Chapter 19 #2
Hours crawled past. Eventually twilight descended.
Clouds obscured the rising moon and painted the sky with an ominous glower.
From the wall walk, Merraid watched the darkening woods, chewing on a fingernail.
One by one, the groups of trackers returned.
Their steps were downtrodden. Their shoulders slumped. Their faces sagged with disappointment.
“He’ll be fine,” came a soft voice beside her.
Merraid yelped and nearly jumped out of her surcoat. How long had Isabel been standing there?
“Och, sorry,” Isabel exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Merraid was more frightened by the fact she’d let her guard down. She gave a quick curtsey. “I suppose my mind was far away, m’lady.”
“Fretting over Gellir?” Isabel guessed.
Merraid frowned. “O’er…all o’ them.”
Isabel gave her a knowing glance. “But especially my brother.”
Merraid looked away. She couldn’t let Gellir’s little sister see the emotions on her face. After all, her feelings for Gellir were too strong. Inappropriate. Sinful. “Nay, m’lady.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “Why would ye think that?”
“I have a gift,” Isabel said with a shrug, twirling her blond braid around one finger. “I can see when there’s a bond between two people.”
“He’s my friend,” Merraid explained.
“Och aye. But he’s more than that, isn’t he?”
Merraid stiffened. “Nay, m’lady,” she lied, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as she spoke with vehement force. “Anythin’ more would be improper. He’s the heir o’ Rivenloch and Lady Carenza’s bridegroom. I’m only a maidservant.”
“I see.” Isabel nodded and leaned over the parapet, gazing into the distance. “Still, it may do your heart good to know he’ll be fine. My brother is strong and resilient. He knows Scotland like he knows his scars. And he’s guided by loyalty and honor.”
Isabel turned her lovely fair face toward Merraid then and gave her a sweet smile of sympathy and understanding.
Merraid’s return smile didn’t reach her eyes. Knowing Gellir was guided by loyalty and honor was not the reassurance Isabel thought it was. Indeed, Merraid suspected it was loyalty and honor that were going to get him into trouble.
On the second morn, a missive from Hew arrived in the hands of a breathless messenger.
Hew wrote that he had found Lady Carenza and wished to assure the Laird of Dunlop that she was safe and sound.
Merraid noted he carefully omitted any mention about returning her.
And if he stayed true to what he’d secretly declared in the armory, he didn’t mean to return her at all.
He intended to reunite the lady with her lover.
To Merraid’s dismay, there was still no word of Gellir.
And fretting over him left her so distracted—forgetting her duties, misplacing things, and pacing aimlessly across the great hall—that Feiyan ordered her to the tiltyard to work off her restless energy, tossing and catching a bag of chain mail.
Feiyan chose Gellir’s brother, Brand, to practice with her.
Brand could not have looked more displeased as he slogged onto the field. Notoriously obsessed with swordsmanship, he clearly thought doing such a menial exercise as tossing chain mail—with a lass, no less—was beneath him.
“If ’tis too heavy for ye, m’laird,” Merraid teased, “I can find somethin’ lighter. Perhaps a straw hat?”
Brand’s eyes closed to dull slits. Her mockery was not lost on him. “Not a bad suggestion, since I’m likely to toss such a light bag right o’er your head.”
Merraid smirked. He might resemble Gellir with his dark hair and grave demeanor, but this sullen, sulking braggart was nothing like his respectful and chivalrous brother.
She hefted the canvas bag of mail up to her chest and tossed it forward in a gentle arc.
He caught the bag and sent it back with a grumble.
She tossed it forward again, this time with a slightly more direct trajectory.
He grunted when he caught it and returned it with an arc that was so high, it fell short of her. By the satisfied narrowing of his eyes, she could see he’d done it on purpose, to make her pick it up.
“Is the distance too great for ye, m’laird?” she jested. “I could move closer.”
His lips thinned at the insult. “Stand where you will. It makes no difference to me.”
She retrieved the bag and threw it hard.
Surprised by the impact, he fell back a step. Then, humiliated, he returned the bag with a strength born of anger.
One of the secrets of Merraid’s training was using an opponent’s power against him.
This she did now. Rather than absorb the impact of his forceful throw, she stepped swiftly aside, catching the corner of the bag and letting the momentum spin her about.
When she swung back around, she released the bag toward him.
The immediate return gave him no time to brace for the impact. The bag hit him square in the chest, and he staggered back several steps.
She was prepared for his rage. She’d fought his kind before. Men who thought women were useless. Powerless. And when they were quickly disabused of that notion, they expressed their displeasure with violence.
So when Brand sneered and hurled the bag at her with all his might, she sidestepped it again and swung it back at him with the same force.
This time he was ready, but he still issued a grunt as the chain mail hit him in the belly.
They completed several more exchanges. Merraid dodged his aggressive throws and sent them back at him like a Greek discus. Brand clung stubbornly to his method of absorbing the force of her blows, and he hurled the bag back at her with ever-increasing anger.
To be honest, after a time, she grew bored and almost as irritated as Brand.
When he launched a particularly vehement throw, she stepped back and let it hit the ground.
“What do ye say we abandon this child’s play, m’laird?” she suggested. “Draw swords and engage in a real fight?”
His eyes glittered as if he relished her murder. But enough Rivenloch nobility flowed in his veins to give her a civil answer. He snorted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I doubt ye’ll be able to,” she replied, stepping atop the bag of chain mail and then hopping down as she drew her jian.
“Are you serious?” he scoffed. “I’m the brother of Scotland’s tournament champion.”
“And I’m the student o’ Darragh’s finest warrior.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “’Tisn’t saying much.” Nonetheless he drew his sword.
Merraid swept her elegant blade through the air and prepared to engage him. She was used to being underestimated. She might not be able to topple this up-and-coming second-best warrior in all of Scotland. But she could hold her own against him.
He motioned her forward. “Go ahead then, wench. Give it your best ef-”
She struck before he could even finish the word. Her light blade whistled through the air and sliced across his leather hauberd.
He staggered back in astonishment, frowning at the light diagonal scar she’d etched into the leather.
“Your turn, m’laird,” she said.
Still somewhat reluctant to engage her, he came at her with a slow and straightforward blow, one that was easy to turn aside.
She shook her head in disappointment. Then, distracting him with a flourish of her free hand, she thrust forward into the space between his flank and his arm. An inch to the left, and she would have thrust him through. Fortunately for Brand, her goal wasn’t to kill him. Just to wake him up.
He was alert now. Realizing she was a serious opponent, he reset his position and braced himself for real battle.
This time when he attacked, Merraid noticed something familiar in his fighting style.
The way he gripped his sword. How he lunged and thrust. The pattern of assault he used.
He’d obviously learned from his older brother.
Which did nothing to take her mind off of Gellir.
But also made Brand somewhat predictable.
She easily tossed away his first thrust.
Glowering, he cast aside her subsequent lunge.
Then he attempted a knee-high sweep, which she foiled by jumping over his blade.
She quickly returned with another scratch to his hauberk, parallel to the first.
Muttering an oath under his breath at his scarred leather, he sliced once through the air and then made a rapid X strike.
“Ye learned that trick from Gellir,” she remarked as she handily deflected the blows with the edge of her blade.
“And that’s Feiyan’s defense,” he retorted.
“I learned from the best.”
“You don’t know her mother,” he grumbled. “Or her mother’s teacher.”
His mention of the infamous Warrior Maids of Rivenloch suddenly made Merraid’s enthusiasm for their match disappear.
She would rather hear more about what it was like to grow up at Rivenloch.
So to put a quick end to the fight, she launched a rapid figure eight attack until he was backed against the tiltyard fence with nowhere to go.
Pressing the sharp tip of her jian against his throat, she came close to him and murmured, “Shall we stop before too many witnesses gather, m’laird?”
He growled and quickly scanned the practice yard. Pride convinced him he’d ruin his reputation by repeatedly losing to a maidservant. So he gave her a brusque nod. “As you wish.”
She didn’t move her sword. “I have one condition for your surrender.”
His brows slammed together. “Surrender?” he bit out.
“Fine,” she said, wondering how such a bigoted man could have grown up in a clan full of warrior maids. “We’ll call it our mutual decision to discontinue. But I still have a condition.”
“I won’t do your chores like Gellir,” he said with a frown, obviously having heard of his brother’s penance. “And I won’t be your pet. If you mean to make a fool of me, I’d rather have my throat slit.”
She rolled her eyes. What she’d heard about Brand’s hostility toward women hadn’t been an exaggeration. He didn’t exactly despise them. He just had little use or patience for them.
“Don’t worry, m’laird,” she said with a smirk. “I won’t make ye wear my dress or coo like a dove.”
He looked aghast.
She withdrew her weapon and slid it into its sheath. “I only wish to hear what ’twas like at Rivenloch, growin’ up in a clan o’ warrior maids with Gellir for an older brother.”
Brand was visibly relieved. Still, he sighed as he put away his sword and leaned against the fence. “There’s not much to tell,” he said, staring across the field. “Rivenloch is on the English border, so we’ve always been a warrior clan.”
“But your mother is the laird,” she said in awe. “She leads the clan and commands the warriors.”
He shrugged.
“And the Warrior Maids o’ Rivenloch… They’re legendary.”
His jaw tensed. “Och aye, I suppose.”
“I grew up on tales o’ their bravery. Everyone’s heard o’ them and—”
“And no one’s heard o’ the warrior lairds.” His mouth had a bitter twist.
She blinked. Was that the reason behind Brand’s harsh attitude toward women? Did he envy the warrior maids’ fame?
“But your brother…”
“Gellir has managed to make a name for himself,” he said tightly. “But he had to leave Rivenloch to get out from under the shadow of the Warrior Maids.”
Merraid leaned against the fence beside him and murmured, “He was invisible.”
“Aye.”
“As are ye.”
He nodded.
Merraid understood. A man in a clan of women warriors likely felt as out of place and useless as a maidservant who could hold her own with a sword.
“Tell me about your brother, m’laird,” she said.
“Gellir? He was my inspiration, growing up. He kept my fighting skills sharp. Taught me how to ride a horse. Wield a blade. Use a targe. Gave me this scar,” he said with a dry chuckle, pointing to a thin line across his cheekbone.
“Why do ye not go on the tournament circuit with him, m’laird?”
Her question hit a nerve. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’ve been commanded to remain at Rivenloch.”
“By the king?”
“By the laird.”
“Your mother?” Merraid scowled. Brand was the same age as she was. He was a noble and already a proper knight. Even she was allowed the freedom to leave the castle. She didn’t need the laird’s permission. “Why?”
“Because I’m next in line.”
“For the lairdship?” That seemed overly redundant. If Laird Deirdre died an untimely death, Hallie would presumably inherit the title. Gellir was next in line after Hallie. Brand was only a spare heir in the unlikely event that Deirdre, Hallie, and Gellir were killed prematurely.
“For marriage.”
Merraid’s brows shot up. “Marriage? God’s eyes! Has the king threatened to marry all the Rivenloch men to English brides?”
“He hasn’t actually threatened anyone. But better safe than…” He frowned. “Wait. Why would a maidservant know about that?”
“Gellir confided in me. We’re…friends.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Her breath caught. “Ye have?”
He shook his head. “My sister Isabel won’t leave it alone.”
“What did she say?”
“Some nonsense about a bond between you,” he said with a dubious roll of his eyes.
“Oh. Aye.”
“She also said you were worried on his account.”
“I suppose everyone’s worried on his account.”
“I’m not. And you needn’t worry either,” he said. “With a sword at his side, no one can conquer my brother. He’ll be bested by neither man nor beast.”
Merraid gave him a wan smile. Brand clearly admired his illustrious sibling.
But she wasn’t worried about men or beasts.
She was worried about a king whose will had been challenged.