Dyna smiled. “’Tis time to end Edward’s cruel monarchy over the Scots.”
“And I’ll be there!” Chrissa said with determination. “We deserve to have our own king. I want to fight for that right, every step of the way.” She’d grown up on stories of her aunts and uncles and ancestors fighting for Scotland. Some of her favorite stories were about the clan’s role in the Battle of Largs against the Norse, but she also loved hearing about the role the Ramsays and Grants had played in shutting down the Channel of Dubh, a network of smugglers who’d stolen lads and lasses and shipped them across the seas. Maggie and her husband, Will, had led that effort. “I wish to prove myself like you and Will did when you fought the Channel of Dubh, Maggie.”
Maggie tilted her head. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Chrissa nearly snorted. “But you won, did you not? You crushed them, and the clan still speaks of it!”
“Aye, and the memories of winning are wonderful. But we didn’t save all of them, Chrissa, and the fear in those bairns’ eyes haunts me, all these years later.”
Molly squeezed her sister’s arm. The two had been mistreated when they were young, sold into servitude by their parents. Mayhap that was why Maggie’s memories still haunted her. Chrissa would only come away from this battle with Edward with fine memories.
“’Tis because bairns were suffering,” Chrissa said, her hands firmly planted on her hips. “This is different. We will defeat the English. I don’t know how a memory of fighting them could haunt anyone for years.”
Maggie just gave her a look. It wasn’t the first time Chrissa had gotten that look from someone; she recognized it well. Someday you will learn, it said, and you’ll not like the lesson.
Chapter Two
Drostan headed toward his family’s cottage, carrying the pup in his arms. “No pishing on me, Sky.”
Since he had no idea what to do with a dog, he’d decided to bring the animal with him to check on his sire. Mayhap the man would take to the beast. Looking after a dog would give him something to do other than his constant ale drinking.
His sire had imbibed too much ever since an injury had put an end to his days as a Grant warrior. A deep slice to his sword-arm had severely damaged his muscles. He’d taken the wound in one of the clan’s battles against the English, and he’d never been able to move on. His whole identity was wrapped up in being a warrior, something he could no longer do, and so he’d wallowed in drink instead of finding a new purpose. He’d even turned down an offer to train new warriors in the lists.
The amount he drank had increased each year, his temperament changing with it. While he’d never hit Drostan or his mother, he had a violent temper when in his cups. The smallest things would make him bellow or throw furniture. Everyone around him had suffered for his misery, especially Drostan’s mother, who’d run off three years ago.
She had finally tired of his drinking and his temper—of his habit of blaming others for his own problems. Drostan couldn’t fault her for leaving…or at least he wouldn’t have if she’d told him. She hadn’t even said goodbye. She’d told his father she was leaving for England, where she’d been born, and then disappeared, leaving Drostan in charge of his father.
He took care of the man as best he could, but he dreaded his visits to the cottage, preferring to spend his time with the warriors in their building.
Still, the man was his father, and he loved him and recognized his duty to care for him. No one else would. Besides, the man wasn’t all bad. The father he loved was not the man who spent his afternoons and eves drinking to the point of stupor, but the one who tended to his small garden and discussed the situation with King Robert with his neighbors, something he never tired of. The war was of great interest to him, enough so that it temporarily roused him from his stupor. It was from him Drostan had heard all the tales of Clan Grant’s prowess against their enemies. Those stories drove him to train harder, fight better.
Someday, he hoped it would be his name his sire heard the clan members discussing with pride. He had the foolish wish to make his father proud.
Still, his father was two men—the drunkard and the man who loved his clan and country—and often Drostan’s visits to him were not pleasant. It had been a while since he’d last been home. No matter. It was nearing the noon meal, so he hoped his father was still able to carry on a conversation.
Sky gave a whimper, as if understanding his quandary, and licked his nose. He smiled at her as he opened the door. The stench of ale and unwashed clothes nearly made him choke. “Good morrow to you, Papa.”
“Where you been, you ungrateful cur? All those years I worked to feed you, and you don’t have the decency to visit your own sire? Did you bring me another container of ale? I’m nearly out.” His father stood up from the table in the middle of the cottage, but the movement had been too abrupt, and he leaned over to catch the side of the table to keep from falling over.
Hellfire, but he was already in his pots. “Papa, you need to eat before you drink. Have you eaten yet?”
“Nay, you bring me naught. Or have you now? That creature in your arms has a look of something I can skin. Leave it here for me. I’ll make a fine stew of it.”
Drostan couldn’t stop his wide-eyed stare at his father. “This is a dog, not a rabbit. You’ll not be skinning her for the pot.”
“Don’t leave it here or I will.” He tried to glare at Drostan, but he was so tossed that he swayed on his feet and couldn’t keep his eyes focused on one thing.
Drostan groaned inwardly. “I’ll go to the keep and find you a loaf of bread and porridge as soon as we’ve talked.” He’d had another purpose for coming, and he wished to explain himself before the man was so deep in the ale he couldn’t stay awake.
“Don’t bring me any porridge. Bread and a bone to chew on. ’Tis all I need. And a pitcher of ale would be nice, too.” He swayed as he moved back to his chair. “Where did you get the dog and why would you want one?”
“I won her in a challenge.” He moved to the table, pulled out the chair and sat down, which his father took as an invitation to unload all of his troubles.
“I used to be a fine warrior, lad,” he moaned. “They should take good care of their warriors, bring them all the food and drink they need. I shouldn’t have to go to the keep for food. At least, my neighbor had the consideration to bring the last pitcher of mead. I fought for Clan Grant for years.” He hit the table with a loud bang. “Someone should bring me what I want every day.”
“Papa, you are completely capable of going to keep for the daily meal. You shouldn’t need to be waited on. You’re far from helpless.” How he hated the way drink transformed his father into someone lazy and miserable, completely unpleasant to be around.
His father scowled and flung an arm out toward the door. “Don’t sit your arse in one of my chairs until you bring me some food.” He swung again, wildly, and the back of his hand caught Drostan’s face, his ring striking him in the eye. “What the hell, old man? Look what you did!” His hand went up to his eye for protection.
For a moment, the shock transformed his father. His eyes held genuine regret. “Forgive me, Drostan,” he said. “I did not mean to hit you.” The apology was sincere, but the look faded into a murky glower. “’Twas an accident and you know it. Get me some food.”
“Fine, you muddled old fool. I’ll get you some food, then I’ll leave you and not return for a moon. I came early so we could chat, but once you start drinking, there’s no point in staying.”
His sire tried to follow him, but Drostan caught his arm and maneuvered him back into his chair. “Sit, Papa. You might hurt someone, including yourself.”
“I was a fine warrior not long ago. You’d not be treating me like this…”
He opened the door and slammed it behind him, ignoring the rest of his father’s rant. He glanced down at Sky, shaking in his arms. “Don’t worry, I’ll not allow you to be roasted in a pot, wee beastie.”
Sky lick
ed his face again.
***
Chrissa stood over by the hearth that night after the evening meal, not far from her grandsire. He had his own large chair close to the fire. Though he didn’t move around as much as he used to, his mind was as keen as ever. They all took turns sitting by him so they could help if needed. It was her turn.
“Chrissa,” he said, his gaze settling on her, “do me a favor and ask Torrian Ramsay to sit with me a bit. I wish to talk about King Robert.”
“I’ll find him for you, Grandsire.”
She approached the table where Torrian sat with her parents and uncles and aunts. Her mother glanced up, arching a brow as if she expected trouble, and Chrissa leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Grandpapa would like to speak with Chieftain Ramsay.”
“I’ll go with him.” Her mother stood. “Your time at the hearth is done. Go enjoy yourself for a bit.”
She nodded, then quickly left, heading over to a group of young girls. Her favorite cousins were Merelda and Maryell, Uncle Jamie and Aunt Gracie’s daughters. Though they didn’t practice archery, they were the closest to her in age, and the three of them enjoyed gossiping about lads. Chrissa was the eldest at nine and ten, then Merelda at eight and ten, while Maryell was a year younger than her sister.
Then there was the thorn in their sides: Astra. Dyna’s younger sister was a terror at three and ten. Her favorite activity was tattling—any activity to anyone. The three did their best to stay far away from her, but Astra had an uncanny way of being everywhere, especially where she was least wanted.
As soon as she was close to them, Merelda leaped up off the bench and tugged her off to the side, giggling. “You must tell me about Drostan fighting over you.” She giggled, glancing over Chrissa’s shoulder to make sure no one else was listening.
Especially Astra.
“It was naught,” she said, wishing everyone would forget about that unfortunate episode.
“You said before that there was no fighting after Drostan tried to hit the chieftain. So why does Drostan have a black eye?”
“What?” She spun around, her gaze searching the area, but Astra had stepped up behind her and blocked her vision. At three and ten, she was nearly as tall as Chrissa. She towered over many lads her own age, but then again, she was Uncle Connor’s daughter.
Her cousin’s nearly black hair shone in the torchlight. “You hit your boyfriend? ’Tis what they’re saying.”
“I did not hit him! You better not spread lies.”
Astra wriggled her nose and said, “Fine. I’ll tell them what you said. Who hit him? Someone did a fine job discoloring his face.” She laughed at her own jest.
“Not funny, cousin. Shall I punch you in the face and see if ’tis funny to you?”
Astra took a step back as she said, “You’ll not catch me.” Then she ran, yelling back over her shoulder, “Ever.”
Chrissa clenched her jaw. “Someday that lass is going to get her just due.”
“She’s harmless,” said Maryell, the calmer and more serious of the sisters. “You acted nearly the same at her age.”
“I. Did. Not.” She sent her most intimidating gaze at Maryell, but it didn’t work because Merelda was already agreeing with her.
“Aye, you were,” Maryell said, a big grin on her face. Then her cousin grabbed her arm, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Drostan’s coming.” She gave a short moan. “He’s so handsome. You should let him know you like him.”
Chrissa scowled at her. “Who ever said I did?”
“You’ve practiced with him forever. You should be married to him by now.”
Maryell nodded her agreement. “She’s right, Chrissa. You were meant to be together. ’Tis in the stars.”
“And how would you know?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips.
“Ask Dyna. You know she’s a seer. I’d wager she sees Drostan as your husband. Soon.”
Chrissa didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. She hadn’t come over to talk about Drostan. However, she couldn’t deny that her feelings for him were changing. She’d been thinking about him ever since their encounter that morning. The way he’d stood up for her. The look in his eyes when he’d taken on Torrian. Mayhap he did have deeper feelings for her and, more startling, mayhap she was beginning to return them. Their simple friendship, so long and enduring, had twisted around and changed.
But into what? If she were two years younger, she’d have dared to ask him. Now she wouldn’t dream of risking such a thing. Maturity, it seemed, had stolen some of her boldness.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her belly fluttering in an odd way. But she refused to admit to her new weakness for him. “Just because we’ve practiced together doesn’t mean we should marry. I helped him with archery, and he taught me how to use a dagger. ’Twas a simple trade.” The two girls cast the same impish grin as they turned away from her. Moments later, Drostan approached them with the wee pup cradled in his arms. The sight brought on more of that strange fluttering sensation. Had he kept the pup since his confrontation with Torrian?
He didn’t wait for any word from Chrissa, instead launching into conversation with her. “Are you going to fight with the Bruce on Midsummer’s Day? They say this could be the last battle in the war.”
“Aye. I think so.”
“You don’t know?”
“My cousins told me I probably would be going.”
“But you’ve yet to receive approval from your parents?” A teasing smirk crossed his face, and Sky looked up at her as if she were awaiting the answer as much as Drostan. He just loved to rib her about how overprotective her parents were over their daughter leaving the keep.
She reached for the wee wolfhound and cuddled her against her chest, petting her fur, which was much softer than an adult dog’s coat. “Papa will allow me to go because he’ll be going.”
“Your sire intends to fight? I didn’t think he’d leave the keep.”
She should agree with him because she was surprised her sire had said he’d be going along, too. But lately, her instincts had her disagreeing with almost everything Drostan said.
She couldn’t help but wonder what that meant.
“He will for this. King Robert wants as many of us as possible. My sire is still a fine swordsman, and Uncle Connor will go, too, so I’ll be fine. Grandsire thinks the whispers are true. He believes this battle, if it happens, will decide everything.”
“Will you make sure I can go with the cavalry? I wish to fight alongside the Bruce.”
The excitement in his gaze told her he wished to go as badly as she did. Or perhaps nearly as much as she did. No one wanted to fight in this battle more than Chrissa. “I’ll talk to them. From what I heard, if you’ve any sword skills, you’ll be going. I wouldn’t worry about it.” She shifted her attention to his bruised eye. “Who hit you?”
“No one,” he said, but his gaze dropped to the ground. “I tripped over the dog and fell into a branch.”
She knew he was lying. His father had lost most of his sense to the ale he drank. She knew it was the reason his mother had left. “I think your sire did it. Has his drinking gotten worse? Has he progressed and started striking you for no reason?” His sire had been drinking too much ever since his injury, but to her knowledge, he’d never hit anyone when he was in his cups. Had that changed?
If so, he needed to tell someone.
“Nay, I fell. ’Twas just as I said.”
She leaned toward him, handing the pup back, and whispered, “Your sire hit you. I can tell. Did you hit him back?” One look at his flushed cheeks was answer enough. “Nay, you wouldn’t. If you’ll not defend yourself, I can tell someone he’s turned abusive. You know what that word does to my grandsire.” She tipped her head as if to challenge him, crossing her arms.
His cheeks flushed. “You’ll say naught. ’Twas an accident. He lost his balance when he was bellowing in one of his rages. If he’d done it apurpose, I’d have stopped
him, but he didn’t. Worry about your own problems. If you tattle, you’re no better than Astra.”
“I’m nothing like Astra.” She gave him her fiercest glare and leaned toward him, not that it would work on him.
And it didn’t. He simply spun on his heel and left.
She wished to stomp her foot, but not with this many witnesses. Instead she turned away, heading toward the trestle table closest to the hearth where her mother and father, Torrian Ramsay, and Grandsire now sat, surely talking about the upcoming battle.
Now that she knew she’d be joining them, she wished to hear all the details. And she would push for Drostan to go along.
She glanced over her shoulder at the annoying man, not surprised to find him looking back at her. But the look he gave her was not the sort of attention she wished to get from him. Perhaps she’d been a wee bit harsh.
His glare at her was harsher than the one she was giving him.
Chapter Three
Drostan was upset that Chrissa had figured out the truth. He didn’t want anyone to know about his sire’s heavy drinking either, especially not the lairds. Most knew he drank, but he didn’t think they knew how bad it had become.
How he prayed she wouldn’t say anything. The last thing he needed was for Chrissa’s relatives to regard him as a victim—a warrior incapable of standing up to his own father. It would surely ruin his chance of traveling with the Grant cavalry. And of wooing her.
As Chrissa had suggested, King Robert would probably allow anyone to fight, but he wished to fight on horseback. He was better at controlling animals than most. It would make his father proud, he was sure…proud enough, possibly, to put aside the ale for a few nights.
Will he even notice?
His small lies about his sire did no one any harm. No one but him, and he could take it. Because even if his sire was a mean drunk, he was still the man who’d taught him how to throw a dagger, how to hunt and fish in the loch, how to use a knife to whittle. He even recalled the first time his father had brought him to the keep for a festival. The finery and large hearth had amazed him, and the meat pies and fruit tarts were better than anywhere.
The Scot's Deception (Highland Swords Book 5) Page 2
