Callum turned, his gaze troubled. “What if Red—”
Alastair’s hand shot out and grasped his laird’s chin. “Do not speak of him or think of him,” he murmured. “He is one of twelve. Think of Isla and me. As I thought of you all night, sleeping in my bed alone when I should have been lying next to you. Are you still a little sore, my laird, after taking my cock deep inside you? Do you remember how it felt to have Isla kiss you so sweetly, to hold her in your arms?”
“I remember,” said Callum hoarsely. “Every moment. It was so good.”
“Then heave that stone with all the strength and courage I know you possess, and such lusty play may happen again.”
“Very well,” said Callum, lifting his hand to rub a thumb against Alastair’s skin, his gray eyes solemn and yet glittering with heat, too. “Master Graham.”
A trumpet blast shattered the intimate moment, and Alastair scowled before letting his laird’s chin go, and rubbing his shoulders one last time.
When he and Callum walked to the roped area where the others waited for the stone put to begin, they passed many empty spaces where tents had once stood. Servants from the royal household removed them after an entrant retired from the tourney, and it was a stark reminder at how fleeting success could be. A feted champion one day, defeated the next. Although Callum had performed marvelously well so far, he was glad that this was the last event on the open field. His laird much preferred to be indoors; thankfully both the revels and sword fighting would be held in the Great Hall.
Sir Lachlan beckoned them closer and held up a length of rope with small knots at equal distances apart. “Each throw will be measured. I will decide…the best four…in each group. Any dispute will be decided…by the king. Those waiting their turn…must stand well back. First six. Take up your stone!”
Alastair and Callum moved away, for Callum had been drawn in the second group alongside Red. Once again, the king had added a difficulty to this contest; not only did they have to hurl the stone a great distance, it had to remain in the narrow rectangular area allocated to each entrant, or would be judged a failure. Their sovereign may have forbidden jousting, but he was certainly making each man work hard to progress. Really, Alastair welcomed such rules. Any event where mind mattered just as much as strength assisted Callum.
One by one, the men picked up their stone for the first throw. Each took a few running steps before heaving it forward, and the many ways used actually gave him hope. Some threw from their chest, others attempted a two-handed put from above their head, but only two of the six balanced the stone in their right hand, tucked it against their neck, and used their whole body rather than just the strength of their arms.
Alastair leaned down so he might speak directly into Callum’s ear. “I do not think many of these men have thrown a stone put before. Look how little distance they got in their first throw.”
“Apart from that young knight, Sir Leslie Hay,” muttered Callum. “And Lord Spalding. He fools many with his silver hair and amiable smile, but I have negotiated with him and he is cunning.”
“Let us see what happens in the second throw. If the others learn from their mistake.”
They did not.
Every attempt was thrown the same way as the first. One lord’s put rolled out of his area, and was declared a failed attempt. As his first throw had been poor, Sir Lachlan declared his tourney over. Five men remained, only four would be permitted one more chance.
The air was heavy with tension as Sir Lachlan and his men at arms measured the remaining puts. While Sir Leslie and Lord Spalding were the clear winners of the group, the remaining three appeared almost in a row. Plague take it, if he felt this way now, when he cared about none of these men, how would he be when it was Callum’s time?
Eventually, Sir Lachlan beckoned the five remaining men to stand in a row next to him. “We have a decision. The four men…who shall progress…are Lord Spalding. Sir Leslie Hay. Lord Ruthven of Perth…and the Ranald of Clan Ranald.”
The cheers and applause were deafening; it seemed at the first hint of sunshine all of Stirling and the surrounding towns and villages had gathered to watch the event. But Alastair felt for the knight denied a further throw by mere inches, now forced to leave the tourney. The walk from the field, with only his squire for company and a few thousand eyes upon him, probably seemed the longest and loneliest of his life.
After the stones were moved back to the throw line, the ropes pulled tight, and grass and dirt pressed back down to a reasonably flat surface, another trumpet blast sounded and Sir Lachlan gathered the second group.
Callum held out his hand. “Would you bind my wrist?”
“Gladly,” said Alastair, before swiftly wrapping a length of linen around Callum’s right wrist to support and strengthen it for his throws. “You know the prize that awaits you. Go forth and heave that damned stone.”
His laird attempted a smile, but there was no disguising the paleness of his cheeks, or the rigid set to his shoulders. “I’ve just seen two men forced to leave the tourney; one for a failed throw, and one because his put was an inch too short. But I shall do my best.”
“That’s all I ask. All we desire.”
Callum tested his wrist binding, then took a deep breath. “Pray for me.”
“Nay. Cruachan,” Alastair replied forcefully, the MacIntyre battle cry, for this event would be a stern test of Callum’s character. Especially with his devil-spawned cousin at his shoulder, willing him to fail.
A glance at the royal pavilion informed him that Isla, the king and queen, Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, and the Sutherlands all now stood ready to watch. An eerie hush settled over the crowd.
The time of reckoning had arrived.
Callum had been placed fourth in the row of six, which unfortunately gave him prime viewing of all the other men. Including his cousin, who had been placed third.
“Greetings,” said Red, his lips smiling but his eyes cold, as he easily shifted his stone between hands. “How do you fare this day? I must admit, I did not expect the sun to shine on Stirling like this. I do appreciate you keeping your shirt on, however. No one wishes to see skin as white as snow or a lad’s limbs on a grown man.”
“Red,” he replied stiffly, as he glanced down his roped area. God’s blood it seemed narrow. How had the men in the previous group kept their stones within it?
“Oh, you don’t wish to talk? How unfriendly, when we are family. Here I was prepared to share some advice, even.”
He glared at his cousin. “I need no advice from you.”
“Because Alastair Graham has offered instruction? Callum. You’ll never rise to greatness if you surround yourself with lowborn scum. Look what happened to the old king. Bedded men as well as women, took advice from tailors and masons…and was murdered in a barn. Some say a fitting end for such ungodly weakness, I say God will judge those so wretched that not even their own family want them.”
Callum’s fists clenched so hard he could have crushed the river stone to powder. First vile words about Isla, now sly insults and threats directed at him and Alastair. But a surrender to rage was no path to victory. Sir Lachlan would probably not intervene a second time; to succeed in this event he had to shut Red out of his mind.