Page 129 of Laird of Steel
“I’m King Malcolm’s vassal. As are you.”
“He broke bread with the enemy,” Ferteth sneered.
Gellir narrowed his eyes to slits. “Arm yourself,” he growled.
“Bloody hell,” Ferteth grumbled. “Donald, fetch me my sword and armor.”
While Donald bowed into the pavilion to do Ferteth’s bidding, another lad bolted away, probably off to spread the news of the challenge.
Before Ferteth could finish donning his chain mail, another earl burst from between the pavilions, carrying a bare blade in his hairy hand.
“Is it true, sirrah?” the new arrival demanded of Gellir. “Are you challenging us?”
“Aye,” Gellir declared, eyeing the soldiers who had begun to gather. They hadn’t unsheathed. Yet. Perhaps it would be a fair fight after all.
“James!” the second earl called over his shoulder. “Here!”
James, the third earl, arrived. He had a shock of red hair, blue fire in his eyes, and an iron grip on his sword.
“I know you!” he spat. “You’re Deirdre’s son! Good God, man! Does Rivenloch know what you’re up to?”
Good, Gellir thought. At least they knew who he was. The king would know which clan was loyal. Which clan had come to his rescue.
The fourth earl was only half-dressed. He was young, fit, and fine-looking. And by the terrified expression on the sweet face of the disheveled lass trailing after him, he had good reason to be only half-dressed. He nonetheless carried a weapon.
While the fourth earl was catching his breath, a fifth stomped into the clearing. He was as big as an ox, with hair as black as peat. Drawing his sword, he let out a wordless bellow.
As if summoned by that bellow, a sixth earl scurried to join the others. He stood a full foot shorter than his companions, and his blade quivered in his pudgy hand. But he prepared for combat, pulling his visor down over his round face. Gellir wondered if the visor was to hide his flinches of fear.
Gellir blew out an uneasy breath as he scanned the warriors surrounding him now with their blades drawn. Even if he somehow managed to best the six earls, armies of their loyal clansmen stood behind them with their hands on their hilts, ready to finish him off.
“Look!” Merraid hissed from inside Adam’s ill-fitting helm, stopping in her tracks halfway across the green. “’Tis the earls, aye?”
Adam, having exchanged his armor for Merraid’s robes, pushed back the hood to take a closer look at the men gathering between the pavilions. “Aye.”
She chuckled once. “They’ve already gathered. That’s convenient.”
“Not really. They’ve drawn their swords.”
“Drawn their swords?” She raised her brows, and the helm slipped down over her eyes. She pushed it back up to peer at Adam through the slit. “Why?”
“I’m guessing they mean to…stab somebody?”
Merraid gasped. “’Tisn’t the king in their midst, is it?”
“Hard to tell. Let’s get closer.”
Merraid’s heart thumped in her breast. She bore no great love for King Malcolm. But if the earls killed him, she’d never get the chance to restore Gellir’s honor.
Emboldened by her new disguise, she strode across the sward with manly confidence. Adam scrambled after her in his cowl, clutching the rolled parchment in his hand.
They’d just reached the back of the crowd when she glimpsed, in the midst of the earls, a dark head of hair she’d recognize anywhere.
For one terrifying instant, long enough to mouth the word, “Gellir,” she froze.
Then the dull gleam of a steel blade rose above his head, and her body sprang to life.
Tearing away from Adam, shouldering soldiers aside, she drew her sword as she charged. Before the earl’s blade could descend upon Gellir, she rushed in to knock it away with her weapon.
