“I am not certain I see what harm this woman might do to our cause,” Circenn hedged, cautiously gauging their reaction to his words. Silently, he was gauging his own reaction as well. Usually his rules comforted him, gave him a sense of purpose and direction, but every ounce of his conscience rebelled at the thought of killing the woman abovestairs. He began to tally the possible repercussions of allowing her to live, besides destroying his honor.
Galan laced his fingers together and studied his calluses while speaking. “I scarce think that matters. You swore an oath to Adam Black that you would eliminate the bearer of the flask. While I can see that a woman might evoke sympathy, you have no knowledge of who she really is. She was dressed strangely. Could she be of Druid descent?”
“I think not. I sensed no magic in her.”
“Is she English? I was surprised to hear her speak that tongue. We have been speaking English since the Templars arrived, but why does she?”
“Speaking English is not a crime,” Circenn said dryly. It was true that since the Templars had arrived they’d been conversing more often in English than in any other tongue. The majority of Circenn’s men did not speak French, and most of the Templars did not speak Gaelic, but nearly all of them had learned some English, due to England’s far-reaching borders. Circenn found it frustrating that he was unable to use Gaelic—a language he felt was beautiful beyond compare—but he accepted that times were changing and that when men from many different countries came together, English was the most commonly known tongue. It galled him to speak the language of his enemy. “Most of our Templars do not speak Gaelic. That doesn’t make them spies.”
“She does not speak Gaelic at all?” Galan pressed.
Circenn sighed. “Nay,” he said, “she did not understand our tongue, but that alone is insufficient to condemn her. Perhaps she was raised in England. You know many of our clans tread both sides of the border. Besides, it was unlike any English I have ever heard.”
“More reason to be suspicious, more reason to dispose of her promptly,” Galan said.
“As with any other potential threat, one must first study and assess the extent of the threat,” Circenn equivocated.
“Your oath, Circenn, supersedes all else. Your mind must be on holding Dunnottar and opening the Bruce’s path to a secure throne and a liberated Scotland, not on some woman who should be dead even as we speak,” Galan reminded him.
“Have I ever failed to live up to my duties in any way?” Circenn held Galan’s gaze.
“Nay,” Galan admitted. “Not yet,” he added.
“Nay,” Duncan said easily.
“Then why do you question me now? Have I not far more experience with people, wars, and choices than any of you?”
Galan nodded wryly. “But if you break your vow, how will you explain it to Adam?”
Circenn stiffened. The words break your vow lingered uncomfortably in his mind and wove a promise of failure, defeat, and potential for corruption. It was critical that he adhere to his rules. “Let me handle Adam, as I always have,” he said coolly.
Galan shook his head. “The men will not like this, should they catch wind of it. You know the Templars are a fierce lot and are particularly wary of women—”
“Because they can’t have any,” Duncan interrupted. “They seek any reason to mistrust women in their effort to keep lustful thoughts at bay. A vow of celibacy is not natural for men; it makes them cold, irritable bastards. I, on the other hand, am always relaxed, even-tempered, and amiable.” He flashed a pleasant smile at them both, as if to prove the validity of his theory.
Despite his problems, Circenn’s mouth quirked. Duncan had a tendency to behave outrageously, and the more irreverent he was, the more irritated Galan became. Galan never seemed to realize that his younger brother did it on purpose, and the entire time Duncan was acting like an irresponsible youth, his astute Douglas mind wasn’t missing a thing going on around him.
“Lack of discipline does not a warrior make, little brother,” Galan said stiffly. “You are one extreme and the Templars are the other.”
“Wenching does not diminish my battle prowess one whit and you know it,” Duncan said, sitting up straighter in his chair, his eyes sparkling in anticipation of the argument to come.
“Enough,” Circenn interrupted. “We were discussing my oath and the fact that I am forsworn to kill an innocent woman.”
“You doona know she is innocent,” Galan protested.
“I doona know she is not,” Circenn said. “Until I have some indication of guilt or innocence, I—” He broke off and sighed heavily. He found it nearly impossible to say the next words.