Page 19 of Dorchad

Wait, I’m not stupid. I have no business wandering around by myself, especially if there are bad guys hiding on the island. Maybe I can get a guard to go and harvest the willow bark for me.

As she walked back into the stronghold she wondered why Lucy hadn’t come back. The laird’s wife tended to be as busy as everyone, so she wouldn’t go in search of her. The only person with nothing to do was her, Rebecca thought, unless someone else got hurt. Then she recalled what Tair had said earlier.

I must go and attend to the drills with Dorchad in the lists while he searches.

Rebecca stopped and asked a passing maid where the lists were located, and the young woman offered to take her there.

A pang of guilt made her start to refuse. “Thank you, but I don’t want to keep you from your work, ah–”

“I’m called Sheona, my lady.” The maid’s yellow-brown eyes almost matched exactly the color of her dirty blonde hair, and the smile that curved her pouty lips seemed a bit sly. “’Tis no trouble. I’m in the laundry, but I’ve finished my morning tasks.”

“As long as you’re sure it’s not a bother.” She hadn’t spoken more than a few words to any of the maids, so as she walked with her she asked, “What’s it like, working for the clan?”

“Like?” Sheona sounded puzzled. “I’m treated fair and fed well. I may swive as many MacRune as I please.”

Swive? Rebecca winced as she recalled a character in a historical drama she’d watched using that term for having sex. “Well, that’s nice, I suppose.”

The maid laughed. “’Tis more than nice, my lady. The clan, they’re hearty lovers, and appreciate most any vassal’s offer to bed them.”

“You’re the ones who choose them?” she asked, even more mystified.

Sheona nodded. “’Tisnae the same outside the island, but here we’ve our pick of lovers from the clan. As many as we please, as happens. The MacRune cannae sire bairns, so ’tis only for pleasure.”

The maid opened a door that led out to a long balcony with a wooden railing that looked out over a large area of dirt occupied by dozens of men who were fighting. At first Rebecca grew horrified to see they were using swords and daggers, but gradually realized the men weren’t actually trying to cut each other. Still, some were bleeding from minor cuts and gashes.

“Isn’t this a little dangerous?” she asked, still rather appalled.

‘The clan dinnae suffer injury as we do,” Sheona said, pointing to one man standing over a rain barrel and washing the blood from his face. The cut on his brow looked as if it were vanishing, and then it abruptly disappeared. “Their Fae sire gifted them the ability to heal swiftly.”

Rebecca’s gaze was drawn to the largest circle, where Dorchad was standing and watching two of the bigger men wrestle without weapons. They seemed evenly matched until the smaller one threw a handful of dirt into his opponent’s eyes, which suddenly changed direction and pelted the chieftain, who wisely shielded his face with an arm.

“He really is a magnet for thrown things,” she said under her breath. She turned to Sheona. “They aren’t going to practice archery here, are they?”

The maid snickered. “No, my lady, no’ with the chieftain present. ’Twould turn him into the target.”

The dirt-thrower didn’t stop fighting, but knocked down his opponent and pinned him to the ground. He punched him several times, making blood pour from his nose and mouth, and then pressed his arm across the fallen man’s throat, making his face go purple.

“Enough, Janys.” The chieftain strode into the circle and jerked the smaller clansmen off his opponent. “You’re to drill, no’ kill.”

Janys seemed almost wild as he bared his teeth and growled something in another language. Dorchad nodded calmly and gestured to the fallen man, who was sitting up and rubbing his throat.

“Etan, get out.” He pulled off his tunic, baring a heavily-muscled chest, and then beckoned to Janys. “Do as you wish.”

Although smaller and slightly thinner than the chieftain, the wild-eyed warrior attacked him as if his life depended on it, barreling into him and throwing fast, heavy punches with both fists. Dorchad stood his ground and seemed to be letting him strike, which made Rebecca cover her mouth to keep from shrieking at him to defend himself.

“Dinnae fret, my lady,” Sheona told her. “None may match the chieftain except mayhap the laird.”

Janys suddenly howled and staggered back, clapping a hand to his chest. Dorchad advanced on him, throwing a blow to his belly and then an uppercut to his chin. That sent the clansman flying across the ring to land on his back.

“How can he be that strong?” Rebecca whispered, astounded.

“’Tis said a wolf taught him to fight,” the maid murmured, her expression taking on a strange greediness as she watched Dorchad.

The chieftain strode over to Janys, and before he could get up planted one boot in the center of his chest. “Control yourself, lad.”

For a moment the clansman writhed as if trying to escape a huge, heavy weight, and then just as suddenly he went limp and closed his eyes. The ferocious expression on his face melted away, replaced by a sheepish chagrin.

“Forgive me, Elder Brother.” Janys looked and sounded like a completely different person now. “’Twas the smell of blood in the circle.”