The Chief Read online

  She relaxed a little, realizing he was probably right. It wasn’t until the other boat had pulled away, however, that she heaved a sigh of relief.

  Rhuairi greeted them as they disembarked, holding his hand out to help her from the boat. “Did you have a pleasant day, my lady?”

  “Aye,” she said. “I did. Was that a messenger we saw leaving?”

  His expression went blank. “Nay, my lady. Just some local clansmen wishing to see the chief.”

  She exchanged a look with Brother John. Local clansmen? Those had been warriors.

  She didn’t think much about the strange exchange until later.

  —

  Hours after he’d nearly slid off the mountain, Tor sat back against a low boulder, his legs stretched out toward the glowing embers of the fire, listening to the guardsmen argue. It was strangely relaxing. Comfortable in its predictability. Not unlike the squabbling he’d done with his siblings around the dais when they were young. As usual, the talk was of the looming war with England and when—and if—Bruce would make his move.

  It had to be near midnight, and with the day he had planned for them tomorrow, he should be abed. But he was still too restless from what had happened earlier to sleep.

  When the others had seen him and MacRuairi coming down the hill, they’d assumed that Tor had found him. MacRuairi—full of more surprises—made no effort to correct them, but Tor quickly explained what had happened. The men seemed just as surprised as he’d been—with the possible exception of Gordon. MacRuairi kept to himself, and for the most part the rest of them were happy to keep it that way. But Gordon, the gregarious young alchemist, seemed not to notice the menacing cloud surrounding MacRuairi, and the two had formed a friendship of sorts—if you called Gordon talking and MacRuairi listening a friendship.

  MacLean’s deep voice broke through the din of his thoughts. “Wallace’s mistake was thinking he could repeat his success at Stirling Bridge and best Edward in a pitched battle—army to army. He should have stuck to raids; that was his strength in leadership. After the loss at Falkirk he was done. Only his scorched-earth tactics prevented Edward from taking Scotland right then.”

  The more Tor listened to him, the more he recognized MacLean’s keen mind for battle tactics and strategy. Something he had every intention of taking advantage of later. Or rather, he corrected himself, something MacSorley would take advantage of.

  “You weren’t there,” Boyd argued angrily. The fierce patriot tolerated no criticism of Wallace, whom he’d fought beside for years. “It wasn’t Wallace, but the traitorous Comyns who caused the defeat at Falkirk when they retreated and left the spearmen in their schiltron formations open to Edward’s longbows.”

  MacRuairi usually avoided any talk of politics, but he liked to stir up trouble between Seton and Boyd—not that they needed his help. “Sir Dragon, you look like you have something to say,” he said, the nickname referring to the coat of arms on the tabard Seton insisted on wearing.

  Seton’s jaw clenched. “It’s not a Dragon, it’s a Wyvern, you damned barbarian,” he gritted out. MacRuairi knew full well what it was. “Wallace lost because he couldn’t control his men in a pitched battle. He knew how to set fires and attack at night. Falkirk proved that unorganized and undisciplined foot soldiers—no matter how brave—are no match against trained knights.”

  Boyd looked like he wanted to tear off the young Englishman’s head, but after the near disaster at the loch he’d kept a tight rein on his anger toward his partner. “If that’s what you think, then why the hell are you here?”

  Seton gave him a look of haughty disdain. “Bruce is my liege lord.”

  “And his liege lord is King Edward,” Boyd pointed out. “So shouldn’t you be fighting for him?”

  Seton’s face flushed angrily. “Why are you here? It wasn’t that long ago that you were fighting alongside Comyn.”

  “I fought for the Lion,” Boyd said through clenched teeth, referring to Scotland’s symbol of kingship. “Always for Scotland, and right now that means Robert Bruce. I’d sooner see you on the throne than Comyn. He lost his claim to the crown when he deserted us on the battlefield.”

  Seeking to defuse the tension, MacLean said, “Bruce has learned from Wallace’s mistakes. The very fact that we are here attests to that. He will not meet Edward army-to-army until he is ready. And Bruce is a knight—one of the best in Christendom. When the time comes, he will know how to command an army.”

  Seton turned to MacRuairi, proving he knew exactly what he’d done to instigate the argument. “And what about you. Why are you here? Something as noble as lining your coffers?” he sneered, not bothering to hide his disdain.

  MacRuairi’s expression was unreadable. “Of course I wouldn’t risk my head for something as fleeting as patriotism or duty. What better reason than wealth?”

  He spoke matter-of-factly, but Tor knew it wasn’t the truth. Not all of it anyway.

  “How about a lass?” MacSorley said with a grin aimed at Tor. “I can think of no better reason to lose my neck than the promise of a sweet lass in my bed.”

  “Getting tired of your hand, MacSorley?” Lamont said dryly.

  The big Norseman shook his head woefully. “Many more weeks of this and I’ll have to propose.” The men chuckled. Practicality borne of necessity. War and moving around so much sometimes made women scarce for weeks. “As soon as we finish here, I’ll be making a quick stop on Mull where I’ve got a lusty, wee lass with the biggest, sweetest pair of breasts just waiting for me. Creamy, flawless skin. Nipples the lightest pink and the size of two tiny pearls.” He sighed longingly. “A strong wind, a full belly, and a comely lass. It doesn’t take much to make me a happy man.”

  MacSorley wore his devil-may-care attitude well—it was part of what made him so popular and good at defusing tension in the ranks. It even followed him on the battlefield. Tor remembered how shocked he’d been to see the big Viking smiling as he wielded his fearsome battle-axe in the heat of battle.

  But Tor didn’t mistake MacSorley’s affability for weakness or softness. Beneath that smile was a core of steel. Only once had Tor seen him lose that roguish grin, but it had been a memorable sight. And people said he was cold and ruthless.

  “You going to marry this lass, MacSorley?” Seton asked.

  The Viking practically choked on his cuirm. “God’s blood! Why the hell would I do that, lad? Unlike our patron saint over there,” he motioned to MacKay, “one pair of breasts, no matter how fine, for the rest of my life?” He shuddered. “Besides, wouldn’t want to deprive the rest of the lasses of my expertise.”

  “Bugger off, MacSorley,” the surly Highlander growled.

  MacKay never talked about women, not like the rest of them. This earned him MacSorley’s curiosity, which when he failed to satisfy, inevitably led to more prodding.

  “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard you say the entire time you’ve been here,” MacSorley mocked. “Between you and MacLean, it’s hard to say who’s more of a monk.”

  MacLean was newly married, though he became silent when the subject arose. For good reason: He’d married a MacDowell—kin to the MacDougalls and Comyns.

  “You don’t talk much about your betrothed, Gordon,” Seton said, diverting the attention from MacLean.

  Gordon shrugged. “Not much to say, I barely know her.”

  “Who is she?” Seton asked.

  Gordon hesitated. “Helen, the daughter of William of Moray, Earl of Sutherland.”

  Tor happened to be looking at MacKay when Gordon made his pronouncement and saw the flicker of shock and pain that was quickly masked. Gordon must have caught the look in his friend’s face, too, because Tor saw the look of silent apology that he shot him.

  Tor understood why Gordon hadn’t said anything before. The MacKays’ bitter feud with the Sutherland clan was well known. But he wondered whether there was more to it.

  The talk returned to politics and the speculation on when they