Two
William MacLean stared at the MacLean warriors, who had snuck up on him and now surrounded him with weapons raised. The desire of his own clansmen to hurt him, possibly kill him, glittered in their narrowed gazes. He moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, glad he’d not yet taken off his weapon and disrobed. The grime from the weeks-long journey he’d just completed to return to his home—or what once had been his home—clung to him, but better dirty than dead. He’d not traveled back to his old home, a place he’d foresworn, simply to be cut down before he saw King David, who had called him here and away from his latest mission the king had sent him on.
“It warms my heart that ye men were so anxious to see me that ye formed a welcoming party to greet me before I could even step foot in the castle to meet withourking who called me here,” William said, glancing up toward the seagate stairs. Two shadowy figures were illuminated slightly by the full moon as they made their way up the stone steps toward Duart Castle. William let out a shrill whistle for them to stop, a signal that both Lannrick Kinntoch and Thomas Fraser should know from their time fighting alongside him for the king the last few months, but neither man paused. It was his own fault, he supposed. He had been their commander for some time now, since the king had sent them to him to aid in missions. He’d trained them to listen without questioning orders, and this night he’d ordered them to go straight to the great hall without stopping. That’s what he got for being prideful, for not keeping them with him in case he encountered a problem like this.
He’d wanted to wash off first to present a good picture to his clansmen and clanswomen in hopes that they would be more welcoming of him now than when he’d left over two years prior, in the shadow of his father and brother Bram’s treachery of King David. But by the grim-looking MacLean men circling him, however, he could see they still did not consider him one of them anymore, despite the fact that the MacLean had declared William’s loyalty to clan, country, and king. They still suspected that he’d become a traitor to the king as his brother and father had. It appeared it didn’t matter one whit that he’d spent the last two years of his life on mission after mission for King David, aiding the king in seizing the castles of real traitors.
“Ye’re smart enough to ken we’re nae here to welcome ye,” said James MacLean, one of the older warriors who sat on the MacLean council.
“How did ye ken I was coming today?” William asked, ignoring any tug of emotion caused by the fact that James, whom he’d once thought of as family, still did not trust him.
“I saw the missive King David sent to ye, as well as yer response to the king and the MacLean.”
“Then ye ken that King David trusts me and Alex—I mean, the MacLean—trusts me. I have fought in the king’s name for two years. If our king and our laird dunnae believe me a traitor, then why do ye?”
The men around him shifted, and James spoke once more. “Yer father and yer brother were traitors. My son is dead because of them!”
William’s neck heated in shame. Everything James was saying was true, and it made William feel as if he were a betrayer, but he wasn’t. His father and brother had each betrayed the king at different times. His father’s betrayal had cost many MacLean warriors their lives when they had fought warriors his father had led against the king for the Steward. And later, James’s son had died protecting the king during an ambush after William’s brother had alerted the Steward as to where the king was traveling. Still, William had argued the point enough to know that words would never change their minds. It seemed the actions he’d hoped would prove his loyalty, reestablish his good name, and earn the trust of his entire clan might not change what they now believed of him, either.
James pointed his sword at William. “I dunnae ken what sorcery ye used to convince the king and our laird that ye are nae a traitor, but we”—he motioned to the men with him—“dunnae believe yer lies.”
William swept his gaze over the men before him. Each one had been personally affected by the actions of his father and brother. The hatred on their faces made him want to turn around and leave, but fleeing again would not gain their forgiveness, nor could he defy the king’s order to appear before him. “I am nae a traitor,” he repeated, his words stiff.
“Bah! Ye are making yerself more powerful!” James said, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at William’s. “I see what ye are doing. We all do.” He waved a hand around at the men again. “Ye are probably trying to become king yerself or to aid the Steward’s cause!”
“Aye!” chorused the men around him.
“Raise yer sword now, traitor!” James said. “’Tis time to die!”
A tic began in William’s right eye. He blinked a few times until it dissipated. “James, I dunnae wish to fight ye. Ye taught me to defend myself alongside my father, remember?”
“Oh aye, I remember. It makes the betrayal so much worse,Wolf.”
William flinched. He hadn’t minded the nickname he’d been given as one of the enforcers of the king’s will, but coming from James, the nickname sounded twisted. James smirked, and William had a feeling his old friend had seen his reaction.
“Let us see if ye are as ferocious and deadly as they say.”
“Again, I dunnae want to fight ye, James,” he reiterated.
James shrugged. “Ye can die fighting or die standing there. Either way, ye will die this night.”
William reacted instinctually to the slight movement of James’s sword hand. The man moved to slice William down his breastbone, and William jerked his own sword up. Their blades clanked, cutting through the silence, and then the high-pitched sound of William’s sword grating along the length of James’s rang in William’s ears, along with his now-rushing blood. With a swivel of his wrist, he relieved James of his weapon, which went flying upward. William reached out and caught James’s blade with his left hand, then pointed both swords at the man.
“Ye can either stand aside,” William said through clenched teeth, “or I can use ye to practice a little double-sworded trick the Dark Riders taught me while I trained with them.”
Invoking the name of the ferocious warriors had the desired effect. James looked momentarily fearful that William might now possess some of the magical powers the Dark Riders were thought to have. He used the momentary advantage to dodge past James, only to come face-to-face with four more angry warriors.
He knocked two men down in quick succession, but the other two came at him before he could get his sword or James’s back up. A blade pressed hard against his windpipe from behind.
“Do ye have any last words?” James asked, panting in William’s ear.
“Aye,” William said, rage pumping through his blood. All he’d wanted in the years since his father and brother had betrayed their clan and king was to cast away the shame and convince people he was honorable. And he’d failed. “Dunnae ever come at a man from behind unless ye are certain of exactly what he’s capable of.”
With that, William jerked up his hand and grasped the blade at his throat, the sharp edge slicing into his skin, and held it just long enough to rear his head back into James’s nose. Bone crunched, and James’s howling rang in William’s ears. The men in front of him lunged forward, and as they did, William raised the swords in his hands, not wanting to hurt the men but not wanting to die.
“Stand down!” thundered a voice from the darkness. Laird Alex MacLean appeared in the moonlight, holding a torch. Thomas and Lannrick were by his side.
Everyone stilled, and William glared at Thomas and Lannrick. “Did ye nae hear me whistle?”
