MAKING PREPARATION
Broderick and Blaine met frequently over the next few days. And, true to Amabel's advice, Fergall proved an invaluable member to their small team.
Sitting at the workbench in the vast armory, the three of them discussed their plans for the campaign. Lord Lochlann had left them with very little time to prepare, but the three men were confident that they could build a siege engine within the week they were granted.
Two days after his discussion with Blaine in the garden, Broderick and Blaine had decided on the final design. Fergall ran his eye over the plans, sketched out neatly on a piece of parchment.
“That's a fine hand ye have there, Master Blaine,” Fergall said to Blaine, who looked shy.
“Lady Chrissie helped me with it,” he said quietly.
Broderick grinned. He was pleased the boy had plucked up courage to talk to the beautiful young lady of his aspirations. And with any luck, the siege-engine would work well enough to make Lord Lochlann notice the boy. If he offered his patronage to help him become a knight, who knew? He could well reach the status where he could one day claim the lady's hand.
“It is a fine work,” he seconded, making the boy grin.
Blain’s eyes shone. “Thank ye, milord.”
Broderick grinned. “I'm not thane yet, Blaine. Give me a few years.”
“We none of us are growin' young.” Blaine grinned insolently.
Broderick gave him a playful shove.
“We still have nae raced,” he reminded him. His own arm was healing well, and he trusted that the wound would have entirely closed by the time that the campaign was waged. He felt almost ready to take on the upstart youth, if only in the hopes of teaching him manners.
“Nae, we have not.”
Fergall looked from one to the other with bemused eyes. Then he shrugged.
“I think we can get a thing like this built in the week, my lord.” He ran his tongue over his front teeth. “I'll see if I can make a little one this afternoon. If ye'd like to come and see it afore dinner tonight?”
Broderick inclined his head. “Thank ye, Fergall. That would be a help.”
“Not at all, my lord.”
Broderick left the heat of the armory shortly after, heading for the cool of the castle. He waved to the men-at-arms who were already practicing their fighting in the courtyard and paused to shout encouragement for those whose names he knew.
I feel as if I am settling in now. The thought was pleasing. Already, within two weeks of his arrival, he had fought one campaign against his rivals, taking a border-fort. That was a savage pleasure in itself. If he could manage to achieve a raid like that against Loch Craigh, their town, he would be very pleased. It would be vengeance for the raid on Dunkeld all those years ago. It would not come close to equal payment for what they’d done to him and his family, but it would be close enough, a foretaste of the hell to which he was sure they were heading.
I will be glad to ensure they reach there.
“Oh! My lord!”
Broderick looked down, startled. He had been so lost in thought, he had not been aware there was someone in the corridor ahead of him. He looked down to see Amabel's maid. He racked his brains for her name but could not remember.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he said, contrite. The woman was carrying a basket under one arm, a tray of some oatcakes and a pitcher in the other hand. He guessed they might be for Amabel – she had not attended luncheon, claiming she was ill. An idea formed in his thoughts.
“Those look awkward,” he said kindly. “Can I not take that tray up to my wife?”
The maid looked up at him as if he had just walked through the wall. “My lord?”
Broderick sighed. He knew how unconventional it was for a lord to offer to help with some menial task. “I was heading to the bedchamber anyway,” he said to explain. “And you look as if you're heading to the laundry?”
The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, aye, milord. I was. And it'd be a grand help tae me if I didnae have to go all the way upstairs and down again wi' such a heavy bag...” She indicated the bag of washing she carried.
Broderick nodded.
“There we are, then.” He took the tray and went upstairs.
At the door of the bedchamber, he knocked.
“Blaire? Is that you?”
Broderick said nothing. He turned the handle and found the door unlocked, so he walked in.
“Blaire? Oh!” His wife stood up quickly.
She was dressed in a loose shift of white linen, her long red hair hanging to her waist, and she was brushing it with a silvered comb. Her work-basket was at her feet, filled with bright skeins of silk. Her eyes were wide and she looked startled, lips parted in a way that made Broderick's blood pulse wildly through him.
“I thought I'd serve you myself,” Broderick said, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh,” his wife said with a small voice. “I do not wish to keep you. It was... kind of you to relieve my maid. If you could put the tray down there? Thank you very much,” she said, showing him a small oaken table in the corner by the fire.
Broderick nodded. He had not seen his wife so icy before. Her coldness to him fought with the rising warmth in his body as he looked at her, clad only in her nightshift, hair long and loose about her figure. He bit his lip, trying not to drink in the sight of her, all tall and willowy. He felt almost guilty about his desire, when she was so cold and seemingly angry with him.
“You have been talking to Fergall, planning the campaign?” She had stepped behind a screen and seemed to be putting on her dress.
“I have,” Broderick called to her. He placed the tray where she had indicated, then came to stand outside the screen. “He has been most helpful. He and Blaine have constructed something we believe will help in the campaign. You did well by recommending him to me.”
She stepped out from behind the screen. She was wearing a becoming green dress, a pale emerald color, of a sheened velvet. He felt his mouth dry up with longing. He cleared his throat.
She blinked at him. She was standing an arm's length away – so close he could see the gray rings around the blue of her irises, but they were still separated by her stiff politeness.
“I am glad he is useful, my lord,” she said carefully. She cast her eyes down, hands gripping each other in front of her. It was a demure posture, and one which set his heart racing despite all its innocence.
“He is. With his help, we may crush the Bradleys, finally,” he said. He bit his lip as he saw her eyes suddenly hooded.
“A fine goal,” she said in a small voice. “May I ask why you are so set on helping my uncle fight his enemies?”
Broderick stared at her. “Your uncle's enemies? I fight my own! I am no hound on your uncle's leash, to fight at his bidding,” he said hotly, feeling offense.
Amabel blinked at him. “These enemies are very important to you, I think.”
“Of course, they are!” he said loudly. He winced when her face fell into careful neutrality. “I am sorry, Lady Amabel. I did not mean to raise my voice.”
“I take no offense,” she said, turning away. He shook his head at himself. He had upset her even more, driven her even further away.
“If you find your enemies so important, it is no concern for me, I am sure.”
Broderick sighed. “I did not mean that. It's just that... this fight is my life.”
Lady Amabel made a strangled sound in her throat. It could have been a laugh. “I see,” she said quietly. Her voice was raw. When she turned to face him, her eyes were pools of sorrow. “And so, it must also become my life?”
That confused him. “In what sense, my lady? I have made no demand on you. I seek only to avenge Aisling.”
She bit her lip. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “I know.”
She turned away from him then. She walked to the screen in the corner. When she was behind it, he heard a sob.
He hated himself in that moment. “Amabel?”
She said nothing. Her tears were falling faster now – he could hear her gasp as the crying became more intense.
He sighed. What could he do? He had no idea what he had done in the first place. No idea of how to make it right. All he could do was wait. Hope that she would come to understand what drove him.
Wordlessly, he tiptoed to the door. Pulled it shut silently. Walked away as quietly as he could. He headed down the stairs and to the courtyard. Perhaps a ride would clear his head. Perhaps a bout in the yard with the men. Maybe a good fight. I don't know what I've done. All I did was tell the truth.
The revenge on the Bradleys was everything to him. All that mattered. It had to be. To turn his back on it was to turn his back on Aisling. And that would be the most wretched thing he could do.