As if he’d heard, Callum lunged with a sharp upward cut, forcing Spalding to defend at an awkward angle. A heartbeat later he lunged again with a straight thrust, and Spalding’s sword clattered to the floor.
“One point, Glennoe,” said Sir Lachlan, as applause sounded.
The men readied themselves; Callum looking more relaxed and Spalding a little tense. But the older lord was far too cunning to be surprised a second time, and lunged at Callum with a sharp downward cut. This time it was Callum’s sword on the floor.
“One point, Spalding.”
Alastair hissed at the result, and when he met Callum’s gaze, he touched his elbow. Plague take it, if Callum lost this battle because he neglected to keep his elbow high, he would chain it to his laird’s head himself.
Callum understood though, for this time he stood in the stance that Isla had taught him with his sword grip next to his cheek, his elbow high and steady. He and Spalding circled each other and his opponent lunged, but Callum did not allow him to complete the cut, forcing the other man onto his back foot with a deflection before attacking swiftly.
Again, Spalding’s sword clattered to the floor, and now he glistened with sweat.
“Two points, Glennoe,” said Sir Lachlan.
Alastair bit his tongue to prevent commands spilling from his lips; orders for Callum to finish his opponent, to remove a limb or maybe an ear. All they needed was one point, just one, and his laird would face Red for Isla’s hand. Callum had come so far. He’d always had skill, but had lacked in confidence. Travelling to Stirling, meeting bold, unconventional Isla and exploring lust as a trio had been the key to turn that. They both needed her. And she needed them in return.
Callum lunged, and his blade tore a little of Spalding’s linen shirt. The older man attempted to fight back, but his right shoulder hung loosely and his cuts were becoming weaker, his sword trembling as it met Callum’s.
“Take him,” Alastair snarled. “Take him.”
Spalding hopped from one foot to another, before bringing both arms around in a strong horizontal slash. Alastair gasped as the blade missed Callum’s side by less than an inch, but now his laird had an advantage, for the other man’s arms were close to his body, his wrists angled downward. Using his shorter height, Callum crouched a little, then struck upward with a strong cut, lifting Spalding’s sword out of his hands and spinning it away onto the floor.
“Three points,” announced Sir Lachlan. “Glennoe wins!”
A brief, eerie silence filled the Hall as the guests and envoys realized the renowned courtier expected to win had been defeated. How could a short, slender Western Highlander have conquered the great Lord Spalding?
Others weren’t befuddled, though. The king and Isla were applauding, as were Lady Marjorie and Lady Janet, both seated down on the wooden benches, and sporting huge grins. Eventually more and more people joined in, a few even stomped their feet in appreciation of the unexpected win.
“How splendid,” said James, his eyes gleaming. “The battle for Lady Isla’s hand shall be cousin against cousin; the MacDonald of Carnoch, and Callum MacIntyre, Lord of Glennoe. We will halt now for a light repast and music from my minstrels, to allow the two men time to catch their breath. But mark me, friends, there shall be a victor and a wedding this day.”
The Great Hall erupted in cheers, but Alastair remained silent. Yes, there would be a victor. Then, saints willing, he, his laird, and his lady could return to Glennoe and start their new family.
It was long past time for Red MacDonald to receive his comeuppance.
One more victory, just one more.
Isla clasped her hands in an attempt to calm herself. Callum had fought so well against Lord Spalding, but it had been exceedingly difficult to stay in her chair and not leap about when he scored a point and shake her fists when his opponent did.
Yet after this rest would come the final— and largest—obstacle to happiness: the MacDonald of Carnoch. She’d never liked the red-haired Highlander and her initial dislike had soon grown into loathing. Everything about him was vile; his character, his manners, the way he treated others. The MacDonald wouldn’t be a husband who offered choice, he would only humiliate and oppress.
“So, daughter,” said her mother, leaning close. “Soon you will be wed to Rory MacDonald. How happy you must be! A strong, handsome husband to give you fine sons. He will ensure you are an obedient wife who brings honor to his clan and your own.”
Isla frowned. “The tourney is not over.”
“Surely you do not think Glennoe will win? How foolish.”
“Not think,” she said. “Believe with my whole heart.”
Anne laughed, the sound without warmth. “There is no chance of such an outcome. None whatsoever, my dear.”
“You don’t know that.”
Her mother’s eyes gleamed with malice. “But I do.”
Isla froze. She knew that look. The careless spite of a woman who did as she pleased and suffered no consequences because her husband was a powerful man and the king needed their goodwill. “What have you done?”
“Merely ensured you will wed in the best interests of the Sutherland clan. A poor nobody who lusts after men is no use, even if he had a fine weaving house.”
Saints alive.
Someone had recognized the MacIntyre cloth of her borrowed shirt and hose.
Black spots danced in her vision, but Isla forced herself to choke out the words once more. “What have you done?”
Anne glared. “No need for theatrics, Glennoe will be quite well by morning,” she snapped. “It’s just wine with some powdered Lily of the Valley.”
“He’ll not drink it. Not a gift from you,” she replied in relief.
“Which is why I sent it to him, and his squire, with your best wishes and compliments.”
No!
Pure horror cleaved through her body. Quickly followed by a surge of rage, and Isla stood to leave the dais. Anne tried to grasp her wrist, but after years of sword fighting, she knew exactly how to twist away from such a grip.
Nothing mattered but getting to Callum and Alastair.
Uncaring of the audience, Isla stormed from the Great Hall then ran as fast as she could across the inner close to the castle proper. At least living in Stirling Castle the past week, she knew where the various chambers and antechambers were. Thankfully there were few rooms available for guests, so if fortune smiled upon her, she would find her men before they drank the poisoned wine.
In the long hallway, she began pounding on doors. Both the first and second chambers were locked, but the third swung open to reveal Alastair, scowling darkly and holding a goblet.
“Isla?” he said, his frown easing to concern. “What is the matter?”
She snatched the goblet and hurled it onto the floor, wincing at the sound of pewter meeting stone. Then she pushed past him and hurried into the room. Oh no. Callum was drinking! “Put that down!” she screamed. “Spit it out. Spit it out!”
The laird’s eyes flared and he thumped the goblet down on a side table. “Not from you, then. Who sent it? What was in the wine, Isla? Do you know?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My mother. Lily of the Valley. You both must retch it up. Please.”
Alastair cursed. “I only took a few sips, but Callum nearly finished his wine…my laird, what do you need from the medicine satchel?”