Page 33 of Leila’s Legacy

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The following morning, Niall arrived early to the practice field. He’d spent the remainder of the night biding his time, planning out exactly how he would handle the matter of Alban. He couldn’t kill him, of course. Not with him being Lord Armstrong’s son.

But Niall could best him on the practice field. It wouldn’t resolve the issue, but it would ease the rage searing through him. Afterward, Niall would take up the matter with Lord Armstrong.

Niall paced the well-worn earth to burn the energy racing through his veins as the sun stained the sky red with its ascent. The men slowly trickled into the area of the castle they used for practice, with Alban being one of the last to arrive. Niall ran through the basic moves with them to ease the stiffness from their joints and get their bodies warm on the cold morning.

It had been torment to bide his time when he was hot and ready for battle. He paired himself with Alban and stood across from the younger man.

“I heard ye attacked the prisoner,” he spoke casually as he circled his opponent.

“She’s a witch.” Alban spit on the ground between them.

“She’s also a noble’s daughter.” Niall lunged, bringing his practice sword down.

Alban was fast, aye, but not when faced with the magnitude of Niall’s rage. The blade struck Alban hard on his injured shoulder. His grunted exhale gave proof of the hit’s accuracy, as did the narrowing of his eyes.

“It doesna matter,” Alban growled. “She’ll be dead once Father Gerard judges her. How can she be anything but when the Armstrongs were the first to fall to this illness? ‘Tis a miracle my da, me and my sister havena fallen ill.”

Niall wouldn’t call it a miracle. He ducked to avoid being struck by Alban’s blade. The wind of its passing brushed by Niall’s cheek. Too close. He shoved his torso against Alban, catching him off guard, and brought his own sword up hard, disarming his opponent. Here, he could have put the tip of his dulled sword to Alban’s neck to signify victory.

But that was not enough. He wanted Alban to feel some of the pain and terror Lady Leila had felt when he’d attacked her.

“Would ye have someone treat yer sister thus?” Niall rushed Alban, gripping his shoulders and swiping his legs out from beneath him so he crashed to the ground.

The Keeper’s son ground out a harsh exhale. “My sister isna a witch.”

“Lady Leila may no’ be one either.”

Alban threw his fist at Niall. It glanced off his jaw without much impact but opened the door for Niall to retaliate. And retaliate he did. With fists and feet and all the pent-up rage he had radiating inside him.

He and Alban rolled about on the ground like youths in a village brawl, tearing at each other’s gambesons to get a better grip on one another, to strike harder. Niall was hit several times, but not nearly as often as he delivered blows.

His final one was to Alban’s nose. There had been a fleshy crack beneath Niall’s fist and an immediate eruption of blood. Alban let out a gurgling howl of pain and the fight was over.

“Leave Lady Leila be,” Niall warned. “She’s a prisoner, and an earl’s daughter at that.”

Alban held his face and glowered from beneath the mess of his ruddy hair. “My da will hear of this.”

Niall didn’t bother to reply to the petty threat. He had anticipated Alban would go to his father to complain. In fact, Niall had been counting on it.

The summons to see Lord Armstrong came almost immediately after practice, implying Alban had made good on his threat as soon as the Armstrong guards had been released. The Keeper of Liddesdale was waiting for Niall impatiently with Alban at his side.

“Ye broke my son’s nose,” Lord Armstrong said dryly.

Niall bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. “’Tis what happens on the practice field.”

Lord Armstrong cast an irritable side glance at his son, as though in agreement with what Niall had said. The Scottish earl was a notable warrior himself, one who never backed down from battle. One who would never go to his father to complain of a broken nose.

“Alban suspects ye’re bewitched by the prisoner.” Lord Armstrong made the accusation in a bored tone, clearly placating his son.

“If protecting the purity of an earl’s daughter is bewitchment, then mayhap I am.” Niall folded his arms over his chest. “We’ve already arrested Lord Werrick’s daughter and are holding her to be tried for witchcraft. We dinna need to insult the man by also raping his daughter.”

“She bewitched me,” Alban hissed. “She made me lust after—”

“Cease yer whining.” Lord Armstrong’s voice rang out against the cold gray stone. He glared at his son. “Ye’re a man, no’ a child. Cease yer prattling at once. And if ye are indeed bewitched, ye best be as far from the chit as possible. See to the scouting party. Lord Werrick hasna taken his daughter’s arrest well and I dinna doubt he will attack us to save her.”

Alban opened his mouth to protest, but Lord Armstrong cast him an icy stare that stayed his son’s tongue.