Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (16 page)

“Probably laughing at me this very moment,” Malcolm had said.

Rian bore scars on his face that announced to all he was a wild brute of a man. Jagged wounds ill healed. His brown hair was always disheveled and his clothing looked more animal in origin than the fine woolens favored at Malcolm’s court. He was as wide as he was tall but he had not gone to fat. The braggart was all muscle and sinew.

He had instigated several fights in the village and no father would allow his daughter near the man. It took the constant vigilance of the king’s guard to keep the peace when Rian was involved.

That afternoon, as Steinar was returning from his surreptitious sword practice in the woods, his leg paining him for not having rested it, he came upon Rian and his rabble of followers. With ugly jeers and much laughter, they were tormenting Giric’s little dog, Shadow.

Rian prodded the little dog with a stick. Shadow’s barking merely incited the brute’s followers.

“What is that, a barking rat? Smite it harder, Rian!” said one from where he leaned against the stable.

“Just a wee beastie,” drawled another.

“Whatever it is, makes an irksome noise,” said Rian.

When the dog kept barking, Rian kicked it with his boot.

The dog’s yelp brought Giric running. Scooping him up, the boy shouted, “Leave ’im be!”

“Ho! What have we here?” Rian said his eyes narrowing on Giric. “Can this be the master of the rat? Or mayhap ’tis his brother. Both are mangy little scraps. Come here, let me get a closer look at ye.” When Giric started to back away, Rian made a grab for the boy’s collar and growled in anger when Giric kicked him and, dodging his grip, stepped aside, clutching the whimpering dog to his chest.

Steinar took a step forward, intending to call a halt to the farce, when Niall strode across the open ground and stepped in front of the boy. Gently shoving him aside, he said. “Take him away, Giric. I will handle this.”

Niall faced Rian, a slim youth against a muscled brute. “Seems to me you are a bit large to be picking on wee dogs and littlings.”

Rian’s face twisted into a grimace as he circled Niall while the brute’s friends shouted insults.

“ ’Tis only a lad hisself,” said one blustering fellow.

“I am nae certain ’tis even a lad,” taunted Rian. “Might be a girl with that long red hair.”

Rian’s companions erupted in cruel laughter.

Niall said nothing but stood his ground, his bow slung over his shoulder, his chin jutting out.

Rian glanced over his shoulder at his companions, grinned and charged. His beefy shoulder caught Niall full in the chest, knocking him off his feet.

Niall fell and a loud snap rent the air as his bow broke beneath him. He jumped up, ripped the broken bow from his shoulder and yanked the seax at his hip from its leather sheath.

Rian smirked and slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard, the steel making a cold threatening ring as it slid free. He waved the sword menacingly in front of Niall’s face.

The men watching backed away, Rian’s followers among them.

Steinar had been watching for Colbán or one of the king’s guards, someone who actually had authority over the men, but none were present.

So it must be me.

“Enough!” Steinar shouted, striding into the middle of the rising tension. He stood in front of Niall, facing Rian. “What goes here?”

Catrìona had only stepped though the tower door when the loud shouts of men stopped her. Not far away in the open area between the tower and the outbuildings, a group of men circled around what sounded like a brawl. There had been more instances of such fighting since the new warriors had come to Dunfermline. She often took a circuitous path to avoid them and she would do so now.

She had taken only a few steps when Giric came running toward her, his dog at his side barking furiously. “ ’Tis the scribe, my lady!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the circle of men. Through a break in the crowd, she saw Niall standing to one side, his bow broken at his feet and the scribe in front of him facing a thick-shouldered warrior wielding a long sword.

Fear gripped her. What had happened? Was Steinar unarmed against the warrior’s sword?

The ring of steel cut through the men’s shouts as Steinar jerked his sword from its scabbard and held it before him, his legs slightly apart.
Where had he found a sword?

The crowd stepped back, murmuring.

Giric let go of her hand and drew closer to the looming fight. She reached out and grabbed him, pulling him toward her. “Stand up here,” she told him and led him to a bench he could stand on to safely watch. She stepped closer to watch what transpired.

“Anyone can defeat a youth who carries only a knife,” Steinar said to the large warrior whose back faced her. “Let us see how you do against a man who is armed with a sword!” The undercurrent in Steinar’s voice bespoke anger but also the confidence of one who knew how to wield such a blade. She understood he had once been a warrior but that had been years ago. What of now?

The two men appeared evenly matched in height but Steinar was leaner and younger. His long golden hair settled on his shoulders, reflecting the sun like a torch, while the mountain of a man who would fight him was dark, his hair shorter and unkempt.

She heard the sneer in his opponent’s voice as he pulled his seax from his hip to join the sword he held in his other hand. “This should prove a novelty, cutting up a scribe. But ye need have no worry. I will leave yer right hand should the king find himself in need of a scrivener.” The man bellowed his laughter.

Slowly pulling his own short sword from his belt, Steinar said, “If you wish to fight with two blades, I can accommodate you.”

Now each man held a sword and a long knife, poised to strike. With growing dismay, Catrìona realized there would be no shields in this fight, only blades, and no mail to shield tender flesh. She bit her knuckled fist, tension building inside her. Could Steinar fight the older, larger man?

“It seems I must be the one to teach you manners,” Steinar calmly said as he began to circle his opponent. “ ’Tis not wise to mistreat those invited to the king’s court.”

The crowd moved back as the two men circled each other. Through the gaps in the shifting men, she watched the swords and knives poised to strike.

The one called Rian suddenly lunged for the scribe’s chest, but Steinar slipped to the side as if he’d anticipated the move. As he did, he sliced the other man’s leg.

A line of red emerged on Rian’s hosen and the man howled his anger.

The crowd backed away as Steinar took another step, his right leg appearing to falter.

Catrìona inhaled sharply, praying he would have the strength to continue. She could not bear for him to be hurt by this man who, she was certain, would show no mercy.

But she need not have feared, for Steinar was ready for the stocky warrior’s next strike, beating back the larger man’s sword and seax with blows Rian strained to fend off.

The sound of steel meeting steel filled the air as the four weapons clashed in rapid succession.

Steinar’s feet moved in a fluid motion. At times his steps were so fast it was difficult to see them. The dazzling display seemed to confuse his opponent who shook his head as if trying to focus on Steinar’s blades.

“The scribe can fight!” called out one man.

“Aye and well,” said another.

“The scribe is good!” Giric cried out to her. His dog, Shadow, barked each time the crowd grew excited or surged toward them.

Before her eyes, the man she had known only as a scribe had turned into a fierce warrior, his movements sure and practiced, his sword arm strong. At times, the metal flashed so fast the blades were nearly a blur.

Out of the corner of her eye, Catrìona glimpsed the king and Colbán come around the corner of the tower. As they drew near her, the two men paused to watch the fight.

The crowd shouted encouragement to the two locked in a deadly clash of blades, their gazes so fixed on the combat they did not see the king.

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to one side, appearing to study the fight with keen interest.

Steinar and his fulsome opponent slowed, circling each other, wiping sweat from their faces with the sleeves of their tunics. It appeared to Catrìona that Rian was starting to tire, his feet faltering in the face of so much skill.

Mayhap he is as surprised as the rest of them that Steinar can wield a blade
.

Rian slashed at Steinar with his knife while swinging his sword, but Steinar danced away.

The crowd murmured their amazement at Steinar’s ability to repeatedly deflect the blade of a man whose sword they had obviously feared. Catrìona felt relief Steinar was holding his own and pride welled up inside her to think that, even with a wounded leg, he should fight so well.
What a magnificent warrior he is!

Steinar pivoted to avoid the other man’s lunge but one edge of Rian’s sword caught the scribe’s arm. He winced and shoved his seax into the sheath at his belt.

What is he doing?

Grabbing the pointed end of his own sword with his glove, while holding the hilt in his other hand, Steinar met Rian’s next strike with a forceful blow of the blunt side of the blade. His shoulder muscles flexed beneath his tunic with the impact that shoved Rian back.

The larger man stumbled and his sword fell from his hand, clanging as it hit the ground.

The scribe kicked it away. “Do you wish to continue with only that knife?” he asked.

Rian sheathed his seax, his chest heaving with exertion. “Nay, ’tis enough.”

“Then concede me the victory,” Steinar said.

The brute named Rian wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Ye have won.”

Steinar sheathed his sword. “From now on, you will leave the archer alone?” And Catrìona realized Steinar referred to her brother.

“Aye, I’ll leave the paltry archer be,” Rian conceded with bad grace.

“I’d be careful what you call the king’s archers,” Steinar cautioned. “Their arrows bear the kiss of death.”

The crowd was quiet now, listening with interest.

Giric jumped from the bench and ran to her side, his dog following. “Did ye see him? Did ye see the scribe fight?”

“Aye,” she said. “I saw it all.”

Rhodri came to stand beside Niall. “I will see you have a new bow, this time a longbow of elm like mine.”

Niall smiled his approval.

Catrìona’s heart burst with gratitude for Steinar’s defense of her brother. But before she could go to him to express her thanks, the king strode into the midst of the crowd, a satisfied smile on his face.

Seeing the king, the crowd of men fell away.

Steinar, whose back had been to the king, whirled around, a look of incredulity on his face. “My Lord.”

Malcolm slapped Steinar on the back. “It appears you have as much skill with a sword as you do with a quill.”

The men standing around nodded.

“I have need of your sword arm as one of my guards,” said the king.

Catrìona’s heart lurched.
Oh, God, a guard.
A guard was a man of war like her father, like all of Malcolm’s men. Steinar could be injured or killed.

“As for you, Rian of Lothian,” Malcolm’s tone was harsh as he faced the warrior, towering over him, “if ever I hear of you instigating another fight, you will be gone from my court.”

Rian dipped his head, his shoulders slumped. “Aye, My Lord.”

“It occurs to me,” said the king to Steinar, “if you accompany me to Northumbria, I will have both a guard at my back and a scribe for my messages. ’Twould please the queen.” He shot a glance at Rhodri. “A scribe who is a swordsman and a bard who leads my archers. Ha! I shall keep both of you close.”

Colbán, the captain of Malcolm’s guard, dipped his head to Catrìona as he passed her and joined the king. “We will be glad for his sword arm,” he said to Malcolm.

With a satisfied smile directed at the king, Steinar said, “As you wish.”

Catrìona could see he was pleased, but she was not certain
she
was pleased. His arm was bleeding from where the ruffian had cut him. The idea of Steinar lying on the ground wounded or worse struck her like a blow.
I care too much to see him hurt
.

Malcolm swept his arm toward the tower in grand gesture. “Come,” he said to Steinar and Rhodri, “let us share some wine in my hall. Colbán, you will join us.”

The captain of the guard dipped his head to the king.

Malcolm put his arm around Steinar’s shoulder and they proceeded toward the door of the tower. Behind the king and Steinar, Rhodri strolled with Colbán.

As they passed, she noted Steinar limped slightly, making her worry all the more. He glanced at her over his shoulder, but if there was a message in his eyes, she could not decipher it.

*     *     *

Steinar set down his goblet, content, but feeling the effects of too much wine and no food. The king and Colbán might be at it for some time, but he’d had enough. Across from him, Rhodri had just finished his last goblet. “While I am happy to be joining the ranks of Malcolm’s warriors,” he said to Rhodri in a low voice, “one more toast and I will be drowning in wine.”

“Aye and I’ve a pretty lass to meet,” whispered the bard. “I must go ere I am late.”

“You meet Catrìona’s cousin?”

“I do,” said the Welshman, his deep brown eyes twinkling.

“Be careful, my friend,” Steinar cautioned. He hoped Rhodri did not draw the ire of the king for his attention to one of Margaret’s ladies.

Ignoring Steinar’s words, Rhodri said, “Until this eve!” and hurriedly left the hall.

Steinar sat staring at the closed door, wondering how far things had gone between his friend and the girl. Rhodri had dallied with his share of the ladies who frequented Malcolm’s court, always with much success. But this one was different. Fia of Atholl was the daughter of a powerful mormaer. And Steinar was certain the Welshman was in love.

His own besotted state was ever before him. Now that he was again a warrior and one of the king’s guards, did he dare think he could win Catrìona’s hand? And, with that thought, he began to think of the beautiful firebrand as within his reach.