Kildrummy Castle,
May 1309
The sun beat down upon Magnus’s bare head and torso, his chest slick with the sweat of exertion. The truce negotiated between King Robert of Scotland and King Edward II of England in January had provided temporary peace from war but not from MacLeod. “Peace” for MacLeod only meant more training.
The leader of the Highland Guard and famed trainer of warriors came at him again, wielding the two-handed great sword as if it weighed no more than a stick. Striking first to the right high above Magnus’s head and then to the left, MacLeod forced Magnus to move his arm and shoulder in every direction to deflect the powerful blows.
It hurt like hell, but Magnus gritted his teeth and forced his body to fight through the pain, fending off every strike. Not any easy feat against the greatest swordsman in Scotland, especially for a man whose arm and shoulder had been severely broken only months before. But he was tough enough to withstand anything MacLeod threw at him.
Magnus knew he should be grateful that his arm had healed as well as it had, but the forced weeks of inactivity had been its own kind of pain. Eight wall-crawling weeks before he could remove his arm from the splints and sling. Another four before he could even think about picking up a sword.
His arm had been as weak as a damned Englishman’s! For the past two months, he’d thrown himself into a training regimen to rebuild his strength with the single-minded purpose of a zealot. He didn’t have time to think about…
He stopped himself, irritated by the lapse.Focus.
Now that his arm was healed, it was just a matter of pushing through the pain. Something that MacLeod seemed intent on maximizing.
Chief swung again with a crushing force that would fell most men. Magnus blocked the blow with his own great sword. The shattering clash of metal reverberated in the air and down the entire left side of his body. MacLeod pressed down so hard, Magnus could read the inscription on his sword:Bi Tren. Be valiant. Be strong. The motto of the MacKays, and fitting as hell right now. The pain was excruciating, but he pushed the fierce swordsman back.
“I think he’s getting tired, MacLeod,” MacGregor observed from the gallery—in this case a bale of hay, turned-over crates, and an old barrel that were set out near the section of the castle yard where they practiced every morning. A few other warriors had gathered around to watch as well. Other than offer the occasional encouragement, however, they were content to watch the two men battle in reverent silence. Except for MacGregor: he wouldn’t shut up. “You probably should go easy on him.”
Magnus shot him a nasty glare. “Go to hell, MacGregor. I didn’t hear you volunteer.”
But MacGregor was used to his foul temper, having borne the brunt of it for the past five months.
Like Magnus, MacGregor was fully healed from the arrow that should have killed him. Other than the angry red scar where the hole had been burned shut—which eventually would lighten—he bore no signs of his ordeal. He’d even managed to avoid a fever.
Because of Helen.
Damn it, don’t think about her.
Magnus’s jaw clenched against the reflexive surge of emotion. When he thought of Helen, inevitably he thought of Gordon. The two were forever linked in his mind. The shock of Gordon’s death had faded, but not the guilt. Helen was caught up in that guilt.
He was grateful for what she’d done for him—and for MacGregor—but there was nothing left between them.
Watch over her.
The promise he’d made to Gordon haunted him. He had nothing to feel guilty for, damn it. No link had been made between Gordon and the already legendary attack of the Highland Guard at Threave.
He wasn’t breaking his vow to Gordon. There was no threat. Norealthreat, at least. And there wouldn’t be any at all if her brothers would keep their mouths shut. The earl and Kenneth Sutherland had made trouble at the king’s first Parliament in St. Andrews a couple of months ago with their dangerous questions about the circumstances of Gordon’s death. Questions that were also being raised by Gordon’s English-loving family in the south.
It was the timing of the mission with the wedding that had created problems. Too many people were aware of exactly when they’d left. Usually the Highland Guard missions were undertaken with few people aware of their comings and goings. Admitting to being in Galloway would be too risky, so they’d claimed to be in Forfar laying siege to the castle, which had been taken for Bruce. Supposedly, Gordon had been killed in an attack by freebooters on the way home.
Helen was perfectly safe.
But Magnus wasn’t. He was distracted when MacLeod came at him again, nearly taking off his head.
“He’ll get his turn,” MacLeod said, referring to MacGregor. “Once I’m done with you. Again.”
For the next thirty minutes—forty minutes? It felt like forever—MacLeod worked him until his eyes burned with agony and every muscle in his body shook with exhaustion. It was almost as if he were trying to get him to quit. When it became clear Magnus wasn’t going to do that, that he would fight until he collapsed, MacLeod finally relented.
“That’s enough. You’re ready. Get cleaned up and meet me in the king’s solar in an hour.” He smiled at MacGregor. When Chief smiled like that it didn’t bode well. “Your turn.”
“Have fun,” Magnus said to MacGregor as he started toward the barracks to retrieve soap and a drying cloth. He looked back over his shoulder at MacLeod. “Watch his face. The serving lasses from the village were upset the last time you bruised him up a little.”
The men sitting around watching snickered.
“Sod off, MacKay,” MacGregor said.
