He walked leisurely to the barracks to collect his belongings and grabbed his bow, and the arrows he’d carefully carved. Each arrow was identical and smooth as a bairn’s cheek. He’d taken pride in his talent and enjoyed crafting them. He carried the armful of weapons and bows, and other belongings, and went to put them in the large satchel secured to his saddle. Dropping them to the ground, he opened the satchel to make room for the items.

Oran, his warhorse, snickered, and seemed pleased to see him. The horse tossed his head and lifted his hooves in excitement. “Easy, lad, here you are.” James took a parsnip from his satchel and held it out for his steed.

“I deem that horse is in love with you,” Colm said, and laughed boisterously.

James disregarded his friend’s jest. He set about packing the items he wanted to take along. Carefully, he picked up the items from the ground next to his warhorse and began shoving inside: several daggers of varying sizes, a mace whose points needed sharpening, two axes, and the copious amount of arrows. Then he shoved in a few extra tartans and two tunics. Just about all of which he possessed.

Colm stood beside his warhorse and when his horse went to nip at him, he hastened back. “I vow your horse hates everyone but you.”

“Aye, I deem that’s the only reason Kenneth returned him.” James grunted for his friend needed a horse when his perished from sickness, and he’d taken his steed. It didn’t take long for his warhorse’s return for he was an ornery beast and not many could handle him. James continued to shove his items inside his satchel, and gave his horse another parsnip in reward for his good behavior.

“Damn me, James, you’re bringing enough weapons to be a one-man army.”

“I like to be prepared.”

Colm laughed. “Aye? Let me have some of your arrows. You make the best. I vow mine are shit. None of mine ever fly straight and I have to compensate my aim.”

James grinned, for that was true. Colm was the worse when it came to carving the wood. His arrows always ended up misshaped or uneven and flew off kilter. He handed Colm a handful.

“Be careful with those. They’re dipped in Monkshood and are deadly if the poison gets on your skin.”

Colm bellowed a curse and handed them back. “Cosh, never mind, James, my arrows will do.”

“Why you couldn’t hit the backside of a barn or a horse’s arse with yours,” James jested.

Colm raised his brows. “Nay, I cannot, but I can use this,” he said, unsheathing his sword and cut it through the air.

“Don’t be boastful. Arrows are more effective when your enemy is too afar,” James said pointedly, “where your sword can’t reach.”

“Aye? That’s when your feet come in.”

James shook his head at Colm’s conjecture. He’d have to watch his friend’s arse on this journey.

Chapter Four

“Pull it back tight.”

Emlyn gave her friend a look of affront. “What do you deem I’m doing?” She scoffed at her failure, knowing she would never get the hang of archery.

They’d had a row and it had taken weeks for Emlyn to make amends. Thankfully, Branwyn never stayed angry with her for very long and had forgiven her. And she didn’t take her friend’s hurtful words to heart for she’d been upset and meant none of them.

“You’re not pulling the arrow tight enough. That’s why they never travel afar.” Branwyn set an arrow and shot it through the air. It landed in the quintain, but not on the target.

Now angered by Branwyn’s words and ability, she gripped the bow and pulled the arrow back as far as it would go. Emlyn released and the arrow flew a measly ten feet before it fell to the ground. She growled in frustration. “This is harder than it looks. I vow I won’t ever be able to do it.”

Branwyn set her hands on her hips and shook her head. “I don’t know how you can be effective with your sword and daggers, and cannot manage to shoot an arrow. Even I can do it and I’m not as skilled at weaponry as you are.”

“It is a skill I never mastered. I will eventually.” Emlyn scooped up the misspent arrows, and laughed when her friend sneered. Although many of the women in their clan were given instruction on arms should they be set upon when many of the soldiers were off at war, Emlyn was given the privilege to train with her father’s men. Still, she couldn’t effectuate the bow and arrow properly.

“We shall see.” Branwyn leaned against the wooden wall behind her, and had waited a good two hours for her to finish her practice. “I’m bored. Let us return to the hall.”

“I’d rather not.” Emlyn didn’t care for being in her mother’s presence, or her father’s for that matter. Both openly scolded her—each with their own convictions of how she should conduct herself. She tired of their bickering over her, as well as each of their viewpoints on what she should do with her time. “Go then and I shall come soon.”

“I shouldn’t leave you here alone.”

She gave her friend a stern frown. “Think not that I can protect myself?”

“You’re right; don’t know why I said such nonsense. I should go home for I’m sure my mother will be wrath. I’ve been gone all afternoon thanks to you. If she scolds me, I’ll make ye eat black-bird pie.” Branwyn laughed, waved, and set off.

She watched her friend trek off, and smiled. Emlyn picked up the arrows and fixed the quintain, and readied for another round. As she continued to test her skill, she thought about her father, the overlord of all the lands as far as one could see. He doted on her and she took advantage of his spoiling. Really, it was her skill at weaponry that he doted on and not she herself.

If it wasn’t for her mother’s interceding, Emlyn never would have been betrothed to Bevan. She sighed, thinking of Bevan and how he’d died. He was honorable and verily, a woman couldn’t ask for more in a man.

Although she no longer needed to worry over her marriage, Emlyn wished her mother would cease all the betrothal talk. Fortunately, her father knew her feelings on the matter and put her mother off. Her mother was sure to raise the issue again which was why she’d tried to stay out of her mother’s sight.

Emlyn released an arrow and it traveled far enough to reach the quintain, but missed the mark.

Bevan.

If only he had lived. The tale of how he’d died in battle was surely exaggerated, and yet she was prideful in knowing he met his death with honor. She’d come to accept him for he allowed her pursuits of warfare and even encouraged her. He didn’t mind her manly garb or unwomanly ways.

For once, she was accepted and didn’t have to pretend to be what her mother wished of her—a princess, gowned, and primped to beauty and perfection. Marriage to Bevan would have suited for he was brother to her best friend. She’d known him her entire life and even though he was a hardened warrior, he’d always been gentle with her. Although, Emlyn was more attracted to men who were assertive.

She reached to the ground and noticed the dirt beneath her nails. Would that her mother screech at her if she saw them. After spending a few more minutes testing her skill, she collected her arrows and readied to return to the keep.

Someone was bound to come to find her for supper was about to be served. She’d be late if she didn’t hurry. If her mother had her way, Emlyn would be working in the kitchens and household akin to her sisters, learning the tasks she’d need to know when she married. She never minded cleaning, but cooking she’d failed at miserably. Even if she didn’t have to perform the tasks firsthand, she had to learn their application. Her mother insisted that each of them be familiar with the running of a household.

Emlyn stepped into the castle where many went about their tasks and she went unnoticed. She hastened to wash her hands in the bowl by the entrance and made certain no dirt remained under her nails. As soon as she finished, she went to the table and sat at her assigned seat, betwixt her brother, David, and her sister, Suzanna. Her father looked irked about something, so she refrained from speaking a greeting as she’d normally do.