“If you had lopped off my head,” Dishington called, following him, “we would not have shared these three months working alongside each other to shape these men into warriors for Lord Robert. Think of all the mirthful sport you would have missed.”
Sport? Mirthful? “Cac,” Joshua cursed under his breath as he traipsed outside into the autumn chill that seemed worse than at his home in Caithness even though it was not too much farther south.
Ignoring Dishington, Joshua strode straight for Lord Robert and his son who were in the middle of the interior courtyard by the central well. Patrick was his second eldest son and wore a sword and a frown. Like his brothers, Patrick had become the perfect copy of his sire, with an even worse temperament, especially with regard to the local Orkney inhabitants.
“I will be off, Lord Robert,” Joshua said, bowing his head to his employer without even a twitch of respect toward his son.
“You are a damn mercenary, Joshua Sinclair,” Lord Robert said with a half frown. “And yet gold does not sway you to remain at my palace.”
Joshua looked toward his saddled bay, Fuil, who stood waiting beside Angus Gunn, a friend Joshua had made at the palace. Angus held a handful of oats under his horse’s nose, and Fuil lipped it up.
“I am the Horseman of War,” Joshua said, his breath puffing white in the snowflakes whipping down from the heavy clouds. “Winter will freeze your enemies, bringing peace until spring, which is too dull for me.”
The truth was that Joshua did not wish to fight Robert’s battles anymore. In fact, Joshua did not want to fight any battles anymore, a secret he shared only with God. When he realized that Robert Stuart’s clashes with the people of Orkney would never end, the realization had made Joshua itch to move on. That and the oncoming winter.
“Damn snow. Bloody damn wind,” he murmured, glancing up at the snowflakes swirling down to pock his bare arms. His feet were like ice in his boots. Yet he walked forward with only a sash from the end of his kilt over his bare chest so Robert’s people could see and remember the tattoos around his muscular arms and across his back. The dark swirls on his arm in the shape of a horse, along with the massive sword strapped across his back, reminded them that Joshua was War incarnate, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, sent from God, to rage and win against his foes. At least that was what his father had told him every day of his life. Maintaining an outward appearance that promised death, to intimidate Sinclair enemies, was an act that Joshua had honed until it became who he truly was.
He nodded to a small group of the earl’s warriors whom he’d been training, some of them good men. They nodded back, a few raising an arm in response. He stopped before his handsome, muscular warhorse. Fuil’s bay coat shined red, which was why Joshua had named him the Gaelic word for blood. His black tail swooshed with a need to be off on whatever adventure was next.
“Angus,” he said, his brow rising. “Watch your woman well.” He let his gaze slide to Mathias Campbell, the unscarred lad who’d been attracting all the lasses living in the village north of the castle where the soldiers resided when off duty. He was a rogue with honor, which made him a very poor scoundrel.
“What is that?” Angus asked, frowning at Mathias. “What about my woman?”
“Bloody hell, Joshua,” Mathias yelled, his smile broad. “Even leaving ye cause trouble.”
Joshua laughed. “To keep ye all alert!”
Angus grumbled a curse but grinned. “Stay alive, Horseman of War.”
Joshua nodded to him. “I always do.” Several of the men he’d been training laughed.
It was a shame the Scotsmen hired by Robert to live and work for him could not easily leave Orkney. But Joshua was a free man, and he’d had enough of Robert’s elitist ways. Nay, it was time to head home to Caithness and Girnigoe Castle on the mainland of Scotland, in time for the Samhain festival.
Liam, another warrior, gave him a wry grin through his thick beard where he stood by the gate of the half-finished outer wall, another of Joshua’s recommended improvements. “I am surprised that Jean unleashed you from her bed,” he said, keeping his voice low. Jean Stuart, Robert’s second eldest daughter, was voluptuous and territorial, not to mention spoiled. The lass was as prickly as her brothers but had enjoyed sparring with Joshua. And tumbling in her luxurious bed.
“Ah, sweet Jean,” Joshua said, sliding his hand down Fuil’s neck. “She has likely already lured in another for sport.” Throwing a boot up, he mounted easily from the ground and turned Fuil in a tight circle toward the open gate where two other young warriors worked at moving bags of grain. Joshua drew a pebble, which he’d picked up before mounting, from the fold in his kilt. With a flick of his wrist, he shot one at Hamish Kincaid, hitting him in the back of his head. Hamish whipped around to glare at his friend, Randall, who worked next to him.
“Why’d ye do that?” Hamish asked, rubbing his head.
“What?” Randall asked. “Lift a bag of oats?”
“Hit me in the head,” Hamish yelled, making Joshua grin. Aye, he would miss tricking these men.
Randall caught Joshua’s smile and hit Hamish’s arm, gesturing to him. “Are ye making mischief even as ye leave?” Hamish asked, hands on his hips.
Joshua smiled, showing his teeth. “Never assume ye know who the true enemy is, Hamish.”
The man shook his
