ON THE CAMPAIGN
The moorlands around Lochlann were sparse and barren, stretching to the horizon below a gray, rainy sky.
Broderick, mounted on his solid chestnut Clydesdale, Brendan, rode resolutely on ahead.
“I need tae stop thinking about her.”
“My lord?”
Broderick blinked. He had not realized he had spoken aloud. He had been unable to shift his thoughts from the sweet body and lovely face of Lady Amabel. My prospective partner.
Deliberately breaking his fixation, he turned to face the man who had questioned him so abruptly.
“Nothin', Blaine. I was just thinking,” he murmured in reply.
“That's fair, sir. Thinkin's always good.”
Broderick gave the cocky younger man a sideways glance. He found nothing he could truly rebuke, which was quite unfortunate. At eighteen years old, Blaine seemed far too young, and far too insolent, to be in any sort of leadership position. As it was, he was the leader in his lordship's household guard. Broderick, the newcomer, had no say in who rode with him and would just need to accept him.
“Well, yes,” he said defensively. “Thinking’s good. I just hope it to be enough on this raid.”
“Should be,” the young man said with an expansive shrug. “That and all these troops ought to do the trick. Glentower's not that big a fortress.”
This time, Broderick gave him a baleful glare. the young man stiffened. Good.
“I should think I would be a good enough judge of that, Blaine MacNeil. I have been warring since I was your age.”
“A right long time, milord.” The young man grinned.
Broderick stopped and turned to face him. He surveyed him impassively and though he sat more upright, Blaine showed no sign of regret. Broderick sighed. Solid with muscle, with a broad scar on his nose and hazel-brown eyes, Blaine was a handsome young fellow in a blunt, brutish way, and Broderick found he could not be cross with him despite the open slur. If his lordship was to be believed, the youth made up in inventiveness what he lacked in manners, and Broderick did not want to make an enemy of him.
“You watch yersel',” he said gruffly, deciding to be mild. “I may be five and thirty, but I can still race ye.”
“You say that,” Blaine said, “but we should try.” He grinned cheekily.
Broderick gave a humorless snort. “What? And have twenty troops bearing down behind us, thinking we're headed off somewhere for a reason? We are their leaders, Blaine MacNeil. We can't just do whatever we want to.”
Blaine blinked. “Yes, sir.” He shrank visibly, and Broderick instantly regretted his sharpness. Vaunted fighter or not, the youth was just eighteen!
“When we return, I'll race you properly,” he promised.
Blaine grinned. “I'll hold ye tae yer word.”
“Do that,” Broderick said with a laugh. “We'll see what a decade of experience can do.”
“We will.”
Broderick glanced at him sideways, shielding his eyes against the rain.
“Sorry, milord. Cannae help it. I was born with a mouth on me that'll get me in tae trouble. My grandsire said so. An' he's quite right.”
Broderick laughed. “Your grandsire must have been quite a man.”
“He was, sir. He was. Terrible bad temper he had – that's why I learned to ride so fast.”
They both laughed and, as the laughter died down, they rode on in companionable silence together. The day was turning darker and the scrubby landscape becoming more sinister as they rode on ahead. It was hard to sustain any friendly conversation as they crossed the dark, wavering grasses and headed toward the menacing hills ahead.
Their goal was fairly easy: find Glentower, a border-fortress of the Bradley clan, and destroy it. This was Broderick's first strike against his enemies, and he was at once tense and satisfied. With twenty men behind him, he was confident that they could succeed.
The household guard of Lochlann were an impressive force. Wealthy and powerful, the Earl of Cawley maintained a force of thirty men for his personal use. All riding stout Cydesdales, armed and mail-shirted, twenty men rode behind them.
At least I have a friend here, Broderick glanced sideways at Blaine. I wonder what Lord Lochlann wants to achieve with this task of his?
Broderick was sure it was nothing good.
On the surface, it was an easy task. He was sure the Bradleys would not have more than ten men at this outlying post. Overrunning it should be simple, especially so well-supplied with men-at-arms.
If this is meant to be a test, why is he making it easy? What Lord Lochlann was doing made no sense. Either he should have used Broderick to affect some major change for him, not just seize a border-fort, or he should have rejected his proposition outright. If this was meant to be a wooing, it was an odd one. Overpowering a small fort was hardly the most impressive deed!
And 'tis a shame it's not more impressive. He wanted Amabel to think well of him. The realization surprised him, and he felt a sudden shame.
Stop thinkin’ with your bullocks, Broderick MacConnaway!
He was here to avenge Aisling. Not to fall in love with Amabel. But the thought of that pale skin, those plump red lips, those breasts, so soft and full and pointed, made his body ache with wanting. He gritted his teeth.
“Sir?”
“Mm?” He turned to answer Blaine, striving for calm.
“We're trying tae avoid bein' sighted, yes?”
“Yes, Blaine.”
“Well then. We'd best go in the forest. Yon bugger's watchin' oot.”
Broderick froze. Cursing his inattention, he looked to where Blaine pointed. The boy was correct. Up on the crag was a small fortress – more a lookout post – and there was a shine of mail-coats there. Two watchmen. Have they seen us already?
Broderick could have wept. That moment of inattention could have cost him the raid! He raised a hand and the men behind him all stopped instantly. He turned to face them.
“In tae the woods. Now. Slowly. See there?”
The men all followed his gesture toward the crag and they growled assent. The watch post was perhaps a hundred feet away, no more. They could easily be heard. Broderick winced, gesturing for quiet. They turned wordlessly and rode toward the trees, growing thick and close on their right. The heavy cloud gave them an advantage – gray men on a gray day, blending into shadow.
The men dispersed toward the stand of trees. Broderick watched them go. He and Blaine remained where they were, sentinels, watching the tower.
“Have they seen us?” he whispered to his companion.
“Doubt it, sir,” Blaine replied. “They's too busy watching the falcons there.” He gestured, and Broderick saw that he was right. Thanking heaven for the diversion of the two birds of prey, quartering the scrub for mice or rats, he turned away.
“We should stick to the forest. Go through it and head west. Then we can follow the road.”
“Not on the road, though. Sir?”
Broderick rolled his eyes. “I'm no' daft, young man. No. We'll keep to the side. In the gullies. Assault the main post from the back. All clear?”
“As water, sir.”
Broderick nodded and together they rode on through the woods, leading the men. When they reached the road, they finally started talking again.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Blaine?”
“Yer tae marry Amabel, sir?”
“Lady Amabel, yes. Why?”
“I've lived at the castle for seven years. I've seen the Lochlann ladies grow up. She's a bonny lass. But she's nae the bonniest of the Lochlann ladies.”
“Oh?” Broderick smiled.
“Ye've met Chrissie Connelly?”
Broderick frowned. He could vaguely remember a girl, perhaps thirteen, who had been at the dinner that night. “She's golden-haired?”
“Aye.” Blaine smiled, and the smile told Broderick more than aught else had. The boy loved her. Whether it was a brotherly care or would, in time, deepen to love as they grew up, he was not sure.
“She's a sister of Amabel's?” He did not know the Lochlann family well.
“She's her cousin. She's a fine lady is Chrissie. Too fine for me.”
Broderick heard the bitterness in the young man's voice. He sighed. He could not contradict that. For all that Blaine MacNeil was a leader in the household guard and clearly very talented, he was only a man-at-arms. Not a lord or thane, or even vaguely well-connected. Lord Lochlann would never allow it.
“Well, lad, you never know. If you become a knight, you could wed her. A suitably-fearsome reputation and lots of gold? That'd turn heads.”
Blaine laughed. “I could hope, lord.”
Broderick nodded. “You could indeed.”
As could we all, Broderick thought archly. The more closely they approached the fortress, the more nervous he became.
The night was settling now, and the fitful rain of earlier was filling with a steady, dripping rain shower. It clanged on helmets and soaked chain-mail and made the men swear and curse as they rode. Wet chain-mail was horribly uncomfortable – heavy and chafing. Broderick, who wore only a short mail jerkin over a tunic, felt pity for the men who rode beside him.
They're along for this raid because of me. They risk their lives, but at the end, I'm the one who marries Amabel.
The thought made him smile. He would marry the beautiful lady, wed her. Bed her. At the thought of his wedding night, his mind drifted. He imagined slowly peeling the velvet gown from her shoulders, exposing the flesh beneath. Her breasts would fill his clutching hands and her nipples, which he imagined pointed and pale pink, would fill his eager lips.
He shook himself sharply. Stop it, Broderick! You need to concentrate.
He blinked. Up ahead, rising through the mist, was a stone wall. They were at the border and he had just stumbled on the post.