him. Didn’t they know that the tide had turned? That their most powerful allies—the Comyns and England—had deserted them? That Bruce would be coming as soon as the truce expired?
Hell, even his brother was acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he and his men laughing and jesting as loudly as the rest of them. Louder, perhaps.
“Don’t you like the ale, Sir Arthur?”
He turned to see Dugald’s squire beside him on the bench. “Well enough,” he said with a wry turn of his mouth. “Though perhaps not as much as my brother.”
The lad smiled. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I couldn’t help noticing the lady, sir.” Arthur didn’t need to look to know to whom he was motioning. “She’s been watching you. Perhaps you will ask her to dance?”
Unfortunately, he hadn’t lowered his voice enough—or Arthur’s brother wasn’t as drunk as he’d thought. Dugald interrupted loudly. “Don’t waste your time, Ned. My brother would rather dance with his sword than a young, marriageable lady.” The others laughed, not missing the ribald jest.
Though Dugald had finished eating, he still held the horn hilt of his eating knife in his hand. Arthur noticed the squire stiffen, his eyes widening anxiously, when Dugald started to toss the knife up in the air, catching it with one hand. Unconsciously, the lad started to rub his hands and inch forward on the bench.
Arthur understood the squire’s reaction only too well. One glance down at his own hands—scarred by dozens of knife marks—said why. It was Dugald’s idea of a game. He’d toss the knife—or dagger or spear—around for a while, and then suddenly throw it at someone, expecting that person to catch it. It was supposed to improve reflexes and build alertness, awareness, and readiness.
It did, albeit with a considerable amount of pain and blood.
God, how he’d dreaded that damned knife—a sentiment shared by the squire if the ashen, edgy look on his face was any indication.
“He hasn’t courted a lass since he was a pissant squire like you,” Dugald continued. “What was her name, brother?”
Arthur slid his finger over the rim of his goblet carelessly. Dugald was prodding him, but he wouldn’t bite. “Catherine.”
“What happened, sir?” the squire asked Arthur, casting furtive sidelong glances toward Dugald—never completely taking his eyes off the five-inch steel blade.
Arthur shrugged. “We didn’t suit.”
Dugald laughed. “After you scared her senseless. By God, you were a strange lad.” Thankfully, he didn’t explain, but looked back to the squire. He made a quick motion with his hand, faking a throw of the dagger, chuckling when the lad flinched. “He was even more of a hapless fighter than you. A runt, if you can believe it.” From the way the others turned to him in astonishment, it was clear they couldn’t. “Puny and weak. He could barely lift a sword until he was twelve. We all despaired of ever making him a warrior.”
Except for Neil. Neil had always believed in him.
“But look at him now,” Dugald said. “A knight our father would be proud of.” With a deft sleight of hand, he tossed the dagger high in the air, caught it, and immediately flipped it toward the squire. Arthur would have knocked it down, but the lad was ready. Eyes fixed on the flashing blade, he managed to get enough of the handle to catch it. Dugald let out a belly roar of laughter. “Ha! Mayhap there’s hope for you after all.”
The others laughed.
The offhanded compliment about Arthur’s warrior skills mattered more than he wanted it to. He and Dugald would never be close, but they were brothers. On
opposite
sides, he reminded himself.
The squire moved away, and the rest of the men returned to their drink, but Dugald quietly looked around the room. Arthur knew what—or who—he was looking for. The Lady Mary MacDougall had captured his brother’s attention—a rarity for any lass.
“It’s a damned
Hell, even his brother was acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he and his men laughing and jesting as loudly as the rest of them. Louder, perhaps.
“Don’t you like the ale, Sir Arthur?”
He turned to see Dugald’s squire beside him on the bench. “Well enough,” he said with a wry turn of his mouth. “Though perhaps not as much as my brother.”
The lad smiled. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I couldn’t help noticing the lady, sir.” Arthur didn’t need to look to know to whom he was motioning. “She’s been watching you. Perhaps you will ask her to dance?”
Unfortunately, he hadn’t lowered his voice enough—or Arthur’s brother wasn’t as drunk as he’d thought. Dugald interrupted loudly. “Don’t waste your time, Ned. My brother would rather dance with his sword than a young, marriageable lady.” The others laughed, not missing the ribald jest.
Though Dugald had finished eating, he still held the horn hilt of his eating knife in his hand. Arthur noticed the squire stiffen, his eyes widening anxiously, when Dugald started to toss the knife up in the air, catching it with one hand. Unconsciously, the lad started to rub his hands and inch forward on the bench.
Arthur understood the squire’s reaction only too well. One glance down at his own hands—scarred by dozens of knife marks—said why. It was Dugald’s idea of a game. He’d toss the knife—or dagger or spear—around for a while, and then suddenly throw it at someone, expecting that person to catch it. It was supposed to improve reflexes and build alertness, awareness, and readiness.
It did, albeit with a considerable amount of pain and blood.
God, how he’d dreaded that damned knife—a sentiment shared by the squire if the ashen, edgy look on his face was any indication.
“He hasn’t courted a lass since he was a pissant squire like you,” Dugald continued. “What was her name, brother?”
Arthur slid his finger over the rim of his goblet carelessly. Dugald was prodding him, but he wouldn’t bite. “Catherine.”
“What happened, sir?” the squire asked Arthur, casting furtive sidelong glances toward Dugald—never completely taking his eyes off the five-inch steel blade.
Arthur shrugged. “We didn’t suit.”
Dugald laughed. “After you scared her senseless. By God, you were a strange lad.” Thankfully, he didn’t explain, but looked back to the squire. He made a quick motion with his hand, faking a throw of the dagger, chuckling when the lad flinched. “He was even more of a hapless fighter than you. A runt, if you can believe it.” From the way the others turned to him in astonishment, it was clear they couldn’t. “Puny and weak. He could barely lift a sword until he was twelve. We all despaired of ever making him a warrior.”
Except for Neil. Neil had always believed in him.
“But look at him now,” Dugald said. “A knight our father would be proud of.” With a deft sleight of hand, he tossed the dagger high in the air, caught it, and immediately flipped it toward the squire. Arthur would have knocked it down, but the lad was ready. Eyes fixed on the flashing blade, he managed to get enough of the handle to catch it. Dugald let out a belly roar of laughter. “Ha! Mayhap there’s hope for you after all.”
The others laughed.
The offhanded compliment about Arthur’s warrior skills mattered more than he wanted it to. He and Dugald would never be close, but they were brothers. On
opposite
sides, he reminded himself.
The squire moved away, and the rest of the men returned to their drink, but Dugald quietly looked around the room. Arthur knew what—or who—he was looking for. The Lady Mary MacDougall had captured his brother’s attention—a rarity for any lass.
“It’s a damned
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