The thoughts clawed at him, and he plucked the bottom string too firmly, causing a discordant note to echo in the Hall. Several men laughed, devil-spawned Red the loudest.
Mortified, Alastair gritted his teeth then met Callum’s gaze.
“Begin.”
Before he performed, Callum inhaled and exhaled slowly, allowing himself one glance at Isla. Alastair was correct, she did look unhappy. Not sad, though. More like she wished to find a dark chamber and stab a cushion sixty-five times. There might be a reasonable explanation, but at this moment his stomach roiled with dread.
No. He needed to take control. Like archery, playing music was something he could do well. He and Alastair had often entertained his mother as she sat embroidering in the solar or working in her herbal chamber. ‘A merry tune’ she would say. ‘To lift my spirits and give praise unto God.’
That was the answer. Something to show Isla they cared, something to make her smile.
Callum met Alastair’s gaze. “A merry tune,” he whispered, before settling the flute near his lips.
His squire nodded. Shortly afterward, Alastair began tapping his shoe heel on the floor, a sharp and constant sound to keep them in time.
It was much easier to move about with a flute. As Callum’s fingers danced up and down the wooden instrument, a kind of mist descended, blocking the other men and the Great Hall. He could see the king and queen, but played only for Isla. With a flourish of deep, low notes, he stomped forward as though in a temper. Then with a deliberately large side step he unleashed a flurry of high notes, complete with a twirl and heel kick behind him, the other side of the argument. Back and forth he went, low to high, temper to playful, and soon several ladies including the queen herself were giggling and clapping in time with Alastair’s heel taps. Greatly encouraged, Callum made his movements even more expressive, and soon the sound of laughter from other guests and envoys was too loud to ignore.
He returned to Alastair and they began a musical duel, several notes from his flute challenging several notes from the lute. His squire remained in place, heel still tapping, but Callum circled him using several of the foot movements that Isla had helped perfect. Front. Back. Diagonal. False step.
“What a sight to behold,” called the king delightedly. “Musical swordplay!”
Only then did Callum permit himself another glance at Isla. This time she met his gaze, the tiniest smile at her lips as she clapped a few times, before turning away again. Now certain that something was amiss, Callum moved forward so he played directly in front of the dais. God’s blood, it was a contrast, the genial approval of the king and queen, and the frigid, false smiles of the Sutherlands. How had a warm, bold, unconventional lass like Isla survived in such treacherous waters?
He completed one final high note flourish on the flute, Alastair did the same on the lute, before both sank to one knee.
The king stood, applauding wildly. “Marvelous! What a spectacle! Glennoe and Master Graham have laid down a mighty challenge to the other entrants, have they not, my queen?”
Margaret nodded, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright rather than her usual petulance. “Very enjoyable. It…reminded me of Richmond Palace.”
Callum bowed. “Thank you both.”
“And what say you, Lady Isla?” asked James cheerfully.
Her smile was thin at best. “Good, Your Grace.”
“Indeed,” he replied, looking a little surprised, before turning back to Callum and Alastair. “Sit, with my compliments. You have earned your wine this day.”
A servant took their instruments and then directed them to an empty, cushion-covered bench, and they sat down gratefully. Another servant brought goblets of wine and pastries, and they gulped down the light repast as Lord Spalding and his squire each fetched a lyre.
Callum’s spirits flagged a little when they played well together, although they rose again when Lord Hamilton of Arran and his squire performed poorly with the same instrument. Alas, then came Red, lugging a harp into the center of the Hall. While the squire played, Red sang an old Scottish ballad, and nearly everyone in the room had tears in their eyes as they stood to applaud at the finish.
“Sewer rat,” he muttered.
Alastair’s lip curled. “Your cousin did not play an instrument at all. Should be tossed out on his arse.”
“That would be too much good fortune. But here is Lord Ruthven of Perth. He and his squire both have lutes.”
What proceeded was rather like the performance of small children; great enthusiasm rather than talent, and from the expressions of those around them, the applause at the end was relief rather than appreciation.
The king rose to his feet. “Thank you for your efforts, my lord. Let us all pause for wine and entertainment, then the dancing shall begin. Lady Isla, I hope you are well rested, for you must dance with six men this day, in the same order as their musical performance.”
She curtsied. “As Your Grace wishes.”
The wine soon flowed in the Great Hall, a long procession of servants filling and refilling goblets until jests became more ribald and laughter even louder. Fortunately, more trays of food that could be eaten from a linen napkin rather than a plate or trencher came from the kitchens as well; soft white bread with butter, hearty pasties made with beef and venison, sliced wheels of cheese, and cherry tarts. Soon afterward, Peter the Moor, the king’s African drummer who often traveled the country with him, performed to thunderous applause.
After Peter bowed to the royal couple and departed the Hall, the minstrels in the gallery began to play once more, and the entrants and guests returned to their seats.
“Sir Leslie Hay,” said the king. “Dance.”
Callum gritted his teeth as the knight whirled Isla about the floor with confidence and skill. It seemed certain he would be one of the final four and when their music came to an end, the young man returned to his seat with a grin that near split his face.
Alastair leaned close. “Dance well, my laird. And find out what ails our lady.”
“I will.”
The king beckoned him forward. “Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe.”
When Callum joined Isla, she sank into a curtsy. “Glennoe.”
“Lady,” he replied, taking her hand and squeezing it.
A tiny shake of her head told him he’d erred, and his brow furrowed as the minstrels began a rousing and familiar Highland tune.
“I was discovered,” muttered Isla through a falsely bright smile as they held hands and stepped four paces right, then left. “My father and mother are watching for my lover…”
They broke apart, turning a full circle, before joining hands again.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked.
“Not really. Furious, though. My sire wants blood.”
With opposite hands clasped over their heads, they stepped toward each other then back, once then twice. “He knows it is us?”
“Not yet. Be careful.”
Callum’s heart swelled. “You care a great deal.”
“Aye,” she said, glaring at him as they broke apart and turned again.
“When we are wed,” he murmured as they skipped eight paces right, then eight paces left. “You’ll be free to choose. Clothing. Hair. Swords. A husband and a lover in your bed. This I swear.”