Page 53 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

T here came three straight days of rain that halted all work in the yard and apparently drove MacNabh half to distraction with impatience. He came down to the bailey—such as it was—not once but several times and had intense conversations with Ardroch.

It did not take long to prize the truth of those conversations out of Ardroch, after. The men had become comfortable with Deathan by then. They all stood in a circle inside the stables and heard their captain out.

“The chief’s man has returned,” he shared with them. “The one he sent out to check on the king’s progress. The king is at Dundee and expected to arrive here within a sennight.”

That brought muttered exclamations. The yard and, indeed, the house wall were far from repaired or presentable.

“The chief says,” Ardroch went on, “if we work in the rain there will be an extra barrel o’ ale, and time off once the king is gone.”

So they worked in the rain, and a cold rain it was, as autumn had well moved in. And as any fool knew, autumn proved wet in Scotland.

When the rain intensified rather than eased up and it became evident the promised ale was not forthcoming, the men retired to the stables, where Deathan set out to both amuse and beguile them.

He did not consider himself a particularly charming sort of man. Back home, he’d been all duty, allowing Rohr the flash and glitter, resigning himself to picking up behind his brother.

But these men already favored him for his skill with a sword. They were bored and restless, and feeling let down by their chief. The flame was already lit. Deathan had only to fan it.

He set up a round of contests there in the stable beneath the relentless assault of the rain.

Men drew straws to see who would face whom, short straws always paired together.

Weapons were traded to keep things fair, and Deathan insisted it all be done in good fun with no blood drawn, save by pure accident.

And since he oversaw it, no one faced him. Yet.

He showed respect to all and encouragement to many, and the men became invested.

There were some fine blades among them, especially in MacNabh’s guard, and Ardroch himself proved formidable.

The winners of the first bouts faced each other in the next.

To Deathan’s satisfaction, Tighe—with whom he continued to work one on one—remained among them.

The men began to display some loyalty behind the lad. He was one of them, and yet he was something more. Deathan doubted a man there did not know the truth of the lad’s parentage.

In all, very little work got done as Deathan brewed a mild form of rebellion, and he was glad of it. Let the king see his old comrade in arms for what he was, when he arrived.

Every day that passed drew the visitation closer. And every day he worried about the vile horrors to which MacNabh might be subjecting Darlei. At night he dreamed of her—her in a trio of guises. But always her. Always the woman who inhabited his heart.

“Wha’ in hell is all this?”

The activity in the stable ceased when the call rang out, cutting through the crashing of rain on the roof that nearly drowned out the sounds of swordplay.

Two of MacNabh’s guards, half stripped off since they’d been wet when they came in, faced one another in the cleared, hay-strewn space. They had made their way by bout after perilous bout to the elite remaining few.

The ultimate winner of those bouts would face Deathan himself in a final contest, for naught more than the right to boast of it.

Now MacNabh himself stood in the open doorway, glowering hard enough to bring the roof down.

Ardroch whirled, no doubt feeling himself responsible for the activities as head of the guard.

“Chief MacNabh. ’Tis but a bit o’ sport to pass the time while it rains.”

“A bit o’ sport?” MacNabh stepped farther in, and his men melted away on both sides, giving him a straight path to the site of the combat. “’Tis that ye call it when there’s work to be done?”

“Chief, the men canna work in rain such as this. They did try. But we had to duck back in a wee while.” Indeed, outside the stable door the rain hammered down like a waterfall.

MacNabh stood soaked, his gray-black hair plastered to his head and shoulders.

“Ye eat my food,” he said scathingly, “and ye drink my ale.” There were a few shuffles at that. “But ye will no’ do my work?”

“Chief,” Ardroch said, far less certainly this time, “we ha’ been working. If ye doubt it, only look at our hands.”

True enough. Deathan’s own were so battered by handling stone, he could scarce grip his blade.

“Yet ye ha’ time and energy to play at champions, is that it?”

“Aye, Chief MacNabh.”

“Who has authorized this?” MacNabh snapped. “For I am damned certain I ha’ not.”

“’Twas my notion, Chief MacNabh.” Deathan stepped forward. If he wanted to win the hearts of these men and any part of their loyalty, he must make sure the blame fell on him.

MacNabh swiveled to face him. “Ye, again? Who d’ye think ye are, then? The king o’ the fairies? Some legendary warrior, mayhap?”

“Nay, Chief MacNabh. I just thought ’twould serve to lift spirits all around, since the men ha’ been working so hard and the ale that was promised did not appear—”

MacNabh moved so swiftly that Deathan barely had time to react. The chief landed a blow that felt as if it had come from a tree limb on Deathan’s left cheekbone. It swayed him where he stood, but did not knock him down.

Suddenly Deathan’s blade was in his hand. Not a conscious choice, but an instinctive one. He had wanted this confrontation. Longed for it. But it was supposed to take place inside the house, where he might catch a glimpse of Darlei.

Nay matter. He could kill MacNabh here as well as before Darlei’s eyes.

Anywhere.

Rage broke across MacNabh’s heavy features, a rage Deathan hoped against hope would push him beyond good sense. He needed MacNabh to be the aggressor. He needed to kill him in a fair, witnessed fight.

“Ye dare to draw upon me?” MacNabh seethed. “Yer chief?”

“In truth, ye are no’ my chief, are ye? Just a poor excuse for a man, a bully who thinks he has the favor o’ the king.”

There was a collective gasp, and men stepped away from Deathan.

“Ye insolent upstart,” MacNabh spat. “Throw him out!” He tossed the command in Ardroch’s direction. “I will ha’ him no more on my land.”

No one moved. Deathan had a blade in his hand, and they had all seen what he could do with it.

In a low voice, calm and insolent, he said, “Why d’ye no’ throw me off yousel’, Chief MacNabh, since ’tis your land?”

“Ye fool o’ an interloper.” MacNabh examined Deathan from his head to his feet—lean and work-hardened, with not a hint of weakness about him. “Why should I soil my hands wi’ ye?”

“Well,” Deathan said, “if ye be afraid to face a wandering upstart, wha’ can be said o’ ye? I think I will stay here where I am comfortable till there be a man among ye willing to chase me awa’.”

Further gasps and mutters followed the claim. MacNabh’s men could scarcely believe what they were hearing.

Neither could MacNabh. His eyes nearly bugged out from his face and an ugly sneer twisted his lips.

“Ye think I canna?” he demanded of Deathan. “Ye suppose I canna best ye, wi’ a sword? Why, I was taking men’s heads before ye were born.”

Deathan raised his blade. “Show me.”