Page 5 of My Highland Bride

“Our” fight, the never-ending border war with Meria.

“We’ve had more than one visitor over the past weeks, each asking for Father’s support.” I look up at my brother, who doesn’t look surprised.

“He cannot avoid taking a stand forever.”

I laugh. “Have you met our father?”

Warin steps over a puddle of mud, my skirts already worse for the wear, courtesy of yesterday’s rains.

“I have. But even he may not be able to avoid the capital’s troubles this time.”

We shall find out soon enough. The very man in question emerges from Lord Beine’s tent. Seeing Warin, he raises his hand to wave just as his companion looks to the west. Suddenly, it seems everyone is doing so. I crane my neck but can see nothing for a time.

Then I realize what everyone stares at as the queen’s bright blue and silver banners come into view.

3

Erik

“Why do you not simply ask for an audience?” Gille asks, stretching out his legs as we sit in front of the tents.

After a day of wandering through the makeshift market and watching knights showcase their skill, as only one hundred men will be chosen for the melee, I am as impatient as Gille to speak to Lord Moray. I also know the man much better than my companion does.

Lord Gille Elliot, a Highlander whose family exerts considerable influence and whom I’ve come to rely on since being appointed second commander. Some might think him soft on account of his fondness for the finer things in life, but it was a mistake to assume so. A skilled tracker and fighter, he is one of Cettina’s most valuable men.

As for Moray, I need to listen and learn first. The man must be approached with a fair measure of caution, or this journey will prove fruitless, and I am determined to find success here.

It is the least I can do after causing many of Cettina’s current troubles.

“My lord?” We look toward the flap of the smallest of our three tents. Bradyn emerges with my mail in hand. “I’ve forgotten to bring sand for polishing.”

Gille gives me a look, but I ignore it. If the boy is to learn, he won’t do so back at Breywood without me.

“There’s a barrel there”—I point toward the edge of camp—“for just that purpose.”

Gille stretches out his legs, the canvas chair he sits on a luxury he insisted on bringing since we brought a wagon for the tents. For a man who wields a poleaxe like no other, he enjoys his comforts. Most of the men around us sit on the ground or, if they’re lucky, a flat rock.

He’s privileged, aye, but not soft. Gille Elliott is most unique.

“Aye, lord,” Bradyn says, gamely shuffling off to the barrel.

The boy leaves us, and I cut off my companion before he can utter a word.

“His parents were killed. He has no one.”

Gille scratches the back of his neck as he does whenever he has no good response.

“He will learn,” I continue.

We both watch as the boy sidles up to other pages and squires crowding around the barrel of sand.

“Get in there,” I mutter, as if he can hear me. “You bear the queen’s crest.”

“He won’t do it,” Gille says. “The boy is much too shy.”

A temperament that will not serve him, or me, if he is to become a knight and serve the queen.

“Get in there,” I urge him again.