Page 34 of The Bells of Triumph (Highlands’ Lost Valley #3)

CHAPTER TWO

“ W e cannae put up with this for much longer. It is a disgrace to our clansmen to suffer the way they have been. Women and children are going hungry. We are fighting for our verra lives here..”

“Ye think I dinnae ken this? Ye think I am nae doing everything in my power to make sure that does nae happen?”

“Laird, if I may suggest…”

Ciaran let his eyes dart from man to man as the conversation continued on. It was the same one they had been having since the time he was first let into these private meetings last year. There was always someone hungry, some road that needed fixing, some dispute that needed solving. It was hard to stay interested in the conversation when it was the same thing over and over again. He only wished that they sat around debating like this a little less and started taking action a little sooner.

It was an odd group of men, to say the least. The council was mostly made up of some of the oldest members of the clan and those who held the most prestigious positions, with a few exceptions, him being one of them.

Every other man here had been a Captain of the Guard, a chieftain, a healer, or played some other important role in the clan's history. Ciaran was here only because of his father, who spoke now.

“I think yer plan is wise, Laird. If we are to defeat our enemies, we will need all of the allies we can find. We must ensure that our clan is well taken care of before anything else.”

James Barland spoke with such gravitas that everyone stopped to listen. As the Laird’s former chieftain and one of his most trusted advisors, the words of his father did not go ignored. Though Ciaran knew little of the enemies the rest of the men were discussing, he found himself nodding along with whatever his father was saying.

His father’s skills as a warrior were legendary. He alone had won the clan many battles. James was known for his cunning strategies and unwavering discipline, especially when training the next generation of warriors.

Ciaran had had the benefit of being taught under James’ tutelage from the ripe age of five. The man had raised him as his own son, though they both knew differently. The entire clan did.

Twenty years ago, on the afternoon when James rode into town with a dark-haired, scrawny boy wrapped in bandages, declaring the child as his own, no one questioned it. Laird Stuart saw to it that Ciaran was treated as a blood son of his chieftain. Ciaran went from having two siblings to having a house with two brothers, a sister, and a father to show him how to wield a sword. He made sure that he never missed a single lesson.

Despite a lifetime of gratitude for James’ bravery on that fateful day, Ciaran never managed to get rid of the guilt he felt for all that he left behind in that burning house. At only five years old and more than a little shaken up, no one had expected Ciaran to remember much of anything of his past. But he remembered enough to know that his life here was better than anything he would have ever gotten without that fire. If the cost of that life was silence, then that’s what he would give.

Ciaran shifted in his chair, angling his shoulders a bit more towards the man he called his father. James had light brown hair that looked nothing like his own dark black hair. The lower half of his face was shrouded behind a thick beard, but the rest of his skin carried faded pink scars and deep lines of thought and worry and laughter. His nose had a bump in the ridge from the many times it had been broken before. And when he wasn’t so serious, his smile lit up his face into something warm and inviting.

“Enough,” the Laird said, silencing the bickering between the council members.

The single word drew Ciaran’s attention away from his father’s face and from his past and back to the moment at hand. He was in this room as a way to learn and develop as a warrior, not drift off thinking of his childhood. With a mental shake, Ciaran shifted again and focused on Laird Stuart.

“We will accomplish nothing by arguing with each other on empty stomachs. Ye are all dismissed. Go, break yer fasts, see to yer duties. We will reconvene this afternoon.”

One by one, the men filed out of the room, ambling off to do as their Laird commanded. Ciaran followed his father out, noticing the inches he had grown on his father in the past year. The older man no longer seemed as formidable, or as invincible as he once did. Perhaps it was the streaks of gray through his beard or the slight curve to the set of his shoulders. Perhaps it was Ciaran’s own growth and the way he felt more like a man each day. Regardless, there was nothing James could do to make Ciaran lose respect for the man. He had seen firsthand what it was like to live with a cruel one, and James was anything but.

“Happy birthday, lad,” James said to him once they were in the hall alone.

“Thank ye, Da.”

Ciaran threw his arms around his father’s neck and squeezed tightly. After a long moment, his father slapped him on the back and pulled back with a proud smile.

“Well, what is it ye have planned for yer next year of life? Find a lass and settle down? Ye ken that would make yer mother so verra happy.”

Ciaran laughed at his father’s teasing, not at all miffed by the question. It was the same conversation they’d had every year since his twentieth birthday and that was five years ago.

“Och, I dinnae ken. Nay lass has caught my eye. I am sure one of these days one will and I will make Mother verra happy. For now, I intend to cherish the gift ye gave me all those years ago.” He paused, his smile dropping into something a bit more somber. “I cannae thank ye enough for what ye did for me that day twenty years ago. Ye saved my life and I hope to spend the rest of it makin’ ye proud.”

James shuffled on his feet, uncomfortable by Ciaran’s annual speech of gratitude.

“Och, Ciaran. Ye dinnae have to keep saying these things. Besides, ye have already made me a verra proud man. Ye were the piece of my family I did nae ken was missing.”

Ciaran nudged his father’s shoulder, unsure of what to say.

“Anyway,” his father continued on, “yer mother has made a cake and I invited yer siblings over tonight for dinner. We are all excited to celebrate the day ye came to our family.”

“I will be there as soon as I am finished training, Da.”

Ciaran offered up a smile before shaking his father’s hand. The men parted ways—his father off in search of his mother so they could eat together, while Ciaran found his way out of the castle and to the training field.

The morning sun was warm on his face, though the chill from the night before was not entirely vanquished. It mattered little; as soon as he started to drill with the other guards, he was sure to work up a sweat. It was the time of day he enjoyed the most. Though his father had been training him since he was a child, it was only in recent years that he was allowed to train with the rest of the guards. It was his hope that he would be able to soon become a guard and perhaps work his way up the chain of command, as his father had done. After everything James and the Stuart clan had given him, he wished for nothing more than to repay his debt with a lifetime of service and protection.

“Alright men, gather ‘round.” Leith, the Captain of the Guard, strode onto the training field confidently, his sword swinging by his side. “Today we will be working with partners on yer sword skill. So pair up. I want ye all to decide amongst yourselves who will be attackin’ and who will be defendin’. Until I call it, focus on nothing but yer role. Then ye will switch roles. After ye have had a turn attackin’ and defendin’ with yer partner, find a new one. Aye?”

A chorus of agreement went out through the crowd of guards before they all hustled off to find their partner. They had only gotten through two and a half rounds before they were interrupted.

“Looks like ye are making these men into warriors, Leith,” Laird Stuart complimented.

The Captain of the Guard had been weaving in and out of the duels, correcting forms and giving feedback when the Laird had approached. Ciaran panted from exertion, grateful for the reprieve, though he was curious as to what it was the man held in his hand.

“That is the goal, Laird,” Leith quipped back, pushing through the guards to stand in front of the man. “Is there something I can do for ye?”

“Aye. I have been thinking that our numbers are starting to look a little thin for my liking. I ken ye have been working with some of the lads who are nae yet guards, but I do think it is time that one of them was promoted. I have seen enough of his skill to ken that he is more than ready.”

Ciaran wiped his brow of sweat, trying to not get too excited. There were a handful of other young men like him who had been training with the guard in hopes of joining it one day. Though none of the others had worked as long as he had with the men nor were they as skilled as he was.

“Barland,” the Laird called out.

It took Ciaran a moment for it to register that the Laird was not summoning his father or any of his siblings. Laird Stuart was calling out for him.

Someone nudged his shoulder, sending his feet moving. Ciaran shuffled to the front, still not believing what was happening.

“Ye have earned this, Ciaran. Welcome to the Stuart Guard.”

He shook Laird Stuart’s hand before taking the offered broach that identified him as a guard.

“Thank ye, Laird. I will nae let ye down.”

Ciaran meant every word as he spoke them. As close as his father and the Laird were, Ciaran had come to see the man as more than just the clan leader but as a secondary father figure, one he did not want to disappoint.

Laird Stuart clapped him on the shoulder before leaning in.

“Happy birthday, lad.”

When the man pulled back, he gave Ciaran a cheeky grin and a wink before pushing him toward the guard tower.

“Now, go put on yer uniform and finish the training as a true guard.”

Ciaran gave a quick bow of his head before rushing off of the training field. With the broach in his hand, he thought about how excited he was to tell his family tonight at dinner. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his father’s face when he walked in wearing his uniform.

The thought made him move a little faster. The tower was just past the gardens which were normally empty at this time of day, but when he jogged by, he noticed a dusty blue dress and hair the color of straw gleaming in the sunlight. It made him slow down just enough to realize that it was Elsie, the Laird’s daughter.

Despite spending most of his childhood in the castle, by his father’s side, one might think that he would have run into the girl before. But, as she was demonstrating now, she spent most of her time with her nose too deep in a book for him to even say hello. The only unusual thing about it was that she was outside at all.

Shrugging, Ciaran raced on to the guard tower. The Laird had already sent word of his acceptance into the guard so his uniform was already waiting for him. He changed quickly, not wanting to miss a minute more of training. The gold brocade and buttons glinted on his chest; he stood a little taller, his chest out a little further in the jacket. His plaid was still pleated around his middle and his sword still hung in its sheath off his hip, but now he had an added strap of weapons across his back that included a dirk with the Stuart clan insignia.

Ciaran left the tower and passed back by the garden. The newly pinned metal on his jacket clinked as he walked, earning him a glance from Elsie. She peered up over the edge of her book, though he didn’t catch her gaze until he had already almost entirely passed her. The few times he had been able to look at her, he was always caught off guard by her beauty. She was a petite woman with facial features to match; they made her look angelic, especially in the glow of the midday sun.

But Ciaran didn’t have time to stop and admire the beautiful girl. It was his first day as a member of the guard and he wanted to savour every moment.

As soon as he stepped back onto the field, a cheer went up. The rest of the men greeted him with smiles, head nods, and the occasional pat on the back. He couldn’t have kept the grin off of his face even if he tried. The only thing that might have made it better was if his father and brothers had been here to see him.

“Och, my son. Ye are going to make yer mother cry when she sees ye tonight.”

Ciaran spun around to find his father and two brothers behind him. They surged forward, surrounding him in a hug.

“Aye, ye are a handsome devil,” Flynn complimented.

“But dinnae get it in yer head that ye are more handsome than me,” George retorted with a mischievous grin.

They laughed together as their father knocked the backs of their heads. He sighed loudly as he adjusted the collar of Ciaran’s jacket.

“Ye dinnae ken the relief I have now. All of my children have found their way in this world. I can finally rest.”

Ciaran opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the Captain of the Guard calling for him.

“It is tradition that on a guard’s first day, he is challenged by the best warrior,” Leith explained. “So, draw yer sword.”

Ciaran did as he was told while the other men formed a tightly packed circle around the two of them. Though he had trained under Leith for years, he felt as though he was looking at the man for the first time.

At only thirty years old, Leith was young for already being made Captain. And there was no false sense of pride when he declared himself the best warrior in the clan. That was a well-known fact. He had the look of a seasoned warrior with his short, hazel hair and sinewy muscle. Scars marred several places of his skin, some across his arm, one on the side of his neck, and a faint one on his forehead.

Before Leith so much as drew his weapon, Ciaran knew he had the odds stacked against him. Not only was Leith a better swordsman, but Ciaran had already been training for several hours this morning while Leith was fresh.

Regardless, when Leith made the first move to attack, Ciaran didn’t hold back. He knew this battle was not about winning but rather to show his skill. He poured everything he could into each attack and evasion, hoping to prove just how much he had learned over the years.

It did not take him long to realise how outmatched he was. Though Ciaran was stronger and a bit faster than the Captain, Leith thought more as they fought whereas Ciaran was relying on instinct and muscle.

Shouts from the men around them pushed him further. He could hear his father and brothers calling his name, rooting for him, though they all knew he was fighting a losing battle.

A streak of blue caught the corner of his eye and Leith took advantage of his momentary distraction. With a quick flick of his wrist, Leith sent Ciaran’s sword flying out of his hand. Ciaran heaved in as much air as he could, his lungs burning.

“Ye should ken better than to let yerself get distracted in a fight,” Leith called out, giving Ciaran some distance.

Ciaran ignored the man, refusing to be baited. Instead, he eyed the makeshift fighting ring for his options before deciding to launch himself in the direction of his weapon. He had hoped he moved fast enough to dodge any further attacks from Leith before he had armed himself again, but he had no such luck. Leith had been anticipating the move and threw out his foot, tripping Ciaran on his way down.

Landing with a hard thud, all of Ciaran’s breath wooshed out of his lungs. With a face full of grass, Ciaran could feel the tip of Leith’s sword pressed against his back.

“Ye have a dirk strapped to yer chest. Next time, use it instead of makin’ yerself more vulnerable.”

Leith softened the blow of the defeat and instruction by offering Ciaran a hand up. Ciaran took it, dusting himself off good-naturedly. Everyone was well aware that a guard’s first fight was not to get a victory, but to learn humility. Even with a lifetime of training under his father, he still had much to learn as a warrior.

Before he knew it, his brothers were back by his side, needling him while the rest of the guards were chatting about their experience in their first duel. He tried to listen and heed their advice, but their words floated over him as he watched a girl with long blonde hair in a blue dress and a book tucked under her arm walk away.