A Warrior's Heart Read online

  “Except for that one. Does he ever cease? Jesu, no wonder the lad is so slight. He is not still long enough for any bulk to find purchase,” Sean amended as if sensing the direction of Roran’s thoughts, mopping up the remains of his stew with a chunk of bread.

  As if on cue, Roran’s squire appeared before them with questioning eyes. Since Roran was seated upon the ground at the time, the boy knelt respectfully so that he would not be looking down upon his master. Roran had to admit, he was a bit unnerved by the lad’s servitude.

  “Nothing else for now,” Roran answered in answer to his squire’s unspoken question. “Get yourself something to eat.” The boy bowed his head and then was off like a shot. Instead of heading for the remains of the meal as expected, however, the boy disappeared into the shadows of the meager forest.

  “Where is he going, do you suppose?” Sean mused. “He must be famished.”

  Roran wondered the same thing, but said nothing. The boy had surpassed his expectations thus far. It was obvious that the other boys did not favor him, though. Perhaps it was merely because of his small stature or his lack of voice. Or maybe they resented him because he did not seem to tire as they did, or to be as affected by the heat. In any event, Roran would not begrudge the boy a few moments to himself.

  *

  Brighid crept silently as far into the wood as she dared. If she failed to relieve herself soon she feared she would burst at the seams. If she hurried, she could do so and manage a quick wash in the stream before anyone else had the same idea.

  Jesu, she was tired. And hot. And hungry. But none of those things were new to her. She had spent the better part of her life struggling for survival and it no longer gnawed at her as it once did. As situations went, this one was not so bad.

  The other recruits did not like her, but that was fine with her. She had neither the desire nor the need for them. Being an outcast, being shunned, worked to her advantage. It would keep them from getting too close or asking too many questions, neither of which she could afford if she wished to make it to Scamallhaven without revealing her great secret.

  And Sir Roran seemed a decent sort of fellow, really. Strong and handsome as he was quiet, Brighid sensed instinctively that he was an honorable and fair man. There were much worse things than being in service to a warrior-knight such as he, and she was far safer hiding in his shadow than anywhere else on her own.

  She quickly stripped down to her braies and waded into the creek to wash off the worst of the sweat and grime, then re-fastened her bindings, pulling them nice and tight. She might have been petite by nature, but the generous swell of her breasts and hips was hard to hide. At nearly nineteen summers, her womanhood was in full bloom. Definitely not something she wanted to reveal to a camp full of men and randy lads, no matter how honorable she thought Sir Roran to be. Males were still males, rutting fools from the very moment their voices deepened and their smooth skin began to roughen with growth.

  Aye, it was better to be the lad they all scorned, the focus of their constant taunts and stares. She had no doubt they had been looking for an opportunity to catch her on her own and do more than spew their contempt with only words. Given the looks in some of their eyes, they wished to drive home their disdain with a few well-placed fists and feet as well. Brighid shivered at the thought and hastened to finish quickly before her absence was discovered.

  Even as she pulled up her braies she heard their voices sounding closer with each moment. Brighid shook as much dirt from her clothes as she could and scrambled back into them. With years of experience behind her, she nimbly slipped up into the branches of the nearest tree before anyone could discover her secrets.

  “I’m sure he came this way,” one boy’s voice said as several pairs of feet moved noisily through the brush. The one called Kieran, she thought. A braw lad, with hair the color of flame and a great rash of freckles about his nose. Brighid allowed herself a rare smile. As superior as they thought they were, they didn’t know the first thing about stealth as they spoke in loud whispers and stomped about like a great herd of cattle. Then again, they probably hadn’t had to steal for survival like she had.

  “We’ll find him,” said another, “and we’ll teach the little bastard a lesson or two about making us look bad.” That was Ian, the lean, wiry one that seemed to have become Kieran’s shadow.

  “Ye risk the wrath of Sir Roran,” someone warned. At least one of them had a working brain bigger than the size of his fist, Brighid thought wryly as she reached down into her deep pockets.

  “Shut it, Cam, and keep yer eyes open.”

  *

  “Methinks your squire is the target of an ambush,” Sean noted calmly, as he saw yet another form slink off into the darkness.

  “Aye.” Roran had been watching them disappear one by one a few scant minutes after his squire had. He’d heard the muttered whispers and taunts throughout the day; it had been impossible not to, though thus far he had not acknowledged it. He found it quite useful to watch and listen, for he’d found that to be the best way to get a good measure of the young men who were now his responsibility. Their behavior would serve as an indication of who would become the leaders, who were the thinkers, who were the natural followers.

  It always helped, he thought, to have the proper measure of another, no matter the age or the gender. Such knowledge allowed him to subtly change his approach to achieve maximum results with an economy of effort.

  Not all men were the same; some required quite different handling than others. While one might respond best to a firm hand and a loud voice, there were others who needed to understand the how and why of a thing before fully embracing it. It was those that Roran respected the most, who proved to be the best of knights – those who acted with definite purpose and knowledge, rather than those who simply chose to blindly follow orders, although those men served a purpose as well.

  With the exception of his squire, these lads offered little challenge. Kieran, the biggest, was also the cockiest. The boy responded to strength; he would be best tempered by a mighty hand. Ian, Kieran’s self-appointed sidekick, would do the same. Cameron, however, seemed a boy likely to consider all sides of an issue before choosing one. Rhys had a sharp, silver tongue and a quick wit to go along with a disarming smile. The other two – Lachlan and Simon – were a bit harder to read. Quieter than the others, they were the only two who remained at the campfire, though the nervous looks they kept shooting toward the tree line suggested they were aware of what was going on and were not quite comfortable with it.

  “Well?” Sean asked. “Are you going to put a stop to it?”

  Roran exhaled. He had been wondering the very thing himself. If he went to the boy’s aid too soon, it would only embarrass him and set him even lower in the eyes of his peers. His squire had been the subject of muttered taunts and jibes thus far throughout the journey; he had become something upon which the others could focus their complaints. Mute as he was, he could not answer them audibly, though Roran wasn’t certain he would even if he could.

  The lad hadn’t seemed to be affected at all, acting as if he was as deaf as he was mute. Roran respected the boy’s fortitude upon the road, but how fair were the odds of at least four bigger, stronger lads united against one incapable of even calling out for aid?

  He did not have a chance to think upon it for long, however.

  “Jesu! What the devil?” Sean said as the first shout came from the forest. It was followed by more in short succession. Before several minutes had passed, the four who had snuck into the woods earlier suddenly came dashing from the trees back toward the fire, nursing small injuries to their heads and faces.

  “No,” Roran said, leaning back and hiding his smile. “I don’t think I will.”

  Later, when they had settled around the fire, the sound of snoring rose above the crackling embers. Roran felt the slight rush of air behind him, and knew that his squire had returned unscathed.

  “Go to sleep, lad,” Roran said quietl
y, feeling a surprising wave of relief. Only then did he allow himself to fall into a light slumber.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning it was plain to see that most of the recruits suffered small abrasions about their faces that had not been there the day before. Judging by the way they were rubbing at the backs of their heads, they had taken a few injuries there as well.

  “Best stick close today and watch your back,” Roran murmured beneath his breath as he lifted his head from the cold creek water and shook the drops from his hair. He didn’t have to turn to know the boy was there. Not because he heard him approach, but because the boy had been his shadow since the moment he had arisen at dawn. Like the day before, the boy was up and dressed, the horses tended to, and a plate and cup awaited him when he had first opened his eyes. The only time the boy had left his side was when Roran had stripped down to bathe.

  A clean shirt now appeared in his hand, as he expected it would. The lad was nothing if not efficient, and so far, he had been able to anticipate Roran’s every need. Roran pulled the shirt over his broad shoulders and began to lace the front. “I fear you have gained no friend or ally with your able defense. How did you best them, lad?”

  The squire looked at him with big, innocent eyes. Just when Roran thought he would not answer, he glanced up at the tree limbs above them, then carefully extracted something from his pocket. Roran saw the tips of a slingshot in one hand, and a palm full of small but sharp pebbles in the other.

  Roran nodded approvingly. “Good lad.” It was the first in what was sure to be a series of tests and trials, and they had a long way to go. Still, it proved that his squire was clever and well-prepared, in addition to being adept at climbing and an accurate shot. Roran wondered idly what else he might learn about his surprising little squire by the time the journey was over.

  “Now go and see to packing. We leave within the hour.” Instead of dashing off to see to it, however, the boy simply blinked at him.

  Roran chuckled. “You already have, haven’t you?” He knew by the boy’s stillness that when he returned to their campsite, his bedroll would be neatly rolled and tightly secured with the rest of his gear. “Just one thing left to take care of, then.” Roran reached into his bag and handed the boy an oatcake wrapped in a strip of cloth.

  “Go on, take it,” Roran coaxed when the boy just stared at it. He had seen the boy scraping the bottom of the cooking pans with his fingers when he had taken them to wash in the stream. Knew from the food stores in his pack that the boy had taken nothing for himself. When he thought about it, he could not recall the lad eating anything of their last meal or breaking his fast this morning. “I cannot have my squire fainting dead away like a puling lass.”

  An unexpected flash of fire lit his squire’s eyes, though it was gone so fast he might have imagined it. There was no mistaking the defiant lift of his chin, however, or the stubborn set to his shoulders. Even more surprisingly, however, the boy then bowed his head as if in shame, and accepted the oatcake. He took one small bite, then re-wrapped it and slid it back into his pocket.

  ––––––––

  Sean sighed several days later. “If only a woman could be so obedient,” he lamented.

  Roran glanced at the small figure lugging pails half his size up the slope toward the caves. After three long days of travel, the weather had turned foul enough to seek shelter in a series of caves. It was probably for the best. The boys, while necessarily hardening themselves, would benefit by a short rest. They might even remain here for a day or two and do a bit of sparring and weapons training. In another few days they would reach a suitable location to set up camp and begin their training in earnest.

  The knight watched as his squire struggled beneath the heavy weight of the filled buckets, though he never once faltered. The boy’s head was down, though even from this distance Roran could see the unnatural paleness of his features. His eyes narrowed when he realized the boy was limping slightly.

  “Squire, come here,” he commanded roughly.

  “Have you not given him a name yet?” Sean inquired.

  “Nae.” It was not for lack of thought. None of the names that came to mind seemed to fit.

  “Perhaps Sprite. The lad does resemble a wee Fae.”

  Roran grunted, but whether in agreement or not was hard to determine.

  Dutifully delivering the pails near the fire, the boy made his way to the knight. Roran noticed that while the limp seemed to have miraculously disappeared, the lad was not walking with his usually silent grace; his movements rather stiff and awkward.

  “What is wrong with your leg?” Roran asked.

  The lad’s eyes widened briefly as if in fear. He shook his head quickly and took a step back.

  “Do not lie to me, boy. Come here, and lift your trews.” When the boy remained still, Roran bellowed “Now, boy!”

  The boy cringed, but did as he was told, taking a series of small steps forward until he stood before Roran. “Sit.”

  The boy sat. Roran grasped him by the left leg, and lifted the hem of his pants. The lad recoiled and grunted. “Jesu!” Roran cursed beneath his breath when he saw how swollen the ankle was, mottled with black and purple. A definite band was visible, as if the ankle had been bound with coarse rope. He turned his head sharply at the sound of snickers.

  Fearful of what he might find, Roran used his dirk to cut the pants let up to the knee. Quiet rage burned in him when he found the blade marks. Not deep enough to sever muscle, but enough to inflict pain with every step. Judging by the redness and swelling, the numerous cuts were becoming infected, something that could prove deadly very quickly.

  “Who did this to you?” Roran growled.

  The squire shook his head and pointed to himself. Roran looked at him incredulously. “You expect me to believe you did this to yourself?” A nod.

  Roran didn’t believe it for a minute. “I will punish those responsible,” he said loudly as he doused the wounds with spirits and wrapped his squire’s leg with torn strips of cloth. “This is unacceptable. If you will not tell me who did this, then they shall all bear my wrath equally.”

  Small hands clasped around Roran’s. He looked down at the squire’s hands and growled. So small they were against his arm. Almost delicate. Roran refused to acknowledge what could only be described as a fiery bolt emanating from the point of contact. The phenomenon was strange indeed. Roran wondered vaguely if that happened every time the squire touched another, and perhaps that might explain why the lad shunned touch. The lad released him quickly as if burned and dropped his head in silent apology.

  Damn, Roran cursed inwardly. Now the fool boy thought Roran was angry with him.

  Roran was angry, but not with him. For as quick and clever as he was, this boy would always be a target among the others. An irrational surge of protectiveness rose up inside of him. This was his squire, after all. And while the boy had shown remarkable cunning and courage in keeping the others at bay, no one could be expected to keep their guard up all the time. Yet even now, it was clear the boy did not wish him to intercede on his behalf.

  “They have done nothing but torment you. How can you protect them?”

  Wide eyes flicked up at him. No lad should have eyes like that, Roran thought. Blue and clear, faceted like the finest royal jewels.

  The squire pointed to Roran’s biceps, then turned the finger toward his own heart. His meaning instantly became clear.

  “Yes,” Roran almost sighed. “I know you are strong of heart. But I fear it may not be enough.”

  The lad pointed to his temple next. “Yes,” he agreed, “you are cunning as well. But this offense must be answered.”

  The boy placed both hands in front of him, palms toward Roran in a “wait” gesture. Then he pointed at Roran’s chest, then at his eyes, repeating the gesture several times. “You want me to wait and see?” he translated after a few moments. The lad nodded soberly.

  Against his better judgment, Roran agreed
, though he failed to see what the lad thought he could do on his own. “All right. I have to admit you have roused my curiosity.”

  His squire seemed to relax a little, nodding in thanks.

  “Now let me fetch some of that stew for you. I’d say you’ve earned a first serving this eve.”

  The boy sat up immediately, eyes wide. He reached for Roran and tugged at his shirt, shaking his head vehemently. Roran’s eyes widened in understanding. “You put something in the stew, didn’t you?”

  His eyes shuttered to half mast, a clear admission of guilt if he had ever seen one. Roran could not completely hide his grin.

  Thankfully, Roran had managed to distract Sean before he had ingested any of the evening’s meal. The knight had not been pleased to have missed the succulent smelling stew, but was glad the next morning when all of the recruits had contracted as bad a case of the runs as he had ever seen.

  That, combined with Roran’s unusually chipper mood in light of his squire’s injuries, had him adding things together rather quickly. “Remind me to stay on the good side of your squire,” Sean murmured with grudging admiration.

  Roran agreed wholeheartedly, a rare grin on his face. He looked over to where the lad was practicing his swordplay. As the only hale recruit, he had received the benefit of both Sean and Roran’s tutelage after his chores had been done.

  “You are quite fond of him,” Sean noted.

  Sean’s voice was even, his eyes elsewhere, but Roran heard the subtle question in his simple statement. Through all the years they had been training and recruiting together, Roran consciously avoided becoming too personally involved with any of the lads. He preferred to keep the lines between master and student clear and well-defined. But once again, his squire was proving to be an exception.

  “Aye. The lad has proven himself clever and resourceful. He works as hard as any and asks for nothing. ‘Tis difficult not to respect that.”

  *

  Brighid swung the sword in an upwards arc, just as Sir Roran had shown her. By twisting her body and using the momentum, the move was far more effective. Her arms and back ached from wielding the blade for the better part of a day, but she could still feel his eyes on her.