The Rose and The Warrior (18 page)

Gillian handed the jug to Eric.

“Thank you,” he said, holding the foul-smelling potion as far from his nose as was decently possible.

“All at once, lad,” Magnus reminded him.

Eric did not hesitate. Calling upon the harsh resolve of a warrior about to face his most dreaded enemy, he tilted his head back, bravely downed the contents of the jug, then banged the empty pitcher on the table.

The crowd in the great hall cheered wildly.

“By God, that's courage!” marveled Magnus. “I've been drinking the wretched stuff for years, but I never could stomach an entire pitcher!”

“He'll be feeling the benefits of that for days,” predicted Edwina with satisfaction.

“No doubt,” commented Hagar, looking sympathetic.

“Would you like some ale to wash that down?” asked Donald merrily.

“No,” said Eric, his gaze on Gillian. “It isn't necessary.”

Gillian gave him a small, shy smile before picking up her tray and disappearing back into the kitchen.

“All this fuss over a pitcher of drink,” complained Thor, scowling. “I never saw a more coddled basket of kittens.”

“At least the Viking is trying,” remarked Magnus, winking at Eric. “It reminds me of when I was a lad, and had to fight a terrible, two-headed beastie with lungs of fire and teeth like a thousand deadly sharp swords….”

Roarke drank deeply from his cup, then filled it again and drank some more. His back, neck, and shoulders were rigid with pain, making it difficult to turn his head. Even lifting his goblet to his lips seemed to require an inordinate amount of effort. He had been painfully aware of the protests of his aging, battered frame while hanging upside down on the battlements. Once he could have hoisted himself over the parapet and plucked Matthew back to safety with graceful ease, then drunk himself into a pleasant stupor to celebrate his victory. That was a younger Roarke than the weary warrior who sat hunched at this table tonight, drinking to numb the pathetic whimpers of his deteriorating flesh. Matthew was safe, and for that he was profoundly grateful. But the incident had taken a grueling toll on his body, reminding him that his days as a warrior were numbered.

“…and then with one powerful blow I sliced his green beastie head from his massive, stinking body, leaving a steaming river of blood flowing into the ground and staining the dried grasses a horrible black for all time. Ye can still go there and see the spot where he died,” Magnus finished cheerfully.

Thor regarded Magnus with frank skepticism. “Really, Magnus, you go too far with these foolish tales.” His dark little eyes were all but obscured in the wrinkled folds of his face as he cynically demanded, “Do you really expect me to believe the beastie's blood was black?”

“By the toes of St. Aidan, I swear it was,” Magnus vowed. “As black as night, with a terrible stench of rotting corpses on a still summer's day.”

“Magnus, people are still eating,” chided Edwina disapprovingly.

“Melantha could tell you if she were here,” Magnus said, sensing he needed an ally to validate his tale. “I took her father to the very spot where the beastie fell, and he could see the ground was black and stank of death. The lad talked about it for years afterward.”

“Where is the lass, anyway?” wondered Laird MacKillon, looking about the hall in confusion. “She never seems to dine with us of late.”

“She is in her chamber tending to Matthew,” Beatrice replied. “The poor lad was sorely frightened by his fall today, and Melantha wanted to stay by his side and make certain he was all right.”

“The lass is wonderful with those boys,” Magnus said fondly. “Her mother and father would be proud.”

“I don't think either would be pleased to know about their daughter dressing like a man and traipsing about the woods in search of someone to rob,” objected Beatrice. “She should stay at home with the lads and leave the business of thievery to you men.”

“Why is it that Melantha is permitted to go with you?” asked Roarke curiously.

“Permitted to go with us?” Magnus regarded him with amusement. “ 'Tis she that had to be convinced to let us accompany her.”

“She was most reluctant about it at first,” recalled Laird MacKillon, shaking his head. “She only relented when I absolutely insisted.”

“Before that she was going off on her own—hunting, she used to call it.” Hagar chuckled.

Roarke stared at them in disbelief. “Are you saying Melantha would go out and rob people all by herself?”

“And she was very good at it,” Magnus assured him proudly. “The lass has a real talent for thievery.”

“You must understand, she only took to it after her father was killed,” explained Edwina, sensing Roarke's disapproval. “Had we not been attacked, I'm sure Melantha would never have considered going out and taking that which did not belong to her.”

“She was always a good lass,” said Magnus fondly. “And she loved her da. I don't think I've ever seen a girl grieve so at the death of her father.”

“ 'Twas doubly hard because her mother had died not two years earlier,” added Beatrice. “Suddenly Melantha and the boys were alone, and worse, they had absolutely nothing. Their cottage was burned to the ground in the attack, and whatever belongings and food stores they had were either stolen or destroyed.”

Roarke could scarcely imagine the awesome burden of loss and responsibility falling without warning upon a young girl's shoulders. “But she was a member of this clan. Surely everyone here would share what they had to help look after them.”

“Of course we would,” said Colin flatly. “We MacKillons look after our own.”

“I insisted that everyone who lost their home in the attack move into the castle,” said Laird MacKillon. “You could scarcely walk about at night without tripping over someone curled upon the floor, but everyone had a roof over their head.”

“There was little to eat then,” continued Hagar, “but there were still a few deer to be killed and fish to be caught.”

“And then we suffered the worst winter we had endured in forty years,” said Ninian. “Even the beasts in the woods couldn't find anything to eat. Most froze to death while searching.”

“ 'Twas a terrible time,” Gelfrid reflected. “Watching the faces of the children grow thinner each day, knowing there was nothing more to give them.”

“Until then Melantha had been completely absorbed in looking after the boys,” said Beatrice. “But when wee Patrick fell ill and refused to eat anything we offered, Melantha picked up her bow and arrow and rode into the woods herself, determined to kill something and make a nourishing broth of it.”

“That night she came back with a scrawny hare, a new sword, a sharp dirk, and a nice saddle!” said Magnus triumphantly. “And that's when we knew Melantha had a real talent for hunting!”

Everyone laughed.

“And the Falcon's band grew from that,” surmised Roarke.

“Since there was no stopping the lass from going into the woods, Colin, Finlay, Lewis, and I decided to go along and help her,” explained Magnus. “It took some convincing, but finally we made her see that we could do better as a group than she could on her own.”

There was no denying that the Falcon's band had done well, Roarke mused, especially given its small size and the peculiarities of its members. It had certainly created enough of a problem for his own laird to want the band destroyed and its leader brought to him for retribution.

He took a deep swallow of ale, feeling angry and disgusted with both his clan and himself. How he would ever convince Melantha to abandon her exploits as the Falcon, when all she was doing was trying to provide for her family and her people, he had no idea.

Melantha slipped silently along the cool, dark passage, following the oily flicker of the dying torchlights.

The corridor was still, lacking even the low rumble of contented snores that filled the great hall now that the evening's celebration had finally come to an end. Most of her people had managed to make their way to their beds, but a few determined revelers had kept drinking until movement was all but impossible. Thus she had found Finlay sprawled upon a hard bed of greasy platters, looking as content as he might were he stretched upon a feather mattress, and Lewis curled like an exhausted puppy on the cold floor, his half-empty cup still clutched in one hand. A quick perusal had revealed that Roarke and his men were not among those sleeping off their drink.

She had felt a moment of alarm, for she had feared that the MacTiers had cleverly used this opportunity to escape. Then she recalled that their prison had been moved from the great hall to the cleared-out storeroom in the lower level of the castle. Colin was not one to drink to excess on any occasion, and Melantha was certain that he would have made sure the prisoners were safely ensconced before retiring for the night. Colin despised the MacTiers to the depths of his being, and would not permit something like Roarke's remarkably selfless feat of that day to erode his rancor toward them.

She turned the corner and saw Gelfrid slumped in a chair beside the storeroom door, snoring soundly. His sword and dirk lay discarded upon the ground, and even the heavy key that secured the door he was guarding so carelessly had slipped from his belt. She had planned to ask whoever was watching the prisoners to open the door and bring out Roarke so that she might speak with him. She had thought to thank him for his actions that day quickly, in the corridor, with the comforting propriety of one of her own people standing by. But as she studied the steady rise and fall of Gelfrid's substantial belly, she hesitated. In his ale-sodden state Gelfrid might prove difficult to waken, and if he made a lot of groaning, fumbling noises as she roused him, it would only draw unnecessary attention to her desire to speak with Roarke in the middle of the night. It would be far quicker and more discreet to just open the door and talk to Roarke in his chamber.

She picked up the key and fit it into the lock.

The door made no sound as it crept open, for someone had taken the care to ensure that its aged hinges were well oiled, no doubt out of consideration for the MacTier prisoners. A soft wash of coppery light illuminated the four warriors lying upon their narrow beds, which seemed far too small and confining for men of their uncommon stature. The room was spare and tidily arranged, reflecting the organizational standards of Beatrice, and it smelled of smoke and pine, one scent emanating from the single torch burning low on the wall, the other from the soft carpet of pine branches that had been laid over the packed earth floor to obliterate any hint of dampness. It was a generous space, and arguably as clean and comfortable as any chamber in the castle, excluding the fact that it lacked both a window and a hearth.

Roarke lay on his side with his head resting on his arm. His eyes were closed and his breathing deep, but Melantha approached him warily nonetheless, suspecting that he had long ago perfected his ability to feign slumber when in fact he was preparing to attack. It was only after several long, guarded moments in which she strained to detect the least indication of consciousness that she finally decided he was, indeed, asleep. Releasing a taut breath, she moved a little closer.

The black fall of his hair was carelessly tangled over his massive shoulder, and a few strands lay against the dark shadow of his elegantly chiseled jaw. He was not an unattractive man, she conceded reluctantly, although this was an observation she had fought from the moment she had first swung her sword at him in the woods. His face was pleasingly sculpted, with a hard, rugged beauty in its weathered edges and planes, and an etching of lines that told her he had seen much in his life. His mouth was full and sensually shaped, and although she could not recall it ever softening into a smile, she suspected that when it did the effect would be mesmerizing.

His brow was deeply creased at that moment, not in the irritated scowl she had witnessed so often when he was awake but with something that seemed more reflective of worry, or perhaps even discomfort. She supposed it was difficult for a man of his considerable size to find comfort on a small trestle bed. Then of course there was the wound in his buttock, which should have mostly healed by now, but might still bother him even so. She felt a flash of guilt at the thought that she had let Magnus stitch it closed despite Roarke's objections. She bit her lip, considering her old friend's fading abilities. Magnus's eyes were far from sharp, and with his quivering hands and the challenge of stitching a wound together in virtual darkness, how good a job could he possibly have done? Then of course there was the risk of the flesh festering, a possibility that had completely eluded her interest at the time. But with Roarke's unexpected actions on the wall head that day, Melantha found she could no longer be so cavalier when it came to his welfare. She recalled Edwina demanding that Roarke let her look at his buttock, and his outright refusal. Had anyone assessed its progress since then, she wondered? It seemed unlikely, given Roarke's apparent modesty and the fact that no one in her clan had any reason to care.