Once a Warrior (19 page)

Catherine considered this a moment. “Was it smoked?”

“No,” she replied, slicing open the belly of another salmon. “Unfortunately, the kelpie didn’t have a smokehouse in the ocean.”

Catherine’s eyes went round. “Was it raw?” she demanded, horrified by the thought.

“No, it was cooked,” Ariella assured her.

“But how did they cook it if they were living in the ocean?”

Ariella scooped the entrails of another fish into a bucket as she grasped for an explanation. “The kelpie had magic powers,” she finally supplied. “All he had to do was cast a spell, and he could make a fire that would burn in the ocean.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, nodding with satisfaction. Then she frowned. “Did they have bread?”

“Yes, they had bread,” replied Ariella. “The kelpie had a big oven that baked the finest loaves you’ve ever seen, big and crusty and golden.”

Catherine shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. If they could make a fire, and they could make an oven, then why couldn’t they make a smokehouse?”

“I was wondering the same thing myself,” said Elizabeth, smiling.

“I suppose they could have made a smokehouse if they wanted to,” said Ariella, “but with all that fresh fish swimming around them, what did they need to smoke it for?”

“Because it tastes good,” suggested Agnes.

“That’s right,” agreed Catherine. “Because it tastes good.”

“Very well,” Ariella conceded. “The next time I tell the story, I’ll have the kelpie build an enormous smokehouse to smoke his fish in.”

“I thought kelpies devoured the women and children they lured into the water,” said Agnes, sawing off a fish’s head.

Catherine gasped in shock. “They don’t, do they, Ariella?”

“Not in my stories, they don’t,” said Ariella, mildly annoyed with Agnes for bringing up the point.

“How many fish do you think we’ve cleaned so far?” asked Elizabeth, changing the subject.

Ariella rubbed her forehead on her sleeve, careful not to let her hands touch her face. “About a thousand,” she exaggerated wearily.

“My hands are going to smell for days,” sighed Agnes.

“I have a special essence that will get rid of the smell, Agnes,” Ariella assured her. “You mix it in hot water and soak your hands in it, and it takes the odor away.”

“Just think, Ariella, if you were still pretending to be Rob, you wouldn’t be stuck here gutting fish,” remarked Elizabeth. “Did you prefer working on the castle with the men?”

“MacFane has even the women helping with the fortifications and the weapons,” Ariella reminded her. “Except for the very heavy work.”

“True. But I don’t see any men helping with the preparation of food in case of siege, do you?”

“No,” Ariella admitted. “I guess they reason if they catch it, they shouldn’t have to clean it as well.”

“If I had a choice in the matter, I would rather catch it,” said Elizabeth. “Being out on the loch on a fine morning pulling in fish doesn’t compare to this.”

“I don’t understand why MacFane is so intent on having us store so much food,” complained Agnes, hacking open another creamy belly. “I mean, if we are attacked, won’t he just send for his army?”

“He might,” replied Ariella carefully, “assuming he was here.”

Agnes looked up in surprise. “Is he leaving?”

“Not right away. But he will stay only until we have a new laird in place.”

“How long do you think that will be?” asked Elizabeth, careful to mask her anxiety. When MacFane left, Gavin would be going with him.

Ariella shrugged. “I don’t know. Not much longer, I hope. I keep thinking Alpin is long overdue for a vision. The sooner the sword is bestowed, the safer we will be.”

“Why don’t you just give MacFane the sword?” asked Catherine. “You and Papa always said the Black Wolf was the one.”

“That was before I met him.”

Catherine gave her sister a disapproving look. “Is it because he limps?”

“That is part of it,” she admitted. “But there are other reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Reasons you are too young to understand, Catherine,” Ariella replied firmly, putting an end to the subject.

“So you are absolutely certain he is not the one?” persisted Agnes.

“Yes.”

Elizabeth sighed. “It’s a shame.”

Ariella looked at her in surprise. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“He scares me a little,” Elizabeth confessed. “But it seems the clan is actually coming to like him, despite his temper and his physical weaknesses. He is an able teacher, and his recommendations for fortifying the castle have been good. He even settled a dispute this past week, and everyone was very content with the way he handled it.”

“What dispute?” asked Ariella.

“Ewen’s dog went digging in Thomas’s garden and ruined all his summer vegetables. So Thomas went to Ewen about it, demanding payment and ranting that the dog should be killed. Ewen refused, saying it wasn’t his fault that Thomas insists on burying old bones and food in his garden, which makes the dog want to dig. Well, the two were about to come to blows, but they decided to talk to MacFane instead. He listened to both sides, then told Ewen his dog was his responsibility, and he would have to make amends when the dog did something wrong, or else keep him tied up. As for the dog, MacFane wouldn’t hear of his coming to harm, saying it was only natural for him to want to dig, especially if someone was burying bones under freshly turned earth.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” Ariella demanded, hurt that her people were going to MacFane for advice rather than to her.

“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I suppose they thought MacFane had settled the matter to everyone’s satisfaction, and there was no need to bother you with it.”

“It is not a bother,” she assured her. “My father did it, and now it is my duty to do it,
not
MacFane’s.”

“If it upsets you so much, why don’t you speak to him about it?” suggested Agnes.

“I will.” She buried her knife deep into another salmon. “When I get the opportunity,” she qualified.

In truth, she was not certain when that would be. She and MacFane had not spoken to each other in the weeks that had passed since he had discovered who she really was. At first Ariella believed that because they were both exceptionally busy, their paths had simply not crossed. But then she began to notice MacFane retreating from a room the moment she entered, and she realized he was purposely avoiding her. It seemed now that he knew she was not a boy, he wanted nothing more to do with her. Initially, she had been insulted. Why should the fact that she was a woman eradicate their previous relationship? She angrily tossed her gutted fish into the bucket of rinse water.

And then she remembered the night he had discovered her before the fire in her chamber. She recalled how he had looked at her, his blue eyes burning with desire as he’d struggled to convince himself that what he saw could not possibly be real. He had pulled her hard against the solid frame of his body, enclosing her in strength and heat and need as he bent his head and took her lips in his. His cheek had been rough against her skin, his mouth sweet with wine, and he had seemed large and powerful and fearless, a man who could protect her from anything. And she had kissed him back, had wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself farther into him, wanting to feel the muscular, unyielding wall of his chest and waist and thighs against her own softness. With a trembling hand she raised her knife and sliced open the next fish.

Perhaps, she reflected, it was she who was avoiding MacFane.

“Drop rocks on them!”
commanded Malcolm as he watched the first line of attackers attempt to climb the scaling ladders.
“Now!”

A shower of sacks stuffed with earth were hurled off the battlements onto the men below. These were followed by some stale loaves of bread, a few wooden bowls, and several pairs of old boots.

“Now the boiling oil!” he ordered. “Hurry!”

The great cauldrons positioned on the timber platform above the gate were tilted forward.

“Bloody hell!” gasped Gordon as the liquid gushed over him. “That water is freezing!”

“Archers shoot!” commanded Malcolm. “Keep them away from the wall!”

The women positioned along the battlements and in the towers obediently sent a flurry of padded arrows into the air.

“I’m hit!” yelled Bryce, grabbing his chest. He staggered a few steps, then collapsed onto the ground.

“All those who are dead, go to the back of the line and attack again,” ordered Malcolm. “The rest of you, get up that wall! And you archers, keep shooting!”

“I’m nearly there!” shouted Duncan triumphantly. Leaning close against the wall, he continued to climb the ladder.

“Ramsay, Graham, don’t just stand there!” yelled Malcolm. “Grab the ladder and throw it backward!”

Duncan’s eyes widened in dismay as Ramsay and Graham obeyed their orders, pitching the ladder back with Duncan clinging desperately to it.

“Keep dropping those rocks!” shouted Malcolm. “Don’t let them get up to the battlements!”

More loaves of bread were dropped between the merlons of the newly heightened parapet.

“You’ve got men at the gate with a battering ram!” warned Gavin as a group of MacKendricks rushed forward carrying a small tree trunk. “Pour boiling oil on them!”

A shower of water fell from the platform over the gate, but the tree-bearing MacKendricks were able to retreat in time to avoid it.

“Wait for them!” thundered Malcolm. “Watch their movements. And don’t forget to guard the back, as well—it’s just a matter of time before they discover the curtain wall is lower in the back.”

A dozen MacKendricks instantly retreated to the back of the wall head to watch for invaders. Malcolm folded his arms across his chest and calmly waited for them to discover that they had now left too much of the front unguarded.

During the past two weeks the MacKendricks had overcome their fear of their new swords sufficiently that Malcolm had decided they were ready to fight a mock battle. The clan was divided into two teams, attackers and defenders. The object of the first phase of the battle was to keep the attackers out for as long as possible. Considering they were fighting with loaves of bread, cold water, and padded arrows, Malcolm thought they were doing a commendable job.

He could only hope they would do as well facing an actual army.

“Open the gate!” he shouted, limping toward his horse. “The attackers will gain entrance to the courtyard, and you must keep them out of the castle. Women, shoot only if you are well shielded, and only the men are permitted to go into the courtyard to fight. Move!” He swung himself heavily into his saddle.

In a sudden, terrified reaction Cain whickered and violently reared, throwing Malcolm hard against the ground.

The pain was excruciating.

The MacKendrick invaders immediately abandoned their battle and ran toward him, while the defenders watched anxiously from the battlements.

“Are you all right?” demanded Gavin tersely as he knelt beside Malcolm, his face creased with concern.

“Are you hurt, MacFane?” called Duncan.

“He’s fine,” Gavin assured him before Malcolm could answer. “He just needs a moment to recover.”

“Are you sure?” asked Gordon doubtfully. “If he’s hurt, we could carry—”

“That was a nasty fall,” interrupted Niall, wandering up behind them. “Do you often have trouble staying on your horse?”

“Get the hell away from me!”
bellowed Malcolm, suddenly enraged.
“All of you!”

The MacKendricks slowly withdrew to the castle wall.

Mortified that they had witnessed such a humiliating incident, Malcolm struggled to pull himself off the ground. Gavin offered his hand, but Malcolm ignored it. Forcing himself to conquer his pain, he awkwardly rose, then hunched against Cain for support. His horse lowered his massive head and gently nuzzled his shoulder, neighing softly. Malcolm stroked Cain’s nose, wondering what had happened to make the animal throw him off. Cain was a superbly disciplined mount, who remained calm even in the bloodiest of clashes. Malcolm quickly ran his hands over Cain’s back and sides. Finding no apparent injury, he loosened the animal’s girth and lifted his saddle.

Blood trickled from where a metal spur was embedded deep in the horse’s flesh.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What is it?” asked Gavin.

“Who saddled Cain this morning?” he demanded tautly.

Gavin stared at the spur in disbelief. “It was young Colin, the same as always, but he would never—”

“Colin!” thundered Malcolm.

Colin hesitantly came forward. “Yes, MacFane?” he said, his voice trembling.

“Do you know anything about this?”

Colin’s eyes grew wide with horror.

“When did you saddle Cain?” asked Gavin gently.

“I saddled him first, like I do every morning.” He glanced nervously at Malcolm. “I want to make sure he’s ready for you when you come down for training.”

“And then you leave him in his stall?”

Colin nodded.

“Thank you, Colin. You may go,” said Gavin.

“Wait,” commanded Malcolm. Holding on to the horse’s reins, he quickly extracted the spur. Cain let out a pained protest but remained still. Malcolm stroked him, murmured a few words of praise into his ear, then stiffly handed the reins to Colin.

“Take him to the stables and clean his wound. See if you can get some ointment from Alpin to apply to it. I will not be riding him again until the wound has healed.”

“Yes, MacFane,” said Colin solemnly.

Malcolm watched as the boy led Cain away.

“He didn’t do it.”

“No,” Malcolm agreed. “But when I find the bastard who did, I’m going to kill him.” Inhaling deeply, he took a step toward the castle. Pain streaked through his leg and up his spine. “Mother of God!” he gasped, bending over.

“Here,” said Gavin, moving beside him, “lean on me.”

“No,” ground out Malcolm. “I will not have them watch me hobbling toward them on another man’s arm like an old woman.”

“For God’s sake, Malcolm—”

“Leave me be!”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain.