Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Summer 1207
As always, his first sensation was pain.
He frowned and stirred restlessly on his pallet, grasping at the murky waters of sleep, which were swiftly ebbing away. In sleep the pain could be held at bay. Not completely, and not for any great length of time. Just enough that he preferred the hazy, alcohol-saturated respite to the harsh, clear glare of day.
He felt himself losing the battle of slumber to his relentless enemy. Pain streaked down his back. A familiar throbbing pulsed through his left leg. Then, of course, there was his arm. Capable of only a shadow of the strength it had once wielded, the spasm gripping the shrunken muscles was as debilitating as any warrior or weapon he had ever known. He struggled to float into the refuge of sleep once more. In sleep he could be almost whole again.
“Get up, Malcolm,” called an irritatingly cheerful voice. “You have guests.”
He did not bother to crack open an eye. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled. His tongue felt thick within the woolen dryness of his mouth. “Before I knock your head from your shoulders.”
Unperturbed, Gavin moved to the window and threw open the rough shutters. Midday light poured into the small hut in a golden stream, spilling across the cluttered dirt floor as it made its way onto Malcolm’s face.
“Jesus Christ—” Scowling against the beam, he grasped the empty pitcher lying on the ground beside him and heaved it at Gavin.
Gavin dodged to one side, and the pitcher shattered against the wall. “I realize this is early for you,” he said, his tone apologetic, “but there are some men outside who have traveled for over a week to find you. They say it is urgent they speak with you.”
Malcolm turned his head from the light and drew his aching arm over his eyes. “Tell them I am indisposed,” he drawled wearily.
“I did. I also suggested if they needed help, they should go to Harold. They said they had already been to the MacFane holding, and Harold sent them here.”
“Then they have wasted their time.” The pronouncement was absolute. “Harold should know better than to send people here.”
“They told Harold they were seeking the Black Wolf.”
Malcolm hesitated, then snorted in disgust. “The Black Wolf is dead,” he stated harshly. He rolled to face the wall, dismissing him. “Tell them that.”
“They seem to know otherwise,” remarked Gavin. “And they have assured me they will not leave until they have spoken with him. They are from the Clan MacKendrick.”
Malcolm frowned, searching his pounding, ale-soaked brain for the name MacKendrick. After a moment it came to him. “Sweet Jesus, MacKendrick is a persistent man,” he grumbled sourly. “I already told his messengers I was not interested in his offer. What the hell does he want now?”
“I don’t know,” replied Gavin, shrugging. “But if you want to get rid of this lot, you will have to come out and speak with them.”
“Christ.” He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. The pain was bad, but he supposed it was no worse than it had been yesterday, or last week, or last year. It was becoming difficult to remember ever being without it.
The sun assaulted him with blinding brilliance as he followed Gavin outside. Through squinting eyes he saw his unwelcome visitors. Two of them were tall and sufficiently well built, one with shoulder-length hair of brown, the other with hair of black. Malcolm judged them to be no more than five and twenty. The third was barely more than a lad, with filthy, tangled hair of an indeterminate color, and a face that hadn’t been washed for weeks. Not that he was in a position to criticize on matters of appearance, he reflected ironically. As usual, Gavin had laid a meal of ale, bread, and cheese for him on the table in front of the hut. Ignoring his visitors, Malcolm reached for the jug of ale. He took a swig, swished it around in his mouth, and spat it noisily onto the ground. Thus refreshed, he tilted his head back and drank deeply, emptying the jug of its contents. Then he wiped his dripping mouth on his arm and calmly regarded the trio, who were staring at him, their expressions ranging from shock to barely dis “guised revulsion.
“What do you want?” he demanded brusquely.
The tall one with brown hair seemed to recover first. “I am Duncan MacKendrick,” he began, looking uncertain. “And this is Andrew, and that is Rob.” He gestured to the boy, who was glaring at Malcolm. “We are here to speak with the warrior known as the Black Wolf,” Duncan finished, evidently deciding the man standing before him could not possibly be the mighty warrior they sought.
“You have found him,” stated Malcolm curtly.
Sharp dismay flooded the faces of the two men, followed by pity. Malcolm endured their scrutiny, betraying none of his bitter humiliation. Only the boy seemed unmoved. He continued to glare at Malcolm, his expression burning with something more akin to fury than sympathy.
“Forgive us,” stammered the dark-haired one known as Andrew. “We went first to MacFane castle and learned you were no longer laird. The new MacFane sent us here, but he did not mention—that is—we were not told—” He broke off uncertainly.
Malcolm cursed silently, wondering why Harold had sent these men to him.
“What happened to the other messengers your laird sent to speak with me?” he demanded.
“They never returned,” replied Duncan. “We did not know if they had reached you with the MacKendrick’s offer.”
“They did,” Malcolm said. “And I told them, as I tell you now, I am not interested. Tell MacKendrick I consider the matter closed and do not wish to be disturbed again.” He turned and began to retreat slowly toward the quiet darkness of his hut.
“He is dead,” announced the boy, his voice flat.
Malcolm stopped. The boy’s gray eyes were seething with hatred, as if he believed Malcolm were somehow responsible.
“How?”
Rob opened his mouth to respond, but Duncan interjected. “The clan was attacked by a band of marauding warriors,” he explained. “The MacKendrick was cut down by a sword. It happened several weeks after he sent word to you, asking you to come.”
“We fought them as best we could,” Andrew added, “but we are not trained in the ways of warfare. The MacKendrick hoped you and your army would be able to protect us.”
Malcolm controlled the acrid impulse to laugh. He could not fault MacKendrick for his plan. Once he had been laird of the Clan MacFane, with more than a thousand highly trained warriors ready to fight and die for him. For six long years he had fought in the army of King William, and had led his men to victory in countless bloody battles. But that was a lifetime ago. The only man he could call upon today was Gavin. If Malcolm had gone to MacKendrick and said he was accepting his offer of lairdship, the man would have fallen flat on the floor with laughter.
And these three damn well knew it.
