Chapter 1
Anbarth Castle, Northumberland, 1300
Why did it feel as if his entire body had been beaten and bruised?
Galien picked up his sword, again, and waited for his father to make a move. Instead,
Toren Kerr, chief of their clan and the only man alive more stubborn than he, got back into
position. But he did not move.
“What are you about?” he asked his father. “Why do you not fight me?”
Even to his ten year old ears, the question sounded child-like. But he was no child any
longer. He told his father as much that morn when he insisted on training with a real sword. Not
a wooden one. Not a blunted weapon. But the kind of sword his father and the other men used.
The one he’d been given at birth that sat in his chamber, unused. Until today.
“I wait for you to strike,” his father said, his voice thick with an accent so familiar to him
Galien hadn’t thought it unusual until the day before when a man from London paid them a visit.
He told his parents the man sounded different, even from his English cousins across the border.
Of course, he had not said it to the man directly. That would have been rude.
Something his mother would never, ever tolerate.
When he did strike, his father blocked him easily. Galien’s movements were slow, on
account of the sword. How many times had he picked it up, swung it, waiting for this day. No
longer in his bedchamber but in the middle of their training yard, the sword felt heavier in his
hands than usual.
“I did what you told me,” he complained, unsure why he could not move as quickly as
normal.
“Your balance is off,” his father said. “As is your confidence. Loose either, you will
struggle. Loose both, your sword,” he said, thrusting forward and easily disengaging the weapon
from his hands with one swipe, “and you could lose your life along with it.”
Suddenly, the most mortifying of things happened. A tightening in his chest was followed
by what felt as if it might be a tear forming. But Galien would not cry. Not in a training yard.
And not in front of his father.
He swallowed and leaned down to pick up the sword again. As it had all morn, the cool
hilt felt comfortable around his hand, but as he lifted it, it was as if Galien had never wielded a
sword before. But he had. His whole life. What was wrong with him today?
He was about to rise when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. As he’d done so many
times before, his father knelt on one knee, patting his leg prompting Galien to sit. Dropping his
weapon to the ground, Galien sat on the human chair, his hand resting on his father’s shoulder
instinctively.
“This,” he pointed Galien’s temple, “is the problem, son.”
“I was ready,” he told him. “I am ready.”
“Physically, aye. As are they,” he nodded toward the training yard. “Every one of them is
strong.”
“I am a warrior,” Galien said, “I am, da.”
“You are,” his father agreed. “But a true warrior is focused,” he pointed to his temple
again, and Galien knew that meant he needed to think of nothing else but his opponent. And he’d
failed in that. “Disciplined,” his father continued. In that, Galien did not waiver. He spent more
time in the yard than any other boy his age. “But not for himself.”
He drew his brows together. This was a new lesson for him. “I do not understand?”
Just as his father began to speak, Galien’s little sister ran up to them. She tossed her arms
around their father’s neck. Unlike other girls her age who donned dresses, Oriana wore leggings
and a long tunic with sword in hand.
“Little one,” their father reached his free hand around Galien’s sister. “I was telling your
brother that in order to be a true warrior—”
“Like me, da. Girls can be warriors too.”
This was a common refrain from his sister. “Let him speak Ori.” In response, she stuck
out her tongue at him.
“Indeed, they can. Man or woman, the true heart of a warrior is to be skilled, and strong,
and disciplined for others. If you do it for your own ambitions alone, you will lose every time.”
Galien bowed his head. Somehow, his father knew. His pride, wanting to show everyone
he could wield the sword, had been Galien’s cause.
“Who do you fight for?” his sister asked.
But Galien already knew the answer. For them. For their family. For their clan. For some
reason, though, his father didn’t answer. Or maybe he did but Galien couldn’t hear him. Neither
could he feel his father’s leg under him. Instead, his arse was cold and wet. Something was not
right. And then pain. It radiated through every part of his body. His shoulders and back. Galien’s
head. But he’d never been struck.
It made no sense.
“Eat, or don’t eat. It matters naught to me.”
That did not sound like his father at all. Forcing his eyes open, Galien knew the reason
immediately as it all flooded back to him. He was not a boy of ten but a man of nine and twenty.
Neither was he safe on his father’s knee but in a prison cell.
An English prison cell.
Groaning, Galien watched as the guard tossed a bowl of porridge into his cell. It
splattered onto his leg, the guard’s sneer turning into a smile. Bastard. The guard’s laughter
followed as the light of his candle grew dimmer and dimmer. Galien looked down at the splatter
meal, not hungry at all. Not after the beating he’d endured that morning when he and the others
had been captured. His companions were nowhere to be seen, and Galien knew three things for
certain.
Wallace had gotten away. A fact he could celebrate even if he’d done so before they
could warn him about the rumored attack. One that he could no longer help prevent.
Second, he knew that the guards would never learn his identity. To do so would put his
family at risk for being so closely associated with the most wanted rebel in Scotland.
And third— he didn’t know when or how badly he would be beaten and tortured as King
Edward had often threatened of the most wanted man in England and any of his supporters— but
Galien was certain his days for this world were few. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
