The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(58)

The location was ideal. It was close to Dunvegan, but the difficult surrounding terrain made it not easily accessible and sparsely populated. Like the strange standing stones and cairns that peppered the landscape, the ancient brochs were avoided by the Islanders, who thought them inhabited by fairies and other spirits. Superstition would work in their favor to keep people away.

Though they were unlikely to be discovered here, Tor would exercise extreme caution. Too much was at stake. And with the recent attacks on Dunvegan, until he discovered who was responsible he couldn’t take any chances.

Though he would not hesitate to put his life in the hands of any of his personal guardsmen—and had on more than one occasion—he followed his usual practice of only telling his men what he had to. Right now, with his henchman still chasing after his brother, that meant Fergus, his privy counselor; Rhuairi, his seneschal; and his an gille mor, sword bearer, Colyne. Starting tomorrow, Colyne would accompany Janet back and forth from the castle to bring food and provisions to the men.

If there was a woman he could trust, it was Janet. They’d known each other since childhood. He’d danced at her wedding to his foster brother and henchman, and mourned with her at his death a few years later. Their shared grief had taken an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn when they’d become lovers. The arrangement had suited them both, and were it not for his recent marriage, probably would have continued indefinitely. She was comfortable and placed no demands on him.

That the relationship was at an end, however, he knew—though he didn’t wish to examine why. Marriage didn’t need to end it, there was nothing unusual in keeping a leman. Janet had accepted his change of circumstance with the same practicality that had drawn them together in the first place. If she regretted the end to their liaison, she did not show it—would that his wife would learn to hide her feelings so easily. His relationship with Janet had shifted easily before and it did so again, back to friendship.

As each of the ten warriors arrived, Tor put them to work gathering wood to repair the roof and cutting peat.

It was a test of sorts. The physical labor was not meant to humble, but to put each of the elite warriors on equal footing and to start them working together as a single unit—a team. He knew some of the men well, and some not at all, but he could already tell it was going to be a team like no other.

Preferring to work alone and keep his own counsel, Tor was used to operating on his own. These men were not. Most of the men were chieftains or leaders in their own right, accustomed to giving, not taking, commands and having a large retinue of men around them. He couldn’t be sure what motivated them to agree to be trained and put under his command. He suspected they all had their reasons for being here. He knew some of the men had close ties to Bruce, and undoubtedly the premise of the team had proved as intriguing as it had to him. His reputation as a trainer of men probably played a part. But following orders was going to be a challenge for some of them.

He suspected it had been a long time since Lachlan MacRuairi had wielded a spade to cut earth or an axe to cut down a tree (rather than a man), but the proud chieftain—who were it not for his bastard birth could challenge his cousin MacDonald as heir to the ancient Kingdom of the Isles—did not bat an eye. But the ready obedience did not fool Tor. MacRuairi would bear watching.

That only one man balked at his order surprised him. Who it was, however, did not. Sir Alex Seton was the younger brother of Bruce’s close companion and brother-in-law, “Good Sir Christopher,” but the last time Tor looked, Yorkshire—from where the Setons hailed—was still in England. And no matter what side of the border he resided on now, Alex Seton had all the trappings of his countrymen, from the fine chain mail, plumed helm, and finely embroidered tabard to the haughty superiority. But at least the arrogant Englishman was a quick study. If he thought cutting peat beneath him, he hid his disdain when Tor ordered him to dig the latrines instead.

Half expecting Seton to jump in a boat and sail right back to the borders, Tor was surprised to find him still digging an hour later, his fine chain mail and richly embroidered tabard of the Wyvern and shield with three crescents and royal double tressure folded neatly in a pile beside him.

“You won’t find much use for that here,” Tor said, digging his shovel into the earth a few feet away to start a second pit.

“I’m a knight,” Seton answered proudly. “I will look like one.”

Given that Seton couldn’t be much older than one and twenty, Tor would wager he hadn’t had his spurs for long. “You were a knight. Here you are just one of my men—unproven until otherwise. Your knightly code has no place here.” Tor gave him a hard look. “You understand what will be required of you? What you have signed up for?”

The younger man’s mouth tightened until his lips turned white, but he nodded. He might say “aye,” but disapproval exuded from every pore.

“Wear it as you will,” Tor said with a dismissive wave, “but you’ll find the mail too cumbersome and heavy for the kind of training and fighting we will do.” And he suspected the lad was going to have a hard enough time of it proving himself to the others—not just because of his English blood but also because of his youth. MacGregor and MacLean were young as well, but even they had a handful of years on Seton. The rest of the men were near his own one and thirty.

They dug side by side in silence, but Tor had made a point: He would not ask his men to do anything he would not do himself. When they’d finished, Tor offered Seton a drink of ale from the leather pouch he wore across his chest. Seton accepted it gratefully, wiping the sweat from his forehead before taking a long swig.