Page 12 of The Lost Highland Prince (The Last Celtic King #1)

11

Chapter Eleven

"What do ye need?" Cailean asked as he returned to Fergus's side. He tried to put Mary out of his mind, especially the shock in her voice and the soft warmth in her eyes that had accompanied her last words to him. Fergus calling him over had been a relief; there was just something about the newest woman in the camp that made Cailean feel like he was less in control of himself than usual. Logically, he should be avoiding her, and yet instead he felt himself drawn to her over and over again.

He'd been observing her closely these last two weeks, and while she couldn't be called good by any means, she'd improved dramatically, though he could tell that Mary herself could not see it. He was actually very impressed by her efforts, and humbled, too; he couldn't remember the last time he had been so wrong about a person as he had been about Mary when he'd been reluctant to train her. He hadn't spoken to Senan about her yet, but he knew that when he did, his friend and mentor would serve him with I told ye so — and he'd be right.

Cailean felt a bit nervous about the idea he'd had for the afternoon, but he couldn't and wouldn't let himself focus on that right now. After all, though the session was done, the morning's extended training for the most dedicated of warriors was still to be completed.

Fergus looked up as Cailean spoke and nodded toward the men and women who were currently free-sparring while they waited for his next command. To his amazement, they had not defaulted back to what they were used to. They were all fighting with their non-dominant hands, each and every one of them, and more than that, they were doing everything on their non-dominant side. As he watched, left-handed Darren held out his right hand to help up an opponent. Young Dirk fought with his right hand tucked behind his back.

"What are they doin'?" Cailean asked, marveling at the sight before him.

"Followin' yer orders," Fergus replied. "Ye want us tae learn tae overcome our weaknesses? Then we're gonnae make them our strengths."

"But the session is over. Me orders dinnae stand the whole time," Cailean protested. "This is the time for their free sparrin'."

Fergus shrugged. "I'm goin' tae join them. Ye should stay here, though."

"Why?"

Fergus pointed, and Cailean turned to see Kier and Senan approaching, both watching the sparring matches intently. Fergus hurried off to join in, but Cailean remained where he was, knowing that the two councilmen would definitely have something to say.

"Lads, lassies, if ye drop yer swords anymore, ye're gonnae lose them," Senan called out to general laughter from the gathered fighters. "Did ye stick yer hands in the butter this mornin'?"

Kier let out a deep guffaw. "As if we can afford butter," he joked, though it wasn't far from the truth. “And leave them be, Senan. Let them fight like they're underwater if they want tae."

Cailean stood there, amused, watching as the mentors teased the trainees and the fighters lobbed back joking insults and comments in turn. It was one of the things he loved most about this place, this life he lived, this family that he had managed to gather around him. They were all like brothers and sisters, unafraid to jokingly tease one another, knowing that each of them had the back of all the others.

After some time, Kier said, "But it is a clever way tae cover their weaknesses, indeed," he mused. "Learn tae fight with yer weak hand, and in response ye'll have two strong."

"Clever indeed," Senan agreed. "And one that I try tae instill in them whenever I have a person one tae one, but they never listen tae me. I guess this old man doesnae ken what he's talkin' about with these young ones."

"That's nae true," Cailean responded automatically.

Both councilmen turned to look at him, both wearing identical knowing looks on their faces. Senan said, "All I see in front of me is a group of men and women trainin' in a way I couldnae make them when I tried, without any direct instruction. Tell me, how do ye think such a thing happened?"

"They're good fighters. They'd have worked it out eventually," Cailean replied with a shrug. "They're just takin' the initiative, the way that any good fighter would."

"Aye, from an idea ye gave them," Kier responded. "Dinnae try tae evade it. We heard what young Fergus was sayin' tae ye while we were makin' our way over here. This was yer initiative, aye?"

Cailean shrugged. "Aye, I suppose it was."

Kier smiled a little knowingly. "Aye," he said. "Aye. And look at them now. Nae bad for someone who's 'naebody special at all', eh?"

Feeling his own words from a while back thrown back at him, Cailean tried to hide the shock he felt in his heart. He wasn't sure he was ready to confront exactly why the men were following him so closely, or why his simple words seemed to have commanded such respect. Very few of them knew who he was, so why was it that they were now all sparring in a way that must cause him some discomfort? Was it just on his say-so?

For just a moment, Cailean saw through his own denial of leadership that he'd held so tightly for so long. He never wanted to be in charge, never wanted to embrace his bloodright or his destiny. He never wanted to believe that it was true. But… what if it was? What if he really was gifted, not by some divine right of kings but by something in his heritage that made him a leader?

No. He didn't want that. He shied away from the very idea, even as he was forced to acknowledge that he had already taken a leadership role, whether he wanted it or not. After all, was he not the person who ran the training every day? Was he not the one who issued commands and made sure that the warriors were on track?

He felt suddenly confused, unable to understand the conflicting emotions inside of him. Pushing them away, he simply said, "Ye're overreachin'. I'm just doin' me job, just as we all are. Each of us has a role tae play."

"Hm," Senan put in. "But what role is yers?"

* * *

Maeve sat on a stool outside the stable, her heart pounding with anticipation as she stared out over the horizon. The sun was starting to set — she had figured out that Cailean would want to meet her after afternoon training was done — and it was growing a little chilly. She wore a long, thick cloak and she pulled it tighter around herself, glad for the cold as it gave her a reason to keep her identity to herself should they leave the safety of the camp.

What could Cailean want with her? She'd been playing it over and over in her mind since the morning, but she'd been unable to come up with any good answer that made her feel satisfied. If he'd wanted to offer her one-on-one training, then surely he would have asked her to meet him at the training field, not the stables. If he wanted to scold her for some reason, then it was more likely that he'd have done so earlier, or simply avoided her. No matter what answer she came up with about why he might have called her there, she found another reason that this didn't make any sense.

At last, the large figure that was Cailean appeared over the slight hill, wearing a long, nondescript cloak that was very similar to her own. With a start, she realized that it was a traveling cloak. Were they going somewhere, then? The thought made her almost as excited as she was nervous; she hadn't left the camp since she arrived two weeks ago, and after a lifetime of being trapped in one place or another, her curiosity was on high alert. However, she was fully aware that she needed to lay low and keep herself anonymous. The Darachs would still be looking for her, so wherever Cailean took her, she'd need to be careful.

"Ye came," Cailean said as he reached her. "Good."'

He went inside the stable without saying anything else to her, and a few minutes later, he exited leading a dark horse by the reins. One of the stableboys followed, leading the white horse that Maeve had arrived upon.

Without a word, Maeve climbed into the saddle, and then with only a quiet thank you to the stableboy, they were off.

The two of them rode without talking for a while side-by-side, Maeve keeping pace with Cailean without understanding where they were going, just as she had when she'd ridden alongside Senan all those weeks. However, it soon became clear that they were traveling along the road that circled outside of Broken Windmill, and Maeve wondered if there was something on the other side of the village that awaited them.

"Are ye nae gonnae tell me where we're goin'?" she asked eventually.

Cailean glanced over at her. "Ye'll see soon enough. We just need tae go down the hills behind the village."

They kept going, and Maeve suddenly found herself feeling awkward. She had grown to like Cailean, or at least respect him, but she felt oddly tongue-tied now that she was alone with him. Despite their nice conversation the first day of training, and a few ever since, it felt odd to be outside of camp alone with him. It wasn't that she had nothing to say, it was more that when she said the words, she wanted them to be the right ones. The problem was that she had no idea what the right words could be.

After about ten minutes, Cailean indicated a large building with smoke rising from a chimney at the foot of a small hill. The two of them dismounted and, tying their horses to a waiting post, headed inside.

Maeve was immediately hit with a blast of heat. Around her, she saw weapons and horseshoes hanging from the wall, and she could smell the burning of a furnace nearby. This must be the village blacksmith, she realized; one of the few places in the village that was still making money, as the smithy supplied both the rebellion and any traveling merchants who sought to shoe their horses or peddle metalware.

The blacksmith himself was a burly man in his late fifties who reminded Maeve strongly of Senan, though unlike the warrior, the blacksmith was completely bald. The man approached from the back room as soon as they entered, and it was clear that he had seen Cailean here many times before.

"McManus," he greeted. "What can I do for ye? Who's the lass?"

"This is Mary, one of me fighters," Cailean introduced. Maeve felt a thrill at being referred to as such, even if she wasn't sure that she deserved the title yet. "Mary, this is Arthur McKenna, the blacksmith here in Broken Windmill. He's single-handedly keepin' both the village and the rebellion afloat."

"I'm doin' me best," Arthur replied with a shrug.

Maeve glanced around her. She didn't know much about metalwork, but she'd spent most of her life in castles, and glancing around at these weapons was enough for her to know that the blacksmith had exceptional skill. What was he doing out here in a village that was so poor it had almost fallen apart, rather than traveling down south to take his chances?

"Broken Windmill is me home," Arthur said gruffly, as though he had read her mind. "Me father was born here, and his father, and his father, and so was me son and me grandson, and, God willin', their sons and grandsons. The English may have robbed us of our money and our supplies, but they couldnae take our spirits. They couldnae take our homes."

"Is that why the village is supplyin' the rebellion?" Maeve asked, then bit her lip. She wasn't sure if she should be asking such questions so openly.

But Arthur gave her a small smile and a nod. "I heard the lost prince, the true king, stands amongst ye, or that at least yer council kens where and who he is. When the time comes for him tae retake his throne, then me family and me friends will have it kent that we supported every moment. We willnae kneel tae the False King, nae matter what."

Cailean had a strange expression on his face, but before Maeve could examine it further, he cleared his throat. "Arthur," he said, "I've come tae ye with a commission."

The older man's expression brightened. "Somethin' special, eh? Are ye lookin' for a fine sword for yerself, son? Or is old man Bruce after a replacement pommel for that weapon of his?"

"Nae for me, nor the council," Cailean said, shaking his head. He reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. Upon it, as Maeve saw when she craned her head to look, was a rough sketch of a long, narrow sword. "This was me idea. I want it narrow and agile, with a pommel built for a small hand. The focus should be on bein' quick, nae just hittin' hard."

The blacksmith tapped the drawing. "A fine idea. Ye'll need good quality materials for that; fine, light steel, nae the usual sort." He furrowed his brow. "It will be expensive tae get the materials together and make somethin' so intricate."

"Aye," Cailean agreed gravely. "I was worried about that."

Maeve stood there, stunned, as the realization of what was happening hit her. The sword… such a beautiful, fine sword, would be too small and delicate for most of the warriors who fought in the rebellion. There was one reason and one reason only that Cailean would have brought her with him, but it made no sense. Could this really be… was he really here to buy this sword for her?

"Cailean," she murmured, hoping that Arthur could not hear her. "I dinnae have the funds for such a thing."

"Hush," he told her. "Arthur, how much gold do ye think this weapon will cost?"

Arthur chewed on his thumb for a second in thought, then sighed, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, young McManus, but I cannae give ye this one as I have others in the past, nor take a pittance for it."

He named a number that made Maeve's eyes widen in shock, not because it was unfair but because she figured it would be enough gold to feed every family in the village for a couple of days.

"I understand," Cailean said without blinking. "But I need the sword. So…"

He reached into the deep inner pocket of his cloak and pulled something out, then held it out to Arthur.

Arthur swore, then immediately turned to Maeve and said, "Forgive me crudeness, lady." Then he turned back to Cailean, staring like he'd never seen him before.

"It's forgiven," she replied. "But… what…?"

She finally saw what was in Cailean's hand. Sitting offered on his palm was a small but hefty cloak pin, with a large emblem of a bird intricately designed in its center. Even at a glance, it was obvious that the thing had been created by a master craftsman, made of solid gold.

Maeve moved closer and examined the symbol. It was hard to tell exactly the kind of bird, but she suspected it was a capercaillie, the large bird with a feathered neck and impressive tail that was known as the horse of the woodland. Something vague stirred in her memory at the sight of the symbol, but it was quickly forgotten as Cailean said, "Will this be enough?"

Arthur's eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at the little pin. It was obvious to Maeve that his shock was not just about the physical worth of the jewelry, but whatever it was that the simple capercaillie represented.

"Is this…?" he asked hoarsely.

"I'll give it tae ye in exchange for the sword," Cailean said without flinching. "So long as ye agree tae melt it down at once."

"But…"

"That's the deal," Cailean insisted firmly. "The gold is yers, but the thing must be destroyed. It should be more than enough tae supply what ye need and leave some over for yerself."

"Aye, it should be." Arthur shook his head. "Well, well."

There was a very different expression on his face now, and his voice had become somewhat subdued. Maeve did not understand what had come over the man, but she had the very strong feeling that it wasn't just the value of the gold that was being offered to him. There was a significance here, a real history that, while Maeve might not understand, obviously meant something very important.

"So ye'll do it?" Cailean asked. "Ye'll make the sword?"

"It's for her?" Arthur asked, glancing at Maeve again. He appraised her with an artist's eye, then nodded. "Come, lass. Let's get some measurements, and I'll make it perfect for ye."

Maeve barely understood what was happening, but she obeyed Arthur's orders. While he measured the length of her arm and her height, she could not help but wonder why she was here and what on earth was going on. Why would Cailean do this for her? What had she done that caused this to happen?

When Arthur was done, they followed him into the back room, and Cailean watched like a hawk while the blacksmith melted the pin down. Only when the jewel was completely destroyed did Cailean look satisfied and nod.

"How long?" he asked as they headed back toward the exit.

"Two days," the blacksmith promised. He turned to Maeve and said, "And it will change yer life, Miss. Ye have me word."