Once I’m done with you. Again.”

For the next thirty minutes—forty minutes? It felt like forever—MacLeod worked him until his eyes burned with agony and every muscle in his body shook with exhaustion. It was almost as if he were trying to get him to quit. When it became clear Magnus wasn’t going to do that, that he would fight until he collapsed, MacLeod finally relented.

“That’s enough. You’re ready. Get cleaned up and meet me in the king’s solar in an hour.” He smiled at MacGregor. When Chief smiled like that it didn’t bode well. “Your turn.”

“Have fun,” Magnus said to MacGregor as he started toward the barracks to retrieve soap and a drying cloth. He looked back over his shoulder at MacLeod. “Watch his face. The serving lasses from the village were upset the last time you bruised him up a little.”

The men sitting around watching snickered.

“Sod off, MacKay,” MacGregor said.

“Too bad that arrow wasn’t a little higher,” Magnus added. “You might actually look like a warrior.”

The man renowned for his handsome face let off a string of ugly oaths.

Magnus actually smiled as he walked away, a rarity of late. It was a source of constant annoyance to MacGregor—and thus a constant source of amusement among the Highland Guard—that no matter how many battles he fought, his face came out unscathed.

For a warrior, scars were expected. A badge of honor and impossible to avoid, especially on the face. But it was almost as if MacGregor’s mother had dipped him headfirst in the protective waters of the River Styx like Achilles: no matter how hard he tried, his face healed smooth and unmarked.

Poor bastard.

It didn’t take Magnus long to gather his belongings and
make his way to the river behind the castle to bathe. Though it was a warm spring day, the river of melted snow from the mountains retained its wintry chill.

The numbing effect on his muscles drove away the pain almost as effectively as the mandrake, poppy, and vinegar concoction Helen had left for him. He’d taken it—at first. But dulling the pain also meant dulling his thinking and reactions. So when he resumed training, he’d weaned himself off the foul-tasting brew.

He took his time in the water, allowing the cold to restore his aching muscles. But as the hour drew close, he became anxious to return to the castle.

MacLeod had been testing him, he realized. And if “you’re ready” was any indication, he’d cleared Magnus at last to rejoin the others in the west. MacRuairi and MacSorley were in the Isles, keeping watch over John of Lorn, who was stirring up trouble again from Ireland. Seton, Boyd, MacLean, and Lamont were in the southwest, keeping the peace in Galloway with James Douglas and Edward Bruce. Campbell had been with Magnus, MacGregor, and MacLeod, but had returned to Dunstaffnage the month before for the birth of his first child. A son named William, named after their fallen friend.

Magnus was tired of infirmity and eager to rejoin the others. He needed action. A mission. Here with the king’s court he had too much time to think. It was harder to escape the memories. Memories that hung over him like a dark cloud and were far more painful and raw than any broken bone.

The guard posted at the solar must have been expecting him. He opened the door as soon as Magnus approached.

He was greeted with the hearty sound of laughter. The king sat in a large, throne-like chair before a small fireplace, a goblet of wine in his hand and a broad smile on his face.

Peace suited the Bruce. For the first time in over three
years, since he’d stabbed his nemesis John “The Red” Comyn before the altar of Greyfriars Church, the king looked at ease, the lines of suffering and defeat on his battle-weary face less noticeable. After all he’d been through, God knew he’d earned it.

“MacKay, there you are,” he said. “Come, have some wine. MacLeod was just telling us about your training today. It seems our fair friend didn’t fare as well.” The king chuckled. “Nor does he look so fair.”

It didn’t surprise him. Only a handful of them could keep up with MacLeod. Although MacGregor was highly skilled with a blade—they all were—his weapon was the bow.

MacLeod shrugged, a rare smile curving his mouth. “I’m sure he’ll heal.”

The men laughed. In addition to MacLeod, a handful of the king’s closest companions and favored members of his large retinue had joined them. Among them were the venerable knights Sir Neil Campbell, Sir William De la Hay, and Sir Alexander Fraser, MacLeod’s young brother-in-law.

“I’m sending MacLeod west.” The king’s face darkened. “The Lord of Lorn is making trouble again. MacSorley said he’s gathering a fleet. Even in exile the bastard manages to defy me, and now his treasonous father has joined him!” The king stiffened with fury, no longer looking so relaxed. “Six months after he submitted and not two months since he attended Parliament, the Lord of Argyll has fled to Ireland.”

Magnus could understand the king’s anger. The MacDougall chief’s submission had been an important coup, a sign of the reconciliation of enemies to form a united Scotland. The quick defection of the powerful clan who were closely tied to the Comyns was bound to cause unrest in Argyll. Arthur “Ranger” Campbell would have his hands full at Dunstaffnage.

It would have been better had Campbell gotten rid of
Lorn when he’d had the chance. Magnus understood why he hadn’t—he’d married the man’s daughter, after all—but Lorn and his father wouldn’t get a second chance.

Magnus felt a little bit of the dark cloud hovering over him lift. He couldn’t wait to get back to action. He’d be too busy to think about her. But sometimes it felt as if it would be easier to forget a missing limb.

“When do we leave?”

MacLeod shook his head. “You aren’t going.”

Magnus stiffened. “But I’m ready—you said so yourself.”

“Aye, but you and MacGregor have a different mission. You will be guarding the king.”

“I’ve decided to make a royal progress through the Highlands to thank the chiefs who offered shelter in those dark days after Methven.” King Robert’s face clouded as the memories struck of his days as an outlaw. Men like William Wiseman, Alexander MacKenzie of Eilean Donan, and Duncan MacAulay of Loch Broom had saved his life. “As well as ensure that those who have recently given me their pledge are not inclined to follow the example of the Lord of Argyll.”

Meaning the king wanted to ensure he didn’t have any more defectors.

“With the truce and the country at peace,” MacLeod interjected, “there is no better time.”

Magnus swallowed his disappointment. A peacekeeping jaunt through the Highlands didn’t sound like a mission for the illustrious Highland Guard. The king had a large retinue of knights. Even were trouble to arise, he would be well protected. With trouble brewing out west, wouldn’t Magnus be better utilized with MacLeod? Why did he feel as though he was being given this mission because of his injury?

“I’m putting you in charge,” MacLeod said. “The king
will travel north through Ross and Cromarty before turning west through the mountains to the coast.”

Magnus’s mountains. He’d grown up ranging those hills. But the knowledge that MacLeod might have reason to have appointed him bodyguard—or guide—didn’t ease the sting of disappointment.

“We will finish in August at Dunstaffnage, where I will hold the first Highland Games in four years,” the king added enthusiastically. “What better way to mark the continuity of the realm and celebrate our victories?” He winked at Magnus. “Perhaps I will find some men to recruit for our army.”

Magnus stiffened. The subtle reference to his recruitment for the Highland Guard, which wouldn’t be understood by those not privy to their identities, was not lost on him. MacLeod had been hinting for weeks about finding him a new partner. But his partner was dead. He didn’t need or want another one.

“When do we leave?” Magnus asked.

“After the feast of Pentecost,” the king said. “I should like to be at Dunrobin Castle by the end of the month.”

Magnus stilled, carefully schooling his features into a mask of indifference, but every nerve-ending in his body flared in rejection. “Dunrobin?”

Helen’s home
.

He could feel MacLeod’s heavy gaze on him, but it was Bruce who answered. “Aye. As the Sutherlands are the newest members to our fold, I thought it best to start with them.”

“I trust that won’t be a problem?” MacLeod asked.

Magnus clenched his jaw. Dunrobin Castle was about the last place he wanted to go and Helen the last person he wanted to see. His feelings where she was concerned were still too much in turmoil.

Hurt. Anger. Gratitude. Guilt.

After all that had happened between them—she’d married
his best friend, damn it—he still couldn’t erase her from his mind.

Gordon couldn’t have known what he was asking. But he’d made a promise to his dying friend. A promise that so far he hadn’t kept. This journey would give him the opportunity.

Once he’d assured himself that she was safe, his task would be done.

“It won’t be a problem,” he answered. “For me.”

But he was damned sure it would be a problem for the Sutherlands. They wouldn’t relish having to play host to a MacKay.

He smiled. Perhaps he might see a bit of action on this journey after all.

As she’d done almost every morning since her return to Dunrobin, Helen traipsed along the grassy shoreline from the castle to her friend’s cottage. Many times she’d asked Muriel to take a room at the castle after Muriel’s father had died, but her fiercely independent friend always refused, claiming she enjoyed the privacy when she could find it—which wasn’t very often. As the best healer for miles around, Muriel was rarely alone. Besides, she pointed out, at only a few furlongs up the coast from the castle she was close if anyone needed her.