Ruthless (11 page)

After Brian built up the fire, Magnus stared
at the young boy.

"This is Gille? The lad must have worn a
mountain of dirt. His hair is light with shades of red. I thought
it dark brown."

"Aye, it was. Several dunks in the pond got
the muck off him afore I even gave him soap." Brian chuckled.

Magnus studied the boy in the growing light.
Clean and attired in proper clothing, he did not appear a varlet's
son. His eyes were gray with a hint of blue. He had too-fine
features to be a peasants' get.

Could he be one of Olaf's bastards? If so,
why send him to a remote village? He had spawned other children
amongst the servants and placed them in huts along the castle
grounds. Why hide this one? He shrugged. His back crept with a
prickly reminder. 'Twas not his right to question Chief Olaf. He'd
learned not to from an early age.

Less than a fortnight after he'd come to live
at Kinbrace, he found a newborn pup amongst a hunting hound's
litter. The stable master had said it would be dead within a few
days because it was too small to survive.

Chief Olaf had come up behind him then.
"Smother the weakling. The strongest pups need the bitch's milk to
grow into hunters."

"But, my lord, the pup can eat when the
others sleep," Magnus reasoned.

"Smother it!" 'Twas a harsh demand.

Olaf turned and left, expecting him to obey
without a thought. The little animal squirmed in his hand and
looked up at him, all big, brown eyes in a small head. He couldn't
do it. Instead, he put it back in the box with the other pups and
carried it to the stall at the end of the stable. The mother
followed him. 'Twas out of sight and unlikely Chief Olaf would see
it.

"Magnus!"

Days later, Olaf's shout near made him shite
his breeches. By the time they met at the front stalls, his knees
wobbled.

Thunk. Dust puffed. The lifeless puppy landed
at his feet. Its neck was broken.

The fact hardly registered before blows
across his back near felled him. His eyes had widened in disbelief,
for never once had his father at Clibrick taken a whip to him.

"This is for the trouble you put me through
by not obeying orders!"

The next blow sent him to his knees. He
curled over, protecting his head. When the Chief's arm grew tired,
he threw down the whip.

"When I tell you to do a deed, do it without
thought."

Vomit and tears covered his face when he'd
lifted it. 'Twas the stable master who came, murmuring soft words
Magnus couldn't understand because of the pain streaking across his
back. He carried him to the keep where his foster mother gave him
potions that eased his pain and rubbed ointments on the stinging
welts on his back. It was three days afore he could wear the tunic
she had mended for him.

Those first years, Lady Asleif tried to
protect Magnus, for Olaf was determined to change everything his
father had taught him. When she could not, she was there to soften
the pain of Olaf's lessons. She died from a deep cough when he was
ten.

Thereafter, any time he tried to befriend a
creature or person, something happened. He'd learned being alone
wasn't unpleasant or even lonely. 'Twas easier not to form
attachments.

Aye. He would not seek to learn the boy's
beginnings. It mattered not.

"Gille cleaned my sword last eve?" Magnus
turned the blade around and around, looking at it. Not a sign of
blood remained from the battle the previous day.

"Aye. He has a fine eye for spotting
smudges," Brian said as he poured hot water in the basin then stood
back so Magnus could tend to his morning routine.

He splashed water on his face then cleaned
his teeth with mint and hazel twigs. He kept an eye on Muriele as
she rolled her pallet and started straightening the sheets on his
bed. When he finished shaving, she was done and was looking through
his clothing chest for anything that needed mending. It pleased him
she had not forgotten.

"Break yer fast afore ye tend yer duties. Yer
empty stomach's rumbling kept me awake most of the night."

Brian opened the door wide for his master to
precede him and waited.

"Ye will keep my room clean from ceiling to
floor. Mend and wash my clothes and help with my bath. When time
permits, ye will trim my hair. It has been too hot of late." He
frowned and started to leave. "And see what ye can do to help Cook.
I grow tired of stews and soups. We have not had decent meat in way
too long."

"Aye, my lord."

She was relieved to see he did not limp or
look to favor his right leg. Young Gille followed Brian. His eyes
watched every move Magnus made as if he was a god come to
earth.

o0o

It was not yet full daylight when she went
down to the great hall. She looked around not knowing where she was
supposed to eat. She felt a light pluck on her kirtle and turned to
see Esa's strong face with a slight smile on her lips.

"The color suits you," she said, nodding at
the brown kirtle.

Muriele smiled a welcome at the woman then
paid particular heed to the high table. Magnus sat to the right of
Chief Olaf, Feradoch to the left. Olaf's commander was there and a
dozen knights. The Chief and the two brothers seemed to be arguing
about something and paid no heed to the others.

"Come. Let us find a bench afore all are
filled."

Muriele smiled and gladly followed her.
Though several benches in the center of the room were near empty,
Esa led her to the last row along the wall. Muriele, too, preferred
no one could walk behind her.

Perchance she was wrong on the reason the
woman chose the spot. She saw her look toward the dais and sigh, as
if with relief. Muriele wondered why until she, too, glanced toward
it. Ah. She could not see it. When the woman relaxed beside her,
she knew she avoided someone at the high table. Was it one of the
men?

Servants walked through the room placing
steaming bowls of porridge at the center of the tables and hot
loaves of brown bread. Before long, she was blowing on her spoon of
porridge, impatient to eat it.

"Esa, at the high table, why do the women sit
separate from the men?"

"Each morn, they talk of their war plans or
about their conquests from the night before. They dinna want the
women hearing, so they are not allowed. At the noon meal, they
resume their rightful places."

"They argue more than anything else." Muriele
had noted the tense set of Magnus' shoulders and the way Feradoch
stared at him.

"Aye. Magnus must see to the disciplining of
the warriors. When Feradoch comes, he claims his foster brother is
too harsh. He doesna feel men should be punished for certain
things."

"Oh? What would they be?"

Esa shrugged her shoulders and ignored the
question, appearing uneasy with it.

The crowded room soon became uncomfortable,
for they sat far from the large entrance, the only source of fresh
air. Muriele was grateful when they finished eating. She went above
to take the laundry to the stream where the women gathered to do
the washing. She felt uneasy and kept to herself, though she liked
hearing them talking and joking with each other.

She did as the day before. While the clothes
were drying, she sat beneath the swaying green canopy of a willow
tree and repaired his clothing. 'Twas while she was stitching a
torn pocket in a blue linen tunic when they heard a commotion.
Curious, the women stood and looked to the right. The front gate
and drawbridge was quite far, but they could make out men galloping
their horses into the front bailey, calling out for help.

"'Tis the hunter's men," one plump young
woman said, her fingers going to her lips in a worried gesture.

"Aye. Something's happened."

Muriele saw Grunda's figure hurrying across
the bailey, the heavy basket slung over her arm. Without another
thought, Muriele put her mending aside and held the hem of her
kirtle high as she took off in a loping run.

When she reached the grassy area beside the
stable, Grunda was crouched over someone on the ground. She hurried
over and stopped so quickly she near lost her balance. One look and
she knew a boar's tusks had ripped a gaping hole in the man's
stomach. His bowels bulged from the opening. Blood and gore covered
his clothing. Grunda reached out to softly stroke his eyelids
shut.

A woman's shrill shriek made her flinch.
Grunda quickly took off her cloak and laid it over the dead man
from neck to toe, shielding his mangled body from his wife's
eyes.

A cold voice quieted the horrified murmurs of
everyone gathered around.

"Dinna waste time on him. It is more likely
you can save the other hunter."

'Twas Feradoch who spoke.

Two men were lifting a second man from the
back of a horse. He clutched his bloody, right arm across his
chest. His face was pale. Someone had knotted a cloth just above
his elbow. She helped Grunda to rise then grabbed the herb basket
for her.

"Take him to the warrior's tower," Muriele
said to the men helping him walk. "We will stitch him there."

They hurried ahead, calling out for someone
to bring hot water. When they approached the tower, the guard at
the door held up his hand, denying them entrance.

"Move, ye ignorant churl! Would ye rather the
man died on yer doorstep from loss of blood? Ye can move him after
we stop the bleeding." Grunda shoved the man who was so startled he
moved out of the way.

A table close to the entrance seemed a
perfect spot. Muriele took her arm and swiped everything onto the
floor, not paying heed to the men's grumbling.

As Grunda prepared what they would need,
Muriele cut away the man's leather shirtsleeve. While men fed him
wine, Muriele studied the damage. The large gash went from elbow to
wrist on the top of his arm. She knotted a clean rag above the one
already there and twisted it with a small piece of wood.

"Hold this tight. Dinna let it go," she
ordered a man standing at her elbow. Taking a thick clean pad from
Grunda, she pressed with all her might on the ripped skin while
Grunda cut away the blood-soaked cloth tied too close to the wound
for them to stitch. Blood quickly soaked through the pad then
slowed.

As she worked, she asked questions. They were
the castle's main hunters who provided game from the forest.

"How could ye make such a mistake as to get
between the wind and the boar? Did ye not see signs of one close
by?" Muriele scolded. Likely, they had been too deep in their cups
last eve and became careless. She didn't catch the answer because
she was too busy to care.

Once the bleeding stopped, they worked
quickly. Several men surrounded the table, lending their hands to
hold the injured man steady. It took far longer to repair the arm
than it had Magnus' leg.

When Grunda no longer needed her, she backed
away and hurried back to the stream. The clothes she had strewn on
the bushes were gone! She panicked until she noted a neat bundle
beneath the willow tree at the stream's edge. She looked around for
someone to thank but everyone had gone.

Until then, she'd had no idea it was well
past the noon hour. Everyone was probably eating in the great hall.
After she returned the clothing to Magnus' bedchamber, she'd visit
Cook as he had ordered. She might be able to get something to eat
then.

Hurrying, she made her way across the castle
yards to the front bailey. She slipped inside the keep and hurried
up the stairway, her soft shoes barely making a whisper of sound.
She was just steps away from Magnus' bedchamber door when her nape
prickled. The next thing she knew, a large hand flashed around her
head and clamped over her mouth.

Muriele fought like a wild barn cat. The
carefully folded laundry flew out of her arms when she grabbed at
the thick fingers pinching her face. She couldn't get her mouth
open to bite, but she used her feet to kick back hard as she could.
It didn't seem to faze the man. He grabbed the hem of her skirts,
yanked them to her waist and shoved his right leg between hers.

Slamming her against the wall, he pinned her
there with the weight of his upper body then fumbled with his
tunic. Grunting like a hog taking a mud bath, she felt him tussling
to pull the clothing from between them. Hot and heavy, his shaft
pressed against her nether cheeks. When he tilted his hips back to
position himself, she used all her strength to shove against the
wall and pitched sideways.

He released her mouth and scrambled to grab
hold of her. She let out a scream loud enough to startle the dead
awake. Cursing, he struck her behind her right ear. Her forehead
slammed forward against the wall.

As if boneless, she slid to the floor in a
heap.

When Magnus entered the great hall, he didn't
feel Muriele's presence. Though she had thought he had not noted
her this morn, he knew the minute she entered the room. He'd no
need to look up. He just knew.

His gaze swept over the tables below but saw
no sight of her. Now and again, he glanced toward the far corner
table where she and Esa had sat to break their fast.

As he took a sip of cold wine, the distant
echo of a throaty scream floated above the noise in the great hall.
The diners ignored it assuming one of their comrades was tupping a
reluctant servant.

Except for Magnus.

Bounding out of the chair, he shook his head
as Feradoch started to delay him. His instincts led him to his
bedchamber area. Muriele was lying in a crumpled heap with laundry
strewn around her. In the shadows at the far end of the corridor, a
man's broad shoulders disappeared down the rear stairwell. 'Twas no
use chasing him. He'd vanish amongst the servants below.

"By all the saints! What trouble have ye
caused yerself now, Muriele?"