Extended Excerpt of The Chief

Bradon Moor Castle, Scotland, 1215

“You toss an axe like you bed a woman. Weakly and without aim.”

Rory laughed at his own jest, although his friend did not appear to appreciate the observation. Whether Darron’s foul mood was owed to his poor aim or the fact that snow and ice surrounded them, making this day’s training even more frigid than usual, Rory couldn’t be sure.

“I’d like to see you do better,” Darron grumbled.

He would do so easily. At least if the shouts at his back would cease. Turning toward the rowdy clansmen behind him, Rory smiled. Waiting for them to settle, he finally turned back and took aim at the poorly abused tree.

Concentrating on the sooty new mark they’d made earlier, Rory raised his hand. A moment later, his axe soared through the air, landing precisely where he planned for it to be buried. The cheers that broke out behind them deepened Darron’s frown. Nearly as competitive as Rory, although not quite, his friend stalked toward the tree to reclaim his weapon.

“Again,” Darron said for what must have been the twentieth time that morning.

If Rory’s bollocks were not nearly frozen, he’d accommodate him for the sheer pleasure of seeing his aim prove truer than Darron’s. Again. But it was too cold.

“Nay,” he said, turning to the others. “A break for the midday meal,” he shouted. And before the men departed the training yard, he added, “and a rest for the remainder of the day. To celebrate.”

Darron looked at him as if to say, Pleasing the men will not make you the new chief.

To which Rory would respond he did not care to be chief. That honor, and the trappings of responsibility that came with it, could remain firmly in his older brother’s hands. Just like the earldom attached to Dromsley Castle in England. Rory was quite content to be his brother’s second. And although their current situation was unusual—a chief’s second usually stayed with him—it suited both of them. Or so he kept telling himself.

“You don’t wish to celebrate?” Rory asked as he wrested his own axe from the frozen trunk of the tree. Darron, who’d waited for him, led the way uphill toward the keep.

“St. Valentine. Bah.”

Of course, he’d expected no less. Darron was not the sentimental sort. When they were children, he’d lost his home to a fire that could not be doused. Standing in front of it, watching it burn with his parents and his sister, all of whom had, thankfully, made it out safely, he’d said, “Tomorrow, we build another.”

But Rory tended to agree with him—holding a feast to celebrate lovers was unnecessary.

“Rory, look.”

He glanced over Darron’s shoulder and caught sight of two riders moments before they disappeared from view. By silent agreement they changed direction and walked toward the gatehouse instead, the normally bustling courtyard mostly empty. Even the animals knew better than to venture onto the frozen, snow-covered ground.

“They wore Kerr colors, did they not?” Darron climbed the gatehouse stairwell with him, although he’d fallen behind him, letting Rory lead the way. The Kerrs were their longtime allies.

“Aye, I believe so.”

They greeted the guards and watched as the two riders once again surfaced into view. Bradon Moor Castle was built on the only flat stretch of land for quite a distance. And though guards were stationed strategically to keep watch on the entire plot of land, the dips and valleys of the hilly terrain just outside the walls could hide small parties like this one.

Thankfully, this time the riders were friends instead of foes.

“Come through,” he yelled down, their colors indeed marking both men as belonging to Clan Kerr.

“Nay,” one of the men shouted up to them. “We’d best be on our way. Just coming through with a warning for you. McKinnon is on the move, so we cannot stay.”

“In winter?” Rory asked, already knowing the men would have no answer. “Why?”

“Ties to France most like. The chief says, ‘Be prepared.’”

Unlike Rory, who was nothing but a placeholder for his brother Terric, Clan Kerr’s chief was highly respected among the border clans. But Terric would not be back until spring, which meant Rory would be responsible for dealing with this threat. One that had been plaguing them for as long as Rory could remember, McKinnon’s constant quest to increase their land and holdings as relentless as the methods they used to do so.

“Stamus Semper!” He shouted the Kennaugh clan motto loudly enough for an echo to carry the words beyond the gates.

With a nod, the riders departed as quickly as they’d come.

“Double the watch,” Rory said to the guards. “And spread word of Kerr’s warning.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Confident his orders would be carried out, Rory nodded for Darron to follow him back down toward the keep.

“Ties to France,” he muttered, thinking.

Terric was part of an order of knights that had successfully forced the English king to sign the Treaty of Lambeth, after which Prince Louis of France had sent a contingent of knights to help protect London. The knights had remained in the city throughout the winter, which the king saw as an act of rebellion. But others, thankful for Louis’s support, saw it as insurance against unstable times.

Either way, there had been definite repercussions—even this far north, leaders who had ties to France, tenuous or tight, felt emboldened. Including the bastard McKinnons, apparently.

“Send men to Dalrigg Manor,” he told Darron. Although his friend had no official title, Darron had become Rory’s closest advisor in Terric’s absence. “Tell them to bring my mother here.”

“She will not come. Not today, anyway.”

Rory cursed. He’d nearly forgotten. His parents had been married on the Feast of St. Valentine many, many years ago. She’d moved out of the main keep years ago, assailed by memories of the man she’d loved and lost. The torment would be even worse for her if she returned on the feast day.

“Send them,” he said, “and bid them stay with her until she agrees to come.”

Though the small manor was not so far away as to cause concern, Rory would feel better to have his mother safely in the keep if McKinnon threatened an attack against his neighbors.

“And you will warn the horses?” Darron teased as Rory stepped away, making for the stables.

“Aye,” he shot back, “they need to be prepared as well.”

He did not go a day without visiting them, and if this morn were any indication, he might not have another opportunity. One quick stop before he spoke to the other men. Besides, the stables were as good a place as any to avoid the cloying St. Valentine customs sure to plague him all day.

Keep reading The Chief on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited.