The Winter Laird

by Nancy Scanlon

  “Aye.” The man cracked his knuckles. “I don’t agree with MacWilliam. He thinks speech is best. I believe in killing the laird, taking their women, and eating their cattle.”

  I didn’t ask you what you believed in, Burke almost said, but quickly controlled himself. “I agree. Action gains power. Speech gains nothing.”

  “Aye. MacWilliam broke a betrothal with the Kildare lass. I thought we should keep her and demand ransom, but MacWilliam sent her back with an apology and some gold. Wasted opportunity.”

  “I do think Kildare will want…satisfaction. His daughter was rejected, and MacWilliam refused a clan alliance.” A plan began to form in Burke’s mind. “The MacWilliam has shown weakness. That cannot be tolerated for a clan as powerful as yours.”

  The man nodded quickly. “Aye, ’tis a mistake, no doubt. MacWilliam is firm in his disapproval of the O’Rourke clan; they left this morn as soon as their horses were readied, unwilling to stay in the castle any longer than necessary.”

  “Tell me of Kildare. Is he vengeful?”

  The man snorted. “Perhaps. Kildare is boastful and weak. He’ll believe the gold and apology is enough. He bows to MacWilliam in the hopes that one day he’ll pay him some attention and promise alliance.”

  “How long have you served the MacWilliam?” Burke inquired. The man was young, blood-thirsty, and without loyalty. Burke could understand a man like that.

  “The whole of my life. Two score years, and I’ve only been in four battles. Four! It’s a waste of my talent. I can cleave a man in half with just a flick of my wrist! I tried to join with Kildare but found him lacking. I need a clan that—” He stopped abruptly as riders approached.

  “I’ll need more information,” Burke said as they watched the horses disappear into the forest from a hidden vantage point. “I want to know if his fair lady-wife is indeed who she says she is. Watch them and see if they are well-matched. I want to know what they do with their days and with each other. We will meet back here in a fortnight…if, that is, you care for more gold.”

  The man’s eyes glittered. “All I want is your gold.”

  “Then go earn it,” Burke snapped, finally losing his patience. MacWilliams were known for their fearless fighting and intelligence. Why then, Burke wondered, was he talking with surely the most dim-witted among that clan?

  The man hurried away, and Burke fought the urge to throw his dirk into the man’s back. The lad thought he was so brave and battle-worthy. If that were true, he’d know never to turn your back to any man—friend or enemy.

  Burke sincerely hoped the rest of the clan was as ignorant as his informant, despite their reputations otherwise. When his time came to kill their laird, Burke fully intended to make certain they knew a laird’s position was won and not given.

  He should’ve killed Nioclas and his brother when he killed their mother. Then he wouldn’t have been caught off-guard when the bastard went to the clan elders and mounted his attack. He’d been having a very nice time with a particularly unwilling maiden—always a favorite—when Nioclas had launched himself at him and knocked him off the lass. That act alone warranted Nioclas’s death, but Nioclas had almost the entire clan at his back when he claimed Burke as exiled.

  Exiled. As if a mere twelve-year-old could exile the most powerful ruler in Ireland. Burke allowed a smile to curve his lips. It was the number of men the child had with him that forced him off his own land. It was the number of men that had closed ranks around the boy that prevented him from getting too close.

  Nioclas had changed the name of the clan from Burke to MacWilliam in honor of his murdered mother. Burke, once he realized his wife brought nothing more to the marriage than alliance with a weak clan, had set fire to all their homes and stables. He even killed their cattle, just because he could.

  He was powerful. Her father had been weak and had suffered for it.

  I will rule again, Burke thought as he slipped through the forest, away from the MacWilliam castle. The lass would ensure that…hopefully unwillingly.

  • • •

  “Do we really have to do this all day again?”

  Erin looked up from her sewing, a perfectly serene look gracing her features. They had been mending for hours already, and Brianagh—who hadn’t picked up a needle since the Home Ec Disaster of ’98—wasn’t sure her fingers could take any more abuse. She rolled her shoulders and sent Erin a pleading look. “It’s been three days of nonstop sewing. I don’t think I can handle this anymore.”

  “Bri.” Erin sighed and placed the tunic she was working on in her lap. “There’s really not much to do. Yet.”

  The twinkle in Erin’s eye had Bri leaning forward slightly. “Yet?”

  “Yes, yet. Once the rain stops, and once lunch is done, we’ll stroll.”

  Brianagh actually felt her entire being deflate. She couldn’t possibly take three months of this. Erin continued smoothly threading the needle through her tunic, which resembled an actual shirt. Brianagh had no idea what hers looked like, but as her job was to mend the holes…well, she wasn’t sure what happened, but it now only had one sleeve and the bottom right was quite a bit higher than the bottom left.

  “Stroll,” Bri finally said, her gaze not leaving the window. The mist that enveloped the castle earlier had turned into a steady rain, and she wasn’t so certain she wanted any first-hand knowledge of medieval healers when she came down with some sort of cold.

  “In the morning, the guards train with each other. The MacWilliam guard is made up of the strongest and most loyal clansmen,” Erin said, snipping a piece of thread with deadly-looking scissors. Erin smiled at her progress, then picked another piece of clothing out of the basket at her feet. “After the midday meal, the laird—and any visiting laird—trains with his guests and personal guard.” She looked up and a hint of a smile played around her lips. “It’s my most favorite time of day.” Brianagh looked at her blankly, and Erin laughed. “Oh, you’ll see, Brianagh. It makes this wait so much more enjoyable.”

  Brianagh eyed the full basket of mended clothes at Erin’s feet, then her own with the one and only tunic she’d touched—and really, one could consider it a new fashion. She figured catching a cold was better than sewing for the next couple months of her life.

  After the last few days of silence from Nioclas, she wasn’t sure she could uphold her end of their deal. Her time was dragging endlessly and she’d been stuck in the castle. At least she’d been able to really watch how the clan interacted. Seeing them, she had crafted a pretty solid plan to present to Nioclas.

  If she could ever find him. His avoidance was the stuff of legends. And, if she were to believe the tales around the castle, so were his skills in the bedroom.

  Her cheeks flamed at that memory. She’d been innocently wandering around one of the hallways, trying to find her way back to the main hall, when she overheard two women gossiping about the rumors surrounding her husband and his female conquests. Legendary, indeed. No man could possibly do what they described for the length of time they claimed he did it. Although, when he had kissed her the night of their wedding, he wasn’t exactly in any hurry…

  “Are you feeling all right, Bri? You look feverish,” Erin asked, pulling Bri back into the present.

  “Oh. Um, no, I’m fine. I was noticing that the castle seems a bit…um…disorganized.” Bri picked up a pair of hose and wrinkled her nose. Holy cow, they were almost completely ripped at the knee. She gritted her teeth and set to the task, sending a silent apology to whoever had to wear these when she was finished with them.

  “Disorganized?” Erin asked, confused.

  Bri was momentarily jealous of Erin’s blood-free fingertips and peaceful countenance. The woman could probably out-sew Vera Wang the day before a royal wedding and keep that tranquility wrapped around her like a cloak.

  “I mean that there’s no order. No leader among the non-warriors of the clan. It’s kind of a free-for-all.”

  “I can’t say I’ve heard t
hat term before, but it’s the way clans work. As you didn’t grow up in Ireland, I could see how it looks rather muddled.” She looked up and smiled a little dreamily. “Donovan took me to England once. It was beautiful. We were welcomed into an enormous castle, with turrets and flags and more furniture and tapestries than I ever thought were made. There wasn’t a clan, of course, as we were in England, and they do things quite differently. But there was a definitive order to the household. The lady of that castle certainly wasn’t doing the watchman’s mending—just her husband’s. And it had been washed before she mended it.”

  Bri made a face. She was mending a watchman’s dirty leggings? As inconspicuously as possible, she dropped the hose back into the basket and grabbed another tunic.

  “I saw that,” Erin said without taking her eyes off her thread. “Here, the laird gives his sword in protection and the people work for the castle. Some have land they farm, others have small ships and fish. Still others have neither and they spend their days here at the castle, trying to do something to earn their keep. If they don’t work, they aren’t guaranteed the laird’s protection.”

  Well, that was news.

  “Do you think it would be well-received if I suggest a few changes?” Bri asked. “I just think we could run this so much better if people had duties they could really excel at. You know, like Sheila, the woman can sew really well and really fast. And, for whatever reason, she claims that it soothes her soul.” Bri couldn’t imagine that statement ever ringing true for her. “Darby is competent as a ladies’ maid, but she’s so young. I’d much prefer Iona. The way she styled my hair was incredible.” Bri touched the dark mass of tresses tied in a neat knot at the nape of her neck. “She kept it off my neck when she last did it.”

  “It invites kissing,” Erin said matter-of-factly. “Darby may not know of that.”

  Bri stared.

  “What? Of course you want to invite kissing, especially from Nioclas. It leads to other activities…wedding night activities.” Erin placed another completed léine in her overflowing basket with a satisfied smile. At Bri’s open-mouthed stare, Erin laughed. “Oh, never with me! He’s like a brother! I’m talking about before you. He has quite the reputation as a skilled lov—”

  The midday meal bell rang, saving Bri from having to go down that road.

  “They’ll bring the meal in here,” Erin said, pushing the baskets away from her. Bri hastily followed suit. “I think your ideas are worth talking to Nioclas about. He very much appreciates efficiency in battle. Seeing the same applied to his household may appeal to him. You just have to be careful about who is assigned to what within the clan. You don’t want to upset any elders.”

  “Elders?”

  “Aye. Clan leaders. You see, we’re all family, albeit some more distant than others. MacWilliams are a strong lot, especially after Nioclas led the revolution against his father—oh, I can’t even remember how long ago. Two-score years, maybe? No, it was slightly longer than that. But he became laird at such a young age, and all the elders supported him. Nick became a master at avoiding the expected clashes of putting one elder in front of another. You should talk with him about who’s going to have his léine in a twist if he’s not leading whatever job he wants to lead.”

  Bri hadn’t considered the politics behind a clan. Not that she knew what those were—she was thought to be from the continent, after all. Which technically, I am, she reminded herself. Just not the continent everyone thought.

  Since Erin was in her usual chatty mood, Bri encouraged her. “Well, as you were part of this clan until you married Donovan, who do you think would be best for heading up the washing and hanging of clothes?”

  Erin thought about it for a minute, then nodded. “You’ll want Maggie on that. She’s got three daughters, and they already do most of the washing. They live here, usually sleep in the great hall, sometimes the stables if there’s another clan staying—”

  “We have women and children sleeping in the great hall?” Brianagh interrupted, shocked. She hadn’t been to the main floor after dinner. “But there are unused chambers everywhere!”

  “Yes, but they’re used for other lairds when they come to see Nick.” Erin shrugged.

  As they ate their meal—a very strange concoction of tough, chewy meat slathered in some sort of heavily herbed sauce—Brianagh’s wheels were spinning so fast, she almost couldn’t keep up. She knew next to nothing about medieval servitude—which, she acknowledged, was actually distant relations working for a safe place to sleep—but she wondered if it would strengthen the clan if they were treated better than sleeping on a stone floor or with the horses.

  She had to tread carefully when she brought her plan up to Nioclas.

  “You may want to think about installing a new cook here,” Erin said as she swallowed with difficulty. “Being from the continent, I’m sure you’ve had better food than this. Nioclas is not one to notice such things, but as his wife, it’s really up to you to ensure his comfort.”

  Brianagh managed a sickly kind of smile that Erin misinterpreted as a sign that the food really was that bad and announced, “I believe it’s time for our stroll. I’ll have someone fetch our cloaks.”

  A few moments later, they headed across the bailey. No one even gave them a second look.

  “Where are we going?” Bri asked, pulling the hood closer around her head.

  “The lists.”

  “But Nioclas was quite clear when he said we aren’t allowed in them,” she said, remembering how he’d sent his brother to her solar to deliver the castle rules. Ridiculous.

  “Oh, they won’t know we’re there,” Erin scoffed. “We’ll be hidden. If you remember, I grew up here.” She flashed a mischievous grin at Bri. “I know just where to watch, without anyone being any wiser.”

  Bri followed, fully planning to blame the entire thing on Erin if they were caught. She was the new kid in town; she didn’t know anything. They did things differently on the continent. Her list of plausible excuses was lengthy, so she smiled at the thought of no more mending and scurried against the wall separating the two courtyards she’d seen this morning. Nodding at the men they passed, Bri tried to look like she was just out for an afternoon stroll.

  Against a wall.

  “Here we are,” Erin said, her voice low as they crept into the small archway separating the two baileys.

  Bri stopped in her tracks, her jaw slack. Men were everywhere. Some were on horses, running at each other down a track and ramming long poles into each other in what looked like an attempt to force the opponent off his horse. Others were fighting with a wooden machine with extensions, each with something dangling from it—Bri fervently hoped that wasn’t a dead pig she thought she saw tied to one of them. The machine was wound back by two men, then released in a frenzy of flying objects at a guardsman. The reaction time of the current guard was impressive until he was taken off his feet by the pig.

  But the most interesting was the hand-to-hand combat happening at the far end. There, only two men were engaged—swords, by the look and sound of it—and a large cluster of guards stood to the side and watched, calling out to the opponents. Bri couldn’t make out the words because they were too far away. She couldn’t even see who was fighting—not that she’d recognize anyone, anyway.

  “Come on,” Erin said, grabbing her hand and tugging her into the wall.

  Bri laughed a little. The wall was a slim archway with openings on either end and was clearly a well-used passageway between the baileys.

  “The wall is built out, with benches for people to watch our tournaments when we hold them,” Erin explained as they walked. “We’re underneath the top level of those benches.”

  “Oh, yes, Erin. This is super secret.”

  Erin gave her a mock glare. “Trust me. The men get so involved in their training, they don’t notice anyone in this thing. Well, he does,” she amended as they squeezed by a guard standing in the middle of the tunnel, “but he won’t breathe a wo
rd. Right, Ambrose?”

  “I see nothing, my lady.”

  “Great answer. My mother and his were sisters. He knows nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Ambrose agreed with a wink before sauntering back the way the women had just come.

  “Now…look at that,” Erin said triumphantly. The large cracks in the walls facing the lists made it easy to see the men using swords, and the guardsmen calling out insults and slurs were somewhere to the left. “Stay back in the shadows and no one will be any wiser.”

  Bri and Erin peered out…and Bri’s mouth went dry as a shot of pure lust lanced straight to her core.

  Nioclas had his tunic off. Dressed in just a léine and boots, his chest shone with sweat, and his muscles bunched and tightened as he crossed swords with Donovan. His hair was tied back, but some strands escaped the leather band and plastered themselves to his neck. Pushing aside her irrational reaction, Bri’s eyes drank in the sight of him. The tattoo she spied on their wedding night was just the tip of the iceberg. It wound itself all the way around the top of his bicep and to his shoulder, each arm mirroring the other. The intricacies of the Celtic knots looked fascinating, although she was too far away to make out any real detail. With each clang of the swords, Nioclas’s calves flexed, strength underscoring his every move. Bri’s body tightened in response.

  Nioclas laughed suddenly at something Donovan said, and Brianagh thought she might expire on the spot.

  “He rarely does that,” Erin murmured.

  “Train?”

  “No. Laugh.” She slanted a glance at Bri. “Mayhap marriage agrees with him.”

  Brianagh bit her lip, a sense of guilt invading her. She had no idea what agreed with him. She hadn’t even caught sight of him since the morning after their wedding.

  Nioclas finished with Donovan, sending his sword flying. It landed about five feet from where the women were, and they both jumped back quickly, hands over their mouths. Once the sword was retrieved, they burst out into a fit of quiet giggles.

  “See?” Erin whispered, leaning forward as Aidan took up with Nioclas. “Best part of the day.”