Isla deliberately stumbled against him. “I cannot visit this night. Win my hand. I beg you.”
The minstrels ended with a great flourish, and more reluctant than he’d ever been in his life, Callum let go of Isla and bowed. She curtsied with a cool smile, before returning to the dais.
“Your Grace,” laughed Isla. “Do forgive my clumsy misstep. Glennoe deserved better than a crushed foot. May I have a moment before the next dance?”
“Of course, of course. Glennoe, sit and rest that injured foot. I know as a gallant like myself, you shall not limp too noticeably.”
Callum stilled at the gleam in their sovereign’s eye. He knew Isla’s story was a lie?
God’s blood. There were far too many intrigues at court for his liking.
Heart pounding, he returned to Alastair and sat down. “Isla was discovered. That is why her father and mother watch us all like bloodthirsty hawks. They know she has a lover, but not who.”
His squire cursed. “Is she well? Did they hurt her?”
“She couldn’t say much, but is eager for this tourney to be over. I just hope you are correct when you say the king favors me, for he well knows Isla did not step on my foot.”
They sat in tense silence as the remaining four entrants danced with Isla, each demonstrating varied grace. Once the king had conferred with the queen, he clapped his hands for quiet.
“We have seen great talent in music and dance this day. But I have made my decision. The four men to progress to the final event on the morrow, the sword fighting, shall be…”
As one, all in the Great Hall leaned forward to hear.
“The MacDonald of Carnoch against Sir Leslie Hay. And Lord Spalding against Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe.”
Torn between elation at progressing and dismay at his opponent, Callum rubbed his jaw. The wily older lord had fought on many battlefields, and as he’d proven in the previous events, age had not dimmed his vigor at all.
He would be a formidable opponent indeed.
Chapter 10
Yesterday the Great Hall had been a genial stage of laughter and merriment. Today had a different air altogether: pain and humiliation.
“If the longswords weren’t blunted, Red would have killed him by now.”
Alastair nodded grimly at Callum’s whispered words as they watched the battle raging in front of them. “Aye. I wonder how long the king will permit this to last. It is clear to all that one is superior.”
Although Sir Leslie Hay was a rival, the suffering he endured at Red’s hands made Alastair wince. The longsword tip might be blunted, but the blade remained sharp, and Sir Leslie’s clothing had been torn, his arms and chest a mass of shallow cuts. If someone other than Sir Lachlan was overseeing the fight, or someone other than the king had provided the swords to ensure no trickery, he hated to think of the bloodshed that might have occurred.
The other mercy was Red and Callum being kept apart in the first round. He suspected it had been deliberate on the king’s part, and was grateful beyond measure. His laird needed a fair fight to gain further confidence after Isla’s lessons.
Isla.
As always, she sat on the dais with her father and mother alongside the royal couple. Today she wore a gown of stark white velvet embroidered with silver and lined with mink, a silver girdle at her waist, and a pearl-studded gable hood with a white satin veil covering her hair. Not a gown Isla would have chosen; never had she appeared so cold, highborn, or untouchable. This was the Sutherlands declaring their ancient bloodline and that their youngest daughter would be a virgin bride.
It irritated him no end that they’d not had the chance to speak with Isla, even in a group. He wanted to know she was well, truly well, for it was hard to imagine her family forgiving a transgression without brutal consequences. While Callum would fight for her, he needed to reassure her that they both cared, that they would both cherish and stand with her wholeheartedly from this day forward.
At last, Sir Lachlan stepped forward to halt the swordfight. However Red, like the weasel he was, managed to land one final blow that left his opponent sprawled on the floor, bleeding from a fresh cut to his side.
The king stood and rang a large hand bell. “Sir Leslie has fought admirably and brings honor to his name and clan. But I must declare the battle over and the MacDonald of Carnoch the victor.”
Applause swept through the hall. With no thought for Sir Leslie, Red left him lying on the floor being attended by his squire, and instead walked to the dais. He bowed to the royal couple, then dropped to one knee in front of the Sutherlands.
“My lord. My lady. I have proven myself many times this week, and seek a blessing to wed your daughter when I win the second swordfight.”
Lord Sutherland laughed. “When. I admire such confidence and wish you well, MacDonald. It will take a strong husband to curb Isla’s willfulness.”
“Yes,” said Lady Sutherland, her lips pursing. “She needs to learn proper wifely ways.”
Red and the countess exchanged a significant look, and Alastair’s fists clenched. Neither of them even glanced at Isla. She might have been a wooden box for all they cared.
The king rang his bell again. “I now call Lord Spalding and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe to fight.”
Alastair turned to Callum and massaged his shoulders one final time. For the swordfight he would wear shirt and hose, but the hose had been trimmed at the ankle to leave his feet bare, so he did not slip on the floor.
“Lord Spalding is an experienced swordsman,” he murmured, “but his right shoulder is troubling him. He clutched at it after the stone put. Now is the time to be ruthless. I expect it of you. Isla expects it of you. Red cannot be permitted to win this tourney.”
“I know,” said Callum simply.
“Good fortune, my laird.”
They stared at each other so long he almost forgot himself and kissed Callum. But the last thing this day needed was a hue and cry from the Sutherlands about MacIntyre sin and immorality.
Callum smiled and squeezed his hand. Then he turned and walked to the center of the Great Hall. A servant handed him his blunted longsword, and he tested the weight and grip, slashing left and right before carefully resting the blade on his shoulder as Isla did.
Alastair stifled a grin. His laird almost looked…calm. All the hours of training with Isla, salt baths for his feet, and the foul-smelling poultices applied to his limbs to draw out aches and pains, had not been in vain.
Next, Sir Lachlan ordered Callum and Lord Spalding to clasp hands. “As in the first fight, the rules are thus: no blades to the head. On my command…you halt at once. A man who loses…his sword thrice, is defeated. I insist on a fair fight. Any trickery…will be punished harshly. I am the king’s champion. I will know.”
Both men bowed to the royal couple, then to Sir Lachlan.
Moments later, the first clash of steel echoed in the Hall.
Alastair couldn’t watch. Yet he couldn’t look away. Lord Spalding had an ease of movement that came from experience; his cuts were graceful yet deadly, and it was only Callum’s nimble feet that allowed him to avoid the slashing blade.
“Attack,” he muttered. “Faster. Remember what Isla said. Do not let him decide the pace and direction. And it’s his shoulder. His damned shoulder. Make him stretch it.”