The Chief: Order of the Broken Blade Read online

  The Chief

  Order of the Broken Blade

  Cecelia Mecca

  Altiora Press

  About the Author

  Cecelia Mecca is the author of medieval romance, including the Border Series, and sometimes wishes she could be transported back in time to the days of knights and castles. Although the former English teacher’s actual home is in Northeast Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two children, her online home can be found at CeceliaMecca.com. She would love to hear from you.

  Also by Cecelia Mecca

  Order of the Broken Blade

  The Blacksmith

  The Mercenary

  The Scot

  The Earl

  * * *

  Border Series

  The Ward’s Bride: Prequel Novella

  The Thief’s Countess: Book 1

  The Lord’s Captive: Book 2

  The Chief’s Maiden: Book 3

  The Scot’s Secret: Book 4

  The Earl’s Entanglement: Book 5

  The Warrior’s Queen: Book 6

  The Protector’s Promise: Book 7

  The Rogue’s Redemption: Book 8

  The Guardian’s Favor: Book 9

  The Knight’s Reward: Book 10

  Border Series Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

  Border Series Book Set 2 (Books 4-6)

  * * *

  Enchanted Falls (Time Travel)

  * * *

  Falling for the Knight

  * * *

  Bloodwite (Contemporary PNR)

  The Vampire's Temptation

  The Immortal's Salvation

  The Hunter's Affection

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Bradon Moor Castle, Scotland, 1215

  “You toss an axe like you bed a woman. Weakly and without aim.”

  Rory laughed at his own jest, although his friend did not appear to appreciate the observation. Whether Darron’s foul mood was owed to his poor aim or the fact that snow and ice surrounded them, making this day’s training even more frigid than usual, Rory couldn’t be sure.

  “I’d like to see you do better,” Darron grumbled.

  He would do so easily. At least if the shouts at his back would cease. Turning toward the rowdy clansmen behind him, Rory smiled. Waiting for them to settle, he finally turned back and took aim at the poorly abused tree.

  Concentrating on the sooty new mark they’d made earlier, Rory raised his hand. A moment later, his axe soared through the air, landing precisely where he planned for it to be buried. The cheers that broke out behind them deepened Darron’s frown. Nearly as competitive as Rory, although not quite, his friend stalked toward the tree to reclaim his weapon.

  “Again,” Darron said for what must have been the twentieth time that morning.

  If Rory’s bollocks were not nearly frozen, he’d accommodate him for the sheer pleasure of seeing his aim prove truer than Darron’s. Again. But it was too cold.

  “Nay,” he said, turning to the others. “A break for the midday meal,” he shouted. And before the men departed the training yard, he added, “and a rest for the remainder of the day. To celebrate.”

  Darron looked at him as if to say, Pleasing the men will not make you the new chief.

  To which Rory would respond he did not care to be chief. That honor, and the trappings of responsibility that came with it, could remain firmly in his older brother’s hands. Just like the earldom attached to Dromsley Castle in England. Rory was quite content to be his brother’s second. And although their current situation was unusual—a chief’s second usually stayed with him—it suited both of them. Or so he kept telling himself.

  “You don’t wish to celebrate?” Rory asked as he wrested his own axe from the frozen trunk of the tree. Darron, who’d waited for him, led the way uphill toward the keep.

  “St. Valentine. Bah.”

  Of course, he’d expected no less. Darron was not the sentimental sort. When they were children, he’d lost his home to a fire that could not be doused. Standing in front of it, watching it burn with his parents and his sister, all of whom had, thankfully, made it out safely, he’d said, “Tomorrow, we build another.”

  But Rory tended to agree with him—holding a feast to celebrate lovers was unnecessary.

  “Rory, look.”

  He glanced over Darron’s shoulder and caught sight of two riders moments before they disappeared from view. By silent agreement they changed direction and walked toward the gatehouse instead, the normally bustling courtyard mostly empty. Even the animals knew better than to venture onto the frozen, snow-covered ground.

  “They wore Kerr colors, did they not?” Darron climbed the gatehouse stairwell with him, although he’d fallen behind him, letting Rory lead the way. The Kerrs were their longtime allies.

  “Aye, I believe so.”

  They greeted the guards and watched as the two riders once again surfaced into view. Bradon Moor Castle was built on the only flat stretch of land for quite a distance. And though guards were stationed strategically to keep watch on the entire plot of land, the dips and valleys of the hilly terrain just outside the walls could hide small parties like this one.

  Thankfully, this time the riders were friends instead of foes.

  “Come through,” he yelled down, their colors indeed marking both men as belonging to Clan Kerr.

  “Nay,” one of the men shouted up to them. “We’d best be on our way. Just coming through with a warning for you. McKinnon is on the move, so we cannot stay.”

  “In winter?” Rory asked, already knowing the men would have no answer. “Why?”

  “Ties to France most like. The chief says, ‘Be prepared.’”

  Unlike Rory, who was nothing but a placeholder for his brother Terric, Clan Kerr’s chief was highly respected among the border clans. But Terric would not be back until spring, which meant Rory would be responsible for dealing with this threat. One that had been plaguing them for as long as Rory could remember, McKinnon’s constant quest to increase their land and holdings as relentless as the methods they used to do so.

  “Stamus Semper!” He shouted the Kennaugh clan motto loudly enough for an echo to carry the words beyond the gates.

  With a nod, the riders departed as quickly as they’d come.

  “Double the watch,” Rory said to the guards. “And spread word of Kerr’s warning.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Confident his orders would be carried out, Rory nodded for Darron to follow him back down toward the keep.

  “Ties to France,” he muttered, thinking.

  Terric was part of an order of knights that had successfully forced the English king to sign the Treaty of Lambeth, after which Prince Louis of France had sent a contingent of knights to help protect London. The knights had remained in the city throughout the winter, which the king saw as an act of rebellion. But others, thankful for Louis’s support, saw it as insurance against unstable times.

  Either way, there had been definite repercussions—even this far north, leaders who had ties to France, tenuous or tight, felt emboldened. Including the bastard McKinnons, apparently.

  “Send men to Dalrigg Manor,” he told Darron. Although his friend had no official
title, Darron had become Rory’s closest advisor in Terric’s absence. “Tell them to bring my mother here.”

  “She will not come. Not today, anyway.”

  Rory cursed. He’d nearly forgotten. His parents had been married on the Feast of St. Valentine many, many years ago. She’d moved out of the main keep years ago, assailed by memories of the man she’d loved and lost. The torment would be even worse for her if she returned on the feast day.

  “Send them,” he said, “and bid them stay with her until she agrees to come.”

  Though the small manor was not so far away as to cause concern, Rory would feel better to have his mother safely in the keep if McKinnon threatened an attack against his neighbors.

  “And you will warn the horses?” Darron teased as Rory stepped away, making for the stables.

  “Aye,” he shot back, “they need to be prepared as well.”

  He did not go a day without visiting them, and if this morn were any indication, he might not have another opportunity. One quick stop before he spoke to the other men. Besides, the stables were as good a place as any to avoid the cloying St. Valentine customs sure to plague him all day.

  Chapter 2

  “The kitchens again? You are no scullery maid, girl.”

  Cristane smiled at Mistress Amye, grateful her old mentor still cared enough for her reputation to attempt to get rid of her. But she didn’t mind spending time in the kitchens. In fact, when she was feeling poorly, they reminded her of happier times. When her mother was still alive.

  “The feast,” she said by way of explanation, carrying an enormous iron pot from its position on the floor and placing it in front of Amye.

  “Feast of St. Valentine,” Amye grumbled. “And who did you see first this morn?”

  Cristane blushed. She had not yet seen any men, for she’d come straight to the kitchens. She’d known her assistance would be needed. She had been Lady Cait’s maid, but Cait had gone off to England and married an earl. In her letters to Rory, she promised to send for Cristane, although she had not done so yet. The weather wouldn’t permit it. Although the chief now had a wife, he would not be back in Scotland for many moons either, and so Cristane was a lady’s maid without a lady.

  “Some days I wished I’d not seen old Edgar first,” Amye said, “pain in my arse the man can be.”

  Cristane reached for a carrot. Although she knew Cook adored her husband, she chuckled along with the others at her grumbling.

  “Now get you gone. The kitchen is no place for a lady’s maid.”

  Cristane fought back a twinge of annoyance. Even though she knew Amye was only acting out of concern for her, she’d been lonely without Cait, something that had only gotten worse as the days had gotten shorter and colder. She still missed her mother too, though that pain should have lessened years ago.

  She belonged nowhere, truly.

  “Did you truly see Master Edgar first on St. Valentine’s feast day?” she asked, hoping she could distract the cook.

  Legend had it that unwed women would marry the first unattached male they saw on Saint Valentine’s feast day. Cristane didn’t believe in such things, but she was hoping her question would distract the cook. Besides which, she did enjoy the tale of how they’d met.

  “I did, lass.” For a moment, Cristane hoped her ruse had worked, but she looked up to find the wily cook scowling. “’Tis for your own good,” she whispered, shooing her away with her hand.

  Shoulders slumped, she resigned herself to another day of wandering the castle, looking for anyone who needed aid. Cristane took off her apron, hung it on a hook by the door, and left, ignoring resentful glares from at least two of the maids.

  Lady Cait had warned her people might react that way to her promotion. And such looks had never bothered her prior to Cait’s departure.

  She understood it, the resentment toward her.

  Cristane herself often marveled at her luck. Few husbandmen’s daughters had the opportunity to serve the chief’s family. Lady Cait had insisted it was not luck—that she’d earned her position with her sweet disposition and her relentless desire to help, but Cristane wasn’t so sure. Maybe once she had thought good people received good things, and that the opposite was also true, but no longer . . .

  Grabbing her mantle from the hook, she bid adieu to Amye and left the kitchens, stepping out into the courtyard. Tossing the fur-lined cloak around her shoulders, she stood there in the cold for a moment, unsure of where to go. No one was about.

  She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that Cait would send for her soon, as she’d promised. When she opened them, her gaze landed on the stables, and she quickly moved toward them. Lady Cait’s favorite mare had birthed a foal who’d shown signs of illness. She’d started feeding more vigorously, thank the heavens, but she knew Cait would appreciate it if she checked on her.

  The door creaked open, its hinges protesting the cold. It felt empty. Normally at least two stableboys would be present at this time of day, but they were all likely preparing for the feast, one of just a few where all of the men and women at Bradon Moor sat together. All of the servants had been moved inside where they would be needed.

  Except for her, of course.

  Cristane froze when she heard a noise coming from the foal’s stable. A low murmur, though it was a man’s voice, not a boy’s.

  His voice.

  Of course it would be. Master Rory spent more time in the stables than the marshal did. He shared her fondness for the horses. But she could not speak to him. Not today.

  Cristane turned to leave but stopped when he called out to her.

  “Who is it?”

  What should I do?

  The rustling of hay announced that he’d been sitting. She could not escape unnoticed now, so Cristane heaved out a nervous sigh and walked toward the stall.

  “Oh, Cristane, ’tis you.”

  Five years had passed since he’d begun using her given name. Cristane remembered the very day he’d asked for her permission, not long after she’d been appointed Lady Cait’s maid. She’d been a young lass of eighteen, and the request had made her heart beat as fast as one of the rabbits’ they’d played with as children.

  Both she and Rory, spending more time in the stables than most, had an affinity for animals. Rabbits, chickens, and of course the foals when they were lucky enough to have new ones . . . they’d spent many hours together caring for every animal they could find.

  During one such meeting, though occurring less and less over the years, Rory had appeared so thoughtful Cristane had become nervous. Finally, when he had asked permission to use her given name, she’d been relieved, and happy of course, as that honor was typically reserved for family members.

  “Come, look.”

  She should be accustomed to him. To his penetrating stare. To the boyish charm he exuded despite his size. To the confidence that came from being a chief’s son. Given another lifetime of serving Bradon Moor, however, she knew she’d likely never become accustomed to it. Or to the way her heart plummeted every time he looked at her. He could never be anything more to her than what he was—her better, aye, but also her friend.

  “Is she improving?” Cristane guessed.

  Turning the corner, she saw her guess had been correct. The brown and white Spanish jennet lay still, but she seemed to be breathing much easier. Putting her hand on the foal’s flank, she watched Rory as he waited for her assessment.

  “Aye, she is,” she finally said with a soft smile.

  He grinned back at her.

  Cristane hated when he did that. Unfortunately, he did it often. Even more so when he was trying to impress his brother. Or convince him that he had not a care in the world. Which of course she knew was untrue.

  Looking away, hating herself more with each passing moment, Cristane concentrated on the foal.

  “Have you named her yet?” she asked.

  “Nay. With Cait coming soon, I thought to let her have the honor.”

 
; Her head whipped up. “Have you word from her, then?”

  Rory crossed his arms, leaning back against the wooden stall. “Are you so anxious to leave Bradon Moor?”

  If only he knew.

  “Just to see my lady. I love it here, of course. You’ve given me everything I could ask for. I would never wish to leave,” she rambled.

  Realizing he was teasing her, something else he did easily and often, Cristane made a face no servant should use around their master. “You are a cruel one, my lord.”

  “And you are too easily riled.”

  She knew it well, but there was no denying the effect he had on her.

  Pushing against the wall, Rory bent down, resting his hand much too close to her own. His very presence rattled her, as it had more and more these past years. He smelled as he always did, a combination of fresh air, hay, and . . . Rory.

  “I’m pleased with her progress from yesterday,” he said.

  And Cristane agreed. “The danger has passed, I believe.”

  She stood, Amye’s words suddenly coming back to her.

  Rory.

  He was the first man she’d seen today, on this Feast of St. Valentine.

  “What is it?”

  His look of concern was for the foal, not for her, as if she’d noticed something he’d missed. Even so, the steadiness of his gaze, the seriousness he so rarely displayed to others . . . it moved her in ways she could barely admit to herself. She knew the folly of her attraction. Aye, it would be beyond foolish to put any stock in the old stories, even if, in this case, she wished to.