Chapter 3
3
James rode behind the warriors on his horse, the sun beating down on the group as they made their way across the open moors southward. For two days they had traveled, making camp in the forest each night and starting out early each morn. While James was happy to be in the outdoors with the warriors, he was also growing tired of the company he was keeping.
Matteau rode ahead of him, limiting their conversation to a few minutes each night before the camp turned in. James couldn’t join his oldest friend because he wasn’t a warrior. The laird’s warriors led the way for the small group that was heading to the gathering, watching for any sign of an ambush as they passed.
The laird’s council, including James, his father, and another Scot elder that would help negotiate the truce with the Wallace clan, rode behind them. Bringing up the rear of the group were his mother and the servants, including a wagon of supplies that would help them set up the camp once they arrived.
James knew his father would likely box his ears if he joined the warriors, but that was where he longed to be. He longed to be proudly riding in the front, protecting his clan and his laird. He wanted to wear the tartan, to carry the sword that was meant for battle and not a dagger that was strapped to his belt, only to be used if he was attacked.
He wished to be looked upon as a warrior, a hero of his clan, instead of the Scot that sat in the shadows of the laird, advising from behind.
It wasn’t that James didn’t know his father’s role was important. His father was the laird’s right-hand man, the one that was consulted about nearly every piece of business that dealt with the clan.
He just…wanted more.
“Halt!”
The command came from the very place that James was hoping to be. He pulled his horse to a stop, watching as the warriors fanned out before his eyes.
“Wot is it?” the laird asked softly as swords were removed from their scabbards, the sound barely a whisper as the steel slid free of the leather casing.
No one said a word; the lead warrior only pointed, causing James to look in the direction that everyone was suddenly interested in.
It was another caravan in the distance, a tartan flag fluttering in the breeze as they trekked across the moors.
“Macdonovans,” his father muttered beside him. “Likely headed tae the gathering.”
James sucked in a breath as he watched the procession, remembering what he had been told about the clan that bordered the English border. They were a fearsome clan, known for their brutality toward anything that did not reside in their clan. Their warriors were said to be chosen by the devil himself, but James thought it was only a tale to scare the wee ones to bed.
“Why would they be interested in the gathering?” he asked softly. “Wot do they have tae prove?”
“Likely nothing,” his father answered with a slight shrug, his eyes on the clan. “Which is why we need tae keep our ears and eyes open when we arrive, James. There could be more at stake than just a truce. Getting that many Scots taegether is bound for a bit of trouble.”
Trouble was what he was looking for, a chance to prove himself to not only his family, but to his laird as well.
“Aye,” he replied, narrowing his gaze. “We will have tae be vigilant.”
His father gave him a solemn nod, and James felt a twinge of guilt. There was no way that his father agreed with him. Likely he was thinking that James was going to attend the negotiations and provide council when needed.
That wasn’t his plan at all.
“Move forward,” the lead warrior finally said, dropping his sword back into the scabbard strapped to his back. “They arenae interested in waging a battle right now.”
“How do ye know?” James blurted out, curious.
The warrior looked his way, his gaze hard as he glared at James. “Because they aren’t attacking us.”
The rest of the warriors snickered as James’s face turned red, looking away to keep from doing something that would embarrass himself further.
“Och, dinnae take it personally, lad,” Irvine laughed. “It was too easy.”
James ducked his head, clearing his throat. “I’m not.”
The laird chuckled as he nudged his horse forward, causing the rest to follow suit. As the small group started back on their path toward the gathering, James ignored them. He didn’t like to be the reason for their jests.
How was he ever supposed to get anyone to believe that he belonged with the warriors?
As the day turned into night, the group stopped for what would be their final night in the forest. James dismounted and grabbed his satchel, stalking toward a spot well away from the group. He didn’t want to interact with any of them this evening, especially because of how he had been embarrassed earlier.
“James.”
James turned to see his father a few feet away, a concerned look on his face.
“I dinnae wish tae talk aboot it.”
“Too bad,” his father said, motioning for James to take a seat on the nearby log. “Sit.”
James sighed as he sat on the log, holding his hands between his legs. “There’s nothing tae talk aboot.”
“Ye didnae know.”
“But I should have!” James exploded, lowering his voice the moment he realized how loud he was being. “I should have known.”
“This is aboot the discussion the other day, isnae it?” his father asked, his eyes narrowing. “Ye are still thinking of joining in the battle.”
“’Tis more than that,” James replied, clenching his fist. “’Tis much more than that, Da. I want tae be a warrior. I want tae not only join them in battle but tae be one of them!”
“James…” his father began, but James shook his head, rising from the log.
“I know wot ye are going tae say,” he started. “Ye will never allow it because I am yer only bairn. But that shouldnae be a reason that I have tae be held from wot I want!”
When he finished, his chest was heaving with both anger and shame that he couldn’t make his own decisions. He was old enough to do so, yet his parents refused to even entertain the idea, and if he truly wished to have the life he wanted, James knew he would have to leave the clan.
“We arenae,” his father said, his voice heavy as he pushed off the log. “All we are trying tae do is protect ye, Son. I cannae watch ye be killed.”
James drew in a breath as he heard the pain in his father’s voice. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he knew that his father was only trying to keep him safe. But he didn’t want to be safe.
He wanted to live. He wanted to breathe in the air on the battlefield, feel the pride run through his veins as he wore his clan’s tartan and know that his death would be honored if it was meant to happen.
James just had to figure out how to prove that he belonged with the warriors, and he had figured out the first step in doing so.
He was going to enter the games at the gathering and win them. When he did so, he would be honored by the clan and shown his worth to the laird. Then his father would have no choice but to do whatever James wished to appease Irvine and the clan.
It was a solid plan, and James planned on seeing it through.
After all, he had nothing more to lose at this point.
The next morning, he rode with the rest of his clan into the green pasture, breathing a sigh of relief that they had finally made it to their destination. It seemed that they were one of the few clans that had arrived thus far, and once they were shown to their spot, James dismounted with the rest of the men and women.
“Well,” Irvine announced, throwing his arms wide. “It seems that we have found our home for the next few days!”
There was a chorus of ayes at his announcement, and the clan moved to begin setting up their tents that would house the clan for the next few days.
“It will be a good gathering,” his father remarked as James pulled down his satchel. “And I am hoping for a good meeting with the Wallace clan.”
The negotiations. James had already forgotten about the true reason they had come.
“And if they dinnae?” he asked lightly, facing his father.
His father sighed, wiping his hand over his face. “I hope it wilnae come tae that, James. Battles, they only weaken a clan, not strengthen it. Taking another Scot’s life? That is only a hollow victory at best. ’Tis a vicious cycle.”
“But one that makes a point,” James argued, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. “’Tis how the land is run, Da. Not words.”
His father shook his head sadly. “Ye will see the land differently one day, James. Mark mah words.”
James walked off then, unsure of how to answer his father’s parting words. Perhaps one day, when he was older and wiser, but for now, he wanted nothing but to prove his worth.
These games and this gathering were the perfect opportunities for him to do so.