“Laird,” she said patiently, “I’ve already removed your head in battle.”
Alastair cleared his throat. “He’s not going to be facing those pretty nipples in battle.”
“More’s the pity. I will admit to binding my breasts in the past. And wearing a longer, much coarser tunic. Now, show me your footwork.”
“Or you could show me how it’s done?” Callum asked hopefully.
“Very well. Stand back. There are several critical steps in sword fighting. Advance, retreat, sidestep, diagonal step and false step. First, I shall show you a proper advance…”
He watched in awe as Isla moved the sword from her shoulder to a fighting stance, the grip level with her cheekbone, then demonstrated steps going back, forth, and side to side.
“Do you stop to brace for an attack?” asked Alastair curiously.
Isla shook her head. “If I am moving, my opponent never knows what I am about to do. There is also less chance of them landing a deadly blow. But this does not mean you should dance about, tiring yourself. Every step must have purpose. Now. Both of you, fight with imaginary swords. Show me your feet. How would you sidestep to avoid an attack? How would you lure your opponent into a mistake with a false step?”
As a tutor, Isla was nothing like his father. Apart from her staggering expertise, she offered praise and encouragement as they repeated the same movements over and over until Callum was sure he’d be stepping in his sleep. It was humbling to know she taught him the easiest of skills, some she’d probably mastered as a child, for he could certainly see Isla convincing someone to teach her. Even more humbling that he would never reach her mastery of the sword, not in a thousand years.
But these lessons gave him the chance to improve himself, win the tourney and Isla’s hand, and save his clan.
A chance for he, Isla and Alastair to be together for always?
Callum quickly suppressed the thought.
That would be hoping for far too much.
Chapter 5
The second day of the tourney dawned cool and cloudy after overnight rain, and did not grow warmer as noon approached.
Callum glanced at the men who stood to the left and right of him. Eighteen including his cousin remained for the archery, and while Red laughed and jested with the other entrants, most looked uneasy now that the king had announced the day’s rules. Rather than everyone attempting to hit the center of one large target like a tree trunk, or a covered mound of earth known as a butt, they would be roving. James had arranged three targets of varying size and distance away, and each entrant would have three attempts to hit it with an arrow. If they succeeded, they progressed to the next target. If they missed…their tourney ended and they had to leave the field.
Oddly enough, archery was the event that concerned him least. With his average height and lean build, the short bow had always been his weapon of choice; fast, deadly, and best of all, it allowed distance between him and whatever he was trying to shoot. He had little chance with fists, mace, or battle axe, but bow and arrow…he could be quietly confident. Even the most judgmental members of his clan admitted that he had talent with this weapon, although they would never give it equal rank to skill with a longsword.
A warm, familiar hand settled on Callum’s shoulders, and it took all his will not to lean back against Alastair, or even turn and rest his cheek against his squire’s chest to hear the comforting thump of his heartbeat. After their lusty play with Isla, then his first sword lesson, he’d slept like a cat on a sun-drenched window seat last night. Probably why he felt so calm. Unlike many here, he was well rested and refreshed.
“Are you ready, laird?” murmured Alastair. “And by ready, I mean primed to crush all comers like they are fresh herbs and you a mortar and pestle?”
Callum’s lips twitched. “Don’t tempt the devil to spite me. With the dampness in the air, our arrows could fly in any direction.”
“You have three for each target, so can correct if necessary. Your band of adoring followers—noble and commoner—expect great things.”
At last, a laugh escaped him. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”
Soon afterward a trumpet blast echoed around the field, and Sir Lachlan called the entrants to prepare for the start of the archery. Their first target was a straw man, wearing an old linen shirt with a large red circle painted on it, set at a distance of eighty yards.
One by one, each man drew back and released his arrow. All eventually succeeded in hitting the target, although a few were outside the circle, and some men needed a second attempt. Then Callum stepped up, took a single arrow from his quiver, and set it to his bow. Keeping his gaze unwaveringly on the red circle, he drew the string taut with three fingers, one above the arrow and two below. Then, with a deep breath to slow his racing heart, he let it fly. The arrow traveled toward the straw man so fast it was almost a blur, before embedding itself near the center of the circle.
The crowd applauded, and he allowed himself a small smile. A good start.
Their second target was much closer at sixty yards away but half the size; a fat cushion painted to look like a shield and held taut between two wooden poles with rope.
Again, Sir Lachlan arranged them in a line. “You have three attempts. If you succeed, you move to…the final target. If not, you must…retire from the tourney.”
One by one each man released his arrow, although more needed a second attempt this time. A knight in front of Callum missed with his first and second…then his third. The crowd gasped as he let out a loud string of Gaelic curses and was unwillingly escorted from the field by two burly guards.
When the noise eventually waned, Callum stepped forward. Once more he set himself carefully, his gaze on the center of the cushion, before releasing his arrow. It flew straight and true, and pierced the middle of the false ‘shield’. Only then did he allow himself a swift glance at Alastair, who grinned and nodded. When he looked at the pavilion, Isla raised her goblet in a discreet salute and even the king applauded.
But now came the third target, one that would take their full measure as archers. Although it sat at a distance of just forty yards, it was the size and shape of a goose, atop a wooden pole lodged in the ground. The other entrants grumbled among themselves as they formed a line, and even Callum gulped. Each time he blinked, the target seemed to grow smaller and move farther away. But he wasn’t alone in these thoughts, for in the first fifteen archers, several required two arrows to succeed, and five more were forced to leave the field after all of their arrows missed the goose entirely.
“Next…the MacDonald of Carnoch!”
To the sound of loud cheers, Red unleashed his first arrow.
And missed.
Elation surged through Callum, but he forced himself to remain still and quiet. When his turn came, he could easily do the same. Besides, his cousin had not missed the target by much, perhaps a few inches at most.
Red’s second arrow hit the outside of the goose, but rather than lodging in the taut stuffed fabric, it fell to the ground.
“Fail!” called Sir Lachlan.
Clearly shocked at the judgment, Red jerked around to glare at the king’s champion. “How can you say that? My arrow was true.”
“Nay. The rule is…an arrow must pierce and remain. You have one last chance, MacDonald. If you miss…you retire.”