Page 21 of The Knight’s Reward

Neill broke the silence at his own table. “Say nothing.”

It would serve no purpose for them to bring attention to the fact that they were headed to that very council.

“Piss on your king for keeping Caxton in power.”

Though Neill’s back was to the men, Aylmer’s expression confirmed his suspicion. The insult was directed toward them.

“Say nothing,” he said again, looking from one man to the next, his hand held up.

“You’ve been warned before, MacDuff,” Berit said.

Neill moved his hand slowly down. And waited.

“Are you not ashamed to call the man your king?”

Privately, Neill had no love for King Edward, who had taken two years to return home from the Holy Lands after his father’s death, leaving his country to regents, but neither could he and his men continue to ignore the treasonous words much longer.

And they all knew it. They were prepared, as he was, for the worst. But it had not yet come to that, and with any luck, it would not. Neill shook his head again, ever so slightly.

“You’ve had too much ale,” Berit said. “Stop inciting trouble or leave.”

Bo, even bulkier than his brother, caught Neill’s eye as he walked past him to join his brother.

Neill sighed. This was one of the reasons they avoided inns. Unlike The Wild Boar, most inns along the border were not known for being peaceful. He should not have stopped here. But the thought of Kathryn going without a proper bed or meal for four, maybe five nights . . .

The sound of benches scraping the wood floor, rushes so thin they hardly did their duty, meant there’d be no peace this night. Hand gripping his sword, Neill moved just slightly toward the edge of his own bench.

“I’ll take that pitcher now,” the man called MacDuff growled.

“No.”

Neill couldn’t tell which of the brothers had denied him, but when the sound of scraping metal reached his ears, he did not hesitate.

This was his homeland, his king, and Bo and Berit needed assistance.

So he gave it.

Neill stood, twisting away from his men, and pulled out his dagger, opting to leave his sword sheathed. The smaller weapon allowed him to escape notice until he stood directly behind the instigator. Arm wrapped around the man’s neck, the tip of his dagger pressed to his man’s throat, he issued his only warning.

“Do as you’ve been instructed and leave. Or you will lose men this night.”

Both sides stood facing each other now, Bo and Berit in the middle looking at Neill with a combination of hesitation and gratitude. He couldn’t see the eyes of the man he held at knifepoint, so he watched his men instead for an indication of how this might proceed. He could see they were preparing to fight.

“The man with a knife to your throat is the younger brother of Geoffrey and Bryce Waryn,” Bo said. “Think carefully on his words.”

Not the approach he would have chosen. His success at the tournaments had led to an unfortunate side effect—many men wished to challenge the “great” Neill Waryn. And though he was not as well-known here in the north, the skills he’d learned defending himself had traveled with him.

Neill’s victim lifted his head ever so slightly. Neill tightened his grip on the man’s arm—watching, waiting. The air crackled with the promise of a brawl. All other activity around them had ceased.

“Waryn,” the drunk Scot growled. “You’re the reason for the council.”

“Aye.”

“We are headed there as well.”

He loosened his grip ever so slightly. Only border wardens, clan chiefs, and selected elders would attend, along with a few English border lords. If this man was on his way to the council, Neill had no fight with him.

“Ferguson MacDuff, Chief of Clan Kern, ally to deSowlis—”