“Aye. We’ll make a point of sailing past MacDonald lands flying the king’s pennant. Let them know we’ve come to stay for a bit.”
“And how long do you think that might be?”
“Who knows?” Eoin looped his thumbs into his belt. “With luck, the MacDonalds will realize they should be happy King James didn’t rob them of all their lands.”
Fergus smirked. “’Twill be a cold day in hell when that happens.”
Eoin shrugged. “One day the MacDonalds will give up their feud and realize they cannot win a war against Scotland.”
“Only after half of them are dead,” said Willy, a skilled man with a mace and targe.
“Bloody oath,” Fergus cursed. “They’d best not be taking us to Hades with them.”
“Wheesht. ’Tis why we’re the best fighting men in Scotland. We’ll not be escorting the MacDonalds to hell. They can find the way on their own.” Eoin drew his dirk and held it high. “But we’ll be glad to show them the path.”
“Och aye,” the men bellowed, pumping their fists in the air.
“Let us see to our nooning, then we’ll meet the bedraggled MacIain guard in the courtyard and determine if they ken how to handle their weapons.”
Chapter Four
With his arms crossed, Eoin stood beside the MacIain Chieftain in the courtyard, surrounded by thirty-foot curtain walls. During the midday meal, he’d opted to stop by the kitchens for a bit of bread and a hunk of cheese. He couldn’t bring himself to step into the great hall and watch Aleck MacIain preside over the throng. Nor did he care to put himself in the middle of banter between young bucks flexing their muscles.
He turned his attention to the sparring warriors. As he’d thought, the MacIain men lacked in skill, though most were solid lads. If Eoin had a year, he just might be able to turn them into soldiers.
“Every one of my men is near fourteen stone,” Aleck gloated.
Eoin kept his sights on the nearest pair, fighting with swords. “Aye, you’ve amassed yourself a great deal of meat.”
The overstuffed chieftain puffed out his chest. “Brawn, mind you.”
“Brawn?” Eoin raised his eyebrows and then cast his gaze to the clouds. “I’ll give you that, they might even be good at slaying dragons.”
“Watch yourself,” MacIain growled.
Eoin inclined his chin toward the man sparring with Fergus. “Your man there is sizeable, but he wields his sword like he’s chopping wood.”
“Pardon me? Grant is my best warrior. He’d beat your man in a fight any day, hands down.”
He wouldn’t.
Eoin had a mind to place a wager on Aleck’s claim. But he wasn’t there to prove his men superior—the MacGregors already had distinguished themselves to king and country a hundred times over. The king asked Eoin to train and fight alongside the MacIains because of their reputation. He opted for middle ground. “Grant shows promise, but in general, your men lack discipline.”
Aleck faced him. An edgy challenge reflected in his in his steely black eyes. Eoin didn’t budge, in no way intimidated by a glare from an arrogant chieftain. “My men are the best in Ardnamurchan.”
Eoin smirked. “I’d hope so.”
Aleck circled his palm around the pommel of his dirk. “You’re a smug bastard.”
“I disagree.” Eoin watched Aleck’s hand with his side vision. If the cur drew his damned dirk, he’d be on his back before he could blink. “I’m simply better at fighting. So are my men.” Ballocks to the middle ground.
MacIain turned beet red, his eyes bulging. “I’ve had enough of your gloating claim to greatness. You and the Campbells are tarred with the same brush. You all think you’re superior to the rest of the fighting men Scotland.”
An acerbic chuckle escaped Eoin’s lips. He’d endured a fortnight of listening to MacIain’s boasts and his ears could take no more. “Nay, we do not think it, we know it.” Anticipating Aleck’s swing, Eoin ducked and stepped forward while the big man stumbled with his dirk drawn. “I’ve not a mind to fight you this day. Let us agree to a wee demonstration.”
“What do you have in mind?” MacIain growled, shoving his dirk back in its scabbard.
Wise gesture. Eoin’s fingers itched to grab MacIain by the neck and smack his skull into the stone wall behind them. But he splayed his fingers instead. Perhaps he should have put up more of a fight when the king asked him to come to Mingary. Duncan and the others got the better end of the deal for certain.
“Fergus,” Eoin beckoned his henchman. “Show Sir Grant how to take down a larger opponent.”
Fergus grinned. “I thought we were supposed to go easy the first day.”
“No one needs to go easy with my men,” Aleck bellowed.
Eoin waived Fergus on, then leaned into Aleck. “Watch. This will not take long.”
“Wheesht. I said to hold your tongue.” The MacIain Chieftain practically had steam coming out his ears.
Eoin clapped a hand over his mouth and pulled his smile into a frown. It was easy piquing MacIain’s ire and Eoin enjoyed this little rattling too much. They were supposed to be allies. Once he realizes we can help him, the rivalry will settle.
Fergus crouched, sword in one hand, targe in the other. “Come at me just like you’ve been doing.”
Grant looked pretty good—better than the rest of the MacIain men around them. That’s why Eoin knew this demonstration would prove his point.
Grant lunged in, wielding his great sword with both hands in a sideways hack. Sidestepping, Fergus defended with his targe, sending Grant tottering forward. Spinning around, the MacIain man regained his composure. Grant lunged again, this time with more force—but he missed Fergus by a wider margin than his first try. With a roar, Grant swung his sword over his head. It came down with a crashing blow that surely could have cracked Fergus’s head, but the shorter man not only dodged the blade, his sword darted up and stopped short under Grant’s chin, drawing a wee stream of blood.
Grant froze, his stunned gaze shooting to Aleck.
“That’s enough,” Eoin said.
Aleck stepped forward. “Your man was lucky.”
“No.” Eoin pointed. “Fergus used patience and watched Grant’s hips. In an untrained man, the hips give away the angle of the attack every time.”
“Hips?” Aleck batted his hand through the air. “Next you’ll be fetching the piper and teaching my men a jig.”
Eoin grinned. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Dancing is exactly what fighting men need to maintain their balance and speed.”
MacIain snorted like a hog. “And you’re full of fairy shite.”
“Well, you’re either blind or the hair growing up your arse has addled your brain. I’ve had enough talk.” Eoin moved into the center of the courtyard, more to step away from MacIain and his wafting stench than anything. “Gather round, men. Fergus and Grant—we need a demonstration on watching your opponent’s hip movement.”
The MacIain clansmen chuckled ruefully. However, by the end of Eoin’s session they were all believers. All but one.