Erica bit back a laugh. “Are ye still nae going to tell me what this training is all about?” she murmured.
“Ye are about to see for yerself,” Bettie said. “It is a lot of fun.”
They reached the small door that opened onto the yard. Through the crack, Erica saw the rope looped along the grass like a coiled thing. Two men anchored one end, while another set his feet and hauled the slack through his hands, the fibers rasping a low, steady sound.
“What is that for?” Erica asked again. Curiosity had pushed past any wish to pretend it did not matter.
The twins glowed like banked coals.
“Ye will see,” Bettie said, almost dancing in place.
Erica narrowed her eyes at them and shook her head. “If ye say that one more time,” she said, “I might bite ye.”
Katie giggled. “Daenae bite us. We like ye.”
“That helps,” Erica said.
Bettie put her hand on the door. “Ready?” she asked.
“As I will ever be,” Erica said.
“Come,” Katie said. “Let us go outside.”
Alex moved through the yard with the morning at his back, the sun just high enough to lift the chill. Men lined the grass in orderly pairs. He checked grips, angles, and feet—the small things that kept bones whole. He paired fighters by habit, balancing weight and temper.
After he had finished, he stopped beside a guard who lagged a breath behind the count.
He watched for a minute and saw how sluggishly the guard fought. His hands moved a beat too late, and his feet were not as steady as they should be on the ground.
In a proper battlefield, he would not have lasted a second. When Alex couldn’t bear it anymore, he stepped forward and watched as the two fighters stopped to look at him, utter respect on their faces.
“Me Laird?—”
“Let us say I am yer enemy,” Alex cut in. “And just a bit smarter than ye. Seeing the way ye hold yer sword, I daenae think that will be hard.”
Laughter rippled through the line, and the guard bit back a smile.
Alex took the man’s staff, showed the pivot, and gave the staff back with a small nod. Then he stepped into range and struck, sharp and clean, a tap that found the ribs. The guard grunted and fell to his knee.
“Mind yer flank,” Alex warned, offering a hand. “The enemy willnae care if ye forget.”
“Aye, me Laird,” the guard said, then rose with better balance.
“And square yer shoulders. Ye get more movement that way.”
“Aye, me Laird,” the guard responded, his voice laced with gratitude and the slightest hint of shame.
Alex watched them go at it again, his hands folded across his chest. He was so engrossed in the fight happening before him that he didn’t notice when Calum came up to his shoulder.
“Do ye nae think ye are pushin’ them a bit hard?” he murmured.
“Better to train for war,” Alex said. “Sometimes the war isnae outside the walls.”
Calum looked toward the east tower and back. “Aye.”
The guard won his rematch two rounds later, and Alex gave a small nod. “See? Ye only needed a push.”
He shifted his attention to the far side of the yard, where two men dragged a coil of rope across the grass. They looped it around the stump and hauled the slack as hard as they could. He then walked the length of it, checked the knots, and marked the line for heels with the heel of his boot. He called out the teams, mixed strength with sense, and sent a runner for more chalk.
