“Is that so?” the Scot asked, cocking his head.
“Rather, I know your brother,” Simon said, taking one step closer. “Years ago, at Stirling bridge.”
The Scot became deadly serious, his face hardening to a statue as he let the sword drop slowly to his side. “That was a long time ago.”
“I see the King did not see fit to reward you,” Simon said with a breath of levity. “For fighting alongside with the English.”
“Was yer king that was supposed to reward us,” the Scot snarled. “Look how that turned out.”
“You are Michael MacLean,” Simon said boldly. “Are you not?”
“I am,” the Scotsman answered. The road became quiet for a moment as the breeze stirred the leaves further.
“I fought with your brother, Roger,” Simon went on. “I remember him well.”
“Me brither is dead,” Michael spat back.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Simon said, and in truth, he was. There were not many Scotsmen he had ever enjoyed the company of, but Roger MacLean had been one of them. What’s more, speaking to someone he already knew would have garnered him better chances of success.
“Are ye really?” Michael asked solemnly. “Now, why would that be?”
“When did he die?” Simon asked, taking another step closer.
“Recently,” Michael growled back. “Killed by the wee McGowan.”
“Is that so?” Simon asked, trying to hold back the grin that he felt coming on. He had never heard better news. What had begun as a small spark of an idea was blossoming into a fully-fledged plan, and it was a bloody good plan as far as he was concerned.
“Get tae the point, Englishman,” Michael said sharply, bringing the sword up once more now that Simon had edged closer, and the point hovered only a few inches from the top of Simon’s mail.
“The Laird McGowan has something that belongs to my master,” Simon said, stopping short of the sword point, keeping a cool composure in the face of the weapon, and looking straight ahead into Michael’s eyes. “Just as he has something that belongs to you.”
“And what is that?” Michael asked, meeting Simon’s gaze with intensity. This was a serious man, and that gave Simon confidence. In his experience, serious men were the only men worth dealing with.
“Land,” Simon answered. “And the promise of revenge.”
Michael looked at him a moment longer as the breeze stirred the trees and grasses once more, and another bout of leaves fluttered down around them on the forested road. All parties still stood anxiously, waiting for the other to make a move, each waiting for death to make a sudden appearance. Then he let the sword down once again, bringing it to his hip, and inside, Simon let out a breath of relief.
“Keep talking,” Michael said.
“I think you and I,” Simon said in reply, closing the final distance between them and holding out his arm for an embrace, “can help one another.”
