Colin let her go. “No one will come. Remember? Gorten is ensuring that none come near.”
Makenna stopped and stared at him. “Lord, I had forgotten. Do you suppose he thinks we are still fighting?”
Colin laughed and stood up, helping her adjust the bliaut. “I highly doubt it.” Colin knew Gorten genuinely liked Makenna and would have interceded on her behalf by now if he believed Colin still to be angry with her. It was both good and bad to have someone as loyal and devoted as her guard.
“There,” Colin said, wiping off the last blades of grass from her sleeve. “No one will ever know how you seduced your husband after defeating one of his men in combat.”
Makenna’s jaw dropped. “I seduced you?” she squeaked.
“Aye, and you can do it again tonight if you wish,” he replied, his voice both arrogant and lighthearted.
“Nay, husband. Tonight it is you who shall be doing the seducing.”
Colin grabbed the reins to his black mount and walked with Makenna to where hers remained tethered to a tree and eating grass. She smoothed the chestnut-colored mane. Adjusting her sword, she sheathed her Secret into the specially made scabbard. She then spoke kindly into the mare’s ear and mounted.
“Would you like to join me and ride to the training fields?” Even as the words left his mouth, Colin couldn’t believe what he was asking. But even as he mentally explored the request, he knew that he would not take it back. “Just this once.”
Excitement bubbled inside Makenna. The training fields. The place Colin prepared his men. She would finally get to see the size of his army and watch them display their skill with a sword. “Aye, Colin, I would like it very much.”
“Come on, then. Let us tell Gorten that he no longer needs to fear for his life before we find Dunlop. Today, he is working with new recruits who think they already know all there is about sword fighting.”
Makenna smiled and joined Colin in the brisk ride to find Gorten and then to the grounds where men learned to be Scottish warriors.
As they approached the wide expanse of land a few miles north of the Lochlen, Makenna could hear shouts and the clinking of metal swordplay. Dunlop rode out to greet them. “Ho, Laird! My lady! It is good to see you riding once again.”
Colin caught the implication. “Have you not been riding, Makenna?”
“Nay, not once while you were gone,” Dunlop interjected, knowing Makenna would somehow evade answering the question.
Makenna shot the commander a scathing look. “I thought it best not to since we did not know exactly what had happened to the farmers or by whom,” she quickly explained and focused on the men practicing.
Colin stared at his wife as she intently avoided his gaze. Her answer was too full of logic, and much too safe to be true. No, there were other reasons that kept Makenna from partaking in one of her favorite pastimes.
Before Colin could ask, a shouting match exploded between several men, and he moved to intercede. Makenna persuaded her mount to move beside Dunlop’s. She studied the fields, estimating over one hundred head practiced here. “Dunlop, how is it possible to train so many men at one time?”
“Colin has grouped them by skill and by weapon. Those you see in the distance practice the longbow. Over there, down the hill and to your right, those men are focused on the mace.”
Makenna watched in fascination. Most were training on the battle-axe, the mace, and the claymore, but some were training on the small ballock knife. The men were quite good. They lacked originality, but they were quick and deadly accurate.
“I’m surprised Colin has so many men training with knives.”
“’Tis a common mistake some leaders make to train only with swords. One does not fight just in war, and most men cannot afford swords. But everyone carries a knife. Why, even you carry a small version in your hilt, do you not?” Makenna nodded. “A man does as well. And it can be deadly if a soldier does not know how to fight, deflect, and disarm an attacker with a smaller weapon. Additionally, a man who is knowledgeable with a knife can defend, wound, and kill—important skills to have in battle.”
Makenna pointed to where Colin was standing. “And what group are they?” Colin was surrounded by boys of varying ages, some very young, approximately thirteen or fourteen, but a few looked nearer to twenty summers.
Dunlop grimaced. “Beginners. They heard about our laird’s leadership and his ability to train younger men and recently joined. They are inexperienced and young, but eager to learn. At least most of them are.”
“Most of them?” Makenna inquired.
“Aye, most, but not all. There are some who feel learning the basics of fighting is beneath them,” he answered, pointing to the obviously much older boys in the group.
They were training with single ash sticks, just as Camus had started his instruction with her. Makenna moved forward and was surprised to hear Colin declare that a truly skilled soldier could discern when to defend himself and avoid killing and when it was absolutely necessary.
One of the bigger boys leaning disrespectfully against the tree threw down his stick. “And I keep telling you that I am ready. I have no need to practice with sticks. I want to fight with real weapons and train with the men.”
Again, Makenna was surprised. She expected her husband to lose his temper at the boy’s insolence, but Colin remained calm, even patient, as the young man droned about how he had never been so underappreciated in his father’s army.
Dunlop leaned over and whispered, “Most lads are eager to listen and learn, but the dozen or so that have been sent to us from Crawford deem they are already great fighters. They want to be moved over to the more advanced groups and begin working with the claidheamh mor.”
Makenna gasped. The little she had seen was evidence enough they were not ready. “But they would be slaughtered.”
“Aye, but at least they’d stop complaining,” Dunlop returned, grinning.
Makenna couldn’t help herself and smiled back, swallowing laughter. She watched as the group recommenced their training. They were too eager, consistently forecasting their intentions. Much practice would be needed before they would be ready for the claidheamh mor, the great sword, her weapon of choice.
A few years ago, Camus had specially made her a two-handed broadsword close to the size of a normal claymore, yet much lighter. She doubted if there was another man in all of lower Scotland who could equal Camus’s knowledge on the properties of metals, how they reacted to heat and which combinations made them stronger. His skill and knowledge had created her Secret, a claymore she could wield much faster than her opponent expected.
Colin felt himself getting frustrated. Dunlop had not exaggerated when he told him about the new Crawford recruits, especially Jaimie’s sons. They truly judged their skills to be the same or even superior to those of his men. Each time they lost, they claimed it was because they had competed against Laird McTiernay’s finest.
An impulsive idea took hold. Hooking his sword in his belt, Colin crossed his arms and ordered the protesters to gather around him close enough for Makenna to hear.
“Do you see that woman over there?” Colin asked, pointing at Makenna but not looking in her direction. “She is my wife, Lady McTiernay. What you may not know is that she enjoys sparring with the claidheamh mor.” He could see the disbelief in their eyes and continued. “Aye, she carries her sword upon her even now.” He paused as some of them craned their heads to look.
“You believe you are good enough right now to spar with the more experienced men and that I treat you differently because you are sworn to Laird Crawford, not to me. I say you are not ready because you lack basic skills. But I am willing to give you the opportunity to prove me wrong. Select one of your men, and I suggest that you pick your quickest and most skilled. If Lady McTiernay is willing to spar, and you win, then I shall move your entire group forward. If not, never again shall a complaint spew from your mouths.”