Page 47 of The Best of Brenna Grant

Loki took three steps closer until he could look the warriors in the eye. That was what he wanted—to be so bold and brave and to have a whole clan around him. What would it take to be a Grant warrior? He wished to be on one of those giant destriers, riding a majestic beast for all to see, his arms the size of tree trunks. One warrior smiled at him and tossed him something. He caught it, surprised to see it was an oatcake. He was so hungry that he nearly swallowed it whole before he recalled his manners, choked the food down, and called out, “My thanks to ye.”

There were more horses than he’d ever seen. Once they were gone, he moved closer to the three men chatting.

“How far did they come?” He had to know, because that was his new goal in life, to make his way to Grant land to become a warrior.

A savage Highlander.

“Half a day’s fast ride, at least. Probable nearly a day, lad. You cannot walk there. You’d never make it through the mountains.”

“Are the mountains big?”

“They’re a sight to see, for certe. I hope you get to see it someday.”

Loki nodded and moved on, knowing the merchant would only laugh if Loki told him how determined he was to get there. He made his way over toward the stall where he’d seen the tarp, disappointed to see it was gone.

A few moments later, he heard something stirring behind him and whirled around to face the same canvas being tossed over his head. Someone shoved him, tripping him into the material, and they wrapped him in the smelly wet fabric and tossed him into the air a few times, then tossed him into a tree trunk. Loki’s neck snapped back, slamming his head into the solid wood.

Stunned, he didn’t move after he landed, but his laughing tormenters unwrapped him, whipping the canvas away.

“You should pay attention, Loki.”

“Bugger off, ye surly arsewipes.”

“Arsewipe, am I?” The tallest one reached over and swung his arm out, catching the side of Loki’s head and snapping it sideways. “I’d keep your words inside or I’ll beat them back into you, wise arse.”

The second one guffawed. “Aye, fool. We saw ye drooling after those warriors like you thought you might have a prayer of joining them. Do you think the Grants would ever accept you?”

“They’d never let you step inside their curtain wall, you’re so dirty.”

“You stink, you’re dirty, and you’re naught but a useless bag of bones.”

“And you’re ugly too.”

The three boys, a few years older than him and much bigger, strode away laughing.

Someday he’d show them. Loki swore it on his mother’s unknown name.

The Parapets, many years later.

Castle Curanta, winter, 1319

Loki Grant sat on a stool on the parapets. While the biting wind made his eyes water, the glistening there was from more than the wind. His face fell into his hands and he set his elbows on his knees and allowed the tears to fall freely.

The door opened and one of his cherished grandsons, Ketill, stuck his head around the corner. “Grandda, Da is looking for you.”

Loki lifted his head and let out a long breath between his pursed lips. “Tell your da I’ll be down in a bit.”

“’Tis cold up here, Grandda.”

“It is, but I’m fine.” He turned to gaze at the young lad of seven years, about the age he’d been when Brodie Grant had found him hiding behind a tree in Ayr.

“Grandda, are you crying? Why?” Ketill moved over and set his hands on his grandsire’s knee and leaned in closer to take a good look at the tears dampening his cheeks.

“’Tis from the wind, Ketill.”

Ketill studied him a wee bit longer, then said, “Nay, I think they’re true tears. Is it because of Great-Grandda Brodie?”

Loki wasn’t about to lie to the lad. He knew the truth of all that had happened. The messenger had arrived two nights ago to tell them that his father, Brodie Grant, had passed away in his sleep at Muir Castle, leaving his dear mother, Celestina, heartbroken.