Warriors: The Rose and The Warrior Part 7

"Melantha said the leader's name is Roarke, and he has hair as black as night, with horrible eyes as cold and lifeless as two frozen stones. And she said when he looks at you he can make your heart stop," he warned direly, "so hideous is his face."

Now, that was a bit insulting, Roarke decided. Although he had never wasted much time considering his appearance, he certainly didn't think he resembled a gargoyle.

"I'm leaving," said Matthew, afraid. "I don't want to see him."

"Stay where you are, Matthew," ordered Daniel. "If you knock into something else you'll get us all into trouble."

"I don't want my heart to stop," he squeaked.

"Melantha just said that so we wouldn't come down here and try to get a look at them," Daniel a.s.sured him impatiently.

"How do you know?"

"Because Melantha is always making things sound much more dangerous than they really are, so we won't do them. Remember when she told us we couldn't try archery because we were likely to shoot each other?"

"But when she finally said you could, you did almost shoot me," pointed out Matthew.

"That was an accident," Daniel scoffed. "It never would have happened if Melantha hadn't kept yelling at me to be careful. She ruined my concentration."

"But then you shot Ninian's cart and startled his horse, so it ran off and the cart turned over with Ninian still in it," Patrick added. "He was sorely mad."

"Ninian shouldn't have driven his cart in front of me."

"The cart wasn't moving," countered Matthew.

"Do you two want to see these murdering MacTiers or not?" huffed Daniel, irritated at having his past transgressions recounted.

"I do," Patrick chirped.

"Then keep quiet!"

The two smaller boys obediently fell silent.

Roarke shut his eyes and lay motionless as the three lads cautiously approached.

"Look at the size of this one," Daniel whispered.

"Do you suppose he's the leader?" asked Matthew.

"His face is mean enough," Daniel decided.

"If he's the leader, then this is the one Magnus shot in the b.u.m," said Patrick.

"That must have hurt," reflected Matthew sympathetically.

"He deserved to be shot in the heart." Daniel's voice was tight and savage. "And he's lucky he's sleeping, or I would take Da's sword and spear it through his evil, murdering-"

Roarke's eyes snapped open.

Except for the terror clenching their white faces, one might have thought the three lads were about to burst into song, so wide did their mouths gape. Roarke waited for them to flee. Instead they remained frozen to the spot, apparently paralyzed with fear.

"Well? Any of your hearts stop?"

Confusion marginally eased their terrorized expressions.

"Since you remain standing, I shall a.s.sume that your hearts are still beating," Roarke continued, amused. "It's a relief to learn that I am not quite so hideous as you were led to believe."

Daniel found his voice first. "Don't try anything, MacTier, or I'll skewer you with my sword!"

Roarke raised a quizzical brow. "What sword?"

The boy groped vainly at his side. Realizing he carried no sword, he clenched his small hands into bony fists. "The sword I'm going to get and drive through your foul, rotting heart!"

"Now, that hardly seems a fair encounter," mused Roarke, "since I am lying here bound hand and foot, and could not so much as lift a finger to defend myself."

At the mention of his helplessness, the three boys visibly relaxed.

"It's a lucky thing for you that you're bound," Daniel told him, "because if you weren't, you'd be dead by now."

Little Patrick eyed Roarke nervously. "Are you going to cut off my head and eat it?"

"Of course not," replied Roarke, sounding offended by the suggestion. "I'm a warrior, not a wild animal. Whoever told you such a ridiculous thing?"

Patrick cast an accusing look at Daniel.

"Don't try to make us think you aren't evil," said Daniel. "You MacTiers attacked us last autumn and tried to butcher every last one of us, so we know exactly what kind of vile savages you are! You deserve to have your eyes burned into steaming black holes with a hot shaft, and then be slowly flayed until you're begging for death!"

Laird MacKillon had forbidden anyone to discuss the subject of the MacTier attack during dinner, deeming it too unpleasant for dining. This had prevented Roarke from learning any further details. But it had been clear from the animosity he had encountered since meeting Melantha and her band that the attack had been brutal. The dilapidated state of the castle and the near-starving condition of most of the people here further demonstrated that the MacKillons had suffered greatly, and continued to suffer. He endured Daniel's glare with something akin to shame, as if he were somehow responsible for the lad's misery. That was ridiculous, he told himself impatiently. He and his men had been far to the south at the time of this attack. He was guilty in that he shared responsibility for the actions of his clan, but he could not be held personally accountable for what had transpired here.

He had been too busy raiding other holdings on behalf of his laird and clan.

"You're lucky Melantha didn't slay you, because that's what she has sworn to do to all MacTiers, until every last one of you lies drowning in your own blood, and our brave da's murder has been avenged!" hissed Daniel fiercely.

Our brave da.

Of course, Roarke thought, studying the boy's finely chiseled face, his elegantly winged brows, and the dark fury smoldering in his eyes. Standing before him was a smaller, younger version of Melantha. He shifted his attention to the other lads. Matthew's features were softer, but his eyes were the same, although they lacked the bitter hatred that burned in his brother's. Little Patrick, however, was a mystery. His hair grew in a thick, wild tangle, and although it was dark Roarke could see that his skin was generously splattered with freckles, which bore no resemblance to the milky clear faces of the other two.

"Are you all Melantha's brothers?"

"Aye." Daniel's bony fists remained balled menacingly at his sides. "And if I ever hear of you trying to harm her again, MacTier, I swear I'll kill you."

His voice was deadly soft, his boyish face twisted with raw hatred. He was only a child, yet Roarke knew loathing and anguish simmered just beneath his skin, making him capable of almost anything. In all his years as a warrior, he had never seen a lad so completely stripped of every remnant of innocence, and the sight cut him to the bone. Roarke had fought in countless battles, and had led ma.s.sive a.s.saults on scores of holdings in the name of his laird and his king, but somehow he had always thought of it as a fight against other warriors, not women and children. Of course he had never tarried long once a holding had surrendered. After all, his skills were best utilized where there was another battle to be fought. And so he had always moved on, never permitting himself to dwell upon the terrible suffering he left behind.

"Does your mother know you're down here threatening the prisoners?" he enquired with uncustomary gentleness.

Little Patrick shook his head. "She died a long time ago."

"Only two and a half years ago," Daniel corrected tautly. "That's not so long."

No, Roarke agreed, that was not so long. Muriel and Clementina had been dead five years, and their absence still carved a deep abyss in his soul. He could well imagine the terrible pain experienced by these boys at losing both their mother and father in such a brief span of time. And so Melantha had been forced to a.s.sume responsibility for her younger brothers. Roarke had never been home enough to play a significant role in his daughter's upbringing, but he knew it would require enormous energy and patience to be both mother and father to these three lads. Melantha had strictly forbidden them to come here tonight, and they had recklessly defied her, just as he would have done at their age.

If she rose during the night to find the three of them missing, she would be overcome with fear.

"You lads shouldn't be here. If Melantha finds you with me, she will be very angry with you for disobeying her."

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear they had completely forgotten about this possibility.

"H-he's right," Matthew stammered nervously. "Melantha will be awfully mad when she finds out."

"Melantha won't find out." Daniel hurled a contemptuous look at Roarke. "Unless you tell her."

"I see no reason to tell anyone of your little visit," said Roarke. "Other than your threats to drive a sword through my foul, rotting heart and burn my eyes into steaming holes, I found your company quite pleasant."

Daniel eyed Roarke doubtfully, debating whether or not to trust him. "Come, then, lads," he finally said. "We've seen enough of these butchering MacTiers for one night."

Matthew eagerly turned, but young Patrick lingered a moment longer, his little red brows scrunched together.

"Did Magnus really shoot you in the b.u.m?"

Roarke nodded.

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Does it still hurt?"

"A little."

"Once I fell and cut my forehead, and Melantha made me lie in bed while she pressed cold cloths on it, and she even let me drink some wine. You should ask her if she will do the same for you."

"Somehow I doubt your sister is overly concerned about my pain," said Roarke dryly, "but thank you for the suggestion."

"We have to go, Patrick!" snapped Daniel.

"I have to go now," Patrick informed Roarke, "but I'll see you tomorrow."

"I shall look forward to that."

The lad gifted him with a smile.

And then he turned and scampered toward his eldest brother, who cast one last look of utter loathing at Roarke before melting into the shadows.

CHAPTER 4.

"That's it, Lewis...ye've almost got it...there, now! Bang her in, she's as straight as can be!"

Roarke watched as Lewis obediently positioned a nail over the damaged shutter, gave it a meek tap with his hammer, then withdrew his supporting hand.

The shutter crashed to the floor.

"For heaven's sake, lad, ye can't expect to secure a heavy slab of wood with just one nail!" said Magnus, exasperated. "And ye must strike the nail as if ye mean to kill it, not as if ye're trying to rouse it from slumber!"

Lewis gazed down apologetically from his precarious perch of stacked benches. "Sorry."

Magnus sighed. "Never mind, lad. It's not yer fault ye've no gift for fixing things. Climb down from there and let's see if we can't find something else for ye to do."

The great hall was teeming with men balancing on benches, tables, and chairs, their mouths crammed with iron nails as they awkwardly attempted to repair the damaged shutters dangling from the windows.

"Excellent job, lads!" praised Magnus, who was directing the activity from the center of the hall. "A few more hours work here, and those wily MacTier dogs will never be able to breach the windows."

"Forgive me, Magnus," said Roarke, "but why are all these men working in the great hall when there are so many repairs to be done to the outside of the castle?"

"I know 'tis a wee bit noisy, lad," Magnus acknowledged apologetically, "but until we get that storeroom ready for ye, I'm afraid ye'll just have to put up with us."

"I'm not complaining about the noise," Roarke clarified. "I'm wondering why you aren't securing the curtain wall and the gate instead of fixing a few broken shutters in here."

"There are plenty of men working outside, make no mistake," Magnus a.s.sured him. "And they've got matters well in hand. It may interest ye to know that we MacKillons have a long and splendid history of castle building-"

"For G.o.d's sake, Ninian, can you not tell the difference between a nail and a man's b.l.o.o.d.y finger!"

Roarke glanced across the hall to see a short dumpling of a man with blazing cheeks standing on a table, angrily shaking his stubby hand in the air.

"If you'd only watch what you're doing and keep your fat fingers out of my way, that wouldn't have happened, Gelfrid!" snapped Ninian testily from his seat atop several unevenly stacked stools. His skin was stretched taut over the bones of his face, giving him a sallow, almost cadaverous appearance that perfectly complemented his shrunken build.

" 'Tis you who needs to watch what you're doing," bl.u.s.tered Gelfrid. "Any d.a.m.n fool can see this is flesh and bone, not a piece of b.l.o.o.d.y iron!"

"You'd best let your wife take a look at that for you," said a fellow with a wild flurry of red hair. "It may need to be splinted."

"I'll be lucky if a splint is all that's needed, Mungo," Gelfrid complained irritably. "But while I'm at it, I'll ask my Hilda to make a potion that'll sharpen Ninian's sight!"

Ninian whirled around, waving his hammer. "There's nothing wrong with my sight! You put your great, fat finger right on top of the b.l.o.o.d.y-" Suddenly his eyes grew round and he began to flap his scrawny arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance.

Roarke winced as the poor fellow crashed to the floor.

"That must have hurt," reflected Donald, who lay comfortably stretched out upon his pallet watching the MacKillons make their repairs.

" 'Twas nothing," Eric scoffed, unimpressed. "I've fallen from twice that height and barely felt it."

"That's because you landed on your head," said Myles, lazily polishing his arm bands against his plaid.

Eric scowled. "You're just jealous of my superior strength."