The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(59)

Tor eyed him thoughtfully. He was tall, but with the leanness of youth. He carried a regular knight’s sword and a dirk. “So what is your skill?” Tor asked.

Most of the others had been obvious. If their reputations didn’t precede them, their choice of armory or appearance did. One look at Robbie Boyd was all it took to see why he was reputed to be the strongest man in Scotland and an expert in hand-to-hand combat. The man was forged from iron.

Color crept up Seton’s face. “I’m good with a blade.”

Tor frowned. Good? All knights were good with a sword. “Yet you are here?”

“To learn. My brother wished to come, but Bruce wouldn’t hear of it.”

Sir Christopher was married to Bruce’s sister, making Bruce Alex’s brother by marriage.

“So Bruce sent you instead.” Tor almost felt sorry for him. Seton would have much to prove indeed. English, young, and without a superior skill to quiet the jabs. “I’ll not go easy on you—no matter who sent you.”

The arrogant squared jaw returned. “I know that. Nor would I have it otherwise.”

“The others will make it hard for you.”

The younger man met his gaze with fierce determination. “I know that as well.”

Tor nodded and left him to his task, knowing that his determination would be put to the test.

He resumed his progress around the encampment to observe the men. For the most part he was impressed. Bricks of peat lay stacked out to dry, and the men had made quick work of cutting the wood to make beams for the ceiling. MacSorley’s naval skills were not limited to seafaring and swimming. He also knew how to build ships and wield a battle-axe—both of which skills he put to use shaping the wood into planks and beams for the ceiling.

Despite the promising start, however, it didn’t take Tor long to see just how challenging his task would be when a fight broke out in the yard behind the broch.

This group of men was unlike any that he’d ever trained. The very things that bound most men—blood and clan ties—divided them. Making brothers out of enemies would be his toughest challenge.

And none more than the two men he found thrashing each other senseless. To this point it was only with fists, but Tor knew it would not be long before weapons were drawn.

He thought he’d made himself clear when they arrived—he wouldn’t tolerate any fighting among the men. Apparently, they needed a reminder.

Furious, not only at the lack of discipline but at the affront to his authority, Tor picked up a bucket of icy water filled from the nearby burn and dumped it over the two brawling warriors. The temporary shock was all he needed. Both men were sizeable and strong, but he roped MacGregor’s arms behind his back and yanked him off Campbell as if he were a mere stripling. He was tempted to toss them both in the burn to cool them off, but he knew of a far more effective punishment—though in the end, he hoped it would be a lesson.

He threw the famed archer away from him. MacGregor shook the water from his hair and eyed Campbell as if he meant to resume where they’d left off.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Tor warned icily. “You’re going to need him in the next few months.” They didn’t know it yet, but MacGregor and Campbell had just become partners.

MacGregor spat and wiped the blood from his battered nose and mouth. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before a MacGregor needs anything from the likes of an upstart cur of a Campbell.” The MacGregors were a proud ancient clan with royal lineage, and his voice dripped with condescension.

Neil Campbell’s youngest brother leapt to his feet. Arthur was the best scout in the Highlands, but unfortunately, until recently, he’d been putting that skill to work for the English—at odds with his family. Along with MacRuairi, he would bear close watching. Until now, Tor’s only impression was that he was quiet and seemed to keep to himself.

“Upstart?” Campbell said. “And what are you? The proud Clan Gregor—descended from kings but without power or influence to speak of. How the mighty have fallen. But if you come over here and beg real nice, I might throw you a bone sometime.” His lip curled. “Or are you too scared I might mess up that pretty face of yours some more?”

In addition to being the best archer in the Highlands, Gregor MacGregor was equally renowned among the lasses for his handsome face. Tor felt sorry for the poor bastard. For a warrior, such a ridiculous reputation was surely a bane.

MacGregor growled and took a step toward him, but Tor grabbed him by the edge of his cotun and held him back. “Enough,” he said, and then looked to Campbell. “From both of you.” The steely edge in his voice left no doubt of his displeasure.

He glanced around, seeing that the other men had gathered to watch. Good. What he had to say affected them all.

“I warned you, I will not tolerate fighting.” He turned to the rest of them. “From any of you. I don’t care whether your families have hated one another for years, whether your father killed his—none of it matters. Whatever fights or feuds existed before you got here, they end now.”

MacRuairi dug his spade into the ground with a hard thump. His dark eyes were full of menace and challenge. “Does that go for you as well, chief?”

Tor didn’t miss the sarcasm and bit back the impulse to slam his fist into that smug jaw. He wasn’t their chief and never would be. But only MacSorley knew that he would not be the leader of the group when the training was over, and it was best if it stayed that way for now. Although he might not be their leader in the future, for the next few months he was. Until then, the same rules applied. As much as he hated it, for now MacRuairi would be his brother. When it was over, they could go back to being enemies.