The Chief (19 page)

“Of course. I'm sorry. It is all so new to me.” She looked up at him expectantly. “Good-bye.”

Her lips parted in innocent invitation. He stared at her pink, succulent mouth for a long moment, tempted beyond measure. With a grunt that was half curse, half pain, he tore his gaze away and locked his jaw. “Good-bye,” he said, and left before he did something foolish like pull her into his arms and kiss her until the coiling in his chest unraveled.

The best of the best had gathered on Skye.

By late the following afternoon, all ten warriors had arrived at the ruined ancient fortress of Dun Hallin Broch. Located in a remote area of the Waternish Peninsula—the finger of land that abutted Dunvegan—the broch and the surrounding settlement had been abandoned since well before Tor's Norse ancestors landed on Skye.

The broch was a circular stone fortress of perhaps twenty-five feet in interior diameter with ten-foot-thick walls, situated on a small rise in rocky moorland. At one time the walls had stood thirty feet high, but the upper part of the tower and the roof had been lost long ago. Still,
with some wood for a new roof and peat for a fire, it would provide sufficient shelter from the worst of the winter wind and rain. It wouldn't be comfortable by any means, but it was luxurious compared to what these men would be experiencing in the months to come.

The location was ideal. It was close to Dunvegan, but the difficult surrounding terrain made it not easily accessible and sparsely populated. Like the strange standing stones and cairns that peppered the landscape, the ancient brochs were avoided by the Islanders, who thought them inhabited by fairies and other spirits. Superstition would work in their favor to keep people away.

Though they were unlikely to be discovered here, Tor would exercise extreme caution. Too much was at stake. And with the recent attacks on Dunvegan, until he discovered who was responsible he couldn't take any chances.

Though he would not hesitate to put his life in the hands of any of his personal guardsmen—and had on more than one occasion—he followed his usual practice of only telling his men what he had to. Right now, with his henchman still chasing after his brother, that meant Fergus, his privy counselor; Rhuairi, his seneschal; and his
an gille mor
, sword bearer, Colyne. Starting tomorrow, Colyne would accompany Janet back and forth from the castle to bring food and provisions to the men.

If there was a woman he could trust, it was Janet. They'd known each other since childhood. He'd danced at her wedding to his foster brother and henchman, and mourned with her at his death a few years later. Their shared grief had taken an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn when they'd become lovers. The arrangement had suited them both, and were it not for his recent marriage, probably would have continued indefinitely. She was comfortable and placed no demands on him.

That the relationship was at an end, however, he knew—though he didn't wish to examine why. Marriage didn't
need to end it, there was nothing unusual in keeping a leman. Janet had accepted his change of circumstance with the same practicality that had drawn them together in the first place. If she regretted the end to their liaison, she did not show it—would that his wife would learn to hide her feelings so easily. His relationship with Janet had shifted easily before and it did so again, back to friendship.

As each of the ten warriors arrived, Tor put them to work gathering wood to repair the roof and cutting peat.

It was a test of sorts. The physical labor was not meant to humble, but to put each of the elite warriors on equal footing and to start them working together as a single unit—a team. He knew some of the men well, and some not at all, but he could already tell it was going to be a team like no other.

Preferring to work alone and keep his own counsel, Tor was used to operating on his own. These men were not. Most of the men were chieftains or leaders in their own right, accustomed to giving, not taking, commands and having a large retinue of men around them. He couldn't be sure what motivated them to agree to be trained and put under his command. He suspected they all had their reasons for being here. He knew some of the men had close ties to Bruce, and undoubtedly the premise of the team had proved as intriguing as it had to him. His reputation as a trainer of men probably played a part. But following orders was going to be a challenge for some of them.

He suspected it had been a long time since Lachlan MacRuairi had wielded a spade to cut earth or an axe to cut down a tree (rather than a man), but the proud chieftain—who were it not for his bastard birth could challenge his cousin MacDonald as heir to the ancient Kingdom of the Isles—did not bat an eye. But the ready obedience did not fool Tor. MacRuairi would bear watching.

That only one man balked at his order surprised him. Who it was, however, did not. Sir Alex Seton was the younger
brother of Bruce's close companion and brother-in-law, “Good Sir Christopher,” but the last time Tor looked, Yorkshire—from where the Setons hailed—was still in England. And no matter what side of the border he resided on now, Alex Seton had all the trappings of his countrymen, from the fine chain mail, plumed helm, and finely embroidered tabard to the haughty superiority. But at least the arrogant Englishman was a quick study. If he thought cutting peat beneath him, he hid his disdain when Tor ordered him to dig the latrines instead.

Half expecting Seton to jump in a boat and sail right back to the borders, Tor was surprised to find him still digging an hour later, his fine chain mail and richly embroidered tabard of the Wyvern and shield with three crescents and royal double tressure folded neatly in a pile beside him.

“You won't find much use for that here,” Tor said, digging his shovel into the earth a few feet away to start a second pit.

“I'm a knight,” Seton answered proudly. “I will look like one.”

Given that Seton couldn't be much older than one and twenty, Tor would wager he hadn't had his spurs for long. “You
were
a knight. Here you are just one of my men—unproven until otherwise. Your knightly code has no place here.” Tor gave him a hard look. “You understand what will be required of you? What you have signed up for?”

The younger man's mouth tightened until his lips turned white, but he nodded. He might say “aye,” but disapproval exuded from every pore.

“Wear it as you will,” Tor said with a dismissive wave, “but you'll find the mail too cumbersome and heavy for the kind of training and fighting we will do.” And he suspected the lad was going to have a hard enough time of it proving himself to the others—not just because of his English blood but also because of his youth. MacGregor and MacLean were young as well, but even they had a
handful of years on Seton. The rest of the men were near his own one and thirty.

They dug side by side in silence, but Tor had made a point: He would not ask his men to do anything he would not do himself. When they'd finished, Tor offered Seton a drink of ale from the leather pouch he wore across his chest. Seton accepted it gratefully, wiping the sweat from his forehead before taking a long swig.

Tor eyed him thoughtfully. He was tall, but with the leanness of youth. He carried a regular knight's sword and a dirk. “So what is your skill?” Tor asked.

Most of the others had been obvious. If their reputations didn't precede them, their choice of armory or appearance did. One look at Robbie Boyd was all it took to see why he was reputed to be the strongest man in Scotland and an expert in hand-to-hand combat. The man was forged from iron.

Color crept up Seton's face. “I'm good with a blade.”

Tor frowned. Good? All knights were good with a sword. “Yet you are here?”

“To learn. My brother wished to come, but Bruce wouldn't hear of it.”

Sir Christopher was married to Bruce's sister, making Bruce Alex's brother by marriage.

“So Bruce sent you instead.” Tor almost felt sorry for him. Seton would have much to prove indeed. English, young, and without a superior skill to quiet the jabs. “I'll not go easy on you—no matter who sent you.”

The arrogant squared jaw returned. “I know that. Nor would I have it otherwise.”

“The others will make it hard for you.”

The younger man met his gaze with fierce determination. “I know that as well.”

Tor nodded and left him to his task, knowing that his determination would be put to the test.

He resumed his progress around the encampment to
observe the men. For the most part he was impressed. Bricks of peat lay stacked out to dry, and the men had made quick work of cutting the wood to make beams for the ceiling. MacSorley's naval skills were not limited to seafaring and swimming. He also knew how to build ships and wield a battle-axe—both of which skills he put to use shaping the wood into planks and beams for the ceiling.

Despite the promising start, however, it didn't take Tor long to see just how challenging his task would be when a fight broke out in the yard behind the broch.

This group of men was unlike any that he'd ever trained. The very things that bound most men—blood and clan ties—divided them. Making brothers out of enemies would be his toughest challenge.

And none more than the two men he found thrashing each other senseless. To this point it was only with fists, but Tor knew it would not be long before weapons were drawn.

He thought he'd made himself clear when they arrived—he wouldn't tolerate any fighting among the men. Apparently, they needed a reminder.

Furious, not only at the lack of discipline but at the affront to his authority, Tor picked up a bucket of icy water filled from the nearby burn and dumped it over the two brawling warriors. The temporary shock was all he needed. Both men were sizeable and strong, but he roped MacGregor's arms behind his back and yanked him off Campbell as if he were a mere stripling. He was tempted to toss them both in the burn to cool them off, but he knew of a far more effective punishment—though in the end, he hoped it would be a lesson.

He threw the famed archer away from him. MacGregor shook the water from his hair and eyed Campbell as if he meant to resume where they'd left off.

“I wouldn't advise it,” Tor warned icily. “You're going to need him in the next few months.” They didn't know it yet, but MacGregor and Campbell had just become partners.

MacGregor spat and wiped the blood from his battered nose and mouth. “It'll be a cold day in hell before a MacGregor needs anything from the likes of an upstart cur of a Campbell.” The MacGregors were a proud ancient clan with royal lineage, and his voice dripped with condescension.

Neil Campbell's youngest brother leapt to his feet. Arthur was the best scout in the Highlands, but unfortunately, until recently, he'd been putting that skill to work for the English—at odds with his family. Along with MacRuairi, he would bear close watching. Until now, Tor's only impression was that he was quiet and seemed to keep to himself.

“Upstart?” Campbell said. “And what are you? The proud Clan Gregor—descended from kings but without power or influence to speak of. How the mighty have fallen. But if you come over here and beg real nice, I might throw you a bone sometime.” His lip curled. “Or are you too scared I might mess up that pretty face of yours some more?”

In addition to being the best archer in the Highlands, Gregor MacGregor was equally renowned among the lasses for his handsome face. Tor felt sorry for the poor bastard. For a warrior, such a ridiculous reputation was surely a bane.

MacGregor growled and took a step toward him, but Tor grabbed him by the edge of his
cotun
and held him back. “Enough,” he said, and then looked to Campbell. “From both of you.” The steely edge in his voice left no doubt of his displeasure.

He glanced around, seeing that the other men had gathered to watch. Good. What he had to say affected them all.

“I warned you, I will not tolerate fighting.” He turned to the rest of them. “From any of you. I don't care whether your families have hated one another for years, whether your father killed his—none of it matters. Whatever fights or feuds existed before you got here, they end now.”

MacRuairi dug his spade into the ground with a hard thump. His dark eyes were full of menace and challenge. “Does that go for you as well,
chief?”

Tor didn't miss the sarcasm and bit back the impulse to slam his fist into that smug jaw. He wasn't their chief and never would be. But only MacSorley knew that he would not be the leader of the group when the training was over, and it was best if it stayed that way for now. Although he might not be their leader in the future, for the next few months he was. Until then, the same rules applied. As much as he hated it, for now MacRuairi would be his brother. When it was over, they could go back to being enemies.

“It does,” Tor said, looking him straight in the eye. “With what we are about to embark on, it can be no other way. If we succeed, this will be the greatest army the world has ever seen, bringing together the best Scotland has to offer in warfare into one guard. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before.” He looked to each of them. “Each of you is the best at what you do, but your strength and skill in combat will take you only so far. Alone you can defeat twenty, perhaps thirty, men? Fight together and you will defeat armies—hundreds, maybe thousands. Alone you are the best; together you will become legend. But here there are no personal accolades. Honor is in serving together as part of the team.

“The success of this guard, of our lives and those of everyone around us, is only as safe as your trust for the man beside you.” Tor looked back and forth between MacGregor and Campbell. “No longer are you MacGregor and Campbell. This guard is your new clan. These men your brothers.”

He let his words sink in. It was clear they didn't accept what he was saying, nor did he expect them to; Highland warriors did not trust easily. But they would. For a team like this to work there was no other way.