“Cease, Garrick,” Laird Dristan shouted as he passed, whilst raising his hand to halt his men. The final notes of Garrick’s bagpipe faded in the morning air.
Dristan strode across the field towards his knights, then called out, “’Tis passable, although I expected you to sharpen those moves at least an hour ago.”
As he listened to his laird chastising his knights, relief flooded Garrick, knowing his part of the day’s exercises was at an end. As he began to leave the lists, someone bellowed out his name. Flinching, Garrick turned, dreading what would still be required of him this day.
“Where go you, Piper?” Dristan shouted, with a laugh. “The day is yet young!”
“What would ye like me tae play next, my laird?” Garrick asked, raising the pipe to his lips and wondering what his laird would order the knights to practice next.
“Play? Your playing is over for the day. Pick up your sword and let us see how you have improved. Your life may depend upon your skill with the blade in the heat of battle.”
“My instrument will serve me just as well in such a moment, my laird,” he called back. Thrusting out his pipes, he jabbed at the air as though to disarm an unseen enemy before him. Amused guffaws heckled him. Garrick frowned. He hated when the men assumed he was incapable of protecting himself.
“By all that is holy, our piper would not last a minute with those moves,” a knight named Cederick called out.
Turquine and Teagan, two knights who loved to instigate trouble, burst out chuckling in complete unison before Turquine bellowed, “Shall we have a wager, men?”
Another knight, Nathaniel, joined in the merriment. “’Twould not be much of a bet when those pipes snap in two with his first efforts.”
Finlay, of Lady Amiria’s personal guard, stepped forward. “I shall take yer bet and double the wager in Garrick’s favor,” he proclaimed, pulling out several coins from a pouch hanging from his belt.
Garrick nodded to his clansman, pleased with the man’s faith in him.
“Aye,” chimed in Dougal, another of Amiria’s guardsmen. Dougal began pushing aside one knight after another till he was standing at the front of the men. “No man of the MacLaren clan would lose so easily. I shall even take Garrick’s place on the off chance he fails in his quest to win,” he added, nodding to Garrick across the field. “No offense, Piper.”
Garrick smirked. “None taken, Dougal, but there shall be no need tae replace me. I am more than capable of holding my own against any one of these guardsmen.”
Drake, one of the biggest knights on the lists, stepped forward, looking him over. “Keep your coins. Any fool can see for himself Garrick would lose such a battle.”
Garrick motioned with his hand. “Do ye think so? Then, come and try tae knock me off me feet,” he jeered, even whilst the knights ignored Drake’s words and began wagering amongst themselves.
Drake cracked his knuckles and smirked. “’Twill be my pleasure, Piper, to put you in your place. I will even give you the advantage and not use my sword to disarm you.”
Bertram, the captain of Dristan’s personal guard, stepped forward and shouted out. “Best watch your words, Drake, for you might regret them when you land on your sorry arse!” Loud guffaws rang out in the lists.
Garrick hid a smirk of satisfaction and spread his feet into position. His confidence grew as he recalled the training Bertram had drilled into him in the quiet hours of the eve whilst everyone else ate and drank their fill.
Drake slipped the belt from his waist and let his sword fall to the ground. “I do not think so. What does a mere piper know about swordplay or staying alive in the middle of a battle?”
“My coinage is on our piper,” Dristan stated, causing several knights to pause whilst placing their wager with Turquine. Their laird dismounted from his horse and came to stand on the edge of the lists with arms folded across his chest. “Show them and Drake a thing or two, Garrick.”
Knowing Laird Dristan had faith in his abilities caused Garrick’s pride to rise. As Drake approached, Garrick looked for any signs of an opening where he could thrust his pipe without causing the instrument damage. But the knight before him had not earned his place as one of Laird Dristan’s personal guardsmen by being an inferior fighter. Nay. This knight would show him no mercy in his quest to prove Garrick did not belong on the field.
Drake stood before him a moment, eyeing his adversary. Then, he made a sudden move, causing Garrick to jump back.
Drake laughed and turned his head back towards the men. “You see?” he mocked. “His place is here at the castle with the women and ch─”
The air rushed out of Drake with a loud whoosh as Garrick thrust his pipes into his adversary’s neck. Garrick had had but an instant to react when Drake foolishly turned his attention elsewhere in his cockiness and he had taken the chance so readily presented to him. Tossing his bagpipes aside, Garrick jabbed at Drake’s midsection with his shoulder, and then dropped to the ground as Drake took a wild swing at him. With Drake off balance, Garrick quickly rolled into the man’s legs, causing the knight to fall over. Just as fast, Garrick jumped on top of the fallen knight and pulled out his dirk, placing his weapon at the man’s neck.
Everything had happened so quickly, Berwyck’s knights could only gape at their piper. Moans from those who had wagered on the wrong man filled the air as the men began exchanging coins.
Laird Dristan clapped his hands and nodded approval at his captain, Bertram. Clearly, the two were in cahoots. “Well done, Garrick! Well done,” Dristan beamed, before turning his attention to his men. “Never underestimate your opponent.”
Garrick replaced his blade and stood, offering a hand to Drake. The knight stared upon the proffered limb as though he had thoughts of severing Garrick’s hand from his arm. Finally, with a self-effacing chuckle, Drake accepted Garrick’s offer to help him stand.
“By damn, ’twas indeed well done, Garrick,” Drake conceded, slapping him upon his back.
“Never let it be said a MacLaren does not know how tae improvise or use whatever means necessary tae take the advantage,” Garrick boasted, with a smile of satisfaction.
The two men clasped arms before Drake bent over to pick up the discarded bagpipes and handed them to Garrick. “I will remember to listen to the words of Lord Dristan. Since he put his wager on you, I should have known I was destined to fail. I will not make the same mistake again.”
Dristan stepped forward. “Shall we get back to our training, men? We are burning daylight, though this exercise is a good lesson to show you all need as much training as I can pound into your thick heads.” Another groan filled the air before all turned to take up their swords and battle axes. “Drake, you have the privilege of continuing to train with Garrick. Show him what you can do with a blade and ensure he is just as capable as the rest of the men... yourself included.”
“Aye, my lord,” Drake answered with a wicked smirk. Pulling his sword from his scabbard, he tested the blade by swinging the weapon in the air. “Let us be about it, Piper. As our liege lord has said, we are wasting daylight.”
Garrick took up his own sword knowing the rest of the afternoon would be long, and he would soon pay the price for his one moment of glory.
Chapter 3
Coira stared at the fortress set high upon a cliff near the ocean’s shore. No enemy in their right mind would ever dare attempt to penetrate such a formidable structure, much less succeed. And yet, from the stories Morgan had told her during their travels, ’twas exactly what the Devil’s Dragon had accomplished many years ago in the name of his king. The fact that Morgan and Rolf were amongst the men who had dared such a feat left Coria dumbstruck.
She had never been close to her cousin and knew little of the man Dristan had become, although Rolf had always said he was honored to serve as his vassal. She knew most of what was said about Dristan of Berwyck was a falsehood. Rumors had reached her as far away as the south of France about her cousin’s ruthlessness upon the
battlefield, and some hinted that his dragonish nature extended to his domestic life. His skill with a sword was how he had become a champion knight for King Henry II, but he was also married and a father, and both Rolf and Morgan admired him. Surely he would find a place within his household for her? She hated the thought of having to join a nunnery. Still… Dristan’s reputation might be a forewarning of what she could expect. ’Twas no small wonder her stomach was tied up in nervous knots, for she was unsure of the welcome she would receive at Berwyck.
Horse and riders both seemed eager to finally be at their journey’s end, and they made quick work of lessening the distance to the castle. Coira would be relieved to rest her head upon something softer than the ground and feel something more stable than a rolling ship beneath her feet. After her grandfather’s long final illness, she had become unused the rigors of travel.
’Twas not long before they were riding through the barbican gate and beneath the deadly portcullis. Nor was it long before lads came to relieve them of the steeds who had carried them to the safety of the keep. With Morgan’s help, Coira dismounted from her horse, and she all but fell against him as her knees buckled beneath her.
Morgan chuckled. “Easy now, Coira. I have you.”
She rested her forehead against his chest whilst he steadied her. “I am most sorry, Morgan,” she mumbled her apology. “Give me just a moment to find my legs.”
“But of course, my dear,” he said keeping his arms around her for support. “Perchance you could take your ease on the bench over yonder beneath that tree whilst I find someone to escort you to a room. Then, I will inform Lord Dristan you have arrived.”
She lifted her head to stare over at the bench but had no desire to spend more of her time sitting. “Nay, do not yet leave me amongst these strangers,” she replied softly, feeling oddly vulnerable. This was the first time she had ventured so far from her grandfather in many a year.
He laughed, tipping up her chin to assess her face, which surely must have showed all her emotions bubbling up to the surface. “Where is the young woman I knew so long ago? She was made of much sterner stuff than to let a new adventure get the best of her.”
“’Twas all a façade, I assure you,” she grumbled.
“I think you voice a falsehood, but let it not be said I left a fair damsel in distress to fend for herself.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let us go see firsthand how my liege lord trains his knights, for they will be practicing upon the lists at this hour of the day. You shall be most impressed with your cousin’s efforts to ensure Berwyck’s safety.”
Coira followed him, taking in her surroundings as they made their way through the grounds. Berwyck Castle was a thriving community. How many people lived and worked here? Serfs and servants ran to and fro on some errand or another, all to the sound of the steady beat of the blacksmith’s hammer upon an anvil. But the everyday noise of a thriving castle was nothing compared to the sound of the men who trained for war, their voices ringing in the air.
As the lists came into view, Coira all but stopped her progress at Morgan’s side. ’Twas a remarkable sight, and she could almost envision her brother amongst these men training beside them. A sob tore at her heart, but she refused to let Morgan see her grief, nor the fear that arose from being alone in the world and dependent on the kindness of strangers.
Morgan led her over to a lone stone bench. Once seated, he kissed her hand. “You can watch from here whilst I report to my lord. I shall not be long.”
Without waiting for her reply, he began making his way to the field and she fidgeted on the hard stone bench beneath her sore backside. Her attempts to get comfortable failed and she stood, clenching her hands at her side so she did not do something so unladylike as to actually rub her bruised bottom after their long journey. She refused to make a spectacle of herself on her first moments at her new home.
Her eyes swept over those who jousted in the distance and to the men who were closer, practicing with their swords. One in particular drew her attention, and she held her breath when she witnessed him narrowly missing the blade aimed at his head. He all but laughed at his opponent as though daring him to take another swipe at him. The other knight obliged him with a swing of his sword and a chuckle of his own. She continued to view the first knight’s performance as though he was the center of attention, like a bard entertaining a hall’s inhabitants. Her eyes were fixated on him, and he held her captivated with his display and prowess with his weapon of war.
This warrior knight was magnificent. Coira could not remember any other man who had made her heart beat so furiously in her chest with just one look. Tawny colored hair was tossed from his exertion and the faint ocean breeze. Muscles bulged on his arm as he hefted his sword again and again. She could not take her eyes from him, and then something she had waited for her whole life happened. ’Twas as though some unseen force slammed into her, causing her to lose her breath.
Their eyes met across the distance of the field, and ’twas if there was no space between them at all. The sounds from the lists, so vibrant just moments before, faded into nothingness whilst they were focused, one to the other. His sword dropped useless from his hand. A name was called but was lost to her as he instinctively ducked to miss a blow from the other knight. Yet he continued to gaze only upon her. An instant seemed like an eternity, and Coira was lost in a moment that would surely be ingrained into her memory for the rest of her life.
As she continued to observe him, his eyes widened in what seemed like concern, and he began running towards her.
“Coira!”
Someone shouted her name, the bellow louder than the noise of the men practicing in the field, bringing her quickly back to reality. Alarm raced through her as she realized she had somehow wandered onto the field. Two knights were so focused upon their training, they did not see her, and Coira feared for her life when a sword was ripped from one of the knight’s hands and sailed through the air in her direction.
Arms of steel wrapped around her and she was flung to the ground, air rushing from her lungs. The knight who had saved her tightened his arms around her when he rolled so he bore the brunt of the impact. Her cheek pressed firmly to his chest, she heard the frantic beating of his heart, and she knew without any doubt exactly who was holding her before she even looked up to see his face.
Coira held tighter to the knight beneath her, no matter how inappropriate her current position was to those witnessing the scene. But she cared not and could not move even if ’twould save her life yet again. Unbeknownst to the knight whose name she did not yet know, she was certain of their instant connection. She would hold onto this moment whilst she could for she did not doubt she must be dreaming.
Chapter 4
Garrick gasped in relief upon seeing the woman he held securely in his arms had come to no harm. ’Twas a close call. She lifted her head from his chest. Hazel eyes stared back at him in bewilderment. He searched her face. Hers was not a classical beauty, and yet Garrick had the distinct impression this woman had a beautiful soul. Where such a thought came from, he knew not. Who was she?
“You saved me,” she whispered in a shaky tone. “You are truly a gallant knight to rescue me. Your liege lord must value you as one of his warriors.”
Warrior? Him? He opened his mouth to correct her assumption but could not find the words. She would think less of him if she knew he was only the clan’s piper.
“Are ye harmed?” he murmured, still holding the pleasing womanly curves of the lady who had not yet moved from atop him. Her brow rose, and Garrick inwardly cursed knowing there was no way to hide his Scottish accent.
“Nay, but only because of your ability to move so quickly. Thank you, Sir…” She left her sentence linger in the air between them.
“Garrick,” he answered, giving her his name, “of Clan MacLaren.”
“My thanks, Sir Garrick,” she replied with a kind smile.
The lists had become eerily silent, with th
e exception of one person running in their direction.
“Get your hands off her!” a voice bellowed.
Before either of them could move, the woman was ripped from his arms, and Garrick saw her enveloped in the fierce embrace of Morgan. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and jealousy assaulted Garrick’s emotions and tugged at his heartstrings.
“Coira! By St. Michael’s Wings you gave me such a fright, woman,” Morgan scolded in concern. Setting her down upon her feet, he proceeded to clasp both her cheeks before placing kisses on each.
“There is no need to fuss, Morgan, I am fine.”
“Fine? You just about had your head severed from your neck! What the bloody hell were you doing walking through the training field?” Morgan berated whilst he continued assessing her for any injuries.
Garrick watched the woman Morgan called Coira shrug before she turned and leveled a bright smile upon him. “As you can plainly see for yourself, this brave knight came to my rescue. I have come to no harm only because of his quickness and fleetness of foot. Such a chivalrous warrior!” She turned to Garrick with a slight bow of her head. “I offer you my thanks, Sir Garrick.”
A snort escaped Morgan, and with furrowed brows, he gave a sarcastic chuckle. “Sir Garrick?”
Before Garrick could once more defend himself, a roar of laughter came from the field as the men listened in on the conversation. Their voices jumbled together as they began placing wagers once again. Garrick scowled at the words “love struck” amongst the bets being made.
Dristan’s voice boomed over his men. “Enough! Get back to your training, lest you wish to continue into the late evening hours.” He came to stand next to them.
“My laird,” Garrick offered a short bow.
“I see you have become acquainted with Lady Coira, Garrick,” Dristan said with a nod to the lady, “although ’twas not necessarily how I would have introduced Rolf’s sister to those who live within Berwyck’s walls.”
The Piper’s Lady: The MacLarens (Book Three) Page 2
