Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
It hurt when he woke in the morning to leave Christopher behind, but Murdoch had been reborn from necessity, and he had no time to abandon it to sentiment now.
He woke early and, after persuading his door guards to escort him, headed down to the stables where, to his relief, Beatha was sleeping quietly in her stall, hale and whole with fresh water and hay provided.
He didn't wake her but centered himself in his peace by watching her for a few minutes before heading back toward the main castle.
When he reached the courtyard, he heard the sounds of training nearby.
He turned sharply away from it, not wanting to think about the hours spent sparring with Arran, being challenged to shooting competitions with Elsie, or teaching Cassie the basics of self-defense.
He wanted to avoid the memories of Lachlan patiently helping him work on his balance and Aila showing him new ways to dodge and weave and avoid a blow, even with his lanky frame.
But before he could get far, another guard spotted him and his two companions and came hurrying over.
"We've been lookin' for ye," the guard said, suspicion and intrigue clear in his tone. His expression shone with unabashed, open curiosity as he studied Murdoch. "Ian wants ye in the trainin' yard. Come with me."
Murdoch didn't bother to question or object, though his stomach lurched as he followed the guard back in the very direction he'd been trying to avoid.
His door guards, apparently satisfied, left him, though he knew they'd soon return.
He reached for the ice from yesterday, though the day was warmer and the snow on the ground was melting, and was glad to find that it responded to his summons.
He had always been better at hiding his emotions than Elsie or Arran, always more aware of the dangers of the streets and the risks he was taking to let his feelings show.
Even all those years ago, Arran was a leader, and Elsie was their spirit, but the boy who had been Christopher had been masked, silent and watchful until he was sure they were safe.
Now, Murdoch wondered if he was ever not wearing a mask.
When he entered the training yard, he was startled and impressed by the sight he beheld.
Ian was sparring with a burly guard, moving like lightning as they fought.
It wasn't like watching the graceful art of Arran or Elsie as they fought, but rather a brutal, violent clash that seemed to personify war.
Ian was merciless, beating down the guard in moments, sparing no force until the guard conceded and admitted his defeat.
Smirking, Ian helped the man up and turned, at last, to catch sight of Murdoch.
"Ah. He's here. Come forward, Murdoch," Ian commanded, the emphasis on the name a little too strong for Murdoch's liking. "Ye came here with a sword, and I had me men bring it here. I wouldnae have ye unarmed. In fact, I'd quite like tae see what ye can do with the thing."
Murdoch looked around the courtyard and saw several strong-looking guards watching, intimidating and bulky with expressions like stone.
It was clear what kind of men Alistair preferred for his guard.
Sitting on a wooden bench on the sidelines was the man himself, along with Robert Caindach and his lovely daughter.
Murdoch avoided meeting her gaze, knowing she must hate him for how he'd spoken to her the night before and also knowing he didn't have time to be thinking about such things. He turned his attention back to Ian and nodded.
"What would ye have me do?" he asked.
He was competent enough in swordplay, though Arran had always outfought him.
His skill with a bow was decent, too, though none of them could outmatch Elsie.
Murdoch had always preferred to train with a polearm like a Lochaber axe, but his favorite weapon of all was a simple dirk, the wicked little two-bladed knife that was subtle until the moment it was deadly.
He knew that the men had not found his dirk, hidden as it had been in the secret compartment of Beatha's saddle.
"Fight," Ian said simply. "Show us what ye can do. Use yer sword if ye like, or any of the weapons ye can see. Impress us. Show us ye really carry our blood."
Murdoch heard the challenge in his tone and knew he must rise to it.
He nodded stiffly and headed over to the weapon rack, surveying his options.
His own sword was there, but he had very little attachment to it, and he passed over it quickly.
Instead, he reached for one of the long, heavy, blunted polearms.
"I dinnae want tae kill yer men," he informed Ian.
Ian grinned and moved to sit next to his father. He nodded to one of the men, a large, bald guard with a glint in his eye, who moved forward and grabbed a polearm of his own.
"This is Kier. Have fun."
There was a pause as the competitors took to the center.
Murdoch felt eyes on him, and when he glanced over, he saw that Morag was staring at him.
He wanted to ignore her, but something about her kept drawing his attention, to the point that when Kier suddenly launched himself at Murdoch with a roar, it was almost over there and then.
Snapping his attention back quickly, Murdoch dodged, raising his polearm to block a heavy blow.
The battle began in earnest, but though Murdoch fought expertly, he could not shake the feeling of Morag's eyes upon him.
Kier swung at him and Murdoch cursed, blocking the hit again.
They were blunted, but these weapons could still be deadly with such force behind them. He needed to get himself together.
He pushed back, summoning his strength, and fixed his footing.
Suddenly, he was no longer on the defensive, instead wielding his polearm as easily as a swordsman danced with his sword.
With Kier on the backfoot, it only took moments before Murdoch was able to push him down to the ground, the weight of the heavy pole pressing into the downed man's chest.
"Yield?" he asked.
Kier grinned. "Aye," he agreed, then accepted Murdoch's help to his feet.
Morag was still watching when Murdoch glanced back at the bench. He met her eyes only briefly, and those green irises flashed with something that shot directly into Murdoch's veins. His pulse responded, racing erratically in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of his fight.
It took some effort, but he finally tore his eyes away from the girl and looked to Ian, who, for some reason, was frowning. Next to him, Alistair's expression was unfathomable except for a keen, greedy curiosity that glistened in his gaze.
"Good," Ian said, though he didn't sound pleased about it. "Now, Macbain. Yer turn. And both of ye—dinnae be so gentle. Dinnae be afraid tae draw blood."
Macbain stepped forward, a short but stout man with a dark look in his eye and no smile to speak of. He held his own polearm tightly, and before Murdoch even had a moment to prepare, he attacked.
The first blow of Macbain's weapon burned like fire, slamming into Murdoch's side and knocking the wind from him. Murdoch rolled to avoid a second blow, cursing; Kier had come to spar, but Macbain, it seemed, was taking his master's orders seriously.
Murdoch grabbed his weapon from where it had fallen and swiped it low toward Macbain's legs, disrupting his opponent's balance just enough to scramble back to his feet. Murdoch gripped his weapon tighter and quickly analyzed his options.
He knew that Morag was still watching him, and he was filled with a sudden mad urge not to let her see him fall.
Worse, reality struck him hard, and he remembered that Alistair, and indeed Ian, were examining him too.
Morag aside, there was no way he could risk being weak in front of the laird. It would ruin everything.
His moment of hesitation cost him, and Macbain regained his balance and charged again. Cursing, Murdoch was back on the defense, being pushed back in the field as he fought fiercely to avoid any more of the punishing blows.
But then, at last, he saw his opening. Macbain's smugness shone through, and in this smugness, the warrior glanced toward his laird and captain for approval.
Murdoch took that moment to strike without hesitation, thrusting the polearm fiercely toward Macbain's chest, feeling the shake of impact as the blunt pole connected with his ribs.
Macbain roared in pain, but Murdoch did not let up, thrusting the polearm once more, then sweeping it behind Macbain's knees and causing the guard to fall face-first to the ground.
"I win," he said quietly as several of the onlookers broke out in cheers.
Macbain knocked away Murdoch's offered hands and scrambled to his feet, storming away in fury, the black stormcloud nearly visible around his head. The cheering died down then stopped abruptly as Ian got back to his feet.
The Laird's son was wearing a definite frown on his face now, the crease in his brow as sharp as the look in his eyes.
"My turn," Ian said quietly.
That was the only warning Murdoch got before Ian was upon him.
Before Murdoch could even lift his polearm, Ian had launched forward with his sword—not a blunted training sword, either, but a huge two-handed broadsword with an edge that shone wickedly against the ice on the ground.
Ian swung the heavy sword with such force that Murdoch, only barely managing to lift his polearm in defense, heard the wood crack beneath it.
The crowd gasped as the polearm splintered, and Ian was temporarily stalled.
Cursing, Murdoch released his now-useless weapon and dove out of the way as Ian regained composure and made another heavy cut with the sword.
He almost yelled at Ian to demand whether the Laird's son was trying to kill him but bit his tongue.
He was being tested, and he knew it—and he would not fail now.