A Warrior's Promise (4 page)

Bryce had given a peek inside himself, and she
intended to probe more deeply.

Chapter 4

B
ryce stopped just before climbing the small rise and turned to Charles. “The people in this village no doubt will be leery of strangers. It seems that many have passed this way recently, and, being remote from common trails, it has the villagers curious and cautious.”

“Is this the information your whispering got you at the market?” the lad asked.

“My whispers bartered for food, no more,” Bryce snapped. The lad was more observant than he had realized, for that information was exactly what his whispers had gotten him.

“As you say.”

“I say that you remain by my side and keep that tongue to yourself. You have a habit of speaking when things are better left unsaid.”

“A loose tongue can help at times—”

“And other times it can bring trouble, and you—”

“Have to know which time is the best to let it loose,” Charles finished.

“
Now
is
not
the time,” Bryce warned. “Stay silent. Hear, listen and learn and keep alert.”

“I can do that.”

“See that you do,” Bryce said, and began climbing the rise. “I don't need to be worried about rescuing you again when we both have missions to accomplish.”

Bryce wore a pleasant smile as he approached the fields outside the walled village. He acknowledged the workers with a nod, and it was returned in kind though all eyes bore caution. It was the same beyond the wooden wall. Villagers nodded but remained vigilant.

The information Bryce had gleaned led him to believe that the smithy would be the best one to approach. Not wanting Charles to be privy to the conversation, he turned to the lad. “Go find the bowyer and see if he has a bow that will suit you. I will be along shortly.”

The lad hesitated a moment though it certainly wasn't out of fear of leaving Bryce's side. More likely it was that the lad was more curious about what was to be discussed. But he took himself off without further delay, and Bryce regretted not reminding him again to be watchful of his behavior and tongue.

The smithy was short though solid with muscle. His hair was a garish red with two thick side braids. He banged at a sizzling-hot piece of metal on the anvil with a hammer, and Bryce said nothing until he clamped the piece with a set of tongs and submerged it into the water barrel, sending steam and sizzle rising.

“A bit of your time?” Bryce asked, and placed a trinket of worth on the corner of the anvil.

The man nodded.

Bryce didn't inquire as to his name. He didn't want to know; nor did he want the man to know his. He would rather it not be known he had passed this way. He wanted information, then he'd be gone.

“I hear the king's soldiers have been seen more frequently in these parts.”

Again, the smithy nodded.

“Most are wondering why.”

Another nod.

Bryce understood the man's caution, felt it himself, and proceeded slowly. The smithy's eyes suddenly turned wide enough to burst, and before Bryce could get his hand to his sword and turn, an arrow whooshed past his ear and stuck in the ground behind him.

He yanked the arrow out of the ground and turned to see Charles strutting toward him, a wide smile on his grime-ridden face.

Bryce marched toward him with angry steps. “You almost got me in the back.”

Charles stopped and took a firm stance. “If I wanted the arrow in your back, it would be sticking there now.”

Bryce halted within an inch of the lad, all but ready to wipe the smile off his face.

“It would be wise of you to speak with the bowyer before you talk anymore with the smithy,” the lad said, keeping his voice low but his smile wide.

Bryce grabbed the lad's arm, his hand circling the whole of it, and hurried him to the side of a cottage out of the way of prying eyes. “The smithy was just about to tell me—”

“What the soldiers want inquiring warriors to know.”

“What do you mean?”

“The bowyer says the smithy is not to be trusted.”

“And how did you come by this information when you were sent to do nothing more than find a bow to purchase?” Bryce asked.

“I asked if he saw an older man, white hair, small stature who had passed this way. He told me to be careful of whom I asked such information, and I simply replied, ‘like the smithy?' and he nodded.”

“Take me to the bowyer,” Bryce said, releasing the hold he had on the lad with a slight shove, annoyed that the lad had disobeyed his orders yet pleased at what he had discovered. The lad just couldn't hold his tongue, and while in this instance it had proven beneficial, that might not always be so.

The bowyer showed his age in his stooped form and generous wrinkles though he was spryer than one would expect from his appearance. And though some of his fingers were gnarled, he worked on the bows with an agility that surprised.

“You would be wise to watch who you speak to in these parts,” the old man said, continuing to work on a bow. “Too many new faces to my liking and some that call this home but show it no honor.”

“It's hard to trust these days,” Bryce said.

“A true Scot knows where his allegiance lies.”

“With the true king,” Charles chimed in.

The bowyer nodded. “It's brave you are to speak up like that lad. And when the true king takes the throne, you'll know a better life for it.”

“Unless he's foolhardy enough to get himself killed beforehand,” Bryce said, realizing he felt even more protective of the lad after getting a good feel of his scrawny arm. He simply did not have the strength to defend himself.

“Then he'll die with honor,” the bowyer said.

“Not before I rescue my da,” Charles said adamantly.

“A good son of Scotland the lad is,” the bowyer said with a tear in his eye. “Defends his da and country.”

“You have seen a man fitting his da's description pass this way?” Bryce asked, not wanting to linger too long, especially if the smithy wore eyes and ears for the king.

“Didn't see him myself, but I know someone who did,” the bowyer said. “Elsa, a widow who has a croft not far from here. Many pass her way, and some seek shelter at her place for a night or two. She's a good, generous woman, and you'll probably take an instant liking to her, as most do. Tell her that William the bowyer sent you.”

Bryce thanked him, then bartered fairly for the bow and arrows the lad had chosen, the old man refusing to take more than a fair share, insisting any extra Bryce had go to Elsa.

Not to place the bowyer in jeopardy, Bryce returned to the smithy to finish their conversation, sending Charles off with less valuable trinkets to purchase food and another warning to hold his tongue.

The lad took the trinkets though Bryce doubted he took the warning seriously.

Bryce directed the conversation in a way that could still possibly reward him with information but not reveal his true purpose.

“Heard the king's soldiers are collecting recruits willing or not to serve the king. Afraid my wife's brother may be among them,” Bryce said, and gave a quick description of his brother Trey, knowing full well he was home recovering from nearly being killed by the king's soldiers.

The smithy shook his head.

“What's the best path to take to avoid the soldiers?” Bryce asked, knowing he would take the opposite of whatever the smithy suggested.

His directions were interrupted by a ruckus, and the smithy smiled and shook his head.

“Your lad is a fearless one. The soldiers would scoop him up fast enough.”

Bryce didn't care for his comment and swerved around to see Charles locked in battle with a lad at least two sizes larger than he. Blood was already dripping from his mouth, and there was a welt beneath his eye that no doubt would encircle the whole eye soon enough.

As much as he knew the lad had to learn to defend himself, he just couldn't watch him take a beating. He silently cursed himself for feeling the need to rescue him once again. What would he do when he had a son of his own? He couldn't fight his battles for him. But then Charles seemed to come from frailer stock. His own son was sure to be a Highlander warrior just like him. But for now, his honor didn't allow for the weak to go unprotected.

Bryce worried that he wouldn't reach the lad before he suffered a few more blows from his opponent's meaty fist. Shock had him stopping in his tracks when suddenly Charles got in a sharp jab to his adversary's nose. The startled lad raised a cupped hand to it, and, in seconds, blood filled the hand and spilled over the sides.

The big lad's eyes turned wide while his face turned pure white, and, in the next second, his knees buckled, and he collapsed in a faint to the ground.

Charles picked up his bow and flung his cache of arrows over his shoulder. His foe was barely regaining consciousness as the lad stepped over him, and said, “Got what you deserved for trying to steal my bow.” And with a strut of victory, he walked over to Bryce.

“You were lucky the lad had no stomach for blood,” Bryce said, “or he would still be pounding on you.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Charles said, and walked past Bryce, leaving him to catch up.

Bryce had the lad by the arm in no time and gave him a good shake as they left the village. “Disrespect me again, and it's my hand you'll be feeling to that scrawny backside of yours. Were you taught no manners?”

Charles bristled, though acquiesced. “I meant no disrespect. And manners I have—” He paused a moment and looked Bryce straight in the eye. “When called for.”

Bryce was caught by the determination on the lad's face, and, for a moment, by his soft features beneath all the grime and spots of blood. There was not a single hard angle or line. It was as if delicate hands had sculpted his gentle texture.

He shook his head and released the lad's arm. Bryce didn't know what to make of him. The lad puzzled him. He was intelligent for one so young and inexperienced, though that could be attributed to his father's roving adventures. The lad surely had seen more than most, who never knew more than the place of their birth. Still, there was something about the lad that had Bryce wondering. He didn't know what it was, but something was there. Something he should know but couldn't quite grasp.

Before the lad moved away from him, he grabbed his chin, regretting his quick action when Charles winced. He hadn't meant to cause him pain. He just wanted to make certain his wounds were minor.

“The lip isn't split bad, but the eye is already bruising,” Bryce said, taking a look at his injuries. “Your foe landed a good blow to your ribs. Does it pain you?” His hand fell away from the lad's chin, ready to examine his ribs, when Charles jumped back out of his reach, the cringe of pain on his face giving him his answer.

“Let me have a look at those ribs,” Bryce demanded, his hand shooting out and catching hold of the lad's tunic.

“Not now,” Charles said. “Please, we need to hurry to Elsa's house and see what I can learn about my da.”

“You could be hurt badly,” Bryce said with concern.

“Nothing's damaged, just bruised that's all.”

“I'll take your word for it for now, but when we reach the croft, I'll have a look for myself.”

The lad didn't protest; nor did he agree. He simply turned and walked off.

It took nearly an hour's walk to reach Elsa's croft, an hour where very little conversation was exchanged, and only one brief stop made. Bryce heard no complaint from the lad—he hadn't expected to. Charles was anxious to reach the croft and speak with someone who possibly could provide information about his da.

The croft was visible just over a rise and, on approach, appeared well maintained, not an easy task for a widow all alone. Her fields were tilled, ready for planting, and her kitchen garden was partially in bloom. Freshly washed clothes hung from tree branches, and a most delicious aroma had Bryce's mouth watering the closer he got.

A woman thick in size, though not in height, stepped out of the cottage, her smile warm and welcoming. Her gray hair was piled atop her head, and, as she watched their approach, she fought with several stubborn strands that refused to join the captured mass of curls. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy, and her sharp blue eyes sparkled with a youthfulness that had long passed.

“I hope you're both hungry,” she said in way of greeting. “I've got a stew cooking and bread baking.”

“That's generous of you,” Bryce said, “though William the bowyer did say you were the charitable sort.”

“William is a dear friend and knows that those in need find their way here and offer to help me in return for my generosity. It is the way of things in the Highlands, is it not?”

“Aye, that it is,” Bryce said. “And what is it that I can do for you, Elsa.”

She was about to answer when her smile faltered, and she stepped to the side of Bryce. “What have we here?”

“Charles scuffled with a lad twice his size,” Bryce said.

“And won I did,” Charles said.

Elsa shook her head and looked to Bryce. “I'll tend Charles's wounds and you . . .”

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I'm Bryce.”

“Well, Bryce, I think some nice trout would be good with my stew. You'll find what you need on the side of the cottage by my garden, and a small loch is but a short distance beyond that grove to the west.”

Bryce couldn't refuse the woman though he would much prefer not to leave the lad alone with her. With Charles's loose tongue, he was certain to garner information, and some of it could prove useful to Bryce. Not that he worried the lad wouldn't share it with him; he seemed honest enough. It's just that he wanted to hear it for himself to make certain he didn't miss anything.

He didn't have a choice, though; he'd have to trust the lad.