One
1361
Isle of Skye, Scotland
When a man discovered his destiny, he could either control it or let it destroy him, and Brodee Blackswell had no intention of being defeated this day or any other.
“What say ye? Will ye accept my reward?” King David asked again. But it was not a question. The men present in the great hall of Dunvegan Castle, the stronghold of the MacLeod clan, knew as well as Brodee did that the King of Scots often disguised a command as a request. The clever king loved to test the extent of his subjects’ loyalty, and he was testing Brodee’s now.
Uneasy looks were exchanged surreptitiously among the MacLeod brothers, their wives, and the council that served the MacLeod laird. But they were not sly enough, and their expressions revealed the underlying uncertainty of Brodee’s response. The doubt did not surprise him. They questioned the extent of the burden he would accept, not his allegiance to the king.
He had proven his devotion over the last year as King David’s right hand. He’d recaptured more than twenty castles for the king, driving out men who thought to defy David—or worse, unseat him from the throne. The sieges had earned Brodee the sobriquet of “the Savage Slayer.” He suspected the king himself had first whispered the nickname. Brodee had no doubt it was to make those who thought to defy the king—or to support his greatest enemy, his nephew the Steward, who coveted the throne—to reconsider. He didn’t mind being called the Savage Slayer, though. He knew it wasn’t true, but his enemies did not, making the nickname quite beneficial. It had ended a few battles before they had begun, sparing numerous lives. For that, he could withstand the fear he saw in the eyes of others.
“Blackswell?” The king shifted forward, his hands coming to rest upon the table. His blue gaze delved, attempting to uncover Brodee’s answer. A frown appeared on the man’s regal face, and the drumming of his fingers broke the silence in the room. His brown eyebrows arched high, David’s irritation apparent.
Dangerous situations called for deliberate questions. The king was offering him Silas Kincaide’s castle as a reward for killing the man, who had been one of his nephew’s biggest supporters. Of course, Brodee would first have to seize the castle from the Kincaides, who still occupied it. That would not be a problem. Silas’s younger, weaker brother was now laird and would be easily defeated. The problem, as Brodee saw it, was that the king had also offered Silas’s widow as a gift to be Brodee’s new bride.
He took a measured breath, and then he spoke. “When would the wedding take place?”
A spark of triumph lit King David’s eyes. “Immediately.”
The king might as well have said,I sentence ye to Hell.Brodee didn’t want a damn wife.
Careful, careful. He had to tiptoe. He walked upon a shore of shells that was the king’s pride. “I beg pardon, Sire, what was her name?” Brodee had already forgotten it. Perhaps unconsciously? No, purposely.
Royal lips pressed together in annoyance. “Lady Patience Kincaide, originally of the Bullard clan…the traitors,” David spat. “Though I’m told she’s a rare beauty.”
That was supposed to be an enticement. It wasn’t. It was anything but. Still, Brodee gave the expected answer. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
A collective sigh came from the occupants of the room, and the spark of triumph moved from the king’s eyes to his lips and twisted them into a smirk. Brodee shifted onto his heels, sending the weight of his annoyance away from the king. David thought he’d won, and he had. But only because Brodee would triumph, too. He wanted his own lands, ones he had earned, not property his elder brother had given him. His brother would inherit the lairdship of Clan Blackswell when their father died. He didn’t begrudge Broch that. He’d been born a cry before Brodee, thus it was his by the luck of birth order. This desire to gain a holding Brodee had worked for and the loyalty of men pledged to him, was precisely why he’d accepted the king’s offer to become his right hand in the first place. He’d figured—correctly, it seemed—that if he served the king well, David would reward him.
What he’d not considered was that the reward of land would include a bride.
Unease danced a jig in his gut.
“Blackswell, do ye accept my gifts or nae?” Irritation laced the king’s words.
A hard gaze fell on Brodee, almost like a physical blow. He directed his attention to the man sitting to the king’s right, Iain MacLeod. The laird was the king’s oldest and closest friend. The MacLeod stared at him, as if searching for his secrets. Brodee had many, but he’d die before revealing them.
A slow smile, one of interest, spread across the MacLeod’s face, but thankfully, he did not speak. Broch had told Brodee that the MacLeod was an uncommonly observant man, and Brodee did not need the laird noting things that were private. Especially things that might anger the king and cause Brodee to be stripped of the land and castle in question.
“I gladly accept yer gifts,” Brodee said, though awarding him a castle teeming with warriors who supported the Steward and who would despise Brodee for killing their laird was hardly agift. It was more like another mission to drive out the men who did not support the king. Except when this one was completed, Brodee would become laird of the castle and create another branch of the Blackswell clan—the Blackswells of Skye.
The king flashed a conqueror’s smile, sharp and gleaming, before raising a hand to wave over one of his personal guards. “Send a missive to Laird Bullard. Tell him the Slayer will wed his daughter and will fetch her from the castle.”
“Beg pardon, Sire,” the guard began when he approached, “but I thought ye were rewarding the Slayer with the castle?”
“I am, ye foolish pup,” the king snapped.
To the young guard’s credit he did not show any reaction to the public scolding, though his ears did turn red.
“See if ye can follow along,” David said, his expression holding a note of mockery. “Bullard dunnae ken that Blackswell will nae simply ride to Crag Donnon Castle and fetch his daughter.” He paused, picked up his goblet, took a swig of wine, and plunked the cup down on the dais, all the while keeping his eyes upon the now-fidgeting guard. “Can ye imagine why it may be that I dunnae wish Bullard to ken that Blackswell will take Crag Donnon in my name and make it his by my good graces?”
Brodee sighed inwardly. Whenever the king’s voice rose several octaves as it just had it meant he was at the beginning of a speech. Brodee hoped this one was short. He was eager to get to his men.
The guard looked suddenly as if he might be ill. The poor clot-heid was likely terrified to answer, yet he knew he must. David was a good king, but he could be a harsh king, made so by the brutal times during which he reigned.
“I imagine,” the guard began, his voice cracking, “that ye wish to prevent the Kincaide warriors from hearing word of the Slayer’s siege. That way,” the guard continued jerkily, “the Kincaides will nae be able to mount a defense before the Slayer and his men arrive at the castle.”
