The Rose and The Warrior (11 page)

By this time the entire clan had halted their work and curiously focused their attention on Thor.

There was a moment of cryptic silence as he eyed his audience, immensely pleased to have so much attention directed at him.

“It's not
pink
enough,” he finally announced gravely.

The clan stared at the stone in shock.

“By all the saints, you're right,” said Hagar, bobbing his balding head in agreement. “It's not nearly pink enough!”

“Now, Finlay, I don't mean to criticize, but you are taking care to pick only stones of the rosiest color, are you not?” queried Laird MacKillon.

“Aye,” grunted Finlay, carelessly depositing another armload of rocks onto the ground. “I am.”

“Then how do you explain this one?” demanded Thor.

Finlay shrugged. “Must have looked pink when I picked it up.”

The council members contemplated this explanation a moment.

“A perfectly reasonable answer,” decided Laird MacKillon, nodding.

“Things often look pink to me one minute, and then an entirely different color the next,” added Hagar. “It's a common problem.”

“That's because your eyes are weak,” scoffed Thor. “I can certainly tell the difference between something that is pink, and something that is decidedly not pink.”

“But if you look closely at this stone, you can see that there are actually shades of pink running through it,” pointed out Hagar. “ 'Tis merely the intensity of the color that makes it unacceptable.”

“The intensity of color is everything!” argued Thor. “That's the very attribute for which the MacKillon castle has been famous these past hundred years—its remarkable color! If we allow our keep to be repaired with just any shade of stone, we will have lost our proud heritage!”

“Of course I'm not suggesting we actually use this stone,” Hagar assured him. “I'm only saying that the lad should not be overly criticized for thinking it was pink when he picked it up. Why, just look at all the other fine stones he has brought to us today!”

“Never mind, Finlay,” said Laird MacKillon. “Everyone makes mistakes. Just see that you're more careful with the next load. Everyone back to work,” he instructed, waving at all the MacKillons. “Everything is fine now. All sorted out.”

“Great God in heaven!” burst out Thor, suddenly noticing Roarke and his men. “Those MacTier scoundrels have escaped!” He fumbled awkwardly for his sword and charged toward them. “Back, vile miscreants!” he raged, flailing his blade in front of him. “Back to your rat-infested prison, before I carve you into a thousand bloody pieces and mash your steaming entrails into the ground!”

Roarke calmly waited for Lewis to inform Thor that in fact they were not trying to escape. But poor Lewis was so startled by Thor's sudden attack, he actually stepped backward, bumping into Roarke.

“We aren't trying to escape,” Roarke assured Thor, trying to steady Lewis as best he could with his bound hands.

Thor's eyes rounded with horror. “My God, they've taken Lewis hostage! I'll not stand by and let them get away with it! Prepare to die, you depraved curs!”

Roarke instantly pushed Lewis behind him, afraid the lad might actually get injured in Thor's misguided attack. “We aren't trying to escape, Thor,” he repeated loudly, thinking perhaps the elder was hard of hearing.

“Back, foul pillagers of castles and ravishers of women!” raged Thor, poking the air just in front of Roarke's belly with his sword. “Back to your damp, dark hole, where you will rot in misery until the devil himself claims your wretched, stinking souls to burn for all eternity!”

“Here, now, what's all this fuss about?” demanded Magnus, appearing at the castle entrance. “A man can scarcely think straight with all this shouting.”

“I've just saved the clan from another MacTier attack,” boasted Thor, “and now I'm going to chop these MacTier villains into wee bits and feed them to the fish in the loch!”

“Attack?” repeated Magnus, confused. “What attack?”

“Thor seems to think we were trying to escape,” Roarke explained mildly.

“That's ridiculous,” scoffed Magnus. “The lad gave me his word that escape was the furthest thing from his mind—all he and his men wanted was a wee bit of air.”

Thor kept his weapon trembling menacingly before Roarke. “If they aren't trying to escape, then what were they doing racing across the courtyard?”

“Actually, we weren't moving,” pointed out Roarke. “We were watching you debate the matter of Finlay's stone.”

“You were deciding how to steal our weapons and mounts and slay us all before you returned to your clan!” thundered Thor.

“Now, that would be quite a feat,” Roarke agreed, “considering there are only four of us against hundreds of MacKillons.”

“The lad's got a point, Thor,” said Magnus. “Besides, can ye not see that I've got young Lewis guarding them?”

Thor blinked. “Lewis is guarding them?”

“Aye,” said Lewis, sheepishly stepping out from the protective shield of Roarke's body. He cleared his throat and groped at his side for his sword. “I am.”

“No offense, lad,” said Thor, “but I scarcely think a skinny stripling like you is capable of guarding four savage brutes like these. Why, just look at the size of them compared to you! They'd eat you in the blink of an eye if they thought you had any meat on your bones!”

A stain of humiliation rose to Lewis's freckled cheeks.

“Don't be deceived by Lewis's slender build,” interjected Roarke, disliking the way Thor was embarrassing the lad before his own clan. “When we were captured, he nearly hacked one of my men in two with that sword of his.”

A gasp of awe rose from the clan.

“He did?” exclaimed Hagar, clearly impressed.

Roarke nodded. “Of course, Donald was weakened by the heavy blow Lewis delivered to the back of his head first. The lad has a powerful right arm.”

Laird MacKillon regarded Lewis in amazement. “He does?”

“He most certainly does,” agreed Donald, rubbing his head for effect. “Left a lump on my skull the size of a goose egg. I expect I'll be feeling it for days yet.”

“Are you trying to tell me that our Lewis here actually attacked this savage warrior of yours?” demanded Thor, gazing at Roarke in bewilderment.

Roarke nodded.

“ 'Twould seem I've misjudged ye, laddie,” acknowledged Thor, shaking his head. “I'd have never thought you capable of such a deed.”

“Of course Lewis is capable of such a deed,” declared a hard voice. “As part of the Falcon's band he performs acts of great courage and daring all the time.”

Roarke turned to see Melantha and Colin standing behind him, with young Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick lined up between them. Melantha was dressed in a coarsely woven brown shirt, a dark leather jerkin, earth-colored leggings and deerskin boots, with her cumbersome sword weighing heavily at her side. Evidently she preferred the unfettered movement this attire afforded her to the awkward constraints of a gown, mused Roarke. Either that, or her exploits as the Falcon had stripped her of any desire to appear even remotely feminine, at least where her garments were concerned. Her shapeless clothes could not mask the delicate beauty of her face, although her rigid expression did little to suggest that there might be a softer side to her.

For a moment Roarke feared she had learned of her brothers' clandestine visit to the great hall the previous night. It was impossible to tell from Daniel's expression, for the boy glared at him with the same disdain as his sister, which had the unsettling effect of making their resemblance even more profound. Roarke shifted his attention to Matthew. The youth uneasily latched his attention to the ground, but Roarke sensed Matthew was always uneasy, so there was no help there. Only red-haired little Patrick regarded him with a sunny, untroubled look, complete with a crooked smile. A peculiar sensation of warmth seeped over Roarke. Feeling somewhat fortified, he returned his gaze to Melantha.

The coolness was still there, but he detected something else in the depths of her eyes. Frowning, he tried to discern what it was.

She abruptly tore her gaze away, as if he did not merit further scrutiny.

“Well, then, it's all sorted out,” declared Laird MacKillon happily. “Everyone back to work,” he instructed once more, shooing at his people. “There is still much work to do on these mighty walls.”

“Forgive me, Laird MacKillon,” said Roarke, “but why are you spending so much time and effort repairing the walls of your keep?”

“Why, to keep the MacTiers out, of course,” Laird MacKillon replied, as if the answer were obvious.

“You don't think we're so naive as to believe your greedy, black-hearted laird won't be tempted to attack us again, are you?” asked Thor. “But this time we'll hack his army to bits as it stands, strip the flesh from its bones, and feed it to the wolves!” he threatened grandly. “And then we'll grind it's bones for bread!”

“Well, now, I don't know about that,” fretted Laird MacTier. “No offense, Thor, but I can't help but think that to grind the bones of an entire army would take an inordinate amount of time and effort.”

“Besides, who wants to eat bread made out of MacTiers?” wondered Magnus. “It's bound to be tough.”

“If it's tough, we can feed it to the fish,” Thor suggested. “They won't care.”

Hagar scratched the shiny top of his head. “That seems like an awful lot of work to go to, just to feed fish. Couldn't we just bury their bones?”

“The whole idea is to destroy them without a trace!” argued Thor. “If we're just going to bury them, then there's no point in stripping their flesh off either!”

Roarke struggled for patience. “What I am trying to say is, if Laird MacTier sends an army to retrieve us, you really don't have a hope of holding them off.”

“Do you think we should just sit and placidly wait for your clan to arrive?” demanded Colin sardonically.

“Don't forget, we're going to enlist the assistance of the MacKenzies' army,” said Hagar, “and they're as strong and nasty a group of warriors as one could ever hope not to meet.”

“But we must do what we can to keep your warriors at bay, at least until Laird MacKenzie arrives with his army and makes your laird realize he should just pay your ransom and take you home,” Laird MacKillon added.

“It is good that you are making preparations for the event of an attack,” acknowledged Roarke, ignoring Colin's hostility. “Your clan should be better prepared to defend itself regardless of whether MacTier sends an army or not. But the preparations you are making will ultimately have little effect. You cannot stop an army by replacing a few shutters and repairing the holes in your keep with pink stones.”

“Your concern for my people's welfare is touching,” Melantha observed icily. “No doubt you think we should just release you and your men to prevent further bloodshed.”

“That would be the most prudent course of action,” agreed Roarke. “But since you are so stubbornly committed to this notion of ransoming us, at least let me make a few suggestions for strengthening your holding.”

“We're not interested in your suggestions.”

“Actually, Melantha, it might be interesting to hear them,” Laird MacKillon interjected. “After all, Roarke here is an experienced warrior, and has probably raided dozens of castles—haven't you, lad?”

“Of course he has,” Melantha agreed caustically. “And our home counts among his many foul, depraved victories.”

An uneasy hush fell upon the courtyard.

Roarke regarded her intently. “My men and I were not a part of the raid on this holding, Melantha. I swear it.”

A bitter, half-choked laugh escaped her throat. “Even if that were true, it doesn't matter. You're still a MacTier.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “There is nothing I can do to change that. But just because I'm a MacTier doesn't mean I can't offer your people a few suggestions on how you can fortify your holding.”

“He's right, ye know, lass,” said Magnus. “There's no harm in listening to what he has to say.”

“Quite so,” agreed Laird MacKillon.

“This is absurd!” snapped Colin. “He has no reason to want to help us. He'll try to trick us into doing something that will actually help his army when it comes.”

“You don't have to actually do anything that I suggest,” Roarke pointed out. “Unless you think it makes sense.”

“Now, that sounds fair enough,” said Hagar. “What suggestions did you have in mind?”

“The walls of your keep will eventually have to be repaired, but for now you should be devoting your energy to preventing an attacker from ever reaching the keep.” Roarke studied the gate a moment. The heavy iron portcullis appeared to be structurally sound, and the thick wooden gate beyond it had not been damaged by a battering ram. “How did the MacTiers breach the castle?”

“They crawled up the curtain wall on ladders, like bugs on a tree,” Laird MacKillon explained. “Then they came down here and opened the gate for the others.”

“Didn't you have men on the wall defending it?”

“We had a few,” supplied Hagar, “but only enough to keep watch.”

“The cowardly scum attacked in the middle of the night, and we weren't expecting it,” Magnus added. “They just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Like foul, murdering demons,” growled Thor, “sent by the very devil himself!”

Laird MacKillon shook his head, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. “The lads on the wall head fought them as best they could, but they were no match for such a dreadful attack.”

“By the time we realized we were being invaded,” Hagar continued, “the men on watch were dead and the MacTiers were already swarming the castle.”