Chapter Two
Scotland, 1320
The dull sparring swords clanged together with grinding rings as the Scotsmen traded blows. They were quite the pair to behold, both tall and strapping in every sense of the word, and clearly brothers, but the taller of the two had piercing green eyes and wore his red mane down in the wind, letting it blow all about his sculpted shoulders as he hefted the blunted blade.
“Ye’re gettin’ slow there, brither,” the taller one called, leaning back into a defensive stance.
“Nay,” the other huffed, adjusting his grip. “Me thinks ye’re just faster. I hinna lost me edge.”
“Again!” the shorter brother, and older it might be added, attacked with speed, driving at his massive brother with furious jabs, but they were knocked away with ease.
“Come on, Gavin!” the taller brother bellowed. “Ye taught me how tae swing a sword, and now ye cannae stand against me!”
“Ye got taller, Kyle,” Gavin laughed back, catching a bit of his breath.
“Aye, and ye got married.”
“There’s nay shame in putting me prowess intae the bedchamber,” Gavin said, grinning.
“Is that where it went?” Kyle joked, and again they went to blows, the swords striking in the cool morning mists that roved through the castle yard. “I’m in a bedchamber more than ye, and I can still fight!”
“Ah, but wae different women!” Gavin cried back. “Ye dinnae have tae try so hard!”
“Is that so?” Kyle asked, smirking. They both shed sweat that caught in the light as the morning sun began to cut through the mists.
“Is that why yer maid left?” Gavin prodded, circling up for another attack. “Nay enough prowess?”
“Ye ken there was nay’thing between us,” Kyle retorted. “Her husband’s only just came back frae France.”
“Tell that tae him, then!” Gavin laughed out, attacking again, but was once again easily beaten back. The pair withdrew a few paces to the edge of the practice square and broke for a rest.
“Ah, ye’ll see one day,” Gavin said, resting his hands atop the hilt of the practice sword. “One day, a lass will steal yer heart away.”
“Ha!” Kyle laughed, pulling his wild hair back behind his ears and resting the practice sword atop his shoulder. “If ye say so. Dinnae mistake me, brither, yer wife and son are beautiful, but ye ken I like tae feel the eyes o’ a woman, tea be free in me pursuits.”
“Ye’re a dog, brither,” Gavin said, walking slowly to stand beside him. “We’ll see how lang that lasts, eh?” They stood in a moment of silence, catching their breath on the edge of the training square, letting the morning mists burn off all around them as the sun became increasingly bright. “I’m gannae clean up,” Gavin said at last. “Good match.”
“Good fer me, nay fer ye,” Kyle said back. The brothers shared a smile, then Gavin went off toward the tower.
Kyle stowed the practice swords on the rack beside the square and wiped his forehead free of sweat. It was a fine enough morning in McGowan castle, and Kyle made a quick hustle up the walls to take in the view. The castle stood out on a hilltop, with her central tower standing proudly inside the curtain walls. The lowlands stretched out around them, with mountains in the distance sloping gracefully upwards into the highlands.
The McGowan banner flew proudly in the strong breeze, and Kyle’s hair was immediately caught again in the wind. Never had the castle stood so strong and proud, refitted and repaired with the spoils of war. People had begun their daily bustle in the yard, tending to livestock and orchards, moving between the kitchens and their hovels. The men at arms were at practice and patrolling the parapets, and Kyle nodded to one as he passed him on the battlements.
He drank in the smell of the new day, feeling the sun beat down on his face as the last of the morning mists were banished. The sound of masons and smiths floated up from below, and Kyle grinned to think of the steel taking shape into swords. He loved to fight, and he damned good at it, but he had never had the chance to test his mettle in a real fight. He had been too young when the King of England had invaded, and the Bruce had thrown them back at Bannockburn. Bloody Bannockburn. Now he was ready for a fight, but there were none to be had.
Kyle loved his brother, who was the Laird after the death of their father. He loved his nephew and his sister-in-law, and he loved his home, but still, he was restless. He often stood upon the wall and dreamt of riding off into the fields, perhaps sailing to France or Lothringia, Sweden or Leon, Italy or Sicily. There was always someone who would hire a fearsome Scotsmen as a mercenary. He wasn’t sure what it was he craved but sitting stagnant certainly wasn’t it. There was such an allure of adventure out there in the word, and yet he had never seen any of it.
Kyle watched the road that led to the castle from the South. There were a handful of peasants steering their carts toward the market, and Kyle wondered if they carried anything exciting. It was unlikely. The carts held produce from the local farms nine times out of ten, but it was always fun to dream.
Kyle decided to take a leisurely stroll. There was not much else he could do, even if he wanted to. It was one of the hidden curses of his pleasant, peaceful home. Now that the war was done, there was no danger, but there was also nothing to do, save swing a practice sword for hours at a time. That, and hunt, of course.
Kyle walked down from the walls and nodded to the various guardsmen he passed as he went toward the gate. He often found himself in better discourse with the common soldiers of the castle than with even his own brother.
“G’day, me Laird,” a particularly gruff-looking soldier said, bobbing his head as Kyle moved past him. But the man’s voice gave Kyle pause, and he drew up alongside the guard near some of the hog pens, where a few of the common folk worked to wrangle the squealing animals.
“Te yerself as well,” Kyle said, grinning. “Did ye wake fine enough today? Last night wa a bit o’ a romper.”
“Aye,” the guard said, returning the smile. “We had a fair bit.”
