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Duncan rubbed the back of his neck vigorously. “Ye cannae blame a man fer being attached to his head.”

Gavin grinned. “Nay, ye cannae.”

“But will the others doubt yer loyalty to the cause with an English widow and her son under yer protection?” Duncan asked.

Gavin’s jaw hardened. He never expected his cousins, nor his most trusted and experienced men, to follow him blindly and thus encouraged them to speak their minds. At times it could be an annoyance, but more often than not Gavin felt it kept him honest.

“I owe Lady Fiona a debt of honor,” Gavin said. “When we sought sanctuary on her land, it was given.”

“The debt was owed to her husband,” Duncan countered.

Gavin tilted his head. “Have ye never wondered if Baron Arundel’s death was due in part to the aid he offered us?”

Duncan frowned as he weighed the notion in his mind. “’Tis possible.”

“’Tis more than possible.” Gavin looked Duncan straight in the eye. “We will aid her and her son. The McLendons pay their debts. Always.”

Duncan nodded, though he didn’t look completely convinced. Still, Gavin knew that would be the end of the discussion about Lady Fiona. He allowed those close to him whom he trusted to freely express their concerns, but he made the final decisions. And to a man, they abided by them. While they might disagree, they knew Gavin always put the welfare of the clan before his own.

Gavin exited the hall, Duncan at his side. They crossed the bailey and headed toward the practice field, but detoured first at the smithy.

The heat struck full force the moment they entered the stone building. The forge glowed a fiery red as two heavily muscled smithies pounded metal into weapons, the tandem clanking and clattering noise nearly deafening.

Upon spying Gavin, one of the smiths paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. “We’re working as fast as we can, milord.”

“Aye. I can see that ye’ve made progress.” Gavin ambled closer and lifted a chain mail coif off the workbench, pleased with how tightly the links were forged. Few of his men wore them into battle, but he knew if he could convince them to use it, the mail could offer some much-needed protection.

“I copied it as closely as I could,” the smith said.

“’Tis fine work,” Gavin assured him.

“I dinnae know why ye are wasting the time and metal to fashion these,” Duncan said, bending close to get a better look at the piece.

“It could protect yer thick skull,” Gavin said bluntly.

“A well-placed arrowhead can pierce any mail, no matter how fine the links.” Duncan picked up a two-handed long sword and swung it in a wide arc. “This is all that I need to fend off the enemy.”

The smith grinned, then shifted back on his heels and ducked to avoid the menacing path of Duncan’s sword.

“Nevertheless, I want the coifs made,” Gavin instructed. “Helmets, too.”

Duncan shrugged. “We need more battle-axes and arming swords. A sharp, double-edged blade is best fer cutting and thrusting.”

“I’ve a pile of those over here,” the smith said.

Gavin moved to inspect the swords, pleased with the result. There was a good number of them and they were each finely crafted and well balanced.

“Have one of the men take these into the armory, and then count all our weaponry,” Gavin ordered.

“Everything?” Duncan asked.

“Aye. Swords, pikes, war hammers, spiked targes, daggers, bows, arrows, all of it.”

“Expecting trouble, milord?” the smith asked.

“Always,” Gavin replied.

Duncan grinned, but the smith nodded solemnly. Gavin appreciated the man’s understanding of how serious a position they were in—being prepared for war was most assuredly the only way to win it.