Once a Warrior (7 page)

She would have done it immediately, praying her death might spare just one life.

He had thought himself steeled to the torment of guilt. He had endured so much of it for so long, he had believed nothing could make him suffer more when it came to his failings. But as he stared at this beautiful girl who had burned to death for her clan, a surge of self-loathing engulfed him, robbing him of his ability to speak. Even worse was the knowledge that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. If he had arrived before the raid to accept their offer, the MacKendricks would have simply laughed and turned him away.

Just as they were tempted to do today.

Everyone was watching him, wondering at his thoughts. It was clear they did not believe there was anything he could do for them. They had expected a powerful warrior and an army. Instead, all they had gotten was him. He knew he could not turn this gentle clan of poets and jugglers into an army. But at the very least he could improve their fortifications. No one would ever find this holding so easy to attack again. He owed MacKendrick and his daughter that much, at least.

“Come,” he said suddenly, ignoring the throbbing in his back and leg as he limped to the door. “I wish to make a tour of the outer wall.”

Yellow light flickered from the smoky torches, casting a glow over the revelers. The entire clan was invited to dine in the great hall that night, and to share in the food and drink that had been prepared for the Black Wolf’s army. The men arrived in their finest shirts and plaids, the women in their best gowns, and despite their disappointment in the warrior Ariella had returned with, the mood was generally merry. It was as if her people had long needed a reason to celebrate, and although this was not the great moment they had foreseen, they were anxious to take advantage of it. Musicians played bagpipes and harp from the gallery above, while jugglers, tumblers, and dancers wandered through the hall. MacFane sat at the laird’s table, as befitted an honored guest, with Gavin, the council members, Niall, Alpin, and Rob. Before MacFane had entered the hall, Ariella had vehemently protested this seating arrangement. It had pained her to see him standing in her father’s newly furnished chamber, as if he had a right to be there. She had no desire to sit with him tonight, and had asked to be moved to another table. Alpin had refused, leaving her no choice.

“Don’t you ever wash?” MacFane demanded when he came to the table.

“If you don’t like it, sit somewhere else,” she returned sourly.

Angus, Dugald, and Gordon looked up from their trenchers in shock, unaccustomed to hearing her speak so rudely.

“Rob has long been a stranger to soap and water,” declared Alpin cheerfully. “We expect he will outgrow his aversion in time.”

Ariella sullenly lowered her gaze to her food. It was because of MacFane that she had to look this way. If she cleaned herself even a little, he might notice that her features were more feminine than boyish. She could not risk an outsider discovering she had not died in the fire. She told herself she didn’t care about her appearance. Even so, she felt strangely out of place as she sat amidst her clan, who were all freshly scrubbed and dressed in their finest.

MacFane had brought paper, a quill, and ink to the table with him, and during the meal he rudely ignored everyone and made notes. Angus, Dugald, and Gordon were confounded by his conduct, which was clearly unbecoming of an honored guest. Several times they tried to draw him into conversation, only to be answered with a preoccupied grunt, until finally they gave up. Gavin, however, was eager to entertain them with tales of his adventures with MacFane. Each story grew more incredible than the last, until Ariella found herself irritably wondering if any of the accounts were true. A few times Malcolm raised his head and scowled, but Gavin continued, blithely unconcerned with the fact that he was annoying his friend.

Before the meal was finished, Malcolm put down his quill and rose from the table. A hush descended over the hall.

“Tomorrow we will begin to train and work on fortifying this castle,” he announced. “The men will be divided into groups so some can work while others are training. There will be four training sessions each day, and all the men will train for at least one session.”

“What about the women?”

Malcolm looked at Rob in confusion. “What about them?”

“The women should also train,” the boy said. “They need to know how to defend themselves if they are attacked.”

“Absolutely not,” stated Malcolm flatly. “I will not have women participating in warfare.”

“It is our homes that are attacked as much as the men’s,” argued Helen. “We need to know how to help.”

“You’re talking foolishness, wife,” said Gordon. “A woman cannot fight a man. Be quiet and let MacFane continue.”

“It is not foolishness,” protested Rob. “While we were traveling home, MacFane spent time each day training me to fight. Because I am small, he showed me methods that do not require great strength.”

“Teaching a rough, angry young lad and a delicate, gentle woman are two entirely different things,” pointed out Malcolm. “I would never expect a lady to attack a man in the manner I showed you. It is out of the question. Now, then, tomorrow morning the men will be divided—”

“If Rob could do it, I can do it,” announced Elizabeth, standing so she could be seen.

“Elizabeth MacKendrick, I order you to take your seat and stop shaming me before this clan,” thundered Gordon.

“No, Father,” she returned, shaking her head. “You taught me to argue for what I believe in. Well, I believe I must help fight if we are attacked again.”

“And so do I,” stated a pretty red-haired girl, who also rose from her table.

“Sit down, Meagan!” ordered an astounded father with matching hair. The girl paled considerably but remained standing.

“And I,” called another woman.

“And I.”

“And I.”

Malcolm gazed around the hall in astonishment as every woman, including those with gray hair and creased faces, rose and added her voice. He had never known of women eager to fight. Perhaps, he reflected, he was being too hasty in dismissing the idea. The MacKendrick men numbered less than 150, and that included elders like Angus and Dugald, who were far too old to wield a sword. Their paltry number virtually condemned them to defeat if they were attacked by even a modest army. By adding the women to this force, the MacKendricks just might be able to tip the balance of an assault in their favor.

“You don’t have to teach them everything you taught me,” Rob pointed out. “But they have a right to learn some way of defending themselves. And since women could make just as fine archers as men, they should be trained in the use of a bow and arrow. That would leave more men on the ground to fight with swords.”

Reluctantly, he contemplated the logic of the lad’s argument. The idea of women participating in warfare did not appeal to him. But Malcolm was acutely aware of the particularly vile atrocities routinely inflicted on them during an attack. The women of his own clan had had no knowledge of how to protect themselves on the day he had left them so unforgivably vulnerable.

Rob was right, he realized, stifling the memory. These women had a right to know how to fight back.

“Very well,” he relented. “Any woman above the age of fifteen who wishes to be trained in defense will participate in a separate training session, to be led by Gavin. Is that satisfactory to you?” he demanded, looking at Elizabeth.

A rosy stain colored her cheeks. “Yes,” she replied, suddenly sounding shy and uncertain. She lowered her gaze and took her seat, baffling him with her change in manner.

“While one group is training, the others will work on strengthening the castle,” continued Malcolm, referring to his notes. “First, the parapet is to be raised to a height of six feet six inches—”

“That will block the view!” burst out Dugald, clearly horrified.

“Six feet six inches,” repeated Malcolm firmly, “with regular merlons and crenelles every three feet. That will allow the archers a shield as they reload their weapons. A new iron portcullis is to be forged, which will be raised and lowered by well-oiled chains. When lowered, it will be secured by two heavy iron bars that slide deep into the stone wall on either side. In addition, a thick oak door is to be built in front of the portcullis, which will also be secured by two heavy iron bars.”

“That’s a waste of time and wood,” stated Niall scornfully. “If we have a portcullis, we hardly need a wooden gate as well.”

“Neither gate is impenetrable,” explained Malcolm, trying to ignore the contempt in the young man’s tone. “But keeping an attacking army stalled at the gates will give you time to prepare yourselves as you shower arrows, rocks, boiling water, and boiling oil on their heads.”

“Did he say boiling oil?” asked Angus, frowning as he cupped his hand to his ear.

“You will transform no fewer than four of the windows in each tower into narrow slits, from which archers can shoot their weapons,” continued Malcolm. “A room will be created behind the slit, large enough for two men, with ample area to store a supply of arrows.”

“There are already bedchambers in the towers,” protested Dugald. “There is no room for these archer chambers you speak of.”

“Your towers should be for defense, not bedchambers,” Malcolm informed him. “If you wish to continue sleeping there, you must learn to live in a smaller area.”

Dugald looked at Angus in astonishment. “He’s turning our chambers into storage room for weapons.”

“The base of your curtain wall is perpendicular to the ground, which means during a siege an attacking army can easily hack an opening through the stone, or burrow underneath it,” Malcolm continued. “You will extend the base so it slopes out an additional three feet. This will place the sappers farther from the wall as they work, making them more exposed to the heavy stones you will drop on them from the battlements.”

“Did you hear what he said?” demanded a thickly bearded man from a nearby table. “He’s saying we should crush a man like a bug with a rock.”

“I have other plans for the fortification of your castle, but they can wait,” finished Malcolm, curling his notes into a scroll. “For now, you will concentrate on the gate, the curtain wall, and the towers. Those who are not working on these improvements will either train or produce weapons. You need an ample stock of bows, arrows, swords, axes, dirks, spears, and shields. Large quantities of food must also be preserved, to be stored in case of siege. Many a fortress has remained impenetrable to all but the weapon of starvation.”

The clan was staring at him blankly, overwhelmed.

“You will assemble in the courtyard at first light, so I can separate you into groups and organize your work and training. Bring your weapons, and whatever armor you may have. Until then I suggest you get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

He bent down and whispered his need for wine in Gavin’s ear. Then he began to walk toward the staircase. He tried to exit the hall with the same power and confidence he had demonstrated during his speech, but the pain in his leg defeated his attempt to control his limp. Aware of everyone’s eyes upon him, he crossed the room with slow, stiff dignity, wondering if it was pity or contempt that rendered his audience silent.

The corridor outside MacFane’s chamber was empty when Ariella knocked against the massive oak door.

“Enter.”

He rose from his chair as the door swung open, effecting an ease of movement she had not witnessed before. On seeing it was only Rob, he grunted and collapsed back into his seat, abandoning his pretense. He raised the jug on the desk and took a deep swig, oblivious to the wine that dripped onto the fine fabric of his shirt. Then he regarded her with weary indifference, his lids heavy over the dullness of his eyes. Gone was the experienced commander who had stood tall before her clan, outlining in precise detail what must be done to make their castle secure. Here again was the pain-racked, alcohol-dependent cripple. Ariella berated herself for falling victim to the illusion he had fleetingly created. How many others had believed in him for that brief moment, before he had reminded them of his decrepitude by limping across the hall?

“What the hell do you want?” he snapped.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned casually against the door. “You shouldn’t drink so much while you’re here, MacFane. If my clan sees you drunk, they won’t respect you.”

He shrugged. “They don’t respect me now,” he observed darkly.

“They are judging you by the tales of your past.” She glanced at the tapestry hanging on the wall behind his bed. It showed the Black Wolf leading a small band against an army of Munro warriors, who were savagely attacking a village. Gavin had recounted this tale at dinner, unaware her people already knew it well. Her gaze moved back to the self-pitying drunk seated in the chair. “If you want their respect, show them you deserve it.”

He took another swallow of wine and stared moodily into the flame of the candle burning on the desk. “I don’t give a damn whether they respect me or not.”

“You can’t train men who don’t respect you.”

His expression grew incredulous. “Do you actually believe I can make warriors out of these musicians and jugglers and poets?” He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Your people are like children. They have no comprehension of what it takes to fight an invading army. They are consumed with worries of blocking the view, and losing room to an archer, and how nasty it will be for their enemy to be hit by a falling rock.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the jug of wine cradled on his lap. “The next time you are attacked, surrender immediately and be done with it. At least that way no one will get hurt.”

She moved to stand in front of him, her hands clenched into fists. “You’re wrong, MacFane,” she said coldly. “Just because we are skilled at music and carving doesn’t mean we can’t learn to apply those skills to defense. And the fact that we take pleasure in a magnificent sky, or feel compassion for another person, doesn’t make us weak. It makes us whole and strong. But of course,” she finished, her voice dripping scorn, “being so obsessed with yourself, how could you possibly understand?”