The Warrior Trainer

by Gerri Russell

  "They are boxing her in," Keith Ranald said as he tried to push the crowd back with his strong arms, giving Scotia more room to maneuver. His attempts were unsuccessful, but Scotia did not seem to notice the lack of space. Her broadsword slashed right, then left, and back again, as she pressed her attack.

  Ian drew an easier breath when he detected a slight shift in Haldane's stride. Scotia's opponent was beginning to tire. She must be every bit as tired, yet she showed no sign. Instead, she stood tall and proud, moving on full attack. Haldane spun away. Scotia feinted to the left and drew her sword across Haldane's thigh, drawing blood through the boiled leather cuisses that covered the tops of his legs.

  Haldane did not cry out in pain, but his eyes flared with outrage. He slashed a wide, furious circle around Scotia. His attack no longer held any kind of predictability as he savagely cut at anyone and anything in his way. The crowd scattered like leaves in a strong wind.

  Ian remained where he stood, unable to move away despite the danger. Haldane had turned from dangerous to lethal. A wounded animal willing to sacrifice all for the sake of triumph. And if Scotia were not careful, Haldane would kill both himself and her before this battle was through.

  Ian stepped forward, unable to stay uninvolved. "Hold." A hand on his arm restrained him. The old gatekeeper, Poppie, stood beside him, his gaze gentle with understanding. "She made her wishes known. Let her continue."

  "Nay, I must—"

  "Interfere now, and Haldane will only come back again. Let this battle be the end. I beg ye."

  Ian knew the gatekeeper was right. He forced his feet to remain still despite an almost desperate desire to go to her. He had no one to blame but himself for this situation. He had been so eager to see Scotia again, had wanted to bring a smile to her lips, that he had dropped his usual guard, charging forward without a second thought, until only the need to kiss her had dominated over reason.

  And now, Scotia would pay for his indiscretion. He kept his gaze upon her, fearing to look away for the slightest of moments. Her sword dipped slightly, growing heavy in her arms, a sign of the strain the battle put on her. Despite that weakness, her reflexes were still strong, but they could not hold out forever. With the next clash of sound, his thoughts proved him right. Both swords struck flesh and came away red. A dark, red ribbon of blood spilled from her padded shoulder.

  Ian tightened his grip on his sword. He shifted forward, ready to rescue her. Scotia's gaze left Haldane and blazed into Ian's. She voiced nothing aloud, but her gaze said This is my battle. He forced himself to remain still against an overwhelming tide of anger and frustration. He answered her with a look he hoped conveyed his faith in her abilities.

  Bolstered by his gaze, she attacked with a renewed vigor. Haldane's eyes widened in surprise. Their blades came together with such force that sparks flared off the metal. The two swords locked together at the hilt. Scotia wrenched the sword from Haldane's grasp, sending it arching wildly across the hard-packed dirt of the outer bailey.

  Her opponent fell backward to the ground as he stared after his sword in shocked disbelief.

  She used his distraction to finish the deed. She poised her sword at the soft flesh of Haldane's neck. If he moved, the lethal blade would end his life. "Do you yield?"

  Haldane remained still except for the harsh rise and fall of his chest. "Aye."

  "Do you swear that you will never return to challenge me again? Or send other men to do the task for you?"

  His gaze turned mutinous. "I have been defeated twice. My pride cannot take much more."

  Scotia pressed the blade more firmly against his throat, drawing blood. "Your word, Haldane. I need your word."

  "I promise never to return," he spat out.

  "And?"

  Haldane's gaze hardened. "I shall cease sending mercenaries to challenge you as well." Her sword lifted and the challenger twisted away. He staggered to his feet, gathered his sword, then limped away.

  Ian sheathed his sword and his dagger before he raced to Scotia's side. The Ranald warriors walked behind Haldane, making certain he caused no further trouble.

  The battle was over.

  Ian had never been so glad of anything in his life.

  As quickly as he could, he ripped off a length of linen from the bottom of his shirt and bound it across the top of Scotia's shoulder, then under her arm. "Let us get you inside."

  Scotia stumbled, then regained her balance as she walked back to where her brigandine lay against the dirt. With stiff movements, she pulled the armor back over her head.

  "Your shoulder," Ian said, trying to remain in control of the overwhelming guilt that flooded him. If only he had been more careful.

  "Maisie will tend me later." She began to fasten the ties when Ian stilled her hands.

  "Nay. I shall see to it now."

  She began to protest, but Ian ignored her, sliding his arm about her waist. She gave in, and leaned heavily upon him as he led her back to the keep amid the stares of her people. If their curious gazes bothered her, she did not show it.

  Ian scattered the observers with a piercing gaze. Did they take Scotia's challenges and her winnings so much for granted that they regarded these occasions as moments of casual interest?

  He gritted his teeth against a sudden rush of anger. Scotia might be the Warrior Trainer, but she was also mortal. Over the years of caring for the sick with his foster mother, he had seen many great warriors die from wounds like this. He shut himself off to the memories. Such a fate did not await Scotia, not while he was near.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, he whisked her off her feet. She made a small sound of protest, but did not fight him. A sign of the seriousness of the wound. Like a man possessed, he hurried into the keep and up the stairs to her chamber.

  He deposited her in a chair by the hearth. "Thank you," she murmured.

  "Do not thank me." He knelt down beside her. "I am the reason you left the protection of your castle." He could not keep the guilt from his voice.

  Scotia took up his hand. He stared down at their fingers, hers encased in gauntlets, his roughened by years of hard work, and felt his guilt and anger fade into surprise. It was the first time she had reached for him. For hands so small, there was great strength in her grasp.

  She caught and held his gaze. There was no blame in her expression—only forgiveness. "Haldane would have come back sooner or later. At least now the suspense of waiting for him is over."

  At her acceptance of her fate, a kind of peace settled inside Ian. "Do you believe Haldane will keep his word not to challenge you again?”

  Scotia released his hand. She leaned her head back against the chair. "He will stay away for a while. But with men like him, the lure of success often outweighs the honor of their word, especially now that he's guessed about the Stone." A weariness invaded her voice. She closed her eyes.

  She had the Stone. The real Stone. A part of him rejoiced that the English had failed to steal the artifact from them at the Abbey of Scone. But what price had Scotia paid for that deception? He stared down at her tired, beaten body.

  She might accept her destiny as protector of the Stone and a warrior who could count on no one but herself, but he intended to prove her wrong. "I must check your wound." Gently, Ian lifted her armor from her shoulders, then pulled the heavy protection over her head.

  The armor had barely left her skin when her eyelids fluttered open. Uncertainty shone in her eyes. Her hands came up to shield her padded chest from his view. A rush of color flooded her pale cheeks. "I shall be well once I rest." Her voice was weak, hesitant. "And I am certain Maisie is mixing up some sort of remedy."

  "I want to see the wound for myself." Ian set her armor aside, then turned back to her shoulder. After removing the blood-soaked linen bandage he had tied around her shoulder, he pushed the padding and her thin chemise aside to examine the wound. He breathed a silent sigh. The gash in her flesh was deep, but none of the sinew beneath the muscle had been disturbed.<
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  "How is it?" she asked. Her face paled, but her eyes held an underlying strength that he doubted would ever fail her, no matter how grim the circumstances. '

  He thought about telling her a falsehood, then decided against it. He had learned from his many hours spent in his foster mother's company as she healed the sick of their clan it was best to tell people the truth. "The wound is serious, but the arm is not damaged."

  "That is a relief," she said with a tinge of nervousness in her voice. "It would be difficult to be the Warrior Trainer with only one functioning arm."

  "Scotia." The word was more a plea than a warning. "The arm is fine, but the wound is deep. I must stanch the bleeding. I can either seal it with a heated sword, or knit it together with thread. Which will it be?"

  "The sword." She stiffened her back and sat up straight in the chair. She put on a brave front, but Ian could hear fear in the slight quaver of her voice. "Make it quick."

  Ian paused to consider her decision. Her words spoke one thing, but her actions suggested something else. "It will leave a scar," he explained, loath to inflict that kind of pain or lasting disfiguration on her flesh.

  "I care not what it looks like. All warriors have scars."

  "You are far more than a warrior, Scotia." He drew his dagger and carefully cut away the padding from first the back, then the front of her shoulder. He pulled the thick fabric away, exposing her creamy flesh. When he saw a second red gash lower on her shoulder, his heart seemed to freeze. Though not a fresh wound, the purple and brown gash was recent and had never healed as it should have. "What is this?"

  "A memento from my last encounter with Haldane." Scotia kept her gaze trained on Ian as though waiting for something.

  His anger built, matched only by the fierce wave of protectiveness that washed over him at the thought that Haldane had not injured Scotia once, but twice. Violent thoughts of how he could repay Haldane overtook him until he realized Scotia's gaze had not changed.

  Did she expect him to think less of her because of this additional sign of weakness? Did she equate wounds to failure? If so, she needed his reassurance, not his anger. "As you said. All warriors have scars. You are no different from the rest." He sheathed his dagger. "Now," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I shall take care of this wound."

  "Are you certain you know what to do?" she asked, but a look of relief passed across her features.

  "Aye, but you might want a bit of ale to dull the pain before I begin." Ian was about to continue with his instructions when the door of the chamber burst open with a resounding whack against the opposite wall. Two cries of anguish sounded from the doorway—one a wail, the other a screech—followed by two bodies as they hurried across the room, staggering to a halt at Scotia's feet. Ian stepped back, giving Maisie and Lizbet access to Scotia.

  "Scotia," Lizbet wailed, thrusting her head into Scotia's lap.

  Scotia stroked Lizbet's golden hair as the little girl sobbed. "I am all right. Look at me. I am well, and will be ready to battle you again on the morrow."

  The little girl's head came up and the tears stopped. "Truly?" she asked with a sniffle.

  "I promise," Scotia said in a soothing voice that made Ian pause. Much had changed between these two since he had been gone. He could see the slight tightening of Scotia's lips, no doubt from the pain, despite the fact she tried to appear calm and at ease. It was something a mother might do to protect her child from fear.

  "My dear sweet child," Maisie said from near Scotia's side, "this is not exactly the homecomin' I had envisioned for the two of ye." The older woman glanced up at Ian. She managed to keep her face composed despite the lines of worry etched around her eyes and mouth.

  "I shall be fine, Maisie," Scotia said, ignoring the woman's comment. "It is just a cut."

  Maisie's gaze shifted from the red linen on the floor to Scotia's shoulder. "It appears to be more than a cut." She held two bowls in her hands, one filled with a soft yellow paste, the other filled with dark-colored leeches. "I brought a poultice of clary seeds and yarrow. It will ease the pain until I can bleed her. Move aside young man. I shall see to her needs."

  Ian stared at the bowl of leeches and remained where he stood. "Nay," he said in a stronger voice than he had intended.

  Maisie took a step back, and the bowls in her hands trembled ever so slightly.

  "We shall have no need of those here. My foster mother never used them. Besides, Scotia has lost enough blood already."

  Maisie drew back her shoulders. "What know you of healin', Ian?"

  "Enough to heal Scotia, not make her worse. Her last wound has never healed. See for yourself," Ian gestured toward Scotia's exposed shoulder. "If this is what your leeches do for her, I say it is my turn to try my hand without delay." Ian found it difficult to keep the anger from his voice.

  Ian knew the moment Maisie's gaze lit on the wound. Her face turned a pasty white before settling into an ashen shade of gray. "Mercy be. I had no idea." She held out both bowls to him. "All right. Ye can proceed. What might I do?"

  With a sense of relief, Ian accepted the poultice, then turned back to Scotia. "I shall need a jug of strong ale, a bucket of boiling water, strips of fresh linen, thread, and a very sharp needle."

  "Aye," Maisie agreed. "Lizbet, if ye wish to help Scotia, come with me." The girl hesitated until Scotia nodded her head, then stood and followed Maisie. The swish of their skirts and the closing of the chamber door told Ian they had left to do his bidding.

  "I did not ask you to sew me up." Concern danced across Scotia's features. "Sealing the wound will be faster. I cannot remain here for long. I have men to train."

  When she made to stand, Ian held up his hand, keeping her in her chair. "You need to heal before you will be any good to anyone."

  She shook her head. "There is no time to waste on such trivial things. The Four Horsemen could be headed this way. I need to protect my people for once, Ian. Lizbet has shown me how much my people suffer. I shall stand for it no longer." When he remained silent she added, "If you will not use a sword to stop the bleeding, then bind the wound. It will heal eventually."

  Ian crossed his arms over his chest. Did she not realize how ill she truly was? Or was this stubbornness a shield for some other emotion? "In every other battle we have, I am willing to accept defeat because your skill and talents far outweigh my own. But in this battle with your wound, I shall not concede. You will leave this chamber and return to your training when I say you may."

  She gave him a thunderous look.

  He returned the look with one of his own. She would not win. Not this time. "Do we understand each other?"

  Scotia was saved from a response by Maisie's return. "I left Lizbet with Cook. It took some talkin’ to keep the child from yer side, Scotia. She finally agreed to remain behind after I fed her an apple pastie and promised her she could visit when the wound was closed." As she spoke, Maisie set the items Ian had requested near the hearth. "Tell me what to do now."

  Ian picked up the jug of ale and held it out to the older woman. "She must drink this before I begin."

  "I shall not—"

  Ian shot Scotia a glance that dared her to argue.

  "Give me a tankard," she muttered.

  While Maisie handed Scotia the ale, Ian moved to the fire to run the needle through the flames as he had seen his foster mother do many times before. His hand was steady above the flame, but not his heart. He had watched his foster mother knit wounds together a thousand times. She made it look so easy, although he was certain it was not.

  He stared into the red and gold flames, waiting for his nerves to steady. He had to do this if he wanted the new wound on Scotia's shoulder to heal properly and not become putrid, as her last injury had. The tip of the needle grew red, and the metal warmed against his fingers. A needle. The tool of a woman looked small and insignificant in his large, masculine hand—a hand made for wielding a sword. He stared at the flames in the hearth pondering the irony of his si
tuation. And with that tool he would mend a delicately molded feminine shoulder for a woman wielding a sword.

  A twist of fate.

  Ian removed the needle and dipped it in a pitcher of water to cool while he waited for the ale to take Scotia in its grip. When her gaze grew less focused and her objections tapered off, he knew it was time to begin.

  When he washed out the wound, Scotia flinched but said nothing. Instead, she held her gaze steady on something behind him, most likely using one of her training techniques to focus her thoughts.

  Each time the needle bit into her flesh, he tensed, longing for just a pinch of her composure. With painstaking care he pulled the edges of her skin together, binding them slowly despite his great desire to hurry. The thick needle tugged at her flesh as he worked it from one side of the wound to the next. By the time he reached the end, his hands were shaking. Beads of sweat dotted his temples and the back of his neck, yet she remained as calm and peaceful as if they were sharing a cup of tea—until he unsheathed his dagger.

  "You will torture me with first a needle and now your knife?" A tremor of fear flickered across her features when he reached back and ran the blade through the flames as he had the needle.

  "I must reopen the other wound and drain the putrefaction away." Could she hear the agony in his voice? The thought of his dagger slicing open her flesh twisted his gut. "If I do not, you will become ill, and perhaps die." He had seen it happen far too often during his foster mother's time as a healer.

  Scotia nodded grimly. "Be quick."

  After cooling the blade, he pressed the point against the ugly purple flesh. Slight pressure would open her flesh, yet he hesitated. He had never willingly drawn blood from another person outside of battle.

  His gaze moved from the wound to her face—a face covered with streaks of dirt and sweat as well as blood. Hair from her once neat plait framed her face in long, wet tendrils. Her cheeks were flushed, her color high from the trauma he had imposed on her. Her gaze came up to meet his. She had never looked more beautiful or more frightened. But beneath the fear there was also trust.